Jarvis Pass - Part 14- Staring Death in the Face Over a Bowl of Dog Soup

Camp No. 43, 15 March, 1875.         Where?

My Dear Edward, —

On the 12th we had snow all day, and very bad snow-shoeing. River 100 ft. wide and running north like the others, we commenced to think that times were hard when we began to eat dog to keep our strength up. Dog too, which had been starved and worked nearly to death. I don’t believe dog soup is good, but it goes very well. On the 13th we left the river and struck out on the old course about S. E. The Indians from Stewart’s Lake went on with their wail about never seeing their friends again. They gave up all hope, and I scarcely wonder at it; still they needn't howl so about such a small thing. Others have friends and just as strong feelings for them, and they may think a good deal, but they don’t cry. Yesterday the 14th it snowed all day and we weren't able to see anything. In the afternoon after crossing a river, we came upon a pile of horse dung. It was the prettiest I ever saw and I’d like a picture of that very pile; we examined it and cheered lustily thinking that we must be near somewhere. Buster, my favourite dog, died yesterday. To-day the snow stopped and we saw about 20 miles away a high rock which looked like a photograph we once saw of Roche a Miette at Jasper House. So we turned toward it at once. To-night we are in camp on a ridge or summit. Before us is a valley, a small insignificant one, which in my opinion contains another creek. Beyond it are some hills and further in the distance a ridge of mountains. So the thing has come down to this: —If the Athabasca be not in that valley it is beyond those mountains. In this case as Jarvis says to me, we neither have enough grub or enough strength to carry us across. So our end will be near here.

You must imagine our camp then to-night. Opposite sit the Indians, Johnny as usual silent and impassive, the other two with their heads in their hands sobbing out their grief as usual too. On my right is my worthy chief Jarvis, very thin, very white, and very much subdued. He is thinking of a good many things I suppose like the rest of us. On my left is Alec chewing tobacco and looking about used up. He had seen “ Roche a Miette” once from the east side, but isn't sure whether this is it or not, so he is blue. In the centre I sit, my looks I can't describe and my feeling scarcely. I don't believe the Athabasca is in that valley. I do believe that we have not many more days to live. I have been thinking of  “the dearest spot on earth to me,” of our Mother and Father, of all my brothers and sisters and friends. Of the happy days at home, of all the good deeds I have left undone and all the bad ones committed. I wonder if ever our bones will be discovered, when and by whom, if our friends will mourn long for us, or do as is often done, forget us as soon as possible. In short I have been looking death in the face, and had come to the conclusion that C. F. H. has been a hard case, and would like to live a while longer to make up for it.

But I am glad since we started that we didn't go back, though this has been a very tough trip and this evening is the toughest part of it.

But I must say good-night.

C. F. H.

                                   This Goya etching plays on the hope that, after death, we shall finally learn the truth. 

Camp No. 44, Fiddle River Depot, March 17th, 1875.

My Dear Edward, —

The day after that terrible evening of doubt and uncertainty, we went only 6 miles when we struck Lac Brule. You can imagine our feelings without my trying to describe them. Then 8 miles up the lake to the Depot where we found a family of Indians who gave us a lot of boiled rabbits when they found we were hungry. We went for that rabbit and then interviewed the natives. There is no one at Jasper House. This is a disappointment as we hoped to get dog trains and men there to take us east. But the Indians say they can give us some dried deer meat and a piece of mountain sheep. We are all looking very much pulled down; all our dogs are gone but three, and they are all bones and skin. Our one sled is here, and here it will remain. Our distance from Smoky River is 119 miles from summit, 205 from Fort George, we have travelled about 600 miles. The Indians say the track made on Smoky River was by one of their number who was hunting there early in the winter. That the river we followed from summit was Smoky River and also the 2nd one another branch of the same.

We are getting well used here. Rabbit straight three times a day. To-night we have our supplies in. Some dried meat and mutton and we start to-morrow. By the map Lake St. Ann’s is about 200 miles from here by the way we go. The men want to stay here and go back to Stewart’s Lake in the Spring. Upon my word I’d like to stay, too; I dread this part of the trip more than anything, although now we have the satisfaction of  “ knowing where we are.’’ Alec has been over this part of the trip, having come from Red River a couple of years ago. “ Roche Miette’’ is here all right and I won’t mistake it again, should I over have the honour of seeing it.

"Roche Miette Winter" by Barb Brooks - 1941-2009

The great peculiarity about it is its west side.- It is as perpendicular as the side of a house and as difficult to climb. A man by the name of “ Miette ” got up the east side and on to it, and it has borne his name since. Rightly enough too.

Well now I’ll conclude, very thankful I am that we are thus far on our journey and have been kept through such trial and danger.

Yours,

CHAS. F. HANINGTON.