C Ihe Ladies c cu. V'VVAN - History and Classics, Department of

Lure of the North '2, 7Slowly the steamer pushes on, drawing four feet of water; those barges lashedbeside the bows act as feelers for the unknown channel, since they only drawthree feet. N ow and then there is a woolly movement underfoot as the steamergoes bumping over a sandbar. On the foremost barge two half-breeds stand withsounding poles to right and left, and each time they bring up the pole they slideone hand along to indicate the depth of water, holding it up for a second againstthe sunset light. The captain from his wheel-house watches them and steersaccordingly. With a regular rhythm the poles are lowered and raised and loweredagain, and we move slowly on. In this stretch of the river there are shifting shoalsfor more than 30 miles. Five feet, four feet, four feet again, three and a half.Now, those white-stemmed poplars are no longer gliding by, but are standingstill and our great paddle-wheel is churning sand with fruitless energy."Get out the canoe ahead there," shouts the captain.A canoe is slid over the edge of a scow and the mate steps in, followed by a lad.The mate is a dusky half-breed, tall, hawk-faced, hawk-shouldered, with a lookof great strength, as if he had led a life of struggle with elemental forces. He takesthe pole and stands up in the bows as the lad begins to paddle. The canoe movesforward and we watch that darkened figure sounding to right and left, holding upthe pole in silence, silhouetted on the water in his fragile craft.Sometimes a nation's story may be spellbound in one gesture, or one scene, asin that Volga boat-song scene wherein the Russian serfs are depicted straining ona rope while they chant the unending sorrow of creatures who toil without hopeor joy. Here, with the silhouette of one frail canoe moving forward throughuncharted waters, with the stooping figure of the mate, patient and forceful,black against the water, there is portrayed another story: the story of thosepioneers who matched their strength against the unmeasured, unrelenting spacesof the ice-bound North. Now the mate has sounded where the current is 13 feet,calmly he lays down his pole and the canoe is paddled into a backwater. Then theoccupants overtake and board the steamer, hauling up their little craft as we passdownstream. We move forward without haste, with a memory of that darkenduring figure silhouetted on the Athabascan twilight ...