The path leads away from the river, and we walk through forests full of huge fir trees with thick gnarled bark and aromatic cedars that tower skyward, their trunks as wide as five men.
The undergrowth is moist and dense with sword ferns, salal, and brambles that thickly carpet the forest floor. The woods are primordial and eerily quiet. With the exception of the footpath, we see no signs of human presence at all, until I smell something terrible. “Och! What’s that?” I ask, my stomach heaving as a terrible stench envelops me.
Duyunun stares into the forest. “Death.” Several yards off the path something that looks like a large bird’s nest sits high off the ground in the branches of a large fir, but no nest I’ve ever seen has had a decomposing arm hanging out of it.
Something, a bird perhaps, has pulled the limb out and it hangs limply, flesh drooping in tatters off the bone. Duyunun explains that the people here bury their dead in trees or on top of mortuary poles. The superstitious voyageurs cross themselves and mutter prayers as we walk quickly past the corpse. Sainte Anne is a long way away, but with a bit of luck she can still hear us.
There are no more bodies, and soon afterwards the path leads out of the woods and back to the river. The rapids are gone and I stare longingly at the slow brown water, wishing we’d been able to bring the canoes. “We’re not alone,” says Fraser, pointing to smoke curling lazily into the sky ahead.
“They are the Sto:lo,” says Little Fellow. “We aren’t at war with them at present but be on your guard. They are not the Musqueam but they have heard of what the whites have done to their people in the south.”
We reach the edge of a large village full of huge cedar houses, guarded by intricately carved posts and painted vivid reds and dark blacks.
A dozen warriors walk quickly towards us, and I stare warily at the impressive number of bows, spears and clubs they carry. “I suspect they’ve used their weapons to kill more than animals,” Quesnel says. “We must heed Little Fellow’s words and be careful.”
Surrounded by armed warriors, the chief of the village greets us cautiously. “You are the first Whites to visit us from up the river, but we know all about your people. What do you want?”
“We’re travelling to the sea. We would like to purchase some canoes from you,” says Fraser, waiting for Little Fellow and Duyunun to translate. To our dismay, however, the Sto:lo prove to be quite reluctant to part with their boats.
The canoes are huge and very valuable crafts, made from the hollowed trunks of trees. It would have taken a great amount of effort and time to make them, and I understand their reluctance to trade them for the few cheap pots and buttons we still possess.
After much negotiation, an agreement is reached, although Fraser isn’t happy about it. The Sto:lo agree to lend us one canoe at the cost of almost all our remaining goods, but only on the condition that some of their people come along to keep an eye on the dugout craft.
Deal done, the Sto:lo return to their homes. We’re not invited to dinner, so we set up camp on the outskirts of the village. We eat a sparse meal of half-rotted salmon. As night falls we set a watch and huddle around the fire, cold, hungry and nervous. When sleep finally comes, it is fitful and short as we anxiously wait for dawn.