Kitabı oku: «My Strange Rescue and other stories of Sport and Adventure in Canada», sayfa 8
SNOW-SHOEING
Three things have the "red children of the forest" given to the white children of the cities which are so perfect in their way that it is hardly possible there will ever be an invention filed in the pigeon-holes of the patent-office that will surpass them. The canoe for shallow water and what might be called cross-country navigation, the toboggan, and the snow-shoe for deep snow, seem to be the very crown of human ingenuity, even though they are only the devices of ignorant Indians. One cannot help a feeling of hearty admiration when looking at them, and noting how perfectly they fulfil the purpose for which they were designed, and are at the same time as light, graceful, and artistic in form and fashion as the most finished work of highly-civilized folk. They all follow the line cf beauty so closely that it is no wonder the ladies love to decorate their drawing-rooms and boudoirs with them, or to have their pins and brooches modelled after them.
To the Indian the canoe, snow-shoe, and toboggan were quite as important implements as the spade, the plough, and the rake are to the farmer. Without them he could not in winter-time have roamed the snow-buried forests, whose recesses supplied his table, or voyaged in the summer-time upon the broad rivers and swift-running streams, whose bountiful waters furnished him their ready toll of fish. His white brother has in adopting them put them to a different use. He had no particular need for them in his work, but he was quick to see how they would help him in his play, and erelong they had all three become favourite means of sport and recreation.
Snow-shoeing disputes with tobogganing the honour of being Canada's national winter sport; for although snow-shoes have been seen in Siberia and Tartary, and are used to some extent in Scandinavia, in none of these places do the people derive much amusement from them. Simple as the snow-shoe seems, I would not advise any one to try to make a pair for himself. Only the Indians can do this really well, and even in Canada the vast majority of shoes are put together by dusky hands.
This is how they make a shoe of three feet six inches, which is a fair average size: – A piece of light ash about half-an-inch thick, and at least ninety inches in length, is bent to a long oval until the two ends touch, when they are lashed strongly together with catgut. Two strips of tough wood about an inch broad are then fitted across this frame, one being placed about five inches from the curving top, the other some twenty inches from the tapering end. The object of these strips is to give both strength and spring to the shoe. The three sections into which the interior of the frame has thus been divided are then woven across with catgut, each having a different degree of fineness in the mesh, the top section being very fine, the middle section, upon which almost the whole strain comes, coarse and strong, and the end section a medium grade between the other two. The gut in the middle section is wound right around the framework for the sake of greater strength, but in the other two is threaded through holes bored at intervals of an inch or so. Just behind the front cross-bar an opening about four inches square is left in the gut netting, in order to allow free play for the toes in lifting the shoe at each step. Both wood and gut must be thoroughly seasoned, or else the one will warp, and the other stretch and sag until the shoe is altogether useless.
The shoes are made in many shapes and of many sizes, ranging from two to six feet in length, and from ten to twenty inches in breadth. But for all practical purposes a shoe measuring three feet six inches by twelve or fifteen inches is the best. In racing, narrower shoes are used, but they rarely go below ten inches, that being the regulation measurement for club competitions. Then, again, some snow-shoes are turned up in front like tiny toboggans, instead of being flat, this kind being worn principally by ladies.
And now supposing that we have a pair of shoes entirely to our satisfaction, let us constitute ourselves members of a snow-shoe club, and take a tramp with it. Snow-shoeing is immensely popular in Montreal, as all visitors to the winter carnival well know. There are twenty or more organized clubs there, the membership in most cases being rigidly confined to the masculine gender, and every fine night in the week, all winter long, some club or other has a meet. Discipline is pretty strictly enforced at these club tramps, and seeing how earnestly the members go about the business, an onlooker might well be pardoned for thinking that there was quite as much work as play in this particular amusement. The pace set and the distance travelled are both beyond the powers of beginners, so that unless one is willing to stand a good deal of merciless chaffing, and have a pretty hard time of it altogether, it is better to wait until fairly familiar with the use of the raquet (the French name for the snow-shoe) before joining a club.
Let us imagine, then, that it is one of those glorious nights in midwinter when this dull old earth of ours seems transformed into fairy-land. The snow lies in white depths upon the ground, dry and firm as ocean sand; Jack Frost has brought the mercury away down some points below zero, and the keen air sets every nerve a-tingle; a superb full-orbed moon swings high in the heavens, flooding the wintry world with her silver splendour, and a hundred active, muscular young fellows have gathered at the rendezvous, clothed in white blanket coats with rainbow borders, brilliant blue sashes and tuques (conical knitted caps sacred to snow-shoeing), knickerbockers of the same material as the coats, and stockings of the same colour as the sashes, while on their feet are soft moccasins skilfully decorated by Indian fingers. Sharp on time the club captain arrives, and in a trice all hands are down upon their knees fastening the raquets to their feet.
"Are you all ready?" shouts the captain. A hearty chorus of "Ay, ay," rings out on the keen air. "Off, then!" he answers, striding rapidly away, his followers stringing out in a long line behind, for the walking is always done in Indian file, and they set forth to attack the mountain, which towers up so grandly behind the city, forming one of the finest parks in the world.
The line of march is made up very simply. The captain who is selected for that much-coveted position because of his renown for speed and endurance, as well as his knowledge of the best routes, takes the lead. The rank and file follow in any order they please, and the rear is brought up by the whipper-in. Although the post of whipper-in is not much coveted, that officer ranks next in importance to the captain, and should be one of the strongest and most experienced members in the club. His really arduous duties are to quicken up the laggards, assist the unfortunate, and inspire the despondent, for upon him it depends to have the club all in together at the end of the tramp. Wending along the snow-covered tree-bordered paths, or diving deep into the forest where there are no paths at all, the long thin line climbs steadily upward, growing longer as the steep ascent begins to tell upon the weaker ones, and they lag behind. At length the summit is reached, and a halt is called for a few minutes, that the panting, perspiring climbers may get their breath, and close up the gaps in their ranks.
"All up?" inquires the captain. "All up," is the cheery response. "Then forward!" and off they go again, this time down instead of up, with head thrown back, shoulders braced firmly, muscles at high tension, and eyes alert for dangers in the shape of hidden stumps or treacherous tree branches. Faster and faster grows the pace as the impetus of the decline is more and more felt, the shoes rattle like castanets, and the long line of white-coated, blue-capped figures undulates in and out among the tree clumps, appearing, vanishing, and reappearing like some monstrous serpent in full chase after its prey.
Ha! What's that? A fence right across the path? What is to be done now? The leader soon answers this question, for over the obstacle he goes as lightly as a bird, and his followers imitate him as best they may, some being content to crawl gingerly across by dint of hands and knees. One luckless wight, tripping on the top, takes a sudden header into the snow-bank on the other side, leaving only a pair of legs in sight to mark the place of his downfall. But the whipper-in comes to the rescue, and soon has him on his shoes again. What between fences, hedges, ditches, and other difficulties, the line is far from being well kept up. Gaps are frequent and wide. Some have fallen, and lost time in getting upright; others have been outstripped; but the leaders, like time and tide, wait for no man, and soon the welcome lights of the club-house, nestling in the valley, flash cheeringly across the snow.
Then the captain pauses a few minutes, that those who have been distanced may regain their places; and all being once more together, a final spurt at racing speed brings them, with shouts of joy and sighs of relief, to their goal. Here shoes are slipped off tired feet, coats and tuques thrown gleefully aside, and parched mouths cooled with refreshing drinks. An hour or more is spent in rest and frolic, and then the return journey made by the well-beaten road with the shoes strapped upon the back.
The distance "across the mountain" is nearly three miles, yet it has been done by an amateur in sixteen minutes twenty-eight seconds, which, considering the nature of the course, is remarkably good going. The best amateur time for a hundred yards on the flat is twelve and a half seconds, so that, clumsy and cumbersome as the raquets may seem at first glance, they are really a very slight bar to speed when the wearer is thoroughly expert in their use.
Hare and hounds on snow-shoes is a sport that must commend itself to all strong and vigorous boys who have a taste for cross-country work, if only for the reason that the snow-shoes make the sport possible at a time when it would otherwise be out of the question. The "hare" can be followed by his tracks, thus doing away with the necessity of carrying cumbrous bags of paper "scent."
Snow-shoeing differs from many other sports in being very easy to learn. Once you have mastered the art of sliding one shoe over the other with very much the same motion that you would make in skating, instead of lifting it up high as though you were wading in deep snow, as you are sure to do at first – once you properly understand this your chief difficulty is conquered, and proficiency comes with a little practice.
Throughout the length and breadth of Canada snow-shoeing is popular with young and old. Every centre of population has its clubs. Competitions are held every winter, at which tempting prizes are offered to the winners in races at different distances, from one hundred yards up to ten miles.
THE SWIMMING MATCH AT THE ARM
"Frank, Frank: Hold on there a second," cried Jack Stone breathlessly, as he ran after his friend.
Frank halted until Jack caught up to him.
"Well, Jack, what's your news? You seem to be excited about something," said he.
"So I am," panted Jack, "for I've big news to tell you. Uncle William has offered a sovereign to the fellow that makes the best time swimming across the North-west Arm. What do you think of that?"
"Why, I think it's just splendid of him, and I'm going to try, for one."
"And I, too, you may be sure. And George Murray and Hal Hemming say they're going in. I was telling them about it this morning. Of course we can't all win, but the more the merrier, you know, and I think you and I will stand as good a chance as any of them."
"Just about as good," assented Frank. "That is, if none of the big boys are allowed to try. Did your uncle make any rule about that?"
"Of course he did," replied Jack. "Nobody over fifteen can compete."
"Oh, that's all right! And it's only fair, too," said Frank, evidently much relieved.
"S'pose we go out and have a practice this afternoon," suggested Jack. "It's so hot that the water ought to be as warm as milk."
"All right!" said Frank. "Just wait till I leave this parcel at the house and get a couple of towels, and then I'm with you."
Accordingly, a few minutes later the two boys, with towels in hand, were trudging toward the North-west Arm, impatient to be in the water, for the sun was sending down lots of heat that summer afternoon.
Frank Brookfield and Jack Stone were very great friends; had been so, indeed, almost from their nursery days. They got along about as well together as two boys who had each his own share of spirit and selfishness could; and although they were rivals in a good many of their boyish sports, they had a wise way of looking at the matter, for, next to coming out first himself, each was eager that the other should, and consequently they had no occasion to quarrel over the result.
In the science of swimming they were very evenly matched; what Jack lacked in strength as compared with Frank, who stood an inch taller, being about made up by a superiority in style that was natural to him in everything he did.
Hot as the afternoon was, they were too eager for their dip to walk slowly, and when they reached the projecting rock from which they were accustomed to bathe – Black Rock it was called, being a mass of dark, rusty iron-stone – they were both very warm and in a high state of perspiration.
This, however, would not have mattered much if they had undressed immediately and plunged right in; but instead of doing so, they laid aside their outer clothes and then sat down to cool off, thus allowing a reaction to set in that came near having serious consequences.
When they thought they had cooled sufficiently, they finished their undressing and were ready for the water.
"I've half a mind to swim clear across," said Frank, as they stood out on the end of the rock, hesitating for a moment, as all swimmers do, before diving into the cool, green depths.
"Better not," said Jack, who was the more cautious of the two. "You might be too tired to swim back."
"Well, then, I'll tell you what we'll do. We'll swim out to the middle and back again, and that'll be just the distance for the race."
"All right! Here goes!" assented Jack.
And with a plump! plump! the two boys, like two gigantic bull-frogs, went head first into the water, coming up again three or four yards away, with dripping heads and blinking eyes, and striking out vigorously toward the centre of the Arm.
"Ah, but it's cold!" exclaimed Frank, half gasping.
"You bet," concurred Jack, very heartily – "cold as ice! What business has the water to be so cold on such a broiling day as this?"
"Oh, it's just a little way it has," said Frank. "But cold or not cold, I'm going out to the middle."
And with a powerful overhand stroke he ploughed his way through the rippled brine, his shoulders gleaming white as he bent to his work.
Jack, using the ordinary breast stroke, kept close up to him, and they worked too hard to do much talking until the centre of the Arm was reached, and they could see the whole beautiful sheet of water from end to end.
Then they paused, and Frank, saying he was beginning to feel tired, turned over on his back for a little rest, Jack forthwith imitating his example.
"Sakes alive, but this water is cold!" cried Jack. "If we stay in it much longer we'll be getting the cramps. Let's make for the shore."
"All right! Go ahead; I'm after you," replied Frank.
Jack accordingly turned his face shoreward, and, trying the side stroke now, was making pretty good progress, having got about half-way in, when a cry from Frank, who was a few yards behind, made him stop suddenly and wheel round to see what was the matter.
"Come here, Jack," said Frank, in a troubled voice.
And Jack immediately went back to him.
"What's the matter, old chap?" asked he anxiously
"Why," answered Frank, "I seem to be losing all my strength. See! I can hardly take a stroke."
And, sure enough, his strength seemed to have left him. and instead of the wide, powerful sweeps he usually made, he could manage to do little more than paddle enough with his hands to keep his head afloat.
The fact of the matter was that he had been seized with muscular cramp, and was in great danger, for there was no boat in sight, and the shore lay nearly fifty yards away, with water deep enough between to swallow an ocean steamer.
Jack fully realized the danger, but was too sensible to say so. Taking a firm, grasp of Frank's right shoulder with his left hand, he said cheerily, —
"Come along now; I'll give you a lift."
Then, putting forth all his strength, he pushed Frank forward; while the latter could just manage to keep his head above water, and pointed in the right direction.
In this fashion they crept slowly along, Frank growing more helpless and Jack more tired every yard. Frank now could not even keep his mouth above water, for the deadly cramp was drawing him all together, his back being bent like a bow, and his arms and legs contracted until they were almost altogether useless.
Jack, too, began to feel the cruel cold fastening upon him, and his strength departing from him. His heart sank as he looked at the distance still ahead, and felt himself weakening at every stroke.
In his extremity, the temptation to let go of Frank, and strike for the shore alone, even flashed into his mind, only to be contemptuously dismissed with the silent resolution to stay by his friend whatever happened.
At length, by dint of grim determination, Jack got Frank within ten yards of the shore, and then, feeling as though any further effort on his part were impossible, he gave him a big push forward, saying, —
"Now then, Frank, do the rest yourself."
With a muffled, half-finished cry of "For heaven's sake, Jack!" poor Frank, utterly helpless, went under, half turning over on his back as he did so.
Not for a moment did Jack hesitate. Weak and chilled as he was, the sight of his playmate's peril nerved him to fresh exertions, and summoning all his energies for one supreme final effort, he grasped Frank's shoulder once more, and with desperate spasmodic strokes fought his way through the water.
Never will he forget that wrestle with death. Frank, fortunately, still keeping collected and quiet, could get but an occasional breath, for now nearly his whole face was submerged, and Jack himself seemed to be swimming in some dense fluid that stubbornly opposed the movements of his arms. But foot by foot he struggled on, until at length, just when every atom of strength and hope seemed exhausted, he saw below him the dark, seaweed-covered rock, and putting down his foot, found solid bottom beneath him.
"Thank the merciful Father, we're saved, Frank!" he cried, half sobbingly, as he drew his companion up on to the rock.
"God bless you, Jack! you've saved my life," replied Frank, with a fervour that showed how clearly he understood the magnitude of the peril through which he had passed. "Yes, Jack, you've saved my life, and some day I'll show you how grateful I am."
"Oh, that's all right!" said Jack. "You'd do the same for me if you had the chance."
"I hope I won't have the chance, all the same," answered Frank, "for perhaps I wouldn't keep as cool as you did; and then where would we be?"
Half-an-hour's basking in the hot sun took all the cramp out of the boys' bodies, and they went back home, not a whit the worse for their experience, and a good deal wiser. They kept the matter to themselves, prudently thinking it would only alarm their parents if it came to their ears, and perhaps make them worry, while really there was no occasion for further anxiety.
The following Saturday afternoon was the time fixed for the swimming race, and the two friends practised diligently, determined that the sovereign should fall to one of them at all events, or perhaps be divided between them if they came out a tie.
The eagerly-anticipated day dawned sunnily, and proved as fine, bright, and warm as heart could wish. A great deal of interest was felt in the swimming race, for at least six boys had entered for it, and in the afternoon the Arm, at the place where the swimming would take place, was dotted over with boats, containing the fathers, mothers, sisters, cousins, aunts, and friends of the different contestants.
Uncle William (or, to give him his proper title, Mr. William Cunard) was the judge at the finish, and the six boys, wearing the scantiest possible bathing suits, were rowed across to the other side of the Arm in boats.
"I'm awfully excited," said Jack Stone to Frank Brookfield on the way over, in so low a tone that none of the other boys heard him. "Father says he'll double the prize if I win. But if I don't win, I hope to goodness you will."
"Whoever wins will have a hard fight for it," said Frank. "Both George and Hal can swim like fishes. I don't know about the other two."
Presently the boat touched the shore, and the boys all leaped out and took up their positions upon the ledge of rock from which they were to start.
"Are you ready?" called out the starter. "Then go."
And with a tremendous splash the whole six plunged into the water like one man.
The next moment they were all at the surface again, and cleaving the calm water at the top of their speed.
Frank was using his favourite overhand stroke, Jack the side stroke, and the rest the ordinary breast stroke.
For some distance there was little difference between them. You might have covered them with a handkerchief, so to speak. Then, little by little, Frank and Jack, keeping well together, began to draw away from George and Hal, who in their turn led the other two.
By the time the centre of the Arm was reached, it was plain to all that the race lay between the two friends, and amid cheers and shouts of "Go it, Frank!" "Hit her up, Jack!" "Pretty work, both of you; keep it up!" they ploughed through the water side by side.
Three-fourths of the distance was now covered, and their positions were unchanged, when with a pang that went right to his heart Jack felt himself weakening.
Inch by inch his stroke shortened, and first Frank's head, then his neck, then his shoulders slipped past him.
Gritting his teeth with fierce determination, and breathing hard, he strained every nerve to recover his lost ground; but all in vain. Frank gained steadily until his heels were in a line with Jack's head.
Already they were raising the shouts of victory, when Frank, turning to see what lead he had, caught sight of Jack's pale face, in which disappointment and despair were already showing themselves, and it brought up in his mind that same face a week before, when, pallid but resolute, just as it was now, it cut the water close beside him, while the boy to whom it belonged struggled so bravely with the death that threatened.
A mist came in his eyes and a lump rose in his throat as he thought of this.
"He saved my life," he murmured to himself.
"Hallo! what's up with Frank?" said Mr. Cunard. "He has almost stopped. He must be done out. Just shove out that boat there toward him, will you?"
"Go on and win, old chap," said Frank to Jack, when the latter came up to him. "I'm used up. I'll just paddle in slowly. Oh, I'm all right," he added, as Jack showed signs of stopping to help him, "Tired out, that's all."
Cheer after cheer rang out as Jack, nearly exhausted himself, but undaunted in spirit, swept by Frank, now paddling quite leisurely, and finished the course amidst a general chorus of congratulation.
He felt as proud as Punch, and when Frank came ashore, threw his arms around him affectionately, saying, —
"You're a dear, good fellow to let me beat you."
Not that he had the slightest suspicion as to how it had really happened.
Frank never told him. Indeed he never told anybody except his mother, and she alone of all the people who witnessed it knew the secret of Frank Brookfield's sudden collapse in the swimming match at the Arm.
