Monday, 09 November 2009

• Wolf Trek. The Journey of Thomas McBane...continued

   

  I broke to the northwest, away from the Mississippi. I found the Missouri river and followed it until it broke to the west. Traveling again northward, I came upon a land of sharp cut bluffs and rolling hills. It made for difficult traveling. I saw an abundance of small rivers, streams, and wildlife of every sort. The deer were the most plentiful of the game and three of them became my sustenance on this long journey. I was told by settlers of a fur trading post further north in a village known as Pembina. I saved the deer hides to trade if I should happen to venture that far north.

  As I traveled further, the land began to flatten out. Rolling prairie land extended as far as my eyes could see. Trees were sparse on this land of grass and buffalo. Ah, the buffalo--magnificent beasts grazing in herds of thousands! I had not in my twenty-nine years of life, seen beasts of such immense size. I estimated them to weigh from eighteen hundred to two thousand pounds--some even larger. I watched them, transfixed, for hours at a time. Their magnificence and nobility were stunning. I came to this land not knowing what my eyes would see. Now I knew I had found my destiny. If ever a place felt like a home to me, it was this place. I rode all the way to a great lake. The Indians called it “Spirit Lake.” Some of the fur traders that I came across called it the “Devil’s Lake.”

  The lake was home to a great Indian nation. I had no desire to intrude upon their land, nor incur their wrath in any way. I desired to live in peace among all men; white or Indian. I began to build a small sod dwelling near a river, about fifteen miles south of the Devil’s Lake. My dwelling was hidden from sight by a small rolling hill on either side. The river lay in front of me at a distance of about one hundred fifty yards. I would be able to see anyone coming over the hills long before they could reach my sod dwelling.

  The river teemed with fish and the land teemed with game. If ever a man had found his Eden, it was certainly me.

  I arrived in this wonderful land during the summer of 1815. Never would I return to my former life in Saint Louis or Boston. Here, my own hand would provide for me all that I need to sustain my life. My tools consisted of a large knife made by my own hands during the war with England and a flintlock rifle that I had become an expert with. I also acquired a musket from a fallen comrade at the battle of New Orleans, that I loaded with shot. The weapon was perfect for the hunting of the many species of game birds that inhabit this area.

   

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