On Canada's Frontier: Sketches of History, Sport, and Adventure and of the Indians, Missionaries, Fur-traders, and Newer Settlers of Western CanadaRalph, Julian
History
On Canada's Frontier: Sketches of History, Sport, and Adventure and of the Indians, Missionaries, Fur-traders, and Newer Settlers of Western Canada
Ralph, Julian
Hudson's Bay Company -- History; Indians of North America -- Canada; Northwest, Canadian -- Description and travel
The explanation of the term "moose-yard" made moose-hunting appear a
simple operation (once we were started), for a moose-yard is the
feeding-ground of a herd of moose, and our head Indian, Alexandre
Antoine, knew where there was one. Each herd or family of these great
wild cattle has two such feeding-grounds, and they are said to go
alternately from one to the other, never herding in one place two years
in succession. In this region of Canada they weigh between 600 and 1200
pounds, and the reader will help his comprehension of those figures by
recalling the fact that a 1200-pound horse is a very large one. Whether
they desert a yard for twelve months because of the damage they do to
the supply of food it offers to them, or whether it is instinctive
caution that directs their movements, no one can more than conjecture.
Their yards are always where soft wood is plentiful and water is near,
and during a winter they will feed over a region from half a mile to a
mile square. The prospect of going directly to the fixed home of a herd
of moose almost robbed the trip of that speculative element that gives
the greatest zest to hunting. But we knew not what the future held for
us. Not even the artist, with all his experience, conjectured what was
in store for us. And what was to come began coming almost immediately.
The journey began upon a good highway, over which we slid along as
comfortably as any ladies in their carriages, and with the sleigh-bells
flinging their cheery music out over a desolate valley, with a leaden
river at the bottom, and with small mountains rolling all about. The
timber was cut off them, except here and there a few red or white pines
that reared their green, brush-like tops against the general blanket of
snow. The dull sky hung sullenly above, and now and then a raven flew
by, croaking hoarse disapproval of our intrusion. To warn us of what we
were to expect, Antoine had made a shy Indian joke, one of the few I
ever heard: "In small little while," said he, "we come to all sorts of a
road. Me call it that 'cause you get every sort riding, then you sure be
suited."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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