Edmonton: M. G. Hurtig Ltd., 1968 (orig. published 1873)
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I know what you’re thinking: another historical, ruminating, British colonialist travelogue, espousing the wonders of the wilderness to school boys in the Old Country.
First off, William Francis Butler was an Irishman, and although he did participate in the British Army, joining in 1858, he developed a severe distaste for Imperialism, and the colonial viewpoints that went along with the military conflicts imposing British Imperialist views. According to Edward McCourt’s introduction to this edition, he was more of “a poet and philosopher rather than the professional soldier” whose views gradually clashed with the machinations of Empire in which he was a part, often personally siding with opposing Indigenous forces.
In part his failure to achieve the highest rank stemmed from his intense individualism and impatience with military protocol which made him a poor “team man”; in part from a steadily growing hatred of Imperialist wars in which his sympathies were almost invariably on the side of the natives he fought against.
With that in mind, what would you expect from a tale of travelling by dogsled, canoe, and on horseback (and sometimes one’s ‘plates of meat’) “from Fort Garry into the Peace River Country” but also south along the Fraser (or ‘Frazer’ as it is spelled here)? What treatment would you think the author would apply to folk of Indigenous ancestry?
Before I answer that question, let me also point out how impressed I was with the speed in which this story was published after the adventure itself. The 1863 publication was made the same year as the journey. There must have been, in this stage of the Victorian era, a hunger for tales of danger, derring-do, and rapprochement with Indigenous inhabitants of North America, even then. How’s this for progressive (although please forgive the use of “red man” and “Indian”…after all Butler was a man of his times.
In nearly all the dealings of the white man with the red, except perhaps in those of the fur trade, as conducted by the great fur companies, the mistake of judging and treating Indians by European standards has been made. From the earliest age of American discovery, down to the present moment, this error has been manifest; and it is this error which has rendered the whole missionary labour, the vast machinery set on foot by the charity and benevolence of the various religious bodies during so many centuries, a practical failure to-day.
How is that for progress in the Victorian era? Butler opposed assimilation of Indigenous peoples then…as well as the religious zeal that would lead to residential schools…in 1873. But, I digress from telling of the tale of adventure within the book.
“But all this is too long to enter upon here, enough that to me at least the Indian character is worth the trouble of close examination,” wrote Butler.
Indigenous or Métis guides would feature throughout Butler’s tale. But, as much of his travel through the winter was by dogsled, his initial friendships were with his sled dogs, especially the “Untiring” Cerf-vola.
His approach to travel is daunting: long nights out in the bitter cold will leave you gasping for air, and thankful for your cozy armchair.
To this historian, however, his descriptions of the newly-designated (by the Queen at any rate) British Columbia are outstanding. Butler’s prose is breathtaking. His arguments are persuasive. He indeed was philosopher and individualist (which is probably why solo exploration via pooch-power suited him so well).
Once he’s in B.C., and has switched to horsepower, even normally banal preparations and agenda become fascinating reading.
From the fort of St. John’s to the gold mines on the Ominica River was some twenty or thirty days’ travel,” planned Butler, “and as no supplies were obtainable en route, save such as my gun might afford, it became necessary to carry a considerable quantity of moose pemmican and dry meat, the sole luxuries which St. John’s could boast of.
In my two-wheeled travel days, this meant pepperoni sticks, cereal bars, and freeze-dried meals.
This book boasts a fabulous topographical map, showing Butler’s route in red, which I enjoyed consulting (something I also enjoyed doing while on the road).
Also, I must admit to having a soft spot for woodcut engravings, showing the vast landscape with tiny figures in a canoe, or at camp, matching wits with its magnificence. This was no doubt part of the appeal of titles such as this in the Victoria era (pre-Instagram). Attached to words of derring-do, these illustrations make for riveting stuff. Take this fearful encounter with a huge rapid (seems more like a small waterfall to me) while travelling with anxious companions in a canoe.
The more we looked at it, the less we liked it; but it was the sole means of passing the cañon, and retreat came not yet into our heads. We took our places – Kalder at the bow, Jacques at the stern, A — and I in the middle; then we hugged the rock for the last time, and shoved out into the swirl of waters. There was no time to think; we rose and fell; we dipped our paddles in the rushing waves with those wild quick strokes which men use when life is in the blow; and then the cañon swung and rocked for a second, and with a wild yell of Indian war-whoop from Kalder, which rose above the rush of the water, we were in the eddy at the farthest shore.
I must admit to “whooping” myself once they circumvented this obstacle. Also very pleasing is the collaboration and cooperation between Indigenous and European adventurer when life is in the balance. How often would authors of adventure stories, such as Farley Mowat, have borrowed this theme of survival instinct conquering difference in works of fiction?
By the way cañon is a word I first noted when researching Hamilton Mack Laing’s diaries and reads ‘canyon.’ It was a popular spelling in adventure writing of the period, especially in Muir.
As mentioned before, Butler’s descriptions of natural superlatives are exceptional. These partnered with illustrations of striking, perhaps exaggerated, appearance are engaging, in the same way as reading older editions of Tolkien might be. How about this scene following a moose-hunt? Does this mountain along the Peace River exist?
Directly opposite a huge cone mountain rose up some eight or nine thousand feet above us, and just ere evening fell over the scene, his topmost peak, glowing white in the sunlight, became mirror’d in most faithful semblance in the clear quiet river, while the life-stream of the moose flowed out over the tranquil surface, dyeing the nearer waters to brilliant crimson.
What a visceral image this conjures up, in conjunction with the illustration. Butler’s writing about the ranges of B.C. are spiritual in nature, taking the reader to a higher altitude. Perhaps it’s because I’ve recently written about mountains and spirituality, but I was drawn to this passage:
Wonderful things to look at are these white peaks, perched up so high above our world. They belong to us, yet they are not of us. The eagle links them to the earth; the cloud carries to them the message of the sky; the ocean sends them her tempest; the air rolls her thunders beneath their brows, and launches her lightnings from their sides; the sun sends them first greeting, and leaves them his latest kiss. Yet motionless they keep their crowns of snow, their glacier crests of jewels, and dwell among the stars heedless of time or tempest.
No wonder R. M. Patterson was enthralled with Butler’s writing as a schoolboy, as he looked into the embers of his family fireplace, and dreamt. There are also moments of deep isolation and solace in Nature that are evocative. It may be a sound that is cliché in our YouTube world, but Butler’s description of the sound of a loon is extraordinary in its lucidity. Here he is “from the lonely shores of Lake Babine to the bend of the Frazer at Quesnelle…”
The lakes of this northern plateau are singularly beautiful. Many isles lie upon their surface; from tiny promontories the huge Douglas pine lifts his motionless head. The great northern diver, the loon, dips his white breast in the blue wavelets, and sounds his melancholy cry through the solitude. I do not think that I have ever listened to a sound which conveys a sense of indescribable loneliness so completely as this wail, which the loon sends at night over the forest shores.
Indeed so, Mr. Butler.
