Post by Okwes on Jun 14, 2007 10:44:20 GMT -5
Deer Lake - Chinook
Few white men ventured inland, a century ago, in the days of the first Chief
Capilano, when the spoils of the mighty Fraser River poured into
copper-colored hands, but did not find their way to the remotest corners of
the earth, as in our times, when the gold from its sources, the salmon from
its mouth, the timber from its shores are world-known riches.
The fisherman's craft, the hunter's cunning were plied where now cities and
industries, trade and commerce, buying and selling hold sway. In those days
the moccasined foot awoke no echo in the forest trails. Primitive weapons,
arms, implements, and utensils were the only means of the Indians'
food-getting. His livelihood depended upon his own personal prowess, his
skill in woodcraft and water lore. And, as this is a story of an elk-bone
spear, the reader must first be in sympathy with the fact that this rude
instrument, deftly fashioned, was of priceless value to the first Capilano,
to whom it had come through three generations of ancestors, all of whom had
been experienced hunters and dexterous fishermen.
Capilano himself was without a rival as a spearsman. He knew the moods of
the Fraser River, the habits of its thronging tenants, as no other man has
ever known them before or since. He knew every isle and inlet along the
coast, every boulder, the sand-bars, the still pools, the temper of the
tides. He knew the spawning grounds, the secret streams that fed the larger
rivers, the outlets of rock-bound lakes, the turns and tricks of swirling
rapids. He knew the haunts of bird and beast and fish and fowl, and was
master of the arts and artifice that man must use when matching his brain
against the eluding wiles of the untamed creatures of the wilderness.
Once only did his cunning fail him, once only did Nature baffle him with her
mysterious fabric of waterways and land lures. It was when he was led to the
mouth of the unknown river, which has evaded discovery through all the
centuries, but which - so say the Indians -- still sings on its way through
some buried channel that leads from the lake to the sea.
He had been sealing along the shores of what is now known as Point Grey. His
canoe had gradually crept inland, skirting up the coast to the mouth of
False Creek. Here he encountered a very king of seals, a colossal creature
that gladdened the hunter's eyes as game worthy of his skill. For this
particular prize he would cast the elk-bone spear. It had never failed his
sire, his grandsire, his greatgrandsire. He knew it would not fail him now.
A long, pliable, cedar-fiber rope lay in his canoe. Many expert fingers had
woven and plaited that rope, had beaten and oiled it until it was soft and
flexible as a serpent. This he attached to the spearhead, and with deft,
unerring aim cast it at the king seal. The weapon struck home.
The gigantic creature shuddered and, with a cry like a hurt child, it
plunged down into the sea. With the rapidity and strength of a giant fish it
scudded inland with the rising tide, while Capilano paid out the rope its
entire length, and, as it stretched taut, felt the canoe leap forward,
propelled by the mighty strength of the creature which lashed the waters
into whirlpools, as though it was possessed with the power and properties of
a whale.
Up the stretch of False Creek the man and monster drove their course, where
a century hence great city bridges were to over-arch the waters. They strove
and struggled each for the mastery, neither of them weakened, neither of
them faltered -- the one dragging, the other driving. In the end it was to
be a matching of brute and human wits, not forces. As they neared the point
where now Main Street bridge flings its shadow across the waters, the brute
leaped high into the air, then plunged headlong into the depths. The impact
ripped the rope from Capilano's hands. It rattled across the gunwale.
Hestood staring at the spot where it had disappeared - the brute had been
victorious. At low tide the Indian made search. No trace of his game, of his
precious elk-bone spear, of his cedar-fiber rope, could be found. With the
loss of the latter he firmly believed his luck as a hunter would be gone.
Sohe patrolled the mouth of False Creek for many moons. His graceful,
high-bowed canoe rarely touched other waters, but the seal king had
disappeared. Often he thought long strands of drifting sea grasses were his
lost cedar-fiber rope. With other spears, with other cedar-fibers, with
paddle blade and cunning traps he dislodged the weeds from their moorings,
but they slipped their slimy lengths through his eager hands: his best spear
with its attendant coil was gone.
The following year he was sealing again off the coast of Point Grey, and one
night after sunset he observed the red reflection from the west, which
seemed to transfer itself to the eastern skies. Far into the night dashes of
flaming scarlet pulsed far beyond the head of False Creek. The color rose
and fell like a beckoning hand, and, Indian-like, he immediately attached
some portentous meaning to the unusual sight. That it was some omen he never
doubted, so he paddled inland, beached his canoe, and took the trail towards
the little group of lakes that crowd themselves into the area that lies
between the present cities of Vancouver and New Westminster. But long before
he reached the shores of Deer Lake he discovered that the beckoning hand was
in reality flame. The little body of water was surrounded by forest fires.
One avenue alone stood open. It was a group of giant trees that as yet the
flames had not reached. As he neared the point he saw a great moving mass of
living things leaving the lake and hurrying northward through this one
egress. He stood, listening, intently watching with alert eyes; the swirl of
myriad's of little traveling feet caught his quick ear -- the moving mass
was an immense colony of beaver. Thousands upon thousands of them. Scores of
baby beavers staggered along, following their mothers; scores of older
beavers that had felled trees and built dams through many seasons; a
countless army of trekking fur beavers, all under the generalship of a wise
old leader, who, as king of the colony, advanced some few yards ahead of his
battalions. Out of the waters through the forest towards the country to the
north they journeyed. Wandering hunters said they saw them cross Burrard
Inlet at the Second Narrows, heading inland as they reached the farther
shore. But where that mighty army of royal little Canadians set up their new
colony, no man knows. Not even the astuteness of the first Capilano ever
discovered their destination. Only one thing was certain, Deer Lake knew
them no more.
After their passing, the Indian retraced their trail to the water's edge. In
the red glare of the encircling fires he saw what he at first thought was
some dead and dethroned king beaver on the shore. A huge carcass lay half
in, half out, of the lake. Approaching it he saw the wasted body of a giant
seal. There could never be two seals of that marvelous size. His intuition
now grasped the meaning of the omen of the beckoning flame that had called
him from the far coasts of Point Grey. He stooped above his dead conqueror
and found, embedded in its decaying flesh, the elkbone spear of his
forefathers, and trailing away at the water's rim was a long flexible
cedar-fiber rope.
As he extracted this treasured heirloom he felt the "power," that men of
magic possess, creep up his sinewy arms. It entered his heart, his blood,
his brain. For a long time he sat and chanted songs that only great medicine
men may sing, and, as the hours drifted by, the heat of the forest fires
subsided, the flames diminished into smoldering blackness. At daybreak the
forest fire was dead, but its beckoning fingers had served their purpose.
The magic elk-bone spear had come back to its own.
Until the day of his death the first Capilano searched for the unknown river
up which the seal traveled from False Creek to Deer Lake, but its channel is
a secret that even Indian eyes have not seen. But although those of the
Suquamish tribe tell and believe that the river still sings through its
hidden trail that leads from Deer Lake to the sea, its course is as unknown,
its channel is as hopelessly lost as the brave little army of beavers that a
century ago marshaled their forces and traveled up into the great lone
north.
Few white men ventured inland, a century ago, in the days of the first Chief
Capilano, when the spoils of the mighty Fraser River poured into
copper-colored hands, but did not find their way to the remotest corners of
the earth, as in our times, when the gold from its sources, the salmon from
its mouth, the timber from its shores are world-known riches.
The fisherman's craft, the hunter's cunning were plied where now cities and
industries, trade and commerce, buying and selling hold sway. In those days
the moccasined foot awoke no echo in the forest trails. Primitive weapons,
arms, implements, and utensils were the only means of the Indians'
food-getting. His livelihood depended upon his own personal prowess, his
skill in woodcraft and water lore. And, as this is a story of an elk-bone
spear, the reader must first be in sympathy with the fact that this rude
instrument, deftly fashioned, was of priceless value to the first Capilano,
to whom it had come through three generations of ancestors, all of whom had
been experienced hunters and dexterous fishermen.
Capilano himself was without a rival as a spearsman. He knew the moods of
the Fraser River, the habits of its thronging tenants, as no other man has
ever known them before or since. He knew every isle and inlet along the
coast, every boulder, the sand-bars, the still pools, the temper of the
tides. He knew the spawning grounds, the secret streams that fed the larger
rivers, the outlets of rock-bound lakes, the turns and tricks of swirling
rapids. He knew the haunts of bird and beast and fish and fowl, and was
master of the arts and artifice that man must use when matching his brain
against the eluding wiles of the untamed creatures of the wilderness.
Once only did his cunning fail him, once only did Nature baffle him with her
mysterious fabric of waterways and land lures. It was when he was led to the
mouth of the unknown river, which has evaded discovery through all the
centuries, but which - so say the Indians -- still sings on its way through
some buried channel that leads from the lake to the sea.
He had been sealing along the shores of what is now known as Point Grey. His
canoe had gradually crept inland, skirting up the coast to the mouth of
False Creek. Here he encountered a very king of seals, a colossal creature
that gladdened the hunter's eyes as game worthy of his skill. For this
particular prize he would cast the elk-bone spear. It had never failed his
sire, his grandsire, his greatgrandsire. He knew it would not fail him now.
A long, pliable, cedar-fiber rope lay in his canoe. Many expert fingers had
woven and plaited that rope, had beaten and oiled it until it was soft and
flexible as a serpent. This he attached to the spearhead, and with deft,
unerring aim cast it at the king seal. The weapon struck home.
The gigantic creature shuddered and, with a cry like a hurt child, it
plunged down into the sea. With the rapidity and strength of a giant fish it
scudded inland with the rising tide, while Capilano paid out the rope its
entire length, and, as it stretched taut, felt the canoe leap forward,
propelled by the mighty strength of the creature which lashed the waters
into whirlpools, as though it was possessed with the power and properties of
a whale.
Up the stretch of False Creek the man and monster drove their course, where
a century hence great city bridges were to over-arch the waters. They strove
and struggled each for the mastery, neither of them weakened, neither of
them faltered -- the one dragging, the other driving. In the end it was to
be a matching of brute and human wits, not forces. As they neared the point
where now Main Street bridge flings its shadow across the waters, the brute
leaped high into the air, then plunged headlong into the depths. The impact
ripped the rope from Capilano's hands. It rattled across the gunwale.
Hestood staring at the spot where it had disappeared - the brute had been
victorious. At low tide the Indian made search. No trace of his game, of his
precious elk-bone spear, of his cedar-fiber rope, could be found. With the
loss of the latter he firmly believed his luck as a hunter would be gone.
Sohe patrolled the mouth of False Creek for many moons. His graceful,
high-bowed canoe rarely touched other waters, but the seal king had
disappeared. Often he thought long strands of drifting sea grasses were his
lost cedar-fiber rope. With other spears, with other cedar-fibers, with
paddle blade and cunning traps he dislodged the weeds from their moorings,
but they slipped their slimy lengths through his eager hands: his best spear
with its attendant coil was gone.
The following year he was sealing again off the coast of Point Grey, and one
night after sunset he observed the red reflection from the west, which
seemed to transfer itself to the eastern skies. Far into the night dashes of
flaming scarlet pulsed far beyond the head of False Creek. The color rose
and fell like a beckoning hand, and, Indian-like, he immediately attached
some portentous meaning to the unusual sight. That it was some omen he never
doubted, so he paddled inland, beached his canoe, and took the trail towards
the little group of lakes that crowd themselves into the area that lies
between the present cities of Vancouver and New Westminster. But long before
he reached the shores of Deer Lake he discovered that the beckoning hand was
in reality flame. The little body of water was surrounded by forest fires.
One avenue alone stood open. It was a group of giant trees that as yet the
flames had not reached. As he neared the point he saw a great moving mass of
living things leaving the lake and hurrying northward through this one
egress. He stood, listening, intently watching with alert eyes; the swirl of
myriad's of little traveling feet caught his quick ear -- the moving mass
was an immense colony of beaver. Thousands upon thousands of them. Scores of
baby beavers staggered along, following their mothers; scores of older
beavers that had felled trees and built dams through many seasons; a
countless army of trekking fur beavers, all under the generalship of a wise
old leader, who, as king of the colony, advanced some few yards ahead of his
battalions. Out of the waters through the forest towards the country to the
north they journeyed. Wandering hunters said they saw them cross Burrard
Inlet at the Second Narrows, heading inland as they reached the farther
shore. But where that mighty army of royal little Canadians set up their new
colony, no man knows. Not even the astuteness of the first Capilano ever
discovered their destination. Only one thing was certain, Deer Lake knew
them no more.
After their passing, the Indian retraced their trail to the water's edge. In
the red glare of the encircling fires he saw what he at first thought was
some dead and dethroned king beaver on the shore. A huge carcass lay half
in, half out, of the lake. Approaching it he saw the wasted body of a giant
seal. There could never be two seals of that marvelous size. His intuition
now grasped the meaning of the omen of the beckoning flame that had called
him from the far coasts of Point Grey. He stooped above his dead conqueror
and found, embedded in its decaying flesh, the elkbone spear of his
forefathers, and trailing away at the water's rim was a long flexible
cedar-fiber rope.
As he extracted this treasured heirloom he felt the "power," that men of
magic possess, creep up his sinewy arms. It entered his heart, his blood,
his brain. For a long time he sat and chanted songs that only great medicine
men may sing, and, as the hours drifted by, the heat of the forest fires
subsided, the flames diminished into smoldering blackness. At daybreak the
forest fire was dead, but its beckoning fingers had served their purpose.
The magic elk-bone spear had come back to its own.
Until the day of his death the first Capilano searched for the unknown river
up which the seal traveled from False Creek to Deer Lake, but its channel is
a secret that even Indian eyes have not seen. But although those of the
Suquamish tribe tell and believe that the river still sings through its
hidden trail that leads from Deer Lake to the sea, its course is as unknown,
its channel is as hopelessly lost as the brave little army of beavers that a
century ago marshaled their forces and traveled up into the great lone
north.