Mattie Mitchell (19 page)

The decapitated head of Hall, along with the heads of several
of his crew, were found impaled on long, sharpened poles driven
into the shoreline of the bay that would forever bear his name. The
tale was told again and again by the white settlers as well as the
Mi'kmaq Indians. With every telling it was said that the Beothuk
Indians, who walked this land no more, had been responsible for
the killings.

Curious to learn more about the cluster of homes built around
the Halls Bay shoreline just north of the river, the young Mattie
had walked until he was standing among the trees on the edge
of the village his people called Wolf Cove. Several boys and
one girl, all about his own age, were playing near the closest
of the white houses. They appeared to be kicking around what
looked like the bladder of an animal. Their screams of joy as they
ran after the ball drew him out of the woods. Awhile later, he
approached them.

The young girl saw him first. She let out a yell that hurt his
ears and stopped the others in their tracks. They ran yelling and
screaming in terror toward the house—all except one boy who
was taller and who appeared to be older than the others. He had
bright red hair that fell to his shoulders. Mattie had never seen
red hair before.

Transfixed, he noticed too late the sharp-edged rock propelled
from the redheaded boy's long arm. He turned to run back into
the woods and the rock struck him a sharp blow just below his
right kneecap, causing him to stumble. Looking back, he saw the
redhead searching for another rock. At the same time, a white
man with a long-barrelled gun gripped in his left hand rushed out
of the house.

Mattie sprinted in fear and was soon lost in the trees. Feeling
safe in the thick woods, he peered out. The young girl was standing
and still screaming next to a woman who had a protective arm
around her. The tall boy with the red hair was still throwing rocks
into the woods. The man held the gun to his shoulder and pointed
it skyward before pulling the trigger. He said something to the
redheaded boy and then both of them walked back toward the
woman and the girl. Before the sound of the shot had died, the
young Indian boy vanished into the forest where no one followed
and where he always felt safe. That was as close as the boy Mattie
Mitchell had ever come to playing with anyone, Indian or white.

By the time he was ten years old he was trapping the streams
and helping to provide for the family with whom he was living.
They rarely went in any town, and when they did they stayed
on the outskirts. They stayed apart from the whites. Usually he
was hustled along with a small band of Indians on their hunting,
fishing, and trapping excursions, during which they spent months
on end by the banks of secluded rivers.

Standing there in the quiet, frosty night watching the deer and
studying the heavens, he identified the North Star in the direction
from which they had come with the reindeer. Not much had really
changed, he thought. White children still avoided him and some
of them still threw rocks at him.

MATTIE STAYED WITH THE HERD UNTIL
the two dippers circling
the North Star told him he had kept his watch. He walked back to
the campsite, pulled a stick out of the fire, and pointing it toward
the north. He laid it down in the snow, where it sizzled for a just
a minute.

Crawling into the tent, he roused Greening, who went sleepy-eyed out into the cold. Mattie turned in, fully dressed. He hauled
a dirty blanket over him and slept. When Greening ended his
watch the two caribou had gone, and with them four of the
reindeer.

They crossed dozens of frozen lakes and smaller ponds where
the going was easier for Mattie. Now he would point in the
direction he needed to go and the Sami would drive their charges
ahead. The rest of the party would follow behind on the trail.

The party crossed hundreds of brooks, some of which they
could jump across or step over on rocks. Other streams and
rivers they had to wade across with warm boots removed and
woollen trousers rolled up. Still, others they forded in waist-high
water, necessitating quick fires afterward to dry out their wet,
frozen clothing. At these crossings the sturdy reindeer shivered
the cold water off their heavy coats, foraged whatever food was
available, and looked around at the two-legged beasts standing
and shivering by smoky fires as if curious what was taking them
so long.

And always they were led by the tall Indian who seldom
spoke.

Nine hard walking days later found the weary group of men,
women, and dogs—none of the reindeer, not even the pregnant
females, showed signs of fatigue—at Cat Arm. Once more
Mitchell and Cole halted the trek. A sudden blizzard of snow
borne on a northeast wind these first few days of the official
spring date had made further travel unwise, but Cole wanted to
keep moving. On the same day, all of the Laplanders suffered
from snow blindness and they wanted to set up camp and stay
there until they healed. Despite the severity of the weather, Cole
had to “bally rag” them until they agreed to continue.

Everyone had run out of tobacco. They had to chop down
spruce trees to allow the reindeer to eat the mosses that the
Newfoundlanders called maw dow. Worse than that, they were
down to the last of their flour and Cole had to ration everyone to
one small doughy bread bun per day. They boiled water for the
last of their tea, dried it, then boiled it again. The travellers were
in desperate need of food. Killing one of the deer would be an
absolute last resort.

On March 28, as they camped on a tributary of Sop's Arm
Brook, Mattie fell victim from erysipelas again. However, when
Cole asked him if was able to go get some food for the group, he
agreed without hesitation. He and Greening left for Sop's Arm on
March 29 with their two best dogs, Kruger and Black, pulling an
empty komatik.

While the whiteout raged outside the flapping tents, Cole
explained to the Sami, through the interpreter, that a storm
this time of year was what the seal hunters called a lapping
or whelping batch. It always came just in time for the birth of
thousands of seals taking place on the immense floating icefields
just offshore. When harp seals birthed or “whelped” their white-coated babies, they stained the virgin ice with countless spots
of birth blood. The storm covered the creatures from predators
while the newborns “lapped” their first liquid protein from the
bellies of their lactating mothers. The storm of wind and snow
always seemed to happen around this very date every year.

The spring date in Newfoundland, like spring everywhere
else, was merely an easing-off of winter. There would be no fresh
spring daisies to pick anywhere along their trail just yet, although
the weather warmed on April 1 to an incredible thirty-five degrees
with strong winds from the south. However, they learned it was
only a “breeder” for worse days ahead.

Mattie and Greening had only taken one meal with them.
They hoped to reach a small logging camp at the innermost reach
of Sop's Arm that night. When they hadn't returned four days
later, Hugh Cole grew very worried.

On April 4, 1908, he began to write in his personal journal:

Rough weather continued all night. Thought the tent
would have been blown down. By 8am tent nearly filled with
snow. Snow coming through stove piping and door. Stove
blown down. Marked trail from camp to brook in case the boys
come that way. The weather too bad to face the brook. The
brook is covered with huge snow drifts, but the boys will have
a “trade wind” if they come back today. Another day gone and
they have not arrived. Half a pound of meat left—enough for
tomorrow.

A
PRIL
 5
TH

Still blowing, but not quite as hard. Snowing a little. Glass
going up; temperature 22 above. Thick mist on the hills, no
sign of the boys. Only a small piece of meat left—about 3
inches by 1/2 an inch. Told Sundine meat before sleep was
not good for him. He looked so sad that I had to give way,
and halve the beef, which I then cut into 13 small pieces. The
tea was weak—and so were we. Gave instructions to Laps to
move the camp on Monday towards Sop's Arm the direction in
which the boys left. Will have to kill one of the deer tomorrow
unless the boys arrive.

A
PRIL
 6
TH

Fine morning. Up early and cooked our little breakfast.
Deer all collected by 6: 30. Just about to pack up, when we
heard a gun fired, on the hill about two miles away. We dropped
our traps, and ran out of the tent. In the distance we could
see Greening and five other men, with packs on their backs,
coming towards our camp. Our two faithful dogs “Black” and
“Kruger” were with them. Oh what joy. After a great welcome
Greening said, “Where is Mitchell.” Of course I looked at
him with surprise, then he told me that Mitchell had left a day
ahead of him with two men and provisions. Mitchell and the
two men arrived in camp about two hours later. It appears that
during the storm, they had crossed the brook at the steady, and
wandered about 12 miles from the way.

(Mitchell and Greening left camp on the 29th ulto and did
not reach Sop's Arm until the 31st. We reckoned the journey to
be about 10 miles. It was not less than 30. These good fellows
existed on one meal and were without shelter being compelled
to leave the hills and take to the open brook. After travelling
15 miles, had to abandon the sleigh, as the dogs were too weak
to haul. They were certainly “up against it,” and it is difficult
to imagine how they got through. They expected to find a mill
at Sop's Arm; but, after searching until dark, they returned to a
small salmon hut they had passed earlier in the evening. When
they had made a fire, they “went to a cupboard,” found an old
tin can, which contained a little grease etc. Greening says it
was awfully sweet. Sop's Arm was sighted in the morning
about five miles from the huts. The few liviers there scarcely
had sufficient food to meet their own needs. The nearest store
was situated on the other side of White Bay and the ice had
broken up during the week previous. This meant another spoke
out of their wheel, as they thought of us in camp without food.
The boys, who were now played out, sought for volunteers to
make the trip across the bay, a distance of 10 miles. There was
a great deal of slob ice in the bay, which made the trip a risky
one; but the Sop's Arm men were ready in the morning. Whilst
crossing, the wind changed, drove the slob in, and the boat
became jammed. The going and coming took 52 hours, the men
having to walk several miles on each side of the bay. Mitchell
had collected some provisions and started off for camp before
the men returned from White Bay. Greening and the five men
were able to follow next day. Reference to my diary as to the
state of the weather, will account for their slow progress. On
Saturday and part of Friday travelling was impossible. The
men carried no blankets with them—only packs and axes.
Each pack weighing from 45-50 lbs.)

BACK WITH THE EXPEDITION ONCE MORE
, Mattie was relieved
to find them in good spirits. Maretta, the deaf and mute woman,
ran to greet him, stopped just short of touching him, and smiled
her welcome. The woman used a sign language that Mattie always
seemed to understand, and Maretta understood him.

The two men who had accompanied Mattie from White Bay
with the heavy load of provisions told Cole about their ordeal.
No “white man” could have ever done what Mattie had, they
said. The storm that had made them go astray had come on so
suddenly they were defenceless against it. Caught out on an open
barren with severe drifting and a biting wind, Mattie had led
them downwind to shelter. There were times, the men told Cole,
when they could barely make out the Indian's tall form through
the swirling snow.

What amazed the two men even more was, even when the
storm had cleared and Mattie realized he was well away from
where he wanted to be, he did not backtrack. He simply climbed
a rise, looked out over the hills for a minute, came back down,
and calmly walked in a different direction toward the campsite.
They believed the man had not in fact gone astray, but had just
been delayed because of the storm.

Their energy restored by the food, their spirit by the return of
Mattie Mitchell, whom they all trusted to get them through, the
band of nomads considered which way they would head from
here. The men from White Bay returned to the coast. Cole, in
consultation with his guide, had originally planned on trekking
south to Birchy Narrows at the confluence of Sandy Lake and
Birchy Lake, where they hoped to cross either of the two huge
lakes on the ice and then on to Kitty's Brook.

Following the general course of Kitty's Brook would take
them up over the barren lands of the Topsails and east across
Sandy River—where Mattie had discovered the massive sulphide
deposit in 1905—and then on to Millertown at the head of Red
Indian Lake.

However, Mattie advised against this route. He pointed out
that due to the mild yet high winds, the ice at the narrow ends
of both lakes would almost certainly be broken up, if it wasn't
already. The narrows between the two huge lakes always presented
a danger while crossing because of the currents. Although the
reindeer could easily swim across the lake anywhere, if the ice
was unsafe the group of men and women would have to build
rafts for themselves and their gear. Without the proper tools, this
would be time-consuming.

The only other alternative, then, was to walk the entire length
of the west side of Sandy Lake to the biggest lake of them all,
Grand Lake. From there they would head west to the railway at
Deer Lake. Mattie warned Hugh Cole that this route involved
many river crossings that would be dangerous at this time of year.
Cole agreed with Mattie's logic. He also had some concern about
their limited food supply. Mattie mentioned quietly that there
would be no communities to turn to for grub along this route.
Again Cole agreed with Mattie's common sense. They would
take an alternate route.

On April 7 the adventurers turned their backs on White Bay.
With Mattie leading them on broken snowshoes, they wound
their way up through the Long Range Mountains again and
headed for Parson's Pond on the west side of the Great Northern
Peninsula.

Mattie stopped to repair his snowshoes. The lashings were
all but worn through in both shoes and the left shoe had a crack
running diagonally along it for several inches. He used the last of
his own caribou leather strips to tie a splint along the damaged
shoe, as well as to repair the criss-crossed leather fillings. Cole and
the others also took the time to repair their own snowshoes. All
but the women, who only got out of the sleds on sharp inclines or
dangerous places, had worn snowshoes daily and all were badly
worn. The heavy snow still made travel impossible without the
snowshoes. The day was late and Cole ordered everyone to see
about their individual repairs. Mattie put his shoes back on and
told Cole he would check out the way ahead. He left the others to
set up a hasty camp.

This was an area Mattie knew well. He had travelled it many
times, usually alone. He walked along the side of a steep rock
formation that appeared ghost-like through the falling snow,
hoping to find a way through for his group, and he smiled at the
memory of this place.

HE HAD LED H
.
C
.
THOMPSON
up this way from Bonne Bay in
1904. They had started their journey on a pleasant, warm summer
day. Thompson wrote in his journal:

We left Bonne Bay on August 29, and ascended to the
high plateau that lies to the north of the bay by a landslide,
or “scrape” to use the local expression, of over 1000 feet in
height, of exceedingly slippery blue slate, on which it was
difficult to obtain a foothold.

Thompson marvelled at “his Indian's” astounding sense of
direction and his knowledge of the country that was nothing short
of “intimate.” The two men traversed the Northern Peninsula for
the next two autumn months.

They lived largely off the land. It was the “Indian summer”
time. And every cool night, Thompson and Mattie sat by their
fire, where Thompson compiled the first maps ever drafted of this
majestic land. The geologist listened to Mitchell speak, only when
asked, of the country they were walking through. He recorded
bearings meticulously with his cherished compass, until, in this
very place where Mattie now stood, with the cold night upon
him, Thompson's compass had failed him! And he entered this,
by the light of the cheery fire, into his journal:

On September 4 we altered our course for Parson's Pond,
not having to go on to the Sop's Arm Steady as we intended.
The morning was misty, we hardly see twenty yards ahead
of us, and the walking was difficult, the toil of forcing our
way through the thick undergrowth being very great. We rose
gradually to a broad, fairly even barren, with here and there
a curious saddle-backed outcrop of granite generally from
about 100-200 feet in length and 10 feet in width at the base,
terminating at the top of a sharp ridge—a curious formation
for which we were unable to account. There must evidently be
much iron about, for the compass swung a good deal.

Mattie knew this place could be problematic for them, and
not for the same reason that had confounded Thompson. Mattie
couldn't use, nor did he need, a compass to get to Parson's
Pond. Early on, just a few days into this journey, he had learned
something about the reindeer that not even the Laplanders knew.
The deer were afraid of heights.

The very first time they had followed Mattie to the edge of a
steep incline, they had shied away. When he led them to approach
it again, they had trembled in fright. Even when he took them
down through precipitous cliffs, as had sometimes been necessary
along their often treacherous route, the animals would roll their
eyes up at the enclosing grey walls and remain skittish until they
had passed through.

Mattie realized he would never get the animals down out of
the high mountains here. Another way would have to be found
down out of the hills to Parson's Pond. Thompson's journal:

On September 4 we took our way over a rocky, moss covered
barren, fairly dry, and with comparatively little bog, and about
mid-day we came to the end of the forge which lies at the back
of the upper Parson's Pond. It is a deep-cleft ravine with cliffs
nearly 2000 feet in height, rising almost sheer, and approaching
to within a few hundred yards of each other. Between them
winds a long sinuous lake which entirely fills up the gorge,
and that the only way through it would be by making a raft.
Beyond the lake we could see a low strip of green marshland,
and beyond that the Azure sea. The atmosphere was of that
extra-ordinary clearness which one so often finds in mountains
after rain. The hills were cleft by ravines at short intervals,
forming flat-topped barrens with abrupt sides, giving them,
from the sea, the appearance of gigantic barns; that doubtless,
as Archbishop Howley pointed out to me, being the origin of
the French name “La Grange” of this mountain chain, of which
the “Long Range” is probably a corruption. The sides of the
gorge were too steep to be attempted with our heavy loads, and
the timber, seen through our glasses, looked too small to make
a raft with of sufficient strength to risk ourselves upon it on the
lake, as the wind blows like a hurricane through these funnel
shaped openings between the hills. There was nothing for it but
to hark back along the crest of the Long Range to try and find
an easier route.

And so Mattie “harked” his way back from the valley with
the strange, iron-bearing rock formation. And with the “dark
on his shoulder” and the snow finally stopping, he smelled the
woodsmoke first and next the deer odour, and saw, through the
trees, the flicker of a welcome fire.

Mattie had guided H. C. Thompson over a meandering route
from Bonne Bay north as far as Flower's Cove. Their laborious
hike had taken them out to the mouth of Sandy Bay River and
along the “landwash” to Portland Creek. Then they went inland
again as far as the big lake dotted with islands, which James
Howley, the Newfoundland geologist, had named in Mitchell's
honour in the late 1880s.

They had continued on their way mapping in the shortening
days, inland from Daniel's Harbour, where Mattie built another
raft to cross a long lake, with only four spikes that he forever kept
in his pack to use again and again. He told Thompson that with
these four rusty spikes he could “cross dis islan' all over.”

And that night they slept beneath a blue mountain that Mattie
called Naskwotchu. They walked back to the coast again to Port
Saunders and along to Port au Choix, where they were graciously
given passage across St. John Bay by a Captain Laurent in his
own schooner, as far as Bartletts Harbour.

Mattie led Thompson inland again over the harsh terrain until
they could see the blue waters of Hare Bay and the distant Atlantic
on the northern end of the peninsula. West again to Flower's
Cove, where the peninsula reached across the narrowing Gulf of
St. Lawrence in a slight bulge for the coast of Labrador just a few
miles away. Their journey just about done, they embarked aboard
a steamer and sailed south to Bonne Bay.

Thompson carried in a waterproof bag all of the preliminary
drawings, mappings, and intricate details of the land he had made
by the yellow light of every night campfire. He had detailed the
very first maps and sketched, complete with accurate compass
bearings, this truly great Northern Peninsula. His work would
be used extensively by explorers and adventurers of this land for
generations after he and his intrepid guide had gone from the
land.

From Bonne Bay, Mattie walked with Thompson to the
railhead at Deer Lake on October 15, 1904, where the two
men who had become friends bade farewell to one another.
And Thompson said, after he had been complimented by his
government employer, “The compass showed me direction, but
Mattie Mitchell, sir, showed me the way.”

FOR THE NEXT TWO DAYS
,
MATTIE
searched for a way to lead
the reindeer down out of the mountains to the coast at Parson's
Pond. It was snowing again and the wind caused severe drifting.
The going was difficult and very slow. They ran out of meat
again. Cole ordered Mattie to take Greening with him and hunt
for caribou.