By William S. Thomas

Hunting Big Game with Gun and with Kodak Trails and Tramps in Alaska and Newfoundland

G. P. Putnam’s Sons
New York London

Mother 'Possum and her Family

TRAILS AND TRAMPS
IN ALASKA AND
NEWFOUNDLAND

BY
WILLIAM S. THOMAS

AUTHOR OF “HUNTING BIG GAME WITH GUN AND KODAK”

WITH ONE HUNDRED AND FORTY-SEVEN ILLUSTRATIONS FROM ORIGINAL PHOTOGRAPHS

G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
NEW YORK AND LONDON
The Knickerbocker Press
1913

Copyright, 1913
BY
WILLIAM S. THOMAS

The Knickerbocker Press, New York

To
MY WIFE
WHO SHARED NONE OF THE PLEASURES OF THE TRAIL AND BORE
ALL THE ANXIETIES FOR MY RETURN.

PREFACE

The matter here submitted has been accumulated upon several hunting trips in the wilderness, and many excursions from time to time into the woods and fields about home. The author has for some years kept more or less extensive field notes, and has taken numerous photographs of objects, scenes, or incidents by the way.

Not all of the narrative is concerned with the chase, but all has to do with, or is in some way attributable to, the wanderlust that from boyhood days has cast its spell over the author at uncertain intervals, and from time to time, has compelled a pilgrimage nearer or farther into the regions of that freedom found only where man is not.

If in the heart of the reader it sets vibrating again some chord once sounded by the breath of the forest, or stirs to harmony some strings hitherto not attuned to the music of the great outdoors, the mission of this volume will not have been vain, for it will then have assisted in a modest way the interpretation of that medium of expression of which Bryant has said,

“To him who in the love of nature holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A varied language.”

W. S. T.

Pittsburgh, Pa.,
March, 1913.

CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS

Trails and Tramps in Alaska and Newfoundland
CHAPTER I
CRUISING AND HUNTING IN SOUTHEASTERN ALASKA

In the midst of the rustling and bustling on the pier, the creaking of the block and tackle, and the hoisting of the duffel, could be heard the loud, clear voice of the mate resounding in the evening twilight, “Heave to!” “That’s well,” and similar expressions, all preparatory to our departure for the far-away North, the land of glaciers, gold, and fish. In the crowd were many sorts and conditions of men—and not the least in evidence were the sturdy Norseman and the Scottish clansman,—some on pleasure bent, some in search of the mighty beasts of the forest, still others seeking their fortune in the vast gold-fields stretching on and on into the great unknown beyond the Arctic Circle.

Among the ever-changing groups of humanity, my attention was attracted to one, the center of which was a young man about one and twenty. As the time drew near for our departure, around him gathered four or five young ladies, who to all appearances were in sore distress. An only brother, perhaps, was about to leave home and friends to seek his fortune in the Land of the Midnight Sun. The old father, grizzled and gray, stood by with dejected countenance and folded hands, the very picture of despair. Presently one of the girls—the boy’s sweetheart, as I afterwards learned,—unable longer to stand the strain, threw her arms about her lover and wept bitterly. What expressions of sadness upon the faces of those left behind as the lamplight casts its pallid rays over them! And now one staggers and falls into the arms of a friend. Then what a look of grief upon the face of the young man peering over the ship’s rail! Such is the pathos of life at every turn, could we but see it.

Ketchikan

On board the steamer was the Hon. Walter L. Fisher, Secretary of the Interior, and his party, consisting of his son Walter, Alfred H. Brooks, of the Geological Surveys Committee, Governor W. E. Clark of Alaska, and reporters of various newspapers. Their mission was to investigate the condition and wants of the people of Alaska. The genial and pleasant old sea-dog, Captain Michael Jansen, was at the helm as the steamer wedged her way towards the north.

For some two hundred miles we skirted the eastern shore of Vancouver Island, lined to the water’s edge with hemlock, spruce, and cedar, through which occasionally bluish-white streaks of water came tumbling down the mountain-side, each adding its own particular charm to the scenery. The English Government has erected along the coast many lighthouses for the protection of navigation, but after we passed through Dixon’s Entrance into Uncle Sam’s domain, very few of these were to be seen. Our Government seems to have given too little attention to this matter.

Myriads of Salmon

The first stop on the way north was Ketchikan, a little village nestled snugly at the foothills, with its hospital, saloons, and all the usual adjuncts of a mining town. It has a population of some five hundred souls, whose principal occupation consists of fishing and mining. The most interesting thing to sightseers was a stroll up the boardwalk laid along a narrow winding stream that has its origin in the snow-capped mountains. Pitching, tossing, and foaming it hurried down the narrow gulch, seeking its level in the briny deep. It was alive with myriads of salmon, jumping and leaping in their mad rush to the spawning ground.

In the dawn of the following morning the boat plowed its way through the green waters of the Strait toward Annette Island, a strip of land covered to the water’s edge with fir and cedar trees. The island is some six miles long, and at the extreme end, on a small, gently sloping plateau, is the little town of Metlakatla, which boasts a population of about a thousand persons. It has its own canneries, saw-mills, and other industries, and the people seem to be happy and contented. At the head of the colony is Rev. William Duncan, who has done much for the uplift of the many tribes of Indians in this locality.

Father Duncan

“Father” Duncan relates that more than half a century ago, when a young man of twenty-five, he was living in England. Upon his ordination as a minister of the Established Church, Alaska was assigned him as the field of his future life-work. His passage was paid and he arrived at Victoria after a nine-months trip. The old man was very much agitated in relating his early experience. On reaching Victoria, he of course desired to enter at once upon his active duties, but the head official of the town and the captain of the boat used every means in their power to persuade him from going among the Indians, urging that they were bloodthirsty savages and would surely kill him. He told them that he was assigned to the field by the Board and could not think of changing his plan without an order from his superiors, to procure which would require at least two years. He must get to his labor of love right away. However, he made one request of the officer in charge of the fort, and it was this: he would like to spend about nine months with them in the stockade, and wished they would send for the brightest young man of the most powerful tribe, so that he might learn the language before going among the savages. They granted his request, and in nine months he was ready to deliver his first sermon.

Metlakatla

Guest House

The Indians were divided into various tribes, each at war with the other. He thought if he could succeed in getting the chiefs together and could tell them the Word of God in their own language, he would more readily win their confidence and esteem. So he requested his interpreter to call together all the chiefs to one central point, where he would deliver his first sermon. “But oh!” he said, “when I saw before me the assembled braves, decorated in all the colors of the rainbow, my courage left me, and turning to my teacher, I begged of him to deliver the message I had so carefully prepared to the gathered tribesmen. But he positively refused, and told me his intrusion might cause a war, for the tribes were very jealous of the power and influence of their neighbors. Then I took courage and when I had spoken, oh! what an effect it had upon them! Bodies were rigid and eyes seemed as though they would pierce me through and through. The results were striking. They gathered around in little groups, earnestly discussing the truths made known to them and wondering who could be and whence came this strange white man who spoke their own tongue.

“Father” Duncan’s Church

“From that day I became absorbed in my work. For thirty years I labored among them at Old Metlakatla, when one day I was told that the natives did not own the land and that the title was vested in the Queen of England. The Indians could not understand how a sovereign whom they had never seen could own the land over which they and their ancestors had roamed for centuries, fishing, hunting, and trapping.

Where the Indians Roamed

Street Scene in Metlakatla

“I went down to Vancouver to examine into the matter, and the Premier and Attorney-General advised me that such was the case. I was fearful lest when the Indians learned this fact they would go on the war-path and kill every white man in the country. I wrote a long letter to them explaining conditions and saying that I would be back home to Old Metlakatla as soon as I could. Shortly afterwards, much to my surprise, a committee came to Vancouver to confer with me. When I saw them I was greatly excited for fear they had decided upon war. When I inquired of them what had been done at the meeting, they refused to tell me, so that I was considerably worried over the matter. Although it was late in the evening, I went immediately to the Attorney-General’s home to advise him of the situation. I told him I would give him all the information I had that evening, but to-morrow, after I had learned the action taken, I could not divulge a single word. I did not sleep much that night, and in the morning, when I met the committee, imagine my relief when they told me they had decided to leave English territory and seek a new home under the Stars and Stripes. Shortly after that I went to Washington to arrange matters, if possible, for a new location. I finally succeeded; the United States Government gave Annette Island to my people for their home, and here we have built the new Metlakatla.”

Metlakatla Belles

“Father” Duncan does not believe in educating the Indian children as they are taught at Carlisle and similar institutions. Once while he was visiting Carlisle at Commencement time, the orator of the day advised a graduating class to go out among the white people and do as the whites did. Speaking of the occasion, he remarked: “I thought as I listened, ‘Oh, what a mistake for them to leave their fathers and mothers, now too old to work, and become worthless and idle, unfitted for the duties of life!’” With deep emotion the old man pointed across the woods toward the cemetery, and said: “Over yonder lie the remains of about thirty young men, the pick of their tribe, who attended such schools, adopted the white man’s mode of living, and contracted tuberculosis, to which they fall ready victims. They are by nature so constituted that they require outdoor life and outdoor exercise.”

While “Father” Duncan was talking, the Secretary of the Interior came out of the Town Hall, where he had been holding a conference with the Town Council, and he and “Father” Duncan walked down the boardwalk toward the cannery and from there to the boat. As the steamer was about to depart, the passengers gave three rousing cheers for the grand old man who had spent fifty-five years of useful life among these simple children of nature. Scarcely had the echo of the last cheer resounded from the hills about the bay, when, as the steamer left the wharf, the Indians gave three mightier cheers for the Secretary and another three for Governor Clark.

Indians Cheering the Secretary

About midnight of the third day the fog-horn began to blow, repeating the blast every ten minutes or more, and the engine bells tinkled, tinkled all through the night. Sleep being out of the question, we were up early the next morning, and to our great surprise were informed by the pilot that the Wizard of the Northern Sea had been caught in the fog and had traveled scarcely a mile; in fact, we were obliged to return from the Narrows and wait for the fog to lift. As the old pilot expressed it: “Great Golly! it was a bad night, without a place to throw the anchor and the current running miles an hour.” The old sea-dog had a fine face, carved with stern lines. As he related with his Danish accent the stories of how two men-of-war and several other vessels had met their doom in those waters, hundreds on board going down, the little group was all attention. Even as he talked, he pointed out the partly concealed rocks where the men-of-war had met their fate, and over which the water now broke in innocent-looking ripples.

After thirteen hours waiting for flood tide and the lifting of the fog, we steamed slowly through Wrangel Narrows. What a sight as the sun dispelled the fog! I have seen at night in a puddling mill a ball of molten metal on its way from the furnace to the “squeezers” and, when “soused” with water, emitting a blue flame and vapor. The sun at Wrangel Narrows was such a ball of molten metal, while the fog clinging to the leeward side of the mountain peaks was the vapor, and the peaks and crags with heads towering far above the clouds were the stacks and beams of a monster mill. Occasionally as we glide along, aquatic birds soar through the air in search of their morning meal; blackfish sport in the water, their fins cutting the surface as they disappear into the depths; and now a little snipe, flying around and around, trying to alight on the vessel, causes a stir among the passengers. A short distance away appears the head of a seal, evidently in search of its prey, and the leaping fish tell the rest of the story. How many things appeal to the lover of nature!

On account of the swift current and concealed rocks, the Narrows can be navigated with safety only in daylight, and I learned that the policy issued by marine insurance companies contains a clause under which no recovery can be had in event of accident to a steamer while passing through the Narrows by night.

Here and there lay an old hull cast high and dry on the rocks, after being tossed and pitched about in the powerful currents until it was battered and broken out of all resemblance to a boat. The old Portland was pointed out in the distance, not yet a complete wreck, her mast erect, hull submerged, and the breakers booming and splashing over her. A feeling of sadness came over at least one of the party at the pleasant recollections of a former hunting trip made on the Portland with the big-hearted and greatly beloved Captain Moore, who has since passed over the Great Divide.

Totems at Sitka

Indian War Canoe

Wrangel, the next port of entry, was reached in due time. To the tourists the most noteworthy objects are the totem-poles. Indian totem-poles are erected in even the smallest Indian settlements along the coast as far north as Sitka. Visitors are always interested in their picturesque carving. All kinds of grotesque figures of birds, animals, and fish are cut into the smooth surface of trees after the bark is removed. Contrary to what seems to be a very general belief, the natives do not worship totem-poles as idols, but regard them as a sort of family register. When a great event takes place, in order that it may be commemorated, they erect a totem; a successful hunter in the tribe becomes well known for his deeds of valor,—straightway he selects a family crest and up goes his totem, tinted with all the colors of the rainbow. Sometimes the poles illustrate legends handed down from generation to generation,—the stories and traditions of this simple-minded people. Ages ago, according to “Father” Duncan, the Indians adopted totems or crests to distinguish the social clans into which the race is said to be divided, and each clan is represented symbolically by some character, such as the finback whale, the grizzly bear, the frog, the eagle, etc. All Indian children take the crest of their mother and they do not regard the members of their father’s family as relatives. Therefore a man’s heir or his successor is not his own son, but his sister’s son. Not often can an Indian be persuaded to rehearse to a stranger the story represented by the carvings on a pole. Here is a legend which is told of one totem-pole: A very long time ago an old chief with his wife and two small children pitched his wigwam at the mouth of a stream when the salmon were running to spawn. The old squaw, in order to get some spruce boughs with which to gather salmon eggs, pushed her bidarka, or sealskin boat, into the water, and telling her two little papooses to get into the boat, paddled them across the stream. As she pulled the bidarka up on the other shore she instructed the children to remain in the boat till she returned. She came back in a short time with her load, only to discover that the children were gone. Many times she called to them, but always they answered to her from the woods with the voices of crows, and when she tried to follow them they would keep calling to her from some other direction. She returned to the boat again, gave up the children for lost, and going back to the wigwam reported to the chief that an old white trapper with a big beard had carried away the two little children. To commemorate this event they had a totem-pole carved to show the beard of the white trapper, and frequently point it out as an example to refractory children.

Our next stop was at Petersburg, a typical Alaskan town, with its cannery, saw-mill, and myriads of herring gulls on the wing and on the water. The old totem-poles which had stood for many, many years, worn almost smooth by the constant beating of the elements, excited a great deal of curiosity, and made one wish for some occult power wherewith to read the mysteries of the past. At one pole the party, consisting of several doctors, was much absorbed, and after considerable study deciphered the figure of an old witch doctor carved on the top and below it what seemed to be a squaw, which they interpreted as very suggestive of the operation of laparotomy.

Petersburg

A few miles from Petersburg we saw the first ice floe with its deep marine coloring, floating slowly towards the open sea. Two days and nights of continual rain were very oppressive and trying on sociability, but when the welcome sun reappeared, how enjoyable was the contrast! The mountain-sides in the foreground, clad with verdure from the base half way to the snowy summit, had for a background the arched dome of the heavens, filled with vari-colored clouds. Here and there streams of crystal water coursed down the mountain-side, whence each took a final leap over the rocks into the boiling and seething maelstrom, throwing spray in every direction.

Streams of Crystal Water

An interesting visit was had to the Treadwell mine, where the voice of man could not be heard above the noise of the many stamp mills pounding away, crushing the low-grade ores. At six o’clock the day shift is leaving the mines and the night force entering. As the up cage discharges its load of human freight the down cage is ready, packed so tightly that it would be almost impossible for a passenger to turn sideways. Down into the perpendicular shaft for several hundred feet the miners descended, and from there they scattered through the entries drifted out underneath the bay, where the best paying rock is to be found.

Juneau, the capital of Alaska, almost directly across from the mines, was our next stopping-place. The deck hands, at the command of the first officer, threw out the gang-plank. Before it was rightly adjusted, the crowd was waiting eagerly to get ashore. The dock was wet and slippery, for it was raining as usual, the low-hanging clouds shutting out the view of the snow-covered mountain-tops in the background. All hunters in the party made straightway for the Governor’s office to secure licenses at fifty dollars apiece, which entitled each one to shoot two bull moose. But in order that a trophy may be brought out of Alaska, the Act of Congress makes it obligatory to pay an additional fee of one hundred and fifty dollars. It seems to me absurd to permit the killing of moose and to encourage leaving the trophies where they fall. A subsequent experience on the Kenai River bore out this conclusion very forcibly. On the river we came across a party of hunters from Texas who had killed a very large moose having a noble spread of horn. The body was left to rot on the shore. One of our party who did not care to shoot would gladly have taken the trophy home to decorate his den, but the one hundred and fifty dollars was strictly prohibitory. I am satisfied this party killed several moose and left them because the trophies would not justify the additional cost of bringing them out.

We spent several hours in Juneau sending cablegrams and watching a black bear chained in the middle of the main street. He was walking around and around, as though guarding the entrance to the town. Every person passing kept a safe distance, but occasionally a visitor unawares approached too near and afforded fun for the onlookers when he made a desperate get-away.

Lighthouse near Dixon’s Entrance

Sitka

Leaving Juneau the boat turned south quite a distance in order to reach Sitka. Some time was lost waiting for high tide before we could get through the Narrows, full tide being about eleven o’clock P.M. The night was very dark and the fog thick, making it difficult to keep the boat in the channel. As the old Dane afterwards said, we could keep our course only by noting the echo of the fog-horn as it reverberated among the distant hills; but with great skill we were taken safely through, and when morning dawned clear and bright, we found we were fast approaching Sitka. Many interesting things were to be seen from the deck as we glided over the water. The reflection of the mountains was beautiful and one could scarcely distinguish the real shore line. Here and there an old bald eagle (Haliætus leucocephalus) stood sentinel on some dead tree-top, while the great blue heron (Ardea herodias) waded along the edge of the water in search of something to eat. Thus we were entertained for hours as we neared Sitka. About noon the shrill blast of the whistle reminded us that the town was in sight. Just as soon as the gang-plank was lowered there was a rush for shore, and every person was on his way to see the sights of Sitka.

Priests of the Greek Church at Sitka

The town was founded in 1799 by Governor Baranoff, a Russian explorer, and is beautifully situated on Baranoff Island. The old Russian Greek church stood there just as it did a hundred years before, with the exception of a new coat of paint, and the priests were in their church garb as of yore. Tourists always visit the old church to see the magnificent Madonna and other paintings brought over from Russia in the last century. On the main street stands the old log-cabin erected many years ago by the Hudson Bay Company and used as a trading post. The Government has set aside a reservation for a public park, and many totem-poles have been set up all along the roadway. Indian squaws were squatted on the dock selling their little trinkets, such as miniature totem-poles, sealskin moccasins, and vases carved in many forms.

While leaving Sitka the picturesque snow-crowned Mount Edgecumbe serrated the horizon on the left, and on the right the sky-line was much the same. Both shores were advancing nearer and nearer, and it looked as though we were in a cul-de-sac. Presently we passed through Icy Straits, so named because of the many icebergs which, broken from a neighboring glacier, find their way hither.

Fairweather Range

As we reached the open ocean, “Gony,” as the sailors call the black-footed albatross (Diomedea nigripes), followed in the wake of the steamer, porpoise raced with us, rushing and dodging alongside the boat, occasionally turning their silver bellies skyward and flaunting their tails to show how easy it was for them to keep up with us. The race continued at intervals for more than an hour before they disappeared, and by that time the long swells of the water rocking the steamer had taken effect and many of the passengers disappeared from the decks. Many miles to the right the purple foothills of the Fairweather range could be seen. Muir Glacier glittering in the distance added to the fascination of the scenery. Along the coast wild strawberries, with their delicate flowers, their fruit sought alike by man, beast, and fowl, grew very abundantly. The weather was just fine and the conditions right (something unusual in this neighborhood) to see the great Mount St. Elias, at least a hundred and fifty miles due north, and her English cousin, Mount St. Logan, farther off across the border line. The Fairweather range extends for many miles along the coast. The white ice fields glitter in the sunshine and at sunset a halo of many colors hangs over the mountains.

Upper Ice Fields

The Author Looking into a Crevasse

Alaska seems to be a chosen land for glaciers. The warm Japan stream washes the coast line, the topography of which is well adapted to fashion glaciers out of the heavy snowfall precipitated by the cooling of the humid air as it strikes the mountains. When the lofty summits and surrounding fields have accumulated more snow than they are able to retain, it gradually advances toward the valleys. When it leaves the summit it is soft and flaky, but alternate thawing and freezing gradually change its condition into a granulated form of ice. The pressure of the great body of snow above, the change of the atmospheric conditions, assisted by gravity, are the causes which enter into the formation of the solid glacier ice. These conditions may be increased or diminished by earthquakes and mild winters. Like a great river it advances toward the mouth of the valley, and as the immense body of ice moves downward, it brings with it by erosion huge pieces of rock, earth, and trees. This debris thrown upon the ice is called moraine, and where the moraine gathers the thickest it protects the ice. When the hot summer sun thaws the unprotected ice, tiny streamlets flow from here and there. These gradually increase in number and size, and as they grow larger and larger cut their way down into the ice, forming deep crevasses, and finally reach bedrock. The interior color of the crevasses is a deep blue and this changes to a light blue at the outer edge where exposed to light. Standing on the brink one can throw a huge boulder into the opening and hear it rumbling for some time before it reaches the bottom. A glacier that is receding slowly is known locally as a dead glacier, and one advancing as a live glacier. However, a live glacier may become a dead one, and vice versa. A dead glacier has frequently readvanced after years of inactivity, carrying with it trees which had grown up in its course. Columbia glacier in Prince William Sound is an example of this type.

A tiny snowflake falls on the mountain-top, is covered in turn by many others, and disappears for many years. Gradually the whole mass, by its own weight, is pushed down into the valley and solidified. Not a ray of light can penetrate through the thick glacier ice; the little snowflake has been completely immured. After years, perhaps centuries, it finally reappears at sea level, with myriads of others of its kind congealed into one solid mass, which breaks off and floats seaward, clothed in beautiful blue. But it is such a cold, heartless beauty, for until melted away the little snowflake is part of a tremendous mass, whose weight and silent progress are a constant and dreaded menace to human life; many a steamer has been sunk by striking an iceberg.

At the head of Yakutat Bay is situated the Indian village of Yakutat. It has its cannery and saw-mill and village church, in which last is a large and very interesting totem carved out of the butt of a tree. I have heard it said that these poles are not found north of Sitka. This one is several hundred miles farther north. There is only the one, and it may have been a trophy or a gift. I was unable to get any account of its past or any interpretation of its symbolic carvings.

Native Women Trading

Before we landed we noticed the natives coming from every possible direction; some in their canoes, others walking, but all loaded down with their trinkets to sell to the passengers on the steamer. When we landed on the dock the women were squatting on the floor, all in a row, displaying their goods. When a kodak was pointed at them they concealed their faces and demanded “two bits” as the price of a shot. There was among them a young mother with her babe whom I was anxious to photograph, but her price was higher and I was required to raise the amount to “eight bits” before she would step out into the sun for a snap-shot. I was afraid to take a time picture for fear she would “shy” before I got it.

Mother and Babe

Playing in the Sand

The old village, up the shore about a mile, was reached by a narrow walk along the coast line. The walk through the sparsely-growing spruce and cottonwood was delightful. Ravens flew about here and there, hoarsely calling as we passed by. The undergrowth consisted principally of berry bushes—salmon-berries, blueberries, and red raspberries—and as we walked along we gathered handfuls of the luscious fruit from each in turn as our taste inclined. When we reached the village with its wide beach—for the tide was out—our attention was attracted toward a couple of the native belles, who were sitting tracing on the sand with their fingers images of fish, birds, and animals. We approached suddenly, cutting off their retreat. Being naturally shy and timid they ceased writing, and when they saw us point the camera toward them, turned their backs. I suggested to my friend that he walk around to the opposite side, take out his kodak as though to photograph them, and when they turned around I would take a snap, which ruse worked admirably.

Native Boys out Gunning

Abandoning the party at this point, I took a stroll through the woods. There I happened upon half a dozen native boys shooting at a mark with guns. They were not aware of my presence until one of the boys standing apart from the others noticed what I was doing. Before he got away, however, I had his image on the film. I walked away a few steps and sat down on a log to put in a new film. When I lifted my head, to my surprise every last one of the little rascals had me covered with his gun. One emphatic sentence from me wilted their timid spirits and they skulked away.

Sunset near St. Elias

The attractive feature of Yakutat is a favorable view of Mt. St. Elias. When we were going up the bay the heavy clouds shrouded the mountain, obstructing our view, and how disappointed were the passengers as the boat steamed on toward the head of the bay, where the nearer peaks would shut off our view of St. Elias, even if other conditions had been favorable! But when we were leaving the harbor the same day the atmospheric conditions were just right to array the scene in all its splendor. The air was filled with low floating clouds fringed with the most brilliant colors from the setting sun, and as the clouds lifted, the purple foothills added splendor and enchantment to the slope that extended its snow-capped peak eighteen thousand feet into the blue concave of the heavens. Up to this time aboard our ship peace, happiness, and sociability reigned supreme, but when the open waters of the Pacific were reached and the “woollies,” as the fierce blasts from the icy ranges are called by the sailors, struck us, tossing the spray over the pitching, rocking, and quivering steamer, sociability disappeared and peace and happiness left the faces of all the passengers, while the pallor of death overspread blooming countenances. Thereupon the fishes became alert and the herring gulls, gracefully soaring in the wake of the steamer, uttered their hungry call of expectation. Surely ’tis an ill wind that blows no good.

Cape St. Elias

The steamer belched forth the smoke from its stack as we moved slowly along the coast toward Katella harbor, the next port of entry. For fifty miles on the right of us could be seen the terminal edge of the famous Malaspina glacier, looking like the white crest of breakers crashing against a rocky coast. Ahead of us appeared Cape St. Elias, one of the most picturesque promontories of Alaska. Its divided point projected a long way into the ocean and the captain gave it a wide berth.

On reaching Controller Bay the good ship anchored in the poor harbor. Presently a boat, hailing from the revenue cutter Tahoma, pulled by eight sturdy seamen dressed in their clean, picturesque suits of blue and white, drew near the side of the steamer, and the officer in charge, tall and erect, a fine specimen of manhood, came up the rope ladder and made straight toward Secretary Fisher. In a short time one of the seamen was on the top deck gesticulating with hat and handkerchief to the cutter in the distance. On the cutter could be seen against the sky-line an ensign going through similar signs in answer to the instructions given. The Secretary and his party left the steamer very quietly without a cheer, and as he arrived on the cutter the booming of the cannon, repeated nineteen times, signaled the reception of the party.

Controller Bay is not a natural harbor and the problem it presents is whether an engineer can construct at a reasonable cost an artificial harbor that will protect vessels from the terrific gales that sweep the coast during the winter months. Engineers differ on this matter; some say that the solution of the problem is a great dike constructed of concrete, and others think that a wall could not be built strong enough to withstand the powerful currents and massive ice floes of Controller Bay, and for this reason it is believed that the only terminal facilities for the Behring coal fields are at Cordova, by water some hundred miles farther north.

At the present time a railroad is being built up the Copper River valley, which is the natural gateway to the great coal and copper deposits of the interior and the rich Tanana Valley. In constructing a railroad up this valley serious difficulties must be overcome. The question of labor is very important. Because of the continual rains and the short open season the highest wages must be paid. To get up the valley, it is necessary to cross the Copper River between two glaciers, and the topography of the country is such that it is a difficult engineering feat to construct a roadbed that will not be carried away by the spring freshets and the glaciers, which are continually changing. Miles and Childs glaciers vary in their movements, at times receding and again advancing, controlled by forces which are not fully understood.

Hinchinbrook Island

Valdez after the Flood

Bruin in a Steel Trap

Leaving Katella we soon pass Cape Hinchinbrook, where several steamers have been cast ashore and wrecked upon the rocky coast. Entering Prince William Sound we find the water smoother and a pleasant run is made to Cordova, the present terminus of the Copper River Railroad. Our next stop was Valdez, with its land-locked harbor. The town is built practically on the moraine of a glacier. Sometimes the channel of a glacier stream changes; in the year 1911 such a change took place and carried away about half of the town. In order to prevent a similar accident in the future, the citizens turned out and constructed a levee of logs, rocks, and sand. Valdez glacier extends down from the summit a distance of twenty miles, the foot being about five miles from the town. During the winter of 1898 gold was first discovered near Center City in the interior. The excitement was great at Valdez, some seven thousand men gathering from all parts of the States to seek their fortunes. So great was the rush for the gold-fields that one continuous procession of prospectors, carrying all kinds of outfits, passed northward over the glacier. The following year many perished on their way out. My guide carried the mail that year, and on one trip found seven men who had frozen to death, having been caught in a storm on the glacier. The whole party were very weak on account of scurvy and unable to reach Valdez. When found, two were lashed to sleds and one was sitting on a piece of ice, his head resting on his hands. On the same trip my guide came upon an old miner frozen to death, still holding to the handle of his dog sleigh, while the dog lay curled up in a ball, still alive and still in the harness.

After spending several days at Valdez, arrangements were made with the captain of the Hammond for a small boat to take us about fifty miles south into Gravenna Bay. Our little skiff was towed behind all day, and at five o’clock in the evening we were informed by the captain that he was afraid to go up the bay any farther for fear of striking a rock. Consequently our camping outfit had to be piled into our dory in a pouring rain, and after the captain gave two gongs, as the pilot shouted, “Great luck, boys!” the tug left us and disappeared around the cape in the distance. And here we were, fifty miles from human habitation, dependent for our return to civilization upon making connections with this same little tug at its next visit a month later.

Prepared for the rain with rubber boots and oilcoats, we pulled towards the head of the bay, before the wind and on a flowing tide, so that our little craft fairly glided over the water. About twilight we pitched camp in a drenching rain. If there is one thing more than another which dampens the enthusiasm for the wild, it is making camp with everything soaked. But by perseverance in due time we were getting our supper, snugly housed in our eight by ten tent, and happier than kings in a royal palace. To the music of the rain I soon fell asleep.

In the morning consciousness was restored by the “quack, quack” of the ducks and the splash of the salmon running to their spawning ground,—the occasional wriggling splash of an old “humpback” who had run up the shore too far and was trying to get back into deeper water, the loud splash of the high jumper, and the faint swish of the thousands on their way to fresh water. After breakfast I donned my hunting outfit and strolled along the beach until I reached the mouth of a small creek which flowed into the bay. I was amazed at the number of humpback salmon (Oncorhynchus gorbuscha) ascending the stream to spawn, some green and fresh from the briny deep, others changed to a dark lead color by contact with the fresh water, and others, struggle-worn, almost without scales or skin to cover their bodies. They were running upstream by the thousands.

Salmon Running Up Stream to Spawn

Killing Fish with a Club

Gulls Feeding on Salmon

A Good Fisherman

Dogs Fishing for Salmon

There was a flock of red-breasted mergansers (Merganser serrator) on a pool nearby. I crept quietly to the brink, and, hat off, peeped over. After the shot was fired it was interesting to see the flock trying to dive; the fish were so thickly massed that the ducks could not get below the surface of the water. This disturbance caused a rush of the fish and they madly churned the water in their efforts to get away from an imaginary enemy. In shallow riffles the fish were so crowded that it was almost impossible to wade across the stream without being thrown by tramping upon them or tripped by others trying to get away. Closer observation showed them in pairs, rooting their noses into the sand and gravel to make a hole; in this the female deposited the eggs and the male covered them with a milky substance, both turning sideways at the same time and both flapping their tails in covering the spawn. Frequently I could see two males or two females fighting each other, striking with their tails and biting like dogs, trying to get possession of a hole in the sand in which the spawn might be deposited. Looking at the horde all tattered and torn, I could not but admire their pluck and perseverance in ascending the stream over stones and other obstacles, with scarcely enough water to cover half their bodies, in order that the laws of nature might be obeyed and the species propagated. When the tide went out many were caught high and dry on the shore, and became a prey for birds and beasts. Thousands of gulls gathered daily, feeding on the dead fish, and almost invariably picking out the eyes first, these being the choicest morsels, according to their taste. I have frequently come across fish still alive, though robbed of their eyes. Our first method of getting fish was to arm ourselves with clubs, walk into the shallow riffles, select some just fresh from the salt water and hit them with our clubs. We abandoned this method because several were killed before we got one that was fresh. We then tied a halibut hook on the end of a pole and, sitting on a rock, waited until a fresh fish appeared. As we caught sight of him some distance away we would gradually move the hook into position and land him.

It rained for several days and nights, causing the water in the creek to rise very high and run with considerable current. At this time the shore was salmon-colored with eggs uncovered by the swift water. All the fresh streams near camp were so polluted with dead fish that the water could not be used, and we were obliged to go above for some distance to get pure water.

Before leaving Valdez we had taken a little walk out from town, and came across a small stream of pure ice-cold water that had its source in the snow of the mountain. Occasionally could be seen salmon returning to their spawning ground. I have no doubt that before Valdez was built the stream was famous for the annual hordes of fish that returned to spawn (and, as is believed by some, to die), but I was told that the number is getting less and less and now only a very few frequent the stream. While watching them our attention was drawn to a dog jumping into the water and others splashing about, dashing first in one direction and then another, trying to catch the fish. How amusing to see the fish dart between the legs of their would-be captors, out of the shallows and into deeper water! Occasionally the dogs would catch them and bring them to shore. Had we had the dogs with us at Gravenna Bay, what sport we might have had!

Indian Hut

While writing my notes one evening I smelled something burning, and on turning around saw our bed all ablaze, caught by a spark from the wood fire. If the fire had caught in our absence it would have been a very serious matter. Imagine our predicament to have been without food and shelter, many miles from civilization.

Indian Graves

On one of our side trips we happened upon an Indian and his family, living in a little hut constructed of logs and other materials. He could talk no English and we could not understand him. After exchanging several grunts and shaking hands we started to go, when we noticed his small boy coming towards us, holding out a paper in his hand. Opening it, we found the following written in a legible hand: “To all to whom these presents come: This is to notify all miners and trappers that there are bear traps set in these diggings.” My guide was always more or less uneasy for fear of stepping into a steel trap set on a game trail along the stream.

Indian Woman Repairing the Bidarka

The vegetation along the banks of the creek was almost tropical in its density, and when the fish were spawning, bear frequented the place to catch their prey, which they carried to the bank and devoured. Often we could see the remains of fish left partly consumed, indicating that the bears had been disturbed at their meal. Doubtless they had heard the commotion of the fish trying to get away from us as we ascended the stream.

One day while paddling our little boat along the water’s edge, my guide called attention to an object in the distance which I was unable to make out for some time, but which the experienced eye of the hunter had observed a long way off, though he was unable to determine exactly what it was. Finally, as we approached nearer, he exclaimed, “Caught his own dog!” and sure enough, there was the Indian’s dog caught in the steel trap set for bear. The poor fellow was whining from pain, as though pleading with us to release him. I wanted the guide to take him out, but he said the dog might bite him and we had better notify the owner, for even if released the dog could never reach home in his present condition. While coming along he told the following story:

“Several years ago there were two white men trapping on a little stream that emptied into the Copper River, and one of them was caught in a steel trap. The bones between the knee and the ankle were crushed where the huge iron jaws came together. After being in the trap for a long time, by almost superhuman efforts he succeeded in extricating his leg. Fortunately he was not far from his boat, and dragging himself over and under fallen trees he reached the dory, almost exhausted. Taking the oars he pulled several miles to reach his cabin. A day or two afterwards I happened along and found the man suffering great pain, and saw that unless the leg were taken off he would lose his life. We were a hundred miles from a doctor, and before aid could reach him he would have died. After talking the matter over with his partner, it was agreed that I was to cut the leg off in order to save his life, if possible. All the tools we had were a hunting knife and an old rusty saw which had hung in the cabin for several years. We boiled water to clean the tools as well as possible, inserted the end of the old saw in the fire to take off the rust, retempered the teeth in bear oil, got deer sinews ready to tie the arteries, and with these tools I cut the leg off. During the time I was at work the injured man frequently advised us what to do. He recovered from the operation in due time and is now alive and well.” My guide afterwards pointed the man out to me.

Sunrise

In this location we spent about a week. We had no difficulty in killing all the teal (Nettium carolinensis) and Canada geese (Branta canadensis) that we cared to eat, and, when the tide was down, in gathering all the clams desired. During the month that we spent in this part of the country it rained continually, night and day, with the exception of three days, which I spent in photographing. The sun would burst through the clouds like a huge search-light, casting its rays upon the tropical luxuriance of the underbrush, reflecting back a sparkling radiance from myriads of tiny rain-drops. We changed our camp occasionally for new grounds, and one evening we had pitched our tent without pinning it down. It was raining, as usual, and after eating a scanty meal we threw our blankets on the ground and retired early. Some time in the night I heard the crackling of the rank grass. My first impression was that there was a porcupine skulking near, but as we listened my guide said, “There’s a bear outside!” We had thrown down on the grass at the edge of the tent what was left of a side of bacon, and Mr. Bruin was trying to get it from under the canvas. I immediately jumped up, grabbed my “405,” and started towards the flap of the tent, but about the time I reached it there came two loud “woofs,” accompanied by the sound of crashing bushes, and that was the last we heard of Old Bruin.

Our Permanent Camp

At the head of one of the fiords in the neighborhood, there was a glacier of considerable size, and on looking over the desolation I half expected to find a glacier bear (Ursus emmonsi). Comparatively little is known about the habits of this animal. The only one in captivity is in the public park at Seattle. It is a fine specimen, and as it walks up and down behind the bars its wild nature seems to predominate in every movement. In the adjoining cages are black and grizzly bears, but they seem to be satisfied in captivity, while the glacier bear reminds one of a hyena as it paces from end to end, occasionally throwing its head into the air. The fur is a bluish black beneath, with outer grayish tips.

In the early morning I started alone in the direction of the dead glacier, crossed the glacier stream easily to the opposite side, which looked more inviting of access, working my way up over the lateral moraine, searching among the crevasses, and now and again getting into a “pocket,” from which I had to retrace my steps. Towards evening I turned homeward. When I reached the stream, I thought I had located the ford where I had previously crossed, but on making the attempt, I found the water too deep and swift. Many times I tried to cross at different points, thinking each time I had found the ford. I would wade out into the ice-cold stream until I felt the swift current almost lifting me off my feet, and then would make a hasty return. It was beginning to get dark and I was anxious to get home, so I lifted a large stone in my arm to give me additional weight and started toward a little eddy, cautiously feeling my way. When I reached the eddy I felt my feet sinking in the sand. My first thought was of a quick-sand, and I shall never forget the sensation as I hurriedly dropped the stone and made a mad rush for shore. However, I finally succeeded in reaching the other side safely. Before arriving at camp I heard the report of a gun from the direction of home, for the guide had grown uneasy and thought I was lost.

A few more days’ experience in the rain, among the glaciers, then we broke camp at high tide and drifted with the ebb flow out along the shore until we reached the outermost projection of rocks, and there awaited the return of the tug which would take us back to Valdez.

CHAPTER II
OBSERVATIONS ON KODIAK ISLAND

An Island near Valdez

In the following spring, about the middle of May, we purchased an outfit at Valdez for a trip westward along the Alaskan peninsula. After being bottled up two days in the port of Valdez, we were anxious to get started. The steamer approached the narrow entrance to the harbor, with Fort Liscom, a Government post, on the left, and on the right glaciers and wooded foothills. As we neared the neck it looked as though the stopper was in the bottle and our exit barred by an island; but an abrupt curve at the entrance took us into Prince William Sound, and in due time along Knight’s Island and Latouche Island, where copper is found in paying quantities. And here is the most beautiful glacier of Alaska, the Columbia, with its palisades at times advancing into the forest and at times receding. A large flock of phalaropes (Phalaropus lobatus) darting back and forth over the surface of the water, formed geometric figures in the most graceful manner; occasionally the gray back most conspicuous and then the silvery underside shining, each little plume helping to make one perfect reflection in the water as they move in regular form, without any disarranging of the original positions, until they alight gracefully on the water. The greater scaup-duck (Aythya marila nearctica), with its white spots so noticeable as it takes its occasional upward flight from the water, is always interesting. However, it prefers diving out of sight for a place of safety as the steamer approaches, coming to the surface from time to time until the boat is quite near, when, after a last long dive, it is off on the wing as fast as possible out of harm’s way.

In the distance to the westward as we entered Resurrection Bay, loomed up the majestic Cathedral Rock, towering skyward a thousand feet, with the Government survey cross on the top, and the roaring breakers washing its foot, filling the coast line with make-believe soap-suds. Near the water’s edge the rocks were white with gulls mating for the nesting-time. With the consent of the captain a shot was fired in that direction, which struck the water some distance from the rock, and myriads of gulls took to wing with their wild cry of alarm. Some person shouted, “There’s a whale!” and all were anxiously waiting for his reappearance, but his huge tail had disappeared to us for the last time. About this time a gull soared gracefully over the steamer and a fellow-passenger, rifle in hand, pointed the muzzle at the bird, and pulled the trigger, bringing down a feather from its wing. At the same time the first officer shouted, “Here, here! Don’t shoot that gull! You’ll bring us bad luck.” There is a well founded superstition among the “old sea-dogs” that to kill a gull will bring bad luck.

Sea Lion Rocks

About dusk, as we steamed westward, our attention was called to Sea Lion Rocks, and the genial Captain Jansen steered the ship within five hundred yards of the island in order that we might see the lions. The rocks were covered with the large animals, and they made such an uproar as we passed that they could be heard a long distance off above the noise of the breakers.

Along the coast of Kenai Peninsula the mountains are covered with spruce, hemlock, and birch, until we enter Resurrection Bay, at the head of which Seward is built. The first time I visited Seward it was practically abandoned. It was the terminus of a new railroad in process of construction across the peninsula, having as its objective point the placer mines of the Susitna Valley. Like a great many other projects of this kind, there was not sufficient money subscribed to finish the undertaking, and the company was forced into the hands of a receiver.

Seward

Seldovia

The next stop on our way west was Seldovia. The old Russian church where we attended services was built on a little knoll that overlooked the harbor, and from it we could see the native burial ground with its dilapidated grave marks. When we entered the church the natives did not seem to be much interested in us. While the sermon is being delivered the women occupy one side of the house and the men the other. During the services they paid close attention to what was going on. There were no seats in the church and all the parties stood during the entire time of worship. When the incense was being burned, filling the room with sweet fragrance, the expression on the features of the worshipers manifested a devout frame of mind and spirit not often in evidence.

In the harbor were hundreds of gulls, floating leisurely on the surface of the water or standing on the logs that drifted with the tide.

Among the passengers on the steamer was a delicate little lady with her three-year-old child, who was on the way to meet her husband at Iliamnia, some sixty miles across the bay. I remember how indignant the passengers were when they learned there was no person present to meet her when she arrived, and no prospect of her getting across Cook’s Inlet for more than a week. A purse was raised among the passengers, all contributing, and with the aid of the captain of the revenue cutter, who in ordinary cases would take no passengers, the little lady was started on her trip across the Inlet the following morning, happy in the expectation of meeting her husband.

Turbulent Shellicoff

The Ravens

While crossing the entrance to Shellicoff Straits we encountered a very rough sea and the steamer tossed and pitched among the billows. That evening, as we steamed towards Kodiak Island, the clouds were fringed with pink and purple and through a rift the sun illuminated sky and water with all the splendor and brilliance of those northwestern sunsets. Passing to the left of Afognak Island, we entered the harbor at Kodiak. The village, with its Greek church similar in structure to the old chapel at Sitka, is built on a plateau and surrounded with sloping, verdure-clad hills. The population consists of about four hundred, a few of them whites, the rest Aliutes and Creoles. The ravens (Corvus corax principalis) were very plentiful, and their croaking could be heard in all directions. One old fellow continually perched on the top of a shanty used as the district jail. Two of the prisoners were permitted to wander around, cut firewood for the warden, plant seed and the like. Once when the planter was putting in seed at one end of the row and the raven picking it out at the other, we heard the former call out, “Shoo, shoo, you’ll be put in jail for stealing next.”

We arrived in Kodiak on the morning of May 26th, and immediately began our preparations for the hunt. On our way up we became acquainted with the United States Marshal, who kindly invited us to stop at his home until we could arrange matters to go farther westward on the island, where we expected to hunt.

My guide was a man who had spent his early life on the plains as a cow-puncher and trapper. One day he told me that he and a friend left their mountain camp to sell their winter’s catch. It was getting less and less each year because of the slow but sure disappearance of wild life, as the white hunters and trappers increased and the demand for furs grew. He was in love with a daughter of the plains and had returned in the spring with the results of his winter’s work, intending to lay his all at the feet of his lady love. The season had been against him in his search for furs. The heavy snows had kept the fox and lynx from making extensive forages from their dens, and the low temperature before the snow came froze the creeks so solid that the mink, otter, and beaver were forced to remain indoors the greater part of the time. The winter had been long and severe, the catch was poor, and he left his traps late in the spring when the pelts were beginning to look hairless. Thus he left his occupation in the solitude of the wilds with a heavy heart, for the previous fall when he bade adieu to his fair fiancée, full of hope and expectation, with the promise of a large yield, he was sure of sufficient funds to purchase a meager home. When he reached the frontier town he could not muster up courage enough to see her, but disposed of his stock, sold his outfit and all his belongings, and made a bee-line for California; thence he took the first steamer for the Yukon. About this time a strike was made at Nome and hundreds of gold seekers had gathered. There was a great demand for fresh meat, so he conceived the idea of constructing a raft in the upper waters, loading it with moose meat, and then floating the flat to Nome and getting rich quick. About the time he was ready to start with a full load, Congress passed an act making it unlawful to sell or have in possession any wild game. On his way down he was stopped at the Government fort, put under arrest, and his load confiscated. He argued his own case well, for he got off without imprisonment. After spending several years there he returned to Seattle, and sent for his little girl from Montana; they were united for better or worse, and together they left Seattle and landed on the Alaskan Peninsula, where they spent three years hunting and trapping.

I visited their clean, tidy home in Seattle, was very much delighted, and spent many pleasant hours listening to the wife’s stories of her experiences. Among other things she said: “My husband shot during the three years over one hundred of the big brown bear for the hides. My part was to assist him with the skinning and do the general housework. On one occasion he had shot a big bear and had placed his gun a short distance away while he proceeded to skin the animal. About the time the steel entered the skin the bear jumped up, uttered a hair-raising growl, and as I ran away, Grant grabbed his gun and finished the bear. I tell you that was exciting. For a whole year we did not see a soul at camp, and when we wanted provisions, Grant would make a trip across Akuton Pass to Unalaska to do the buying. One day he left me in the morning with a large Malamuth dog for my sole companion, saying he would return on the morrow. When the morrow dawned it brought with it one of the worst storms that had swept the coast for years, so bad that even one of the large steamers could not live it out, and was destroyed on the rocks nearby. The storm kept up for four days, and just imagine me alone during those four long, weary days, wondering if Grant had been lost, and what I would do if such were the case.

“The dawning of the fifth day found me looking in the direction of Unalaska, hoping and praying that he might return safely. A little black speck in the blue distance caught my eye. At first I thought it was a bird skimming over the water, but as I looked again and again it seemed to float on the surface. My spirits rose, and the longer I looked the more certain I was that it was the little boat. Oh! what was my joy as the tiny object increased in size as it advanced nearer and nearer until I recognized the little dory and the frantic waving of hat and hands of Grant as he approached closer and closer! The climax came when I recognized his whoop, as he saw me standing on the beach with arms open to receive him, and woman-like, I proceeded to swoon away.

“The very next trip I determined to go with him. We set sail in our little schooner with a strong fair wind, but before long a fierce gale struck us and was carrying us toward sure destruction on the reef, where the angry sea would have made kindling wood of our frail craft. We cast the anchor, but it dragged, dragged, and would not take hold, and all the while we were drifting nearer and nearer the reef. Grant had given up all hope, and said: ‘Mollie, dear, it’s all up! We’re lost!' I encouraged him, saying that there was still hope, when, much to our relief, the anchor took hold and the bow turned to windward on the very verge of destruction. It held fast all night. As the dawn began to appear the wind shifted, and hoisting our little sail we tacked back and forth to Unalaska. We started on our return trip, but luck was against us; we were blown far out to sea, and for four long days and nights we drifted, we knew not where. Almost the entire time Grant had his head up through the hatchway, around his neck a canvas spread over the hatchway, to keep the breakers from filling the boat, and many, many times I cheered him with a cup of strong tea. Grant had given up all hope of reaching land, when gradually the wind shifted, blew from the opposite direction, and took us straight to shore.”

On one of their hunting trips to Knight’s Island, Grant prospected a little on the side and staked a copper claim which “panned out” very well, but which eventually cost the life of a partner, who was caught in a snow slide the following spring.

I bade her good-bye as we left Seattle, when she said: “Oh! how I long to return to Alaska! Before I went there I was a very delicate girl and had very poor health; in fact, the opinion of the family physician was that I did not have long to live; but roughing it in the open air seemed to be a tonic and built me right up. Is it any wonder I love Alaska and long for its wild free life?”

Kodiak

Kodiak is a charming little village. The natives are lazy and spend most of their time in fishing and hunting. We hired a couple of Aliutes, who owned a schooner, to take our equipment to the camping ground. Our course lay around the northeastern end of Kodiak Island, thence westward. After starting, we were becalmed for some time to leeward of the rocky coast. Along came a couple of natives, who towed us out a few hundred feet from behind the island, and presently the sails began to fill. As though it were human, the schooner responded to the gentle breezes and away we went toward the open seas. We had to round a distant point in order to get into another bay. With a fair southeast wind we dropped anchor at six o’clock some thirty miles west of Kodiak. We followed the shore line with its picturesque scenery of snow-clad hills covered with scrubby trees, mostly cottonwood and spruce. Here and there the tundra, like a great meadow fringed with alder, added charm and interest to the surroundings. The waters of Shellicoff Straits threw their breakers far up on the beach, and an occasional whale would spout in the distance. We passed an island covered with different species of gulls nesting on the rocks; it was just the beginning of the nesting season for aquatic birds.

Gull Island

Forget-me-nots

After several days of these interesting sights, the sailboat entered a beautiful little fiord, where we cast anchor for the night. On the following day we landed our equipment, dismissed the Indians with their boat, and pitched our tent in a little sheltered nook among the cottonwoods, where we expected to spend several weeks in hunting and photographing the great Kadiak bear (Ursus middendorff). The snow had disappeared for about a third of the way up the mountain, visible beyond foothills densely overgrown with alder, elder, and other bushes. The rocky shore, treeless, save for a stunted cottonwood here and there, was covered with many varieties of beautiful spring flowers. A cluster of fragrant forget-me-nots among the mosses, another of crowfoot, with the long dry grass of the previous year for a background, and a bunch of pinks with a similar setting added life and color to the rugged surroundings.

Crow’s Nest and Young

Nests of Eagle and Magpie

While climbing for a specially beautiful bunch of forget-me-nots I came across a crow’s nest (Corvus americanus) under a ledge of rocks. In the nest were several young crows waiting for the mother bird to return to appease their hunger. The bald eagles (Haliætus leucocephalus) were very plentiful and there were several nests built in the vicinity. Never having had any experience with eagles rearing their young, I suggested to my guide that I would climb one of the trees to the nest and see what effect it would have upon the birds. He insisted that it was dangerous to climb the tree, but could not persuade me to forego the experience. At my request he stood guard near the foot of the cottonwood, with instructions to shoot the birds if they came too close. Taking off my shoes, coat, and hat, I started to climb the tree as the old birds were soaring quite a distance above. As I climbed higher and higher the birds came nearer and nearer, and when I was about half way up the guide tried to persuade me to come down, for the birds were getting dangerously close. When I had covered about two-thirds of the climb, one of the birds came so near that I could feel the wind from his wing, when “crack” went the gun and down went the bird. I remonstrated with him for shooting the bird, for it was not close enough to do any harm. He again insisted that I come down, saying that the other bird would strike me and knock me off the tree, but I still persisted in going higher, with the male coming nearer and nearer. On one of its circlings it struck me lightly on the head with the tip of its wing. The guide said, “Is that close enough?” and threw his gun up as though to shoot the bird, but I insisted that he should wait a little. All the time my eyes were fixed on the eagle. As he made the next swoop, if I had not dodged behind a limb he would surely have knocked me off with his wing. Again the gun cracked, the bird pitched head-on and, meteor-like, dropped to the ground with a thud.

Eagle Watching for Prey

Climbing up to the nest, I found it was built of sticks. Some on the margin of the nest were as large as one’s wrist, those nearer the center were smaller, while the nest proper was lined with grass. The nest over all had a diameter of about six feet. In it were three little eaglets, possibly two days old, and around the nest were the remains of several species of birds, such as ducks, ptarmigan, and kingfishers, also pieces of fish, to feed the young. When I saw the destruction of life I felt, in common with the guide, that eagles should not receive too much consideration at the hands of the Nimrod. He was anxious to shoot every eagle in sight, as he said many a nice piece of fur caught in his traps had been destroyed by them. Knowing that both the parent birds were dead, I thought it a pity to leave the young to die of starvation. Pulling my bandanna handkerchief out of my pocket, I carefully stowed away the little birds in the pack, swung it over my arm, and slid down to the ground.

Eagle’s Nest and Young

On the lower branches of the same tree a pair of magpies (Pica pica hudsonica) had built their nest in the usual way, covered over to the depth of at least a foot with limbs and sticks, its small entrance at the side, evidently in pursuance of the natural instinct of the birds for the protection of their nest and young. It occurred to me as strange that both of these birds, carnivorous and well known as destroyers of eggs and nests, seemed to live happily together, though the eagle, if it so desired, could have destroyed the nest of the magpie with one grip of its powerful talons.

We took the young eagles to camp, fed them for several days, and the amount they could devour of fresh codfish, cut up in large chunks, was surprising. They would fill their craws so full that they looked like pouter pigeons.

First Sight of Day

For several days we observed with the field-glass that a bald eagle had built its nest away up among the crags at the end of a projection on one of the peaks. We noticed that the old bird spent a great deal of time on the nest, and we knew she was hatching. After discussing the matter, we decided to take the young eagles and put them in the nest to be reared by the foster-mother. About dawn we started for the eyrie on the cliffs, with our kodak, gun, and the young eaglets. After climbing three or four hours we reached a point above the rocks, and then by advancing cautiously, sliding and crawling, we safely reached the nest. I had given the guide positive instructions that he was under no circumstances to kill the old birds, but scare them away by shooting into the air occasionally. He took a position a little above where he could command a good view of the birds and keep guard over me while I was photographing the nest. There were two pale buff eggs (size 2.75 × 2.10) in the nest, and while I was arranging my camera an occasional report from the gun in the hands of the guide kept the eagles at a respectful distance. While setting up the kodak I heard the “peep, peep” of the little eaglets in the eggs trying to get the first sight of day, and about the time everything was ready to take the picture the egg cracked, with the result that I obtained a picture of the little bird just coming out. We left our two little eagles with the others, worked our way down the mountain-side, and since then I have often wondered if the foster-mother reared the young.

Sea Parrot Incubating

We decided to change our camping-ground into the adjoining fiord. Taking the twenty-foot tide at flood, as we thought, we were a little slow in starting, had some difficulty getting out, and before we reached deep water were caught and left high and dry on a shoal, where we were obliged to remain for several hours, waiting for the return of the tide. During the interim we waded to shore and scoured the neighboring hills in search of some evidence of Bruin. We found none, and by the time we came back to the water’s edge, the tide had set in so far that we were forced to wade for a quarter of a mile to our boat. The latter was heavily loaded, but as the current caught it, it moved gently at first, then at last cleared the sandbar. With a strong wind blowing, we were carried out to the promontory just about the time the tide was turning and the flood tide carried us up to the head of the adjoining bay. The breakers were running high on the point and it was with the greatest difficulty that we were able to get around with our dory. Frequently the wind blew the spray all over us, and by the time we reached the return tide on the other side I was greatly exhausted and gave a sigh of relief, for conditions were such that we were afraid our little dory could not stand much more of the kind of sea that was running. Once around on the other side the wind changed, and with the inflow of the tide and our little leg-of-mutton sail, we were carried with race-horse speed to the head of the bay. We steered for a small island, and as we approached, many gulls, sea-parrots, and ducks were flying around the bay. We landed the dory on the beach, and climbed the rocks while the birds hovered about us by the thousands, uttering their shrill cries of alarm as we gathered a few fresh eggs for breakfast on the morrow. Sea-parrots (Fratercula arctica) were quite numerous, and many left their holes in the rocks, startled no doubt by the warning given by the gulls. Peeping down into one of the crevices I discovered a sea-parrot’s nest with the female sitting on it. In order to get in to the nest it was necessary to pass horizontally between the rocks and drop vertically about five feet into a small, cavern-like space. Being anxious to photograph the nest, I discarded a part of my clothing, entered the hole feet first, with the guide holding on to me until my feet reached solid ground. Having a pair of buckskin gloves on my hands I caught the parrot, and at the same time the parrot caught me with its powerful beak, and if it had not been for the gloves I would have received an ugly bite. I handed the bird and her one dull-white-and-lilac-marked egg to the guide, who placed the bird in my kodak box until he helped me out. I had considerable difficulty in getting out at the hole by which I had entered, for to do so it was necessary for my body as it emerged to be at right angles with the wall rock. When I did succeed in getting out, with the aid of my guide pulling and tugging, I was minus considerable clothing.

Sea Parrot’s Nest and Egg

A little farther down the rocks we came to a white tern’s nest (Gygis alba kittlitzi), viz, an egg laid upon the bare rock without a vestige of any structure. In color it was bluish white, with large liver-colored spots. It is said of these birds that are very reckless in laying their eggs, at times selecting a bare limb, and how they succeed in incubating under certain conditions is remarkable.