2025-05-02 - Little Lady Vagabond by Hal Kane Clements ====================================================== I found this series of 5 articles in Outdoor American written by Hal Kane Clements describing her wandering through Canada. Hal was her pen name. Her given name was Hazel. These articles are a time capsule giving a glimpse into Canada 100 years ago. I enjoyed the author's adventurous and upbeat style. Below are some photos of the author. Hazel sitting on a boat Hazel at a trapper's grave Hazel with Dutch journalists Hazel in aviator clothes Hazel with her daughter Enid Below are the letters themselves, with links to the magazine issues. July, 1925 ========== Outdoor America, July, 1925 Dear Stay-At-Homes: It all began when I was born, I guess. Perhaps the moon was a little off color--or the stars a bit mixed--but whatever the reason I seem to have arrived among those present all fixed up with a bad case of heel itch, which for many years I covered up the best I could. Somehow I managed to reach what really should be the age of discretion (if one is ever to have such a disadvantage wished on one), without getting into serious difficulty--and then one lovely day in June--the worst happened! On the picture cover of the highly respected and conservative Saturday Evening Post I looked upon a tragic sight. A tired out, stoop-shouldered, old bookkeeper, probably the watchword-of the office for his punctuality and steadiness--sits dreaming of his Ship of Adventure, which somehow never came true. In his faded, half-blind blue eyes there is a look of hopeless wistfulness--he realizes he is too old to sail the high seas of Adventure even if the chance should come--and he has had his dream for many, many years! "My grandfather's ghost!" says I to myself. "Just suppose that should happen to Me. My joints don't exactly creak yet--but Time has a mean way of sneaking past--and that pathetic old dreamer probably has been planning on getting away next year, for the last forty of 'em. And that dream I've had for most of my life of a long, meandering ramble through the North country seems a bit mossy. Right now is when I'd better do something about it or quit thinking of it." Making dreams come true is easier than forgetting them, you'll find, if you try it. So I turned my thinker upside-down in a desperate effort to find the ways and means to get my little old Ship of Adventure out of port, and me with it--and then, lo and be-hold--out of a cubby hole, forgotten and dusty, I dragged forth an Aladdin's lamp idea that only needed a little rubbing--and I found that all I had to do was to unwind a little more sail--and then--away! Between this log cabin, where I am writing you this letter (four miles from even the meager civilization of Metagama, a station and three log cabins plus one water tank, and the nearest human being except my comrade), and Chicago, there stretches a thousand miles of endless interest and beauty. Driving on splendid roads most of the way, through the dunes and fragrant clover fields of Indiana, great fields of buckwheat, the prosperous quaintness of Ohio, made most tempting by the tantalizing smell of early apples, drifing along the road--the breath-taking swoops down the steep hills of Pennsylvania, past picturesque old white-washed farm houses set among twisted apple trees in southwestern New York--and woven throughout the whole flying picture, great glowing flower color--gorgeous hollyhocks along a stone wall--lovely gardens everywhere of sweet william, larkspur, bachelor buttons--and rambler roses clamoring for admiration from doorway and gate! A never-to-be-forgotten sight was Niagara Falls during a terrific electrical storm at night. It was pitchy dark over the falls, except during the flashes of lightning, and then that whole miracle of magnificence would shine from way up the river as though phosphorescent. Thrilling? It was just the scariest glory I've ever seen! At last Toronto, and then the sea-going chariot was given a chance to get rested, and a train brought me the rest of the way to Metagama, Ontario, through wild, bleak country, some of it that makes you think of the end of the world, and then the next mile brings you a stretch of breath-taking scenery. One of the charming allurements of Canada is that you never quite know just what it intends to do next--first there are great hills of warmly pink rock a few miles out of Sudbury--long stretches of burned out timberland--lovely little lakes set like jewels in a pine-fringed valley--lonely little stations--lumber camps built up of log cabins and a saw-mill--and then, Metagama, after all those miles! Dinner, and a good one, too, in the box car dining room, of a section gang--a visit with some old Airedale friends and their owner, Mike Bates, a rare person and our host--and eventually, with pack sacks and duffle bags, following our good friend Charlie, we start on the four-mile trail to camp. The trail is composed largely of fallen trees, over which we must climb, and rocks over which we stumble. (About this time I'm breathless and feel a good round one hundred and fifty years old.) When the four miles seems to have stretched into at least forty, and we're sure we just can't go another step--the trail turns and 'there before us is the most peacefully beautiful spot I've ever seen, and nestled down overlooking the whole of it, a log cabin which is to be ours for a week. Trout Lake, as you come upon it, seems to be a perfect rectangle, with the cabin looking south straight away, down the center of it. On both sides, with perfect balance of outline, two long tapering ridges of pine timberland, like arms, reach out as if holding the little lake close to its bosom, gradually rising to a towering background which meets behind the cabin, with here and there a giant pine silhouetted against a sky of vivid blue, and great shining white clouds. Just now it is sunset--and across the world is flung, by a gigantic and audacious hand, all the paint pots of the universe--mauve and gold daringly splashed with vivid red and orange--and against the far distance a shading of purple, green, and gray that would drive an artist mad trying to reproduce. The silence and peacefulness of it reaches down into one's soul--and all the cares and worries of the world slip away. There is no man-made sound--no intrusion into this solitude. Trout Lake is a little kingdom, where the occupants of the log cabin have absolute reign. Far off the weird call of a loon shatters the silence--safely hidden in the dusk of the timber along the lake a moose plunges for a refreshing drink. The moon has started on her majestic march across the sky, and here and there a golden star shines back again from the quiet surface of the water. Night is here, and the fresh pine-sweetness of the air makes our hay filled bunks a welcome prospect. A fire of pine wood is burning in the chuck stove--gratefully we toast our shins against its warmth for a few moments--then in less time than it takes to tell it we are under the blankets and forty fathoms deep in slumber. August, 1925 ============ Outdoor America, August, 1925 Dear Stay-At-Homes: After a lovely, lotus-eating week at Trout Lake, then again the four mile pack-sacking trail back to Metagama, a freight train ride to Bisco, thirty miles west--we missed the only passenger train that day--a visit with old friends, some maddening moonight over the beautiful Bisco waters that merge lake after lake endlessly, and dotted with the most intriguing islands of every size and style. A kiss goodbye to my dear comrade whose path leads east While mine wanders much, much west. Then five hundred Miles of lonely "bush," some of it so desolate you want to weep as you look, some of it, when we finally reach the crags and huge boulders that rear themselves against the sky line at Lake Superior, magnificently rugged. This certainly seems to be a hard, rocky old world about here and it makes me feel all sort of pulverized and nothing at all, at all! And then, at midnight after nearly eighteen hours of express speed, Nipigon River Camp, the long train grumbling to an unwilling stop, a sleepy porter dumping me and my luggage out into the empty darkness. A bumpy drive, with horse and wagon, over what seems to be unbroken forest for several miles, finally a cup of tea and at last, just as I am about to leave the world forever, I am so weary, a grand and glorious place to sleep! Miss Green, my genial hostess, brings me back to life in the morning by waving a breakfast tray laden with bacon and coffee before my nose, grandest smell in the wide world; and I awaken to find a far and wide lake over which I look from high up on a hill. Great hills of black rock surround the lake. Against a hollow in one of them nestles a quaint little white church, looking a bit timid and frightened at all the rocks around it. Nipigon is Fisherman's Paradise, but it is Sunday and there is much to see and do, so I desist. An unforgettable trip in a motor boat down the rapids on French River, the stars come out and the Northern Lights scamper across the sky and then once again I am on my way, regretfully leaving behind me a very splendid hospitality and a wonderful day. Winnipeg! Busy, breezy people who are so cordial and courteous. First of all, a great big room in the hotel where the Prince of Wales sometimes stops when he wanders through here, the Royal Alexandria. It's ultra modern, yet was built TWENTY YEARS AGO and has the largest lobby, or rotunda, as they call it here, of any hotel in the North American continent. How's that for progressiveness? Right near the hotel is the Immigration Office, and the station as I passed through had been filled with immigrants just leaving a colonists' train. "Poor souls," thought I, "it must be terrible to come here with hardly any money, unable to speak the language. What will they do?" I found out that it might be well to save my sympathy for someone who needs it more than they do. This is what happens. John and Mary, with little John and Mary, from Central Europe or England, or Germany, all treated exactly the same, decide to come to Canada as farm help. Special rates are given to them on boat and train, a place to cook their meals is provided, and they finally arrive, tired and dirty, at Winnipeg. They are registered at the Immigration Office, given a hot meal, if they have no food with them which they wish to cook in the kitchen which is provided . Last year over 61,000 beds and 160,000 meals were provided to the immigrants just at Winnipeg. They are taken to their rooms, where they find beds with good mattresses on them, clean sheets, pillow cases, and nearby is a well-equipped bath-room with all the HOT WATER they want (probably the first they've ever seen). Down-stairs is a good laundry with stationary tubs and hot water where the family wardrobe can, within the next day or two, be made fresh and clean. In the meantime, on the desk of Mr. M. E. Thornton, Superintendent of Colonization and Immigration, there is a carefully indexed folio of requests from the farmers throughout these provinces asking for helpers on the land, giving minute descriptions of just what nationality, religion, age, experience, and sex they want, as well as thorough information regarding the farmer himself, his family, his religion, and what accommodations and wages he can offer the newcomer. So John and Mary are sent, when they are rested and ready, to Mr. Farmer up in Manitoba, who has been waiting for just them, and everyone is happy. In case, for any good reason, John and Mary do not like the place to which they have been sent, they return to Winnipeg, the Immigration Office takes care of them until they do find what they want. Or if they are ill and cannot go on, they are nursed and cared for as though they were at home, probably much better. Miss Cook, a sweet-faced splendid woman who speaks six languages fluently, matron of the building which harbors the peasants from middle Europe, while taking me through the women's wards told me that by hook or by crook she manages to get the girls new hats to replace the usual head shawls before they leave for their new homes, and somehow, I think that bit of womanly understanding must be more treasured than food, don't you? There doesn't seem to be any institutionalism about it at all. It's just their home for awhile. Mr. Thornton told me an interesting and unusual story of the eagerness of these pathetic children of the Old World to become a part of this new one which is to bring to them the peace and opportunity for which they search. It seems that during the frightful struggle of the Bolsheviki to kill off the rest of the world who might disagree with them, they drove down into Manchuria the remnant of an Anti-Bolsheviki army and their families. Eventually, not daring to return to Russia, without money, but having among them several well-known intellectual leaders, arrangements were made to have the entire colony brought to Canada. With their priest they came here, were sent on to where their land was waiting for them. At the station they were met by the Rotary or Kiwanis Club, (I've forgotten which, perhaps it was both) with automobiles, given a good dinner, and taken out to their land where the Canadian Colonization Department had tents, beds, and necessary supplies for their use until their cabins were built. Within three weeks the land was being plowed, their community building plans well under way, logs cut for their homes, and every day as their priest prayed with them, a pledge of loyalty to their new home and government was given. They are perfectly happy and no work is too hard, nor hours too long for them now. And so, these people who so badly needed a new country found a warm welcome in the country that so badly needs people, and let's hope they live happily ever after! It was hard to leave Winnipeg. There's something about the place with its thousands of trees (in a prairie country too) and flowers everywhere one turns, indoors or out, its warm-hearted friendly and so interesting people, that makes even the most vagabondish person want to linger just a little longer! Nice unexpected little adventures were always popping out from some corner, too, like being taken bag and baggage out to a farm thirty miles from Winnipeg to help take a hand with the harvesting, by a lovely lady of whom I had never heard until the day before. I tried hard to earn my bed and board, and kept my ear open to find out how this farming thing was done so successfully. (Will tell that part of it in another letter.) Then, meeting Mrs. Rogers, the only woman member of Parliament in Manitoba, a witty, clever woman, and awfully good scout was a bit larky. We had tea together and then she took me over to have a look at the $10,000,000 Parliament Building. (Wrigley's advertising ideas, has Winnipeg) and her office, and her children's pictures, and the Deputy Minister of Agriculture, Mr. James Evans, a sturdy Welshman, who rolled his rrrr's most delightfully, and has a way with the ladies, bless his heart! With charming courtesy and remorseless energy he took up the burden of my education where Mrs. Rogers left off. I was taught how to tell good wheat from bad (I'm going to hound my baker to death when I get home), and was told of how Dr. Charles Gardner had produced Marquis wheat which because of its early ripening enlarged by fifty miles across Canada the wheat growing area. I was invited to attend the dinner at the Agricultural College in honor of the British Association for the Advancement of Science. "Rather interesting," said my nice Deputy Minister of Agriculture. My dears, at breakfast that morning I had read over a half page of Sir This and Sir That amongst those present, and had wished ever so devoutly that I could hear them cast their pearls, and not only did I see 'em and hear 'em but I called them by their first names! It was truly thrilling to hear the speeches by the great scientists but the one I liked best of all was given by Premier Bracken of Manitoba, and whom I had met before dinner, an enthusiastic, sincere, much-liked person, who spoke in gratitude of the help the United States had given Canada through her experimental farms. Then, too, there was a Doctor of Science from Calcutta, India, all bound round with a white turban and an English accent, who sat next to me, and Professor Barr, of the University of Glasgow, inventor of the Barr and Stroud naval range finder and other very scientific instruments. His very charming little wife whispered across to me that Canada seemed so big and endless that she didn't quite know how ever she would be able to squeeze herself back into Scotland again. Furs? I saw, as they were being unpacked, thousands of prospective coats just as they were received from the trappers in the faraway northland. At last, however, I could no longer endure the way my time-tables turned on me, so dutifully I "went into conference with them all" (sounds like Chicago advertising men), with the result that I awakened one fine morning in Dauphin, the horn of plenty in the great mid-west. One speaks in respectful whispers of their wonderful grain and mixed crops produced in this territory, so thought I, I'll see for myself. At the Saturday morning market I find busy, alert, and smartly dressed farmers' wives, briskly trading their wares, baked goods, and such vegetables and flowers that I wished I could send baskets of them to you. It seems odd that the favorite hobby of these people up here in this real prairie country is flower growing. And I wish you could see the result of their work and this wonderful soil. Among the farmers at the market, as I chat here and there, I find a man from Illinois, born and bred near Plainsfield, Mr. Walter Lockwood... I never saw nor heard of him before, but we were awfully glad to see each other anyway, and he and his wife took me out to see how Illinois farming ideas have worked out in northern Manitoba. As we drove into the farmyard, I thought I was back home again, corn fields and prize winning Holsteins, just like Illinois. Mrs. Lockwood and I shelled peas for supper as she told me about the country. Next morning a hurried scramble aboard a cattle train so that I could connect with the Canadian National Continental Express at Portage la Prairie a hundred and twenty-five miles away. The trainmen were ever so nice to me and let me help them cook dinner in the caboose. You get hungry anywhere up here, even on cattle trains, and you needn't turn your nose up either, for it was a VERY good dinner. After we washed the dishes a friendly game of rummy passed the time away until at last we reached Portage la Prairie, light of heart and smelling to high heaven. A trifling wait of seven hours, a hot windless day, and I wondered if I hadn't better bury my clothes. Cattle trains are not flower gardens. A young school teacher on her way up to Nelson House in the Hudson Bay Country, eight days' travel, four of it by canoe, tells me of her work among the Indian children at the mission, the sun sets at ten o'clock at night, the dog-team taxis, the wonderful gardens of flowers and vegetables phenomenal in size, flavoring and coloring (somehow I always had a hazy idea the diet up there was nice fresh snow-balls every day). She was a avery conscientious little person and was greatly perturbed because of having danced an innocent fox-trot or two with one of the traders, and feared she had been a bad example to the Indians who were there to see the goings on. I tried to reassure her that her value to the munity at large had probably been much increased by said fox-trot. We solemnly ate a chocolate soda and wished each other God-speed. Awaiting my train at midnight, alone in the deserted, darkened station at Portage la Prairie, wondering if I'll be able to get a reservation when the station agent has gleefully informed me there isn't a chance, I remembered this bit of verse I picked up Heaven only knows where. "Yonder the long horizon lies and there by night and day The old ships draw to home again, the young ships sail away. And come, I may, but go, I must, and if men ask you why-- You may put the blame on the stars and the sun, and the white road and the sky," Au revoir until I get to Edmonton, Alberta October, 1925 ============= Outdoor America, October, 1925 Dear Stay-At-Homes: Peace River, from the first moment I discovered it (on a time-table map) made an instant appeal as being a hard-to-get-to place... somehow it seems so detached from all the world... and it is, too, nearly 400 miles north of Edmonton. Then the name sounds so restful ... I was quite sure whoever named it had had an eventfully hectic time to find it. There are only two trains up and down from Edmonton each week--and I had just missed one, so I waited for three days for the next one, and while I waited, again and again I was told of what a hard trip it was, and I got all the thrill and scarey feeling one might have starting out upon an uncharted sea for some point four thousand miles away instead of a few hundred miles of new country. It seems that once upon a time the railway up there was nicknamed "Ever dangerous and badly constructed" (Edmonton, Dunbegan, and British Columbia) and until about four years ago, or less, five days were sometimes necessary to make the trip on account of so many derailments! All very reassuring new items, especially as the trip has some pretty stiff gradings for a large part of the way. However, all this had been before the road was taken over by the Canadian Pacific, and I felt reasonably sure in assuming that things certainly had been patched up a bit, anyway. In the meantime, I sightsee Edmonton, a thoroughly modern city set high on the bluffs overlooking the Saskatchewan River, once full of placer gold. The MacDonald Hotel, built beautifully of shining white marble, with every last word of up-to-date service, offers all the comforts of home to the weary wayfarer... automatic phones have been used in Edmonton for ten years. When I go to see the Parliament Building, I ask a direction of two gentlemen who turn out to be Mr. D. W. Warner, born and brought up in Keokuk County, Iowa, and Mr. L. F. Jelliff, born near Galesburg, Illinois, and whose brother edits a newspaper there now. Both are now members of Federal Parliament, and both successful farmers in Alberta. We chatter of Illinois and Chicago and I am invited out to see Mr. Warner's farm. Whee--what a lovely place it is. Beautifully landscaped around the house, with all the native shrubs and trees and every kind and color of garden flower. His farm provides even coal and wood for his home. I wish you could see the wonderful wheat fields--much of it averaging fifty bushels to the acre. Mrs. Warner is American born also--a simple, motherly woman who moved into this new country twenty-five years ago, with three little children--a log cabin their home for many years. Now they are independently wealthy--her husband a great statesman--yet she still loves best to be where she can look over the waving wheat fields--and tend her garden. At last train day finally did arrive, I climbed aboard, short on baggage, ready for a walk, if necessary, but long on determination to find out the reason people like to live so far away. Now, being a vagabond is really a delightful business. It gets better better as one learns how to lean on the wind a little and not to arrange things too much. I had sent the porter over to get a reservation to wherever along the trip might be a good place to stop off to visit around a bit. And I did't look to see where I was supposed to get off. Now, it happened that the manager of the railway, a delightfully interesting Scotchman, name of MacGregor, was making an inspection trip. When I noticed the private car at the end of the train, I wanted to know the who's, the why, and wherefores of such elegance on the way to Peace River. I was told about Mr. MacGregor and that he knew all about Peace River long before the Lord made it, so I decided to have a bit of a chat with the kind gentleman. Which I did. It seems on the very day that Mr. MacGregor had taken over the management of the railway, four years ago, there had been twenty-two derailments that morning. And, as the train weaved its leisurely way through the very sparsely settled country--the only signs of human life being a log cabin at long, long intervals--he told of how most of the track--or large portions of it--had to be dug out of the mud and swamp and $2,000,000's worth of kinks taken out of it. There were plenty left, he assured me. I was feeling quite sea-sick and couldn't argue with him agout it, and, anyway, he was so charming and courteous, a few kinks meant nothing at all to me. He asked me to stay to dinner (there isn't any diner on this twenty-six hour trip and less forunate travelers had to run like mad to a restaurant, while the train waited twenty minutes for them; and then if one lingered too long--one had to wait three days to continue his travels. Now, none of my folks have private railway cars and it was an important moment as I sat dining with Mr. MacGregor, his assistant Mr. Latter, and Mr. Beatty, his secretary. At nine o'clock I went back to my reservation, after a very pleasant and entertaining evening, and listened with a quaking heart to several school teachers tell of their trips in, during past few years. I never did like the idea of being squashed--they assure me no one ever gets that way in spite of all the exciting scenic effects--so I crawl into my berth with the car pitching like a top heavy boat wallowing through a bad, bad night at sea. I slept--not so much! Morning comes. I'm still un-squashed. The world around me is just like the movies of the great West--I begin to like the swaying motion of the train--Mr. Beatty comes to escort to Mr. MacGregor's car for breakfast--all is well! All day long the train passes through homesteaders' country. Log cabins are now the only buildings we see--many, many of them forsaken. Many, many of them are homes--bravely flaunting even lace curtains--nearly all of them with a patch of lovely flowers somewhere. Many homesteaders have secured their patent and have gone back to civilization to wait development of the country. Canada is no place for the weakling--but for those who have courage to face the hardship and loneliness of the settler's life--there is great opportunity, for the soil is generous--and the cost of it is very low. Of course, the handicap of distance from market must be reckoned with--but all indications point to a practical solution to that difficulty. In the meantime, I have decided to go to Grande Prairie first and then go by road or trail to Peace River, from there, a distance of about a hundred and fifty miles. In the late afternoon we come into Grande Prairie country--rich, black soil, as smooth as the surface of a ball--stretching endless beyond the horizon. Grain fields stand ripening--some of it, heavy-headed, in stocks. They tell me that in this district last year the crops were so great that the farmers could not measure it as it was handled. Grande Prairie is most picturesquely western frontier. The streets, after a three-day rain, are a sea of clay mud that sticks like glue and is as slippery as grease. Wild roses are in bloom along the same roadway, from which spring luscious mushrooms, as large as saucers. I pick both--the wild roses for the good of my soul--and the mushrooms--fresh mushrooms are good for anything you may have! Next morning I go out into the large farming country and hear of how these settlers, just ten or fifteen years ago, ame down over the Edenn Trail by oxen team (two hundred and fifty miles from the "end of steel" in those days) to build their little world in this valley of great promise. Twice a year trips had to be made "out" to get supplies--and it took three months. When I looked around me--and saw for miles and miles cultivated lands and great herds of fine cattle, much of it pure bred--homes, even though built of logs, of a very brave and courageous people, I humbly bowed before the spirit of empire building that had made it possible in this new, untried country. I shall take you with me to Peace River in my next letter. Faithfully yours, The Little Lady November, 1925 ============== Outdoor America, November, 1925 Dear Stay-At-Homes: There had been three days of rain in the Grande Prairie district, and when we came to the Saddle Mountains on our way to Peace River, Henry Ford's masterpiece stuck in the mud, and all hands got out and pushed. We reached Spirit River late that evening, after a really wonderful drive over roads that were surprisingly good, considering the recent heavy rains and the fact that, mostly, they were just ruts worn through the fields. On the way Sergt. Murray told me of the adventures of a provincial police in the north country (they were taking the place, to some extent, of the "mounties") and I could feel my hair standing on end as he told of having to cut off a dead man's head and carrying it forty or fifty miles through bush, in summer, to find out what had been responsible for his death, so that the dead man's partner could be cleared of any suspicion. And a lot of other cheerful news items of the same order. At Spirit River there is just one hotel--and that run by a Chinaman! One sleeps there, or counts stars. Gosh! There were a lot of 'em on hand that night. So, with a prayer to the Heaven that takes care of vagabonds, after being reassured by the kind and very courteous police that I really need not worry a bit, I put a chair against the door, the water pitcher on the chair, and slept the sleep of the just. The snorting of Henry down in front of the hotel the next morning at nine o'clock was the next sound I heard from the world... and I could see the handsome officers ready to continue the journey, so I scrambled into my clothes... a cup of coffee ... and then over the hills and far away. At Dunvegan Hill we looked up the next valley for sixty miles and could see Peace River country ... the mountains, in tones of red, orange, yellow, and green, subtly overshaded by the purple of distance. These mountains are not rocky, built up entirely of soil, and the outline of them is pleasing soft and colorfully marked, like a tremendous tapestry wove for miles and miles. The road down Dunvegan is very, very steep, and the brakes screeched in protest all the way, and when we reached the bottom, were very weak. As we ran down the last incline onto the ferry that takes the occasional car or horse across the Peace River at Dunvegan, I got the thrill of my life and almost a drowning when the bounded against the steel wire that stretched across the open end of the ferry. As I saw the bolts on both sides bulging er the wooden top rail with the strain ... I hoped my hair wouldn't be stringy when I was fished out and that I'd look natural! The river here is very deep and swift ... and while I had burned with zeal to see the place, I wasnt keen about drinking too much of it. Miles and miles of the most glorious wheat fields I have ever seen ... fulfilling a long time wish of mine, too, to see it standing ripened as far as I could see; dust that choked and blinded ... dinner with Ma and Pa Dodge, two of the greatest comedians in the whole wide world, who sent us on our way chuckling and laughing for twenty miles as we reviewed the jokes and funny stories they had told us. ... More dust ... less wheat ... a few people on horseback ... a carful of Sunday visitors ... and then at last we twisted down the last dangerous curves on the cliffy mountains and came upon Peace River, the town. It is like going into a new planet ... all shut away from the world. The town sits high above the Peace River ... some homes built right up to the mountain top. The mountains close it in on every side ... glowing in the sunset. It was just supper time when we arrived, and afterward, the officers, their duty done, left me to my own devices, the first of which was watching the day fade from this wild and beautiful spot. It was very quiet along the bank of the river. One could picture the noiseless glide of Indians in canoes loaded with furs, as they made their way, from the great, uncharted wastes far, far north of where I sat dreaming. A band of coyotes snarled and yelped in battle among themselves from high up the mountainside ... a lone wolf howled in query to the uproar. A church bell rang. A choir lifted earnest voices in praise ot the Lord. The evening star shown out against the still glowing sky. It was night ... in Peace River. Next morning a nice little school teacher and I took horses and rode to the top of the mountains ... and there we saw, shining like silver ribbons in the bright sunlight, the joining of three great rivers, the Peace, the Smoky, and the Hart. The three valleys, merging into one, made a wonderful, unforgettable picture. Here, high, overlooking the whole panorama, is the grave of an oldtime trapper and trader, Davis by name, born in Vermont. His body was brought back here by his partner, who had promised to carry out Twelve-Foot Davis' wish to await Gabriel's call at this magnificent spot. Labor Day there was a celebration at which I saw some Indians race, swallowed lots of dust, and--Oh, glorious!--heard some Highland bagpipes; that night I was invited to the dance, and went ... dirty and grimy, in an old tricotine that had been my only apparel, except my heavy shirt and breeches, since I left Edmonton. Everyone else was beautifully dressed ... and the women do know how to dress up there, but my style was not cramped a bit. I was made quite at home, and a grand time was had by all, I assure you. The bagpipes, by my special request, gave me the treat of my life as I danced to their music. Just like dancing on air ... and my toes still tingle when I think of it. I was invited out to lunch and had an interesting time talking to some of the earliest settlers there, one of whom, Mrs. Anderson, had a daughter named Peace, who was first white girl born in that country. Social welfare work is being done, especially for homesteaders, who have classes and instruction in millinery, cooking, and every kind of domestic science. Visiting nurses are stationed in various communities away from the town. And I fpound out that rents were ten dollars a month! Did you ever hear of such a thing? Neither had I. To overcome the handicap of distance between Fort Vermillion and the nearest markets, which are reached only by the infrequent boat trips in summer, or by dog team, which takes two weeks, in winter, the big farmer of that section has built his own flour mill, lumber mill, a hospital, a store, and his own at which he aarere, and his own school, at which his fifteen children--all remarkably healthy children too--are the main pupils gauldren. His produce he trades with the Indians for furs, and last year, I am told, he brought out $21,000 worth of fur to sell. Not bad, I'd say, six hundred miles north of Edmonton, besides taking care of a family of fifteen children. The garden truck in Fort Vermillion is just a miracle. Melons, twice as large as the ones we have down in the states; squash, tomatoes; everything, because of the intensive sunshine and the the long day hours, in six weeks are full size and of wonderful flavor. On the train coming down from Peace River are two of the girls from Fort Vermillion, who have never seen a train before! Both of them are grown up, one just recently married. I never talked with two more interesting and well bred girls; and I truly hope that all the world outside will keep them as sweet and clean as Fort Vermillion has given them. I also met Bishop Robbins and his wife, who have spent many years in this country. The Bishop's diocese covers 200,000 miles of the far north, with all of which he manages to keep in touch. Services are held in almost every section at least once in two weeks. Some day I am going back to Peace River. In the meantime are many thousands of miles I still must ramble. After a whole afternoon of scribbling and writing I got ready to leave Edmonton again, and then another happy adventure in another letter. Faithfully yours, The Little Lady Vagabond December, 1925 ============== Outdoor America, December, 1925 Dear Stay-At-Homes: And, now, comes the great moment when I tell you all about the Dutch journalists, their guardian angel, and our adventures together, and my only regret is that you were not with me to meet them. They are quite unforgetable, I assure you. It was like this. The night was at Edmonton, dark and late. I had managed by the kindly help of a very nice man, to reach the station, with only an unimportant few of my belongings strayed and it was nearly time for the Calgary train to start. Just then a man came hurrying down the platform, almost passes us, when the nice man calls out to him, and into the picure steps Mr. A. B. Calder, the Canadian Pacific guardian angel, a rare delight and a joy forever, and at the moment guiding the footsteps, or rather the carwheels of the Dutch Journalists who are touring Canada. Mr. Calder represented the president of the Canadian Pacific Railway as host when the Prince of Wales was up here a few years ago, and quite by accident the other day I picked up a book written by W. Douglas Newton, "Westward With the Prince of Wales," dedicated to Mr. Calder, which describes him thusly: "A. B. (Calder) was not merely our good angel, but our friend, He is a bundle of strange qualities, all good. He is Puck with the brain of an administrator, the king of story tellers with an unfaltering instinct for organization. A poet, a mimic and a born comedian, and a man of big heart, great humanness, and big ability, whom we all loved and valued from the first meeting." This is only part of what Mr. Newton said, and I'm thinking of writing a book about him myself! Well, after a rehearsal outside Mr. Calder's private car on how to pronounce the names of the Dutch journalists, during which I swallowed my Adam's apple in a most alarming fashion, awful names to even think, I was impressively led to a big chair and seated therein ... and one after another the five Hollanders were presented. There was Mr. Van Reimsdyk, vice consul for the Netherlands, Baron Can Lamsweerde, Mr. Brusse and his son, Henke, and Mr. Cnossen; all in the quaintest mixture of Dutch and English, expressing great delight that I was among them. We all loved each other at sight, and the party was a complete success when Mr. Calder's man brought in a big plate of fruit cake. The next day at Calgary, the Hollanders looked me up at the hotel and invited me to go with them to see a big fox farm near. I was delighted to go and had a very interesting day of it. Fox farming seems to be a rapidly growing industry here in Canada. This farm is managed by Mr. A. Rankin (who stands 6 feet and 6 inches high) and the day we were there, 960 black and silver foxes were on parade. Mr. Calder took his Hollanders to Banff that night and I was left alone in Calgary. As the train was leaving, they called out for the ninety-seventh time, "Pleease, pleease, come up to Banff tomorrow." So, like the weak woman that I am, I recklessly cancelled several engagements, bought a new dress, the first one I tried on, sat up half the night to pack, and at noon next day, descended in glory on Banff Springs, eighty miles from Calgary, and had my first real look at the Canadian Rockies! Like every other human sufferer of the world's woes, I've often wondered why I was born. That Sunday morning I discovered that to see the Rocky Mountains was reason enough for anyone. As the train leaves Calgary behind it and settles down to its long, and speedy climb up into the mountains, the Bow River, of the most wonderful green color, weaves in and out between the ever higher foot hills. There is some wonderful swimming at Banff Springs. Hot sulphur water piped from Sulphur Mountain, in graduated pools, protected on three sides by huge plate glass windows, through which one gazes in meditation at the mountains as one languidly swims in the warm water. The motor roads through these Canadian Rockies are truly amazing. Threading their way in hair-raising curves (accidents are very, very rare, I am told), they climb higher and higher into the clouds, so that one can sit luxuriously in a motor car and yet satisfy the hunger for height that many of us have. A long and very happy drive with the Hollanders and Mr. Calder on the afternoon of my arrival among the different mountain peaks and through the valley of the Bow River left me without an adjective to work with. All my old standbys were in tatters. The Banff Springs Hotel, very luxurious and modern, owned and operated by the Canadian Pacific, is really beautifully located high on a bluff overlooking the Bow, and that evening after dinner, to which I am invited by the Hollanders we all promenade in the terrace and I learn much of the ways of women in Holland. The dinner is really one of life's great moments for me. There I sit, all done up in my best bib and tucker, with six charming men around me, much to the wonder and envy, I am sure, of the feminine audience in the dining room. Hollanders may be serious-minded, but I never in my life listened to a neater "line" of gallantry. The Baron kept to the head of the class all along, though. The following day I started very early. At 7 o'clock I was called and invited to make a trip to Lake O'Hara with a charming man by the name of McDonald. (Woods up here are just full of nice men.) Train leaving at 7:30. In exactly fifteen minutes I was downstairs with my ears pinned back. We breakfasted on the train with the rest of the party, reached Hector about 9:30, found our ponies waiting, and within five minutes were in our saddles and on the ten-mile trail. Up, up, higher and higher climbed the slippery and rocky path. Through miles of timberland, through noisy little glacier streams, on every side surrounded by majestic God-made temples, peaks snow-covered, lost to view in the clouds. Somehow, after the first few miles one becomes subdued by the quiet dignity of it all. Lake Louise is so perfectly beautiful that it almost hurts one to look at it. I reached there the night of my O'Hara day, not half so weary as I expected after my twenty mile horseback ride, and found that the Dutch journalists and their guardian angel had left a light shining bright in the window for me. There they all were (with a Scotch couple added to the party), the quaint darlings, and I was given the prodigal's welcome. As we all sat before the log-filled fireplace, I told of my wonderful day and they of theirs. The warmth of the fire, to say nothing of a hot toddy in a quiet corner, made me so sleepy I forgot my manners and fell asleep right in the middle of one of Mr. Calder's really clever jokes. (He will never forgive me for it.) My room looked right over Lake Louise and it was moonlight. I cas but one sleepy eye out over all this rare beauty--scenery is always nicer in the morning anyway--and gone frmo my bones are the fifty-seven kinds of kinks that have come on during the last hour. Sleep! Faithfully yours, The Little Lady Vagabond September, 1927 =============== Outdoor America, September, 1927 Fire Patrol by Aeroplane by Hale Kane Clements Being the story of a flip, a flop, and a forest fire. Neither Colonel Lindbergh nor Columbus in their wildest moments knew a greater thrill than that which swept over me that day last July when I first saw the wonderful flying boat that was to carry me on a flight up to James Bay, the far northern boundary of Ontario, hundreds of miles from the last sign of civilization... a region which less than a dozen white men have visited, to say nothing of a woman flying there. Through the courtesy of Capt. W. R. Maxwell, Director of the Provincial Air Service in Ontario, I was to be included on a special flight being made, so that I might study at first hand the remarkable way in which Canada is developing her resources, by aviation in inaccessible territory. Two years before this, while camping at Metagama, Ontario, the unexpectedness of hearing and seeing an aeroplane in that vast stretch of wilderness had so intrigued me that I knew that somehow sometime I would have to see for myself the hazardous pioneering work that is being done in cutting such great distances into so few hours by air. Dreams came true and at last I was at Sudbury, Ontario, one of the flying stations of the Provincial Air Service, ready to soar away, from one end of Canada to the other, taking part in the various activities being carried out by the Royal Canadian and the Provincial Air Forces. This included forest patrol for fire and blight, map-making and surveys by aviation, transportation into the gold mining districts, aerial photography, fisheries patrol and the special trip to James Bay where I hoped to find some unusual species of orchids while the rest of the party were making their survey. It was a great privilege and I fairly ached with happiness over the glorious adventure it was to be. Capt. Maxwell, who was personally going to pilot the party, had been delayed on another flight because of bad weather, and while waiting his return the air engineer attended to every last detail toward hastening our start-off. Changing the oil was yet to be done, and I was practising around with him one day in the plane. Then, one of those unexplainable, freak accidents that might happen only once in a lifetime of flying. The temporary pilot for this operation, unfamiliar with the air yacht, Capt. Maxwell's pet machine, not realizing the terrific power and speed of this, the fastest aircraft in Canada, started taxiing across the water entirely too fast. In far less time than it takes me to tell you, there was a terrifying, unexpected swoop into the air at a rate of 150 miles an hour. Then, when we were more than 300 feet high, a more terrifying swoop downward, as the pilot tried to bring the plane back to the surface of the lake. We sideslipped, helplessly rushing, roaring, diving straight toward what seemed unavoidable death on a rocky island toward which we were headed--a miraculous swerve carried us by the smallest possible fraction of a second beyond the island--and I found myself turning head over heels, down, down, down through the water as though I had been shot out of a cannon. As a matter of fact, I *had* shot right through the light but strongly built side of the fuselage. When, at last, I opened my eyes I was much surprise to find myself still in the same old world. No one yet has found out why we were not all instantly killed, but there we were, rather a bit mussed up, perhaps, but hanging, with vim and vigor to whatever wreckage of the hydroplane that promised to be good to us and keep us from a watery grave. Eventually we were fished out, taken to the hospital and neatly sewed together again. Within three weeks we ready for a fresh start, and according to my schedule reported at the Royal Canadian Air Force headquarters in Winnipeg. And so, four weeks to the very hour of the crash at Sudbury, I at last got started, this time on a fire patrol with Flight Lieutenant George Mercer of the Royal Canadian Force, high over the Lake Winnipeg region in northern Manitoba, in an Avro plane. I only hope he never knows how scared I was that day! Forest products comprise one-quarter of Canada's total export trade, and the United States uses up four-fifths of this, so perhaps your evening newspaper tonight comes from the great timber tract over which we patrolled searching those miles and miles of green forest for the first wisp of smoke that means a forest fire. The Air Force and Forestry Division in Canada have Worked out a very simple plan of action. The patrol order covers a definite area, marked on a colored map, always carried by the pilot. For instance, Patrol D is as definitely mapped out for the pilot to follow through the air as a roadway would be to a motorist. On board the plane is carried a wireless telephone, over which reports are sent at fifteen minute intervals. Back at the flying station a powerful receiving set picks up messages and reports them to the Chief Fire Ranger on duty during a patrol. Then, as Flight Lieutenant Mercer points a gray plume of smoke in some heavily timbered area still miles ahead, but easily visible from a height of 2,000 feet, he reports it at once to the station seventy miles away. By the time the fire is reached, which already has a good start, he is informing the fire ranger there of the extent of the fire, which way it is traveling, and the accessibility of water with which to fight it. Back at the station, the suppression aircraft, always waiting ready while the patrol is being carried out by the scout plane, is equipped with a small fire engine, hose, ropes, picks and shovels, food, and tents for the fire rangers, loaded up with men, and long before the scout plane has returned to Lac du Bonnet, the flying station, the suppression aircraft has landed the men and equipment at the fire, and if necessary has gone back for more help. Some idea of the value of this quick action in saving the forests of Canada can be gained when I tell you that on the first patrol of the season last Spring, nineteen such fires were reported within a flight of forty miles. No one knows how many millions of dollars have been saved to the Canadian government through the practical work that is being done by these lonely sentinels of the air. It is a sublime sight, especially to those of us who love trees, to look down upon a forest that stretches unbroken, rippling in the wind like the waves upon a sea, for miles and miles and miles--a forest that has taken hundreds of years to grow, and which will take hundreds of years to replace. A rare and unforgettable beauty is there--untold wealth--and death! The value of the Canadian production of pulp and paper for an average year is tremendous, and four-fifths of it is absorbed by the United States, which uses this source of supply for two-thirds of its newsprint. Spruce, balsam, and pine are most extensively used in the production of pulp and paper, and this seaplane flight we were taking with Mr. Dunn, the entomologist from Ottowa, Ont., and Mr McDonald, the Forestry Inspector from Winnipeg, as passengers of the Royal Canadian Air Force, was to map out the extent of deadly destruction that is being wrought by the spruce bud-worm amongst all the beauty below us. Looking for tree bugs from thousands of feet in the air! It does sound a bit far-fetched, but it's being done--too easily done. Throughout that vast stretch of lovely, living green, there runs the tragic marking of death--a strange bluish-gray that means the spruce bud-worm has passed that way. In Quebec and New Brunswick, alone, enough pulp wood to keep every mill in those two provinces busy for fifty years has been destroyed by this one blight--an outbreak covering thousands of square miles--in which ninety per cent of the entire balsam growth in that territory was killed. Before the days of aviation, it was a hopeless sort of fight against this terrific loss. The distances were so great--the almost immeasurable depths of the forests so inaccessible--so many thousands of square miles to be watched for the first signs of the blight. The only means of control is by keeping the balsam growth to young cuttings, for it seems that the older tree is more susceptible and less likely to recover. So, time is a most important factor. But from our seaplane we could accurately mark upon the map we had with us, the extent of that blue-gray shadow, over 2,000 square miles--a flying distance of 250 miles, a short day's work. And it took Mr. Dunn five weeks of hard canoe travel to only partially accomplish this before the Department of Agriculture in Canada began to make practical use of the Air Force. My entomological education was much helped along by hearing of the very interesting way that wheat rust also is being fought through the use of aviation. Each day spoor tests to discover the direction of travel for this costly blight are made by having the patrol pilots suspend from their seaplanes in flight a simple apparatus that looks like a long handled spool, to which is attached a microscope slide, lightly smeared with vaseline, which holds whatever germ it comes in contact with. When the spool is brought back into the plane, it is put into a corked bottle and turned over to the Department of Agriculture for examination. They are also trying out the possibilities of dusting the wheat fields plagued by the rust blight, by flying over the crop with an enormous spraying apparatus attached to the aeroplane so that great tracts of land can be thoroughly covered in this manner in a very short time. It is estimated that the development of Canada has been hastened a whole generation through the introduction of flying in far northern areas where until the last few, very few, years, the dog team and canoe were the only means of travel. Great credit for this is due to Group Captain J. Stanley Scott, Director of the Royal Canadian Air Force, who has carried on his experiments in spite of every discouragement. The Air Force in Canada, instead of working on air services for mail, express, and transportation almost exclusively, as most other countries in the world have done since the Great War, have chosen an entirely different and wider development--that of protection and co-operation in developing the natural resources of Canada. Hazel Clements (1891-1967) ========================== Long considered a mystery in OWAA circles, her signature on the Bill of Organization is the only evidence of her participation in the organization's founding, and only then as Mrs. Hall Kane Clements. The story she likely would have told that 1927 spring evening in Chicago happened eight months earlier when a plane she was aboard in Canada crash landed into a lake from a height of 300 feet. "How far, gentle reader, have YOU fallen?" she asked in an article she wrote on the accident for the Cleveland Plain-Dealer. "Have you ever stood and gazed thirty stories to the street below and wondered what would happen if you were to find yourself falling through the air at the speed of something like 150 miles an hour?" "There is, I have found, at least one thing about an airplane crash. It doesn't take long." She watched it unfold from a seat next to the pilot, who lost control of the plane while trying to turn it around in high winds. "I didn't know much about flying then," she wrote, "and if I had realized the awful helplessness of the pilot to swerve a falling plane, I might not have been quite so thrilled as the great, gray rocks of the small island leaped up at us." Everyone on board miraculously survived the harrowing experience, but not without injuries. Clements, who was catapulted through the fuselage on impact, suffered three broken ribs, and her scalp was ripped from the crown of her head to just above the neckline. Misfortune turned to good fortune when the picnickers on shore revved up their motorboat and came to the rescue as Clements and the others clung to the plane. "In the silence which hung over the mess of the wreckage, human and mechanical, that was strewn over that section of the lake, we could hear the staccato put-put of the boat coming nearer and nearer," she wrote. They were rushed to a hospital, where Clements stood by "shaking with a nervous chill" while others were treated for their injuries. Seeing that Clements also was injured, a hospital worker picked her up and summoned help. "I found myself, to my surprise, with the whole hospital staff gathered around the bed into which I had been bundled," she wrote. "My teeth were chattering so that the staff couldn't or wouldn't understand my protests that I was perfectly all right." Clements got the impression that the hospital staff thought she was going to die from shock. "However, being an altogether unamiable person, I decided that wasn't my day for dying, and after the scalp had a few tucks and neat seams taken in it ... I wanted to get away from that place," she wrote. She succeeded three days later and in four months began a 40-day tour flying with the Royal Canadian Air Force. Flying became her passion with multiple trips into the Canadian bush that she called "gorgeous fun." She helped do aerial mapping of timberland, flew fishery patrols over Hudson Bay, and fire patrols over northern Manitoba, and had more than 50,000 miles of airtime doing roundtrip mail delivery in harsh winter conditions to the remote village of Seven Islands, almost 600 miles north of Montreal, Quebec. "Somehow, in spite of a whole-hearted enthusiasm for flying for several years, this flight to Seven Islands was my most vivid realization of what a miracle air travel can accomplish in overcoming the handicaps of distance, storms, and inaccessibility," she said. "We had come through a wilderness which for hundreds of miles at a time showed no sign of civilization or mark of any kind of travel." Clements also delivered written accounts of her aerial exploits to magazines and newspapers as "Letters of a Little Lady Vagabond." She was born Hazel Philomenia Kane in Olean, New York, and married shortly before her 17th birthday in 1908 to George H. Brenner, a tool shop worker. They had one daughter, Enid, in 1912 and divorced four years later. She remarried in 1921 to George Clements, who worked in newspaper advertising. Clements also worked in advertising for the Cleveland Plain Dealer and Illinois State Journal before turning to writing. To make her stories more saleable in a male-dominated industry, she disguised that she was a woman by using a byline of Hal Kane Clements. Over time she adjusted it to Hall Kane Clements, perhaps to avoid confusion with Hal Clements, an actor and silent movie director of the same era. In 1929, she launched a radio show--the Women's Aviation Hour--on a New York station. Among her guests were pioneering female flyers Amelia Earhart, Phoebe Fairgrave Omlie, and Elinor Smith. As hair-raising as her own flying adventures were, Clements found them less traumatic than standing before a studio microphone. "I have never felt the least bit nervous flying over some of the most hazardous country I have ever seen, hundreds of miles from civilization," she said. "But when I get up before the mike, my knees wobble. My hands shake. Maybe I seem frightened! I'm going up one day soon and try broadcasting from a plane to see if I can only get over being afraid of the mike!" Clements continued writing for newspapers in Chicago, Cleveland, and New York but went a different direction once the United States got involved in World War II. She participated in the Victory Book Campaign, a program started by the American Library Association, American Red Cross, and United Service Organizations to collect and distribute books to members of the armed forces. In 1942, the USO hired her as associate director for its station in Port of Spain, Trinidad, where she worked 14- to 16-hour days. She was quoted in a short news item that circulated widely about a Maltese cat that adopted the USO station as its home and was fitted with proper identification. Clements said it was "the only cat in the army wearing 'dog' tags." Before retiring in 1963, she wrote a series of articles on Latin America for the U.S. Information Agency. She died of a cereberal hemorrhage in 1967, leaving a legacy of adventurous spirit. tags: article,history,outdoor,travel,vagabond Tags ==== article history outdoor travel vagabond