Wilderness Ways by William J Long

W >> William J Long >> Wilderness Ways

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8

It is curious that when Upweekis and his hunting pack pull down game
in this way the first thing they do is to fight over it. There may be
meat enough and to spare, but under their fearful hunger is the old
beastly instinct for each one to grab all for himself; so they fall
promptly to teeth and claws before the game is dead. The fightings at
such times are savage affairs, both to the eye and ear. One forgets
that Upweekis is a shadow, and thinks that he must be a fiend.

One day in winter, when after caribou, I came upon a very large lynx
track, the largest I have ever seen. It was two days old; but it led
in my direction, toward the caribou barrens, and I followed it to see
what I should see.

Presently it joined four other lynx trails, and a mile farther on all
five trails went forward in great flying leaps, each lynx leaving a
hole in the snow as big as a bucket at every jump. A hundred yards of
this kind of traveling and the trails joined another trail,--that of a
wounded caribou from the barrens. His tracks showed that he had been
traveling with difficulty on three legs. Here was a place where he had
stood to listen; and there was another place where even untrained eyes
might see that he had plunged forward with a start of fear. It was a
silent story, but full of eager interest in every detail.

The lucivee tracks now showed different tactics. They crossed and
crisscrossed the trail, appearing now in front, now behind, now on
either side the wounded bull, evidently closing in upon him warily.
Here and there was a depression in the snow where one had crouched,
growling, as the game passed. Then the struggle began. First, there
was a trampled place in the snow where the bull had taken a stand and
the big cats went creeping about him, waiting for a chance to
spring all together. He broke away from that, but the three-legged
gallop speedily exhausted him. Only when he trots is a caribou
tireless. The lynxes followed the deadly cat-play began again. First
one, then another leaped, only to be shaken off; then two, then all
five were upon the poor brute, which still struggled forward. The
record was written red all over the snow.

[Illustration: The lynxes and caribou]

As I followed it cautiously, a snarl sounded just ahead. I kicked off
my snowshoes and circled noiselessly to the left, so as to look out
over a little opening. There lay the stripped carcass of the caribou
with two lynxes still upon it, growling fearfully at each other as
they pulled at the bones. Another lynx crouched in the snow, under a
bush, watching the scene. Two others circled about each other
snarling, looking for an opening, but too well fed to care for a fight
just then. Two or three foxes, a pine marten, and a fisher moved
ceaselessly in and out, sniffing hungrily, and waiting for a chance to
seize every scrap of bone or skin that was left unguarded for an
instant. Above them a dozen moose birds kept the same watch
vigilantly. As I stole nearer, hoping to get behind an old log where I
could lie and watch the spectacle, some creature scurried out of the
underbrush at one side. I was watching the movement, when a loud
_kee-yaaah!_ startled me; I whirled towards the opening. From behind
the old log a fierce round head with tasseled ears rose up, and the
big lynx, whose trail I had first followed, sprang into sight snarling
and spitting viciously.

The feast stopped at the first alarm. The marten disappeared
instantly. The foxes and the fisher and one lynx slunk away. Another,
which I had not seen, stalked up to the carcass and put his fore paws
upon it, and turned his savage head in my direction. Evidently other
lynxes had come in to the kill beside the five I had followed. Then
all the big cats crouched in the snow and stared at me steadily out of
their wild yellow eyes.

It was only for a moment. The big lynx on my side of the log was in a
fighting temper; he snarled continuously. Another sprang over the log
and crouched beside him, facing me. Then began a curious scene, of
which I could not wait to see the end. The two lynxes hitched nearer
and nearer to where I stood motionless, watching. They would creep
forward a step or two, then crouch in the snow, like a cat warming her
feet, and stare at me unblinkingly for a few moments. Then another
hitch or two, which brought them nearer, and another stare. I could
not look at one steadily, to make him waver; for the moment my eyes
were upon him the others hitched closer; and already two more lynxes
were coming over the log. I had to draw the curtain hastily with a
bullet between the yellow eyes of the biggest lynx, and a second
straight into the chest of his fellow-starer, just as he wriggled down
into the snow for a spring. The others had leaped away snarling as the
first heavy report rolled through the woods.

Another time, in the same region, a solitary lynx made me
uncomfortable for half an afternoon. It was Sunday, and I had gone for
a snowshoe tramp, leaving my rifle behind me. On the way back to camp
I stopped for a caribou head and skin, which I had _cached_ on the
edge of a barren the morning before. The weather had changed; a bitter
cold wind blew after me as I turned toward camp. I carried the head
with its branching antlers on my shoulder; the skin hung down, to keep
my back warm, its edges trailing in the snow.

Gradually I became convinced that something was following me; but I
turned several times without seeing anything. "It is only a fisher," I
thought, and kept on steadily, instead of going back to examine my
trail; for I was hoping for a glimpse of the cunning creature whose
trail you find so often running side by side with your own, and who
follows you if you have any trace of game about you, hour after hour
through the wilderness, without ever showing himself in the light.
Then I whirled suddenly, obeying an impulse; and there was Upweekis, a
big, savage-looking fellow, just gliding up on my trail in plain
sight, following the broad snowshoe track and the scent of the fresh
caribou skin without difficulty, poor trailer though he be.

He stopped and sat down on his feet, as a lucivee generally does when
you surprise him, and stared at me steadily. When I went on again I
knew that he was after me, though he had disappeared from the trail.

Then began a double-quick of four miles, the object being to reach
camp before night should fall and give the lucivee the advantage. It
was already late enough to make one a bit uneasy. He knew that I was
hurrying he grew bolder, showing himself openly on the trail behind
me. I turned into an old swamping road, which gave me a bit of open
before and behind. Then I saw him occasionally on either side, or
crouching half hid until I passed. Clearly he was waiting for night;
but to this day I am not sure whether it was the man or the caribou
skin upon which he had set his heart. The scent of flesh and blood was
in his nose, and he was too hungry to control himself much longer.

I cut a good club with my big jack-knife, and, watching my chance,
threw off the caribou head and jumped for him as he crouched in the
snow. He leaped aside untouched, but crouched again instantly, showing
all his teeth, snarling horribly. Three times I swung at him warily.
Each time he jumped aside and watched for his opening; but I kept the
club in play before his eyes, and it was not yet dark enough. Then I
yelled in his face, to teach him fear, and went on again.

Near camp I shouted for Simmo to bring my rifle; but he was slow in
understanding, and his answering shout alarmed the savage creature
near me. His movements became instantly more wary, more hidden. He
left the open trail; and once, when I saw him well behind me, his head
was raised high, listening. I threw down the caribou head to keep him
busy, and ran for camp. In a few minutes I was stealing back again
with my rifle; but Upweekis had felt the change in the situation and
was again among the shadows, where he belongs. I lost his trail in the
darkening woods.

There was another lynx which showed me, one day, a different side to
Upweekis' nature. It was in summer, when every creature in the
wilderness seems an altogether different creature from the one you
knew last winter, with new habits, new duties, new pleasures, and even
a new coat to hide him better from his enemies. Opposite my island
camp, where I halted a little while, in a summer's roving, was a
burned ridge; that is, it had been burned over years before; now it
was a perfect tangle, with many an open sunny spot, however, where
berries grew by handfuls. Rabbits swarmed there, and grouse were
plenty. As it was forty miles back from the settlements, it seemed a
perfect place for Upweekis to make a den in. And so it was. I have no
doubt there were a dozen litters of kittens on that two miles of
ridge; but the cover was so dense that nothing smaller than a deer
could be seen moving.

For two weeks I hunted the ridge whenever I was not fishing, stealing
in and out among the thickets, depending more upon ears than eyes, but
seeing nothing of Upweekis, save here and there a trampled fern, or a
blood-splashed leaf, with a bit of rabbit fur, or a great round cat
track, to tell the story. Once I came upon a bear and two cubs among
the berries; and once, when the wind was blowing down the hill, I
walked almost up to a bull caribou without seeing him. He was watching
my approach curiously, only his eyes, ears, and horns showing above
the tangle where he stood. Down in the coverts it was always intensely
still, with a stillness that I took good care not to break. So when
the great brute whirled with a snort and a tremendous crash of
bushes, almost under my nose, it raised my hair for a moment, not
knowing what the creature was, nor which way he was heading. But
though every day brought its experience, and its knowledge, and its
new wonder at the ways of wild things, I found no trace of the den,
nor of the kittens I had hoped to watch. All animals are silent near
their little ones, so there was never a cry by night or day to guide
me.

Late one afternoon, when I had climbed to the top of the ridge and was
on my way back to camp, I ran into an odor, the strong, disagreeable
odor that always hovers about the den of a carnivorous animal. I
followed it through a thicket, and came to an open stony place, with a
sharp drop of five or six feet to dense cover below. The odor came
from this cover, so I jumped down; when--_yeow, karrrr, pft-pft!_
Almost under my feet a gray thing leaped away snarling, followed by
another. I had the merest glimpse of them; but from the way they
bristled and spit and arched their backs, I knew that I had stumbled
upon a pair of the lynx kittens, for which I had searched so long in
vain.

They had, probably, been lying out on the warm stones, until, hearing
strange footsteps, they had glided away to cover. When I crashed down
near them they had been scared into showing their temper; else I had
never seen them in the underbrush. Fortunately for me, the fierce old
mother was away. Had she been there, I should undoubtedly have had
more serious business on hand than watching her kittens.

They had not seen more of me than my shoes and stockings; so when I
stole after them, to see what they were like, they were waiting under
a bush to see what I was like. They jumped away again, spitting,
without seeing me, alarmed by the rustle which I could not avoid
making in the cover. So I followed them, just a quiver of leaves here,
a snarl there, and then a rush away, until they doubled back towards
the rocky place, where, parting the underbrush cautiously, I saw a
dark hole among the rocks of a little opening. The roots of an
upturned tree arched over the hole, making a broad doorway. In this
doorway stood two half-grown lucivees, fuzzy and gray and
savage-looking, their backs still up, their wild eyes turned in my
direction apprehensively. Seeing me they drew farther back into the
den, and I saw nothing more of them save now and then their round
heads, or the fire in their yellow eyes.

It was too late for further observation that day. The fierce old
mother lynx would presently be back; they would let her know of the
intruder in some way; and they would all keep close in the den. I
found a place, some dozen yards above, where it would be possible to
watch them, marked the spot by a blasted stub, to which I made a
compass of broken twigs; and then went back to camp.

Next morning I omitted the early fishing, and was back at the place
before the sun looked over the ridge. Their den was all quiet, in deep
shadow. Mother Lynx was still away on the early hunting. I intended to
kill her when she came back. My rifle lay ready across my knees. Then
I would watch the kittens a little while, and kill them also. I wanted
their skins, all soft and fine with their first fur. And they were too
big and fierce to think of taking them alive. My vacation was over.
Simmo was already packing up, to break camp that morning. So there
would be no time to carry out my long-cherished plan of watching young
lynxes at play, as I had before watched young foxes and bears and owls
and fish-hawks, and indeed almost everything, except Upweekis, in the
wilderness.

Presently one of the lucivees came out, yawned, stretched, raised
himself against a root. In the morning stillness I could hear the cut
and rip of his claws on the wood. We call the action sharpening the
claws; but it is only the occasional exercise of the fine flexor
muscles that a cat uses so seldom, yet must use powerfully when the
time comes. The second lucivee came out of the shadow a moment later
and leaped upon the fallen tree where he could better watch the
hillside below. For half an hour or more, while I waited expectantly,
both animals moved restlessly about the den, or climbed over the roots
and trunk of the fallen tree. They were plainly cross; they made no
attempt at play, but kept well away from each other with a wholesome
respect for teeth and claws and temper. Breakfast hour was long past,
evidently, and they were hungry.

Suddenly one, who was at that moment watching from the tree trunk,
leaped down; the second joined him, and both paced back and forth
excitedly. They had heard the sounds of a coming that were too fine
for my ears. A stir in the underbrush, and Mother Lynx, a great savage
creature, stalked out proudly. She carried a dead hare gripped across
the middle of the back. The long ears on one side, the long legs on
the other, hung limply, showing a fresh kill. She walked to the
doorway of her den, crossed it back and forth two or three times,
still carrying the hare as if the lust of blood were raging within her
and she could not drop her prey even to her own little ones, which
followed her hungrily, one on either side. Once, as she turned toward
me, one of the kittens seized a leg of the hare and jerked it
savagely. The mother whirled on him, growling deep down in her throat;
the youngster backed away, scared but snarling. At last she flung the
game down. The kittens fell upon it like furies, growling at each
other, as I had seen the stranger lynxes growling once before over the
caribou. In a moment they had torn the carcass apart and were
crouched, each one over his piece, gnarling like a cat over a rat, and
stuffing themselves greedily in utter forgetfulness of the mother
lynx, which lay under a bush some distance away and watched them.

In a half hour the savage meal was over. The little ones sat up,
licked their chops, and began to tongue their broad paws. The mother
had been blinking sleepily; now she rose and came to her young. A
change had come over the family. The kittens ran to meet the dam as if
they had not seen her before, rubbing softly against her legs, or
sitting up to rub their whiskers against hers--a tardy thanks for the
breakfast she had provided. The fierce old mother too seemed
altogether different. She arched her back against the roots, purring
loudly, while the little ones arched and purred against her sides.
Then she bent her savage head and licked them fondly with her tongue,
while they rubbed as close to her as they could get, passing between
her legs as under a bridge, and trying to lick her face in return;
till all their tongues were going at once and the family lay down
together.

It was time to kill them now. The rifle lay ready. But a change had
come over the watcher too. Hitherto he had seen Upweekis as a
ferocious brute, whom it was good to kill. This was altogether
different. Upweekis could be gentle also, it seemed, and give herself
for her little ones. And a bit of tenderness, like that which lay so
unconscious under my eyes, gets hold of a man, and spikes his guns
better than moralizing. So the watcher stole away, making as little
noise as he could, following his compass of twigs to where the canoes
lay ready and Simmo was waiting.

Sometime, I hope, Simmo and I will camp there again, in winter. And
then I shall listen with a new interest for a cry in the night which
tells me that Moktaques the rabbit is hiding close at hand in the
snow, where a young lynx of my acquaintance cannot find him.

VIII. HUKWEEM THE NIGHT VOICE.

[Illustration: Hukweem]

Hukweem the loon must go through the world crying for what he never
gets, and searching for one whom he never finds; for he is the
hunting-dog of Clote Scarpe. So said Simmo to me one night in
explaining why the loon's cry is so wild and sad.

Clote Scarpe, by the way, is the legendary hero, the Hiawatha of the
northern Indians. Long ago he lived on the Wollastook, and ruled the
animals, which all lived peaceably together, understanding each
other's language, and "nobody ever ate anybody," as Simmo says. But
when Clote Scarpe went away they quarreled, and Lhoks the panther and
Nemox the fisher took to killing the other animals. Malsun the wolf
soon followed, and ate all he killed; and Meeko the squirrel, who
always makes all the mischief he can, set even the peaceable animals
by the ears, so that they feared and distrusted each other. Then they
scattered through the big woods, living each one for himself; and now
the strong ones kill the weak, and nobody understands anybody any
more.

There were no dogs in those days. Hukweem was Clote Scarpe's hunting
companion when he hunted the great evil beasts that disturbed the
wilderness; and Hukweem alone, of all the birds and animals, remained
true to his master. For hunting makes strong friendship, says Simmo;
and that is true. Therefore does Hukweem go through the world, looking
for his master and calling him to come back. Over the tree-tops, when
he flies low looking for new waters; high in air, out of sight, on his
southern migrations; and on every lake where he is only a voice, the
sad night voice of the vast solitary unknown wilderness--everywhere
you hear him seeking. Even on the seacoast in winter, where he knows
Clote Scarpe cannot be--for Clote Scarpe hates the sea--Hukweem
forgets himself, and cries occasionally out of pure loneliness.

When I asked what Hukweem says when he cries--for all cries of the
wilderness have their interpretation--Simmo answered: "Wy, he say two
ting. First he say, _Where are you? O where are you_? Dass what you
call-um his laugh, like he crazy. Denn, wen nobody answer, he say, _O
I so sorry, so sorry_! _Ooooo-eee_! like woman lost in woods. An'
dass his tother cry."

[Illustration: Hukweem]

This comes nearer to explaining the wild unearthliness of Hukweem's
call than anything else I know. It makes things much simpler to
understand, when you are camped deep in the wilderness, and the night
falls, and out of the misty darkness under the farther shore comes a
wild shivering call that makes one's nerves tingle till he finds out
about it--_Where are you? O where are you?_ That is just like Hukweem.

Sometimes, however, he varies the cry, and asks very plainly: "Who are
you? O who are you?" There was a loon on the Big Squattuk lake, where
I camped one summer, which was full of inquisitiveness as a blue jay.
He lived alone at one end of the lake, while his mate, with her brood
of two, lived at the other end, nine miles away. Every morning and
evening he came close to my camp--very much nearer than is usual, for
loons are wild and shy in the wilderness--to cry out his challenge.
Once, late at night, I flashed a lantern at the end of the old log
that served as a landing for the canoes, where I had heard strange
ripples; and there was Hukweem, examining everything with the greatest
curiosity.

Every unusual thing in our doings made him inquisitive to know all
about it. Once, when I started down the lake with a fair wind, and a
small spruce set up in the bow of my canoe for a sail, he followed me
four or five miles, calling all the way. And when I came back to camp
at twilight with a big bear in the canoe, his shaggy head showing over
the bow, and his legs up over the middle thwart, like a little old
black man with his wrinkled feet on the table, Hukweem's curiosity
could stand it no longer. He swam up within twenty yards, and circled
the canoe half a dozen times, sitting up straight on his tail by a
vigorous use of his wings, stretching his neck like an inquisitive
duck, so as to look into the canoe and see what queer thing I had
brought with me.

He had another curious habit which afforded him unending amusement.
There was a deep bay on the west shore of the lake, with hills rising
abruptly on three sides. The echo here was remarkable; a single shout
brought a dozen distinct answers, and then a confusion of tongues as
the echoes and re-echoes from many hills met and mingled. I discovered
the place in an interesting way.

One evening at twilight, as I was returning to camp from exploring the
upper lake, I heard a wild crying of loons on the west side. There
seemed to be five or six of the great divers, all laughing and
shrieking like so many lunatics. Pushing over to investigate, I
noticed for the first time the entrance to a great bay, and paddled up
cautiously behind a point, so as to surprise the loons at their game.
For they play games, just as crows do. But when I looked in, there was
only one bird, Hukweem the Inquisitive. I knew him instantly by his
great size and beautiful markings. He would give a single sharp call,
and listen intently, with head up, swinging from side to side as the
separate echoes came ringing back from the hills. Then he would try
his cackling laugh, _Ooo-ah-ha-ha-ha-hoo, ooo-ah-ha-ha-ha-hoo_, and as
the echoes began to ring about his head he would get excited, sitting
up on his tail, flapping his wings, cackling and shrieking with glee
at his own performance. Every wild syllable was flung back like a shot
from the surrounding hills, till the air seemed full of loons, all
mingling their crazy cachinnations with the din of the chief
performer. The uproar made one shiver. Then Hukweem would cease
suddenly, listening intently to the warring echoes. Before the
confusion was half ended he would get excited again, and swim about in
small circles, spreading wings and tail, showing his fine feathers as
if every echo were an admiring loon, pleased as a peacock with himself
at having made such a noise in a quiet world.

There was another loon, a mother bird, on a different lake, whose two
eggs had been carried off by a thieving muskrat; but she did not know
who did it, for Musquash knows how to roll the eggs into water and
carry them off, before eating, where the mother bird will not find the
shells. She came swimming down to meet us the moment our canoe entered
the lake; and what she seemed to cry was, "Where are they? O where are
they?" She followed us across the lake, accusing us of robbery, and
asking the same question over and over.

But whatever the meaning of Hukweem's crying, it seems to constitute a
large part of his existence. Indeed, it is as a cry that he is chiefly
known--the wild, unearthly cry of the wilderness night. His education
for this begins very early. Once I was exploring the grassy shores of
a wild lake when a mother loon appeared suddenly, out in the middle,
with a great splashing and crying. I paddled out to see what was the
matter. She withdrew with a great effort, apparently, as I approached,
still crying loudly and beating the water with her wings. "Oho," I
said, "you have a nest in there somewhere, and now you are trying to
get me away from it." This was the only time I have ever known a loon
to try that old mother bird's trick. Generally they slip off the nest
while the canoe is yet half a mile away, and swim under water a long
distance, and watch you silently from the other side of the lake.

I went back and hunted awhile for the nest among the bogs of a little
bay; then left the search to investigate a strange call that sounded
continuously farther up the shore. It came from some hidden spot in
the tall grass, an eager little whistling cry, reminding me somehow of
a nest of young fish-hawks.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8