THE GRAND CAÑON OF THE YUKON.
[Illustration: GRAYLING.]
As we slowly floated out of Lake Marsh it was known to us by Indian
reports that somewhere not far ahead on the course of the river would
be found the longest and most formidable rapid on the entire length of
the great stream. At these rapids the Indians confidently expected that
our raft would go to pieces, and we were therefore extremely anxious to
inspect them. By some form of improper interpretation, or in some other
way, we got the idea into our heads that these rapids, "rushing," as
the natives described them, "through a dark cañon," would be reached
very soon, that is, within two or three miles, or four or five at the
furthest. Accordingly I had the raft beached at the river's entrance,
and undertook, with the doctor, the task of walking on ahead along the
river bank to inspect them before making any further forward movement,
after which one or both of us might return. After a short distance I
continued the journey alone, the doctor returning to start the raft.
I hoped to be at the upper end of the rapids by the time she came in
sight so as to signal her in ample time for her to reach the bank from
the swiftest current in the center, as the river was now five or six
hundred yards wide in places. It turned out afterward that the great
rapids were more than fifty miles further on.
I now observed that this new stretch of river much more closely
resembled some of the streams in temperate climes than any we had yet
encountered. Its flanking hillsides of rolling ground were covered
with spruce and pine, here and there breaking into pleasant-looking
grassy prairies, while its own picturesque valley was densely wooded
with poplar and willows of several varieties. These latter, in fact,
encroached so closely upon the water's edge, and in such impenetrable
confusion, that camping places were hard to find, unless a friendly
spur from the hills, covered with evergreens, under which a little
elbow room might be had, wedged its way down to the river, so as to
break the continuity of these willowy barriers to a night's good
camping place. The raft's corduroy deck of pine poles often served for
a rough night's lodging to some of the party.
Muskrats were plentiful in this part of the river, and I could hear
them "plumping" into the water from the banks, every minute or two,
as I walked along them; and afterward, in the quiet evenings, these
animals might at once be traced by the wedge-shaped ripples they made
on the surface of the water as they swam around us.
I had not walked more than two or three miles, fighting great swarms
of mosquitoes all the way, when I came to a peculiar kind of creek
distinctive of this portion of the river, and worth describing. It was
not very wide, but altogether too wide to jump, with slopes of slippery
clay, and so deep that I could not see bottom nor touch it with any
pole that I could find. These singular streams have a current seemingly
as slow as that of a glacier, and the one that stopped me--and I
suppose all the rest--had the same unvarying canal-like width for over
half a mile from its mouth. Beyond this distance I dared not prolong
my rambles to find a crossing place for fear the raft might pass me on
the river, so I returned to its mouth and waited, fighting mosquitoes,
for the raft to come along, when the canoe would pick me up. In my
walks along the creek I found many moose and caribou tracks, some of
them looking large enough to belong to prize cattle, but all of them
were old. Probably they had been made before the mosquitoes became so
numerous.
The first traveler along the river was one of our old Tahk-heesh
friends, who came down the stream paddling his "cottonwood" canoe
with his family, a squaw and three children, wedged in the bottom.
He partially comprehended my situation, and I tried hard to make him
understand by signs that I wanted simply to cross the canal-like creek
in his canoe, while he, evidently remembering a number of trifles he
had received from members of the party at a few camps back, thought it
incumbent upon him to take me a short way down the river, by way of
a _quid pro quo_, to which I did not object, especially after seeing
several more of those wide slack-water tributaries, and as I still
supposed that the rapids were but a short distance ahead, and that
my Indian guide expected to camp near them. The rain was falling
in a persistent drizzle, which, coupled with my cramped position in
the rickety canoe, made me feel any thing but comfortable. My Indian
patron, a good natured looking old fellow of about fifty, was evidently
feeling worried and harassed at not meeting other Indians of his
tribe--for he had previously promised me that he would have a number
of them at the rapids to portage my effects around it if my raft went
to pieces in shooting them, as they were all confident it would, or if
I determined to build another forthwith at a point below the dangerous
portion of the rapids--and he ceased the not unmusical strokes of his
paddle every minute or two in order to scan with a keen eye the river
banks or the hillsides beyond, or to listen for signals in reply to the
prolonged shouts he occasionally emitted from his vigorous lungs. After
a voyage of three or four miles, he became discouraged, and diving down
into a mass of dirty rags and strong-scented Indian bric-a brac of all
sorts in the bottom of the canoe, he fished out an old brass-mounted
Hudson Bay Company flintlock horse-pistol, an object occasionally
found in the possession of a well-to-do Yukon River savage. He took
out the bullet, which he did not desire to lose, and held it in his
teeth, and pointing the unstable weapon most uncomfortably close to
my head, pulled the trigger, although from all I have seen of these
weapons of destruction (to powder) I imagine the butt end of the pistol
was the most dangerous. The report resounded through the hills and
valleys with a thundering vibration, as if the weapon had been a small
cannon, but awakened no reply of any kind, and as it was getting well
along into the evening my "Stick" friend pointed his canoe for an old
camping place on the east bank of the river (although the boat was so
warped and its nose so broken that one might almost have testified to
its pointing in any other direction), and with a few strokes of his
paddle he was soon on shore. Thereupon I went into the simplest camp
I had ever occupied, for all that was done was to pull an old piece
of riddled canvas over a leaning pole and crawl under it and imagine
that it kept out the rain, which it did about as effectually as if it
had been a huge crochet tidy. My companions, however, did not seem to
mind the rain very much, their only apparent objection to it being
that it prevented their kindling a fire with their usual apparatus of
steel and damp tinder; and when I gave them a couple of matches they
were so profuse in their thanks and their gratitude seemed so genuine,
that I gave them all I had with me, probably a couple of dozen, when
they overwhelmed me with their grateful appreciation, until I was glad
to change the subject to a passing muskrat and a few ducks that were
swimming by. I could not help contrasting their behavior with that of
the more arrogant Chilkats. They seemed much more like Eskimo in their
rude hospitality and docility of nature, although I doubt if they equal
them in personal bravery.
There is certainly one good thing about a rain-storm in Alaska,
however, and that is the repulsion that exists between a moving drop
of rain and a comparatively stationary mosquito when the two come in
contact, and which beats down the latter with a most comforting degree
of pertinacity. Mosquitoes evidently know how to protect themselves
from the pelting rain under the broad deciduous leaves, or under the
lee of trees and branches, for the instant it ceases they are all
out, apparently more voracious than ever. All along this bank near
the Indians' camp, the dense willow brake crawled up and leaned over
the water, and I feared there was no camping place to be found for my
approaching party, until after walking back about half a mile I espied
a place where a little spur of spruce-clad hillocks infringed on the
shore. Here I halted the raft and we made an uncomfortable camp. Fish
of some kind kept jumping in the river, but the most seductive "flies"
were unrewarded with a single bite, although the weather was not of the
kind to tempt one either to hunt or fish.
The next day, the 30th of June, was but little better as far as the
weather was concerned, and we got away late from our camp, having
overslept ourselves. Our Tahk-heesh friend, with his family, now
preceded us in his canoe for the purpose of indicating the rapids in
good season; but of course he disappeared ahead of us around every
bend and island, so as to keep us feeling more anxious about it. At
one time, about eight o'clock in the evening--our Tahk-heesh guide
out of sight for the last half hour--we plainly heard a dull roaring
ahead of us as we swung around a high broken clay bluff, and were
clearly conscious of the fact that we were shooting forward at a more
rapid pace. Thinking that discretion was the better part of valor,
the raft was rapidly swung inshore with a bump that almost upset the
whole crew, and a prospecting party were sent down stream to walk along
the bank until they found out the cause of the sound, a plan which
very soon revealed that there were noisy, shallow rapids extending
a short distance out into the bend of the river, but they were not
serious enough to have stopped us; at least they would have been of no
consequence if we had not landed in the first place, but, as matters
stood, they were directly in front of our position on the shore,
and so swift was the current that we could not get out fast enough
into the stream with our two oars to avoid sticking on the rough bar
of gravel and bowlders. Shortly after the crew had jumped off, and
just as they were preparing to pry the raft around into the deeper
water of the stream, the most violent splashing and floundering was
heard on the outer side of the craft, and it was soon found that a
goodly-sized and beautifully-spotted grayling had hooked himself to a
fish-line that some one had allowed to trail over the outer logs in
the excitement of attending to the more important duties connected
with the supposed rapids. He was rapidly taken from the hook, and when
the line was again thrown over into the ripples another immediately
repeated the operation, and it soon became evident that we were getting
into the very best of fishing waters, the first we had discovered of
that character on the river. After the raft was swung clear of the
outer bowlders of the reef and had started once more on its way down
stream, several lines, poles and flies were gotten out, and it was
quite entertaining to see the long casts that were attempted as we
rushed by distant ripples near the curve of the banks. More than one
of these casts, however, proved successful in landing a fine grayling.
A jump and a splash and a miss, and there was no more chance at that
ripple for the same fish, for by the time a recover and a cast could
be made the raft was nearly alongside of another tempting place, so
swift was the river and so numerous the clean gravel bars jutting into
it at every bend. Many a pretty grayling would come sailing through
the air like a flying squirrel and unhooking himself _en route_, with
a quick splash would disappear through the logs of the raft, with no
other injury than a good bump of his nose against the rough bark, and
no doubt ready to thank his stars that his captors were not on land.
Passing over shallow bottoms covered with white pebbles, especially
those shoaling down stream from the little bars of which I have spoken,
a quick eye could often detect great numbers of fish, evidently
grayling, with their heads up stream and propelling their tails just
enough to remain over the same spot on the bottom, in the swift
current. That evening we camped very late--about 10 P.M.--having hopes
to the last that we might reach the upper end of the Grand Cañon. Our
Stick guide had told us that when we saw the mouth of a small stream
coming in from the west and spreading out in a mass of foam over the
rocks at the point of confluence, we could be sure of finding the great
cañon within half a mile. An accurate census of small creeks answering
exactly to that description having been taken, gave a total of about
two dozen, with another still in view ahead of us as we camped. Knowing
the _penchant_ of our fishy friends for half-submerged gravel bars,
our camp was picked with reference to them, and near it there were two
of such bars running out into the stream. Some fifty or sixty grayling
were harvested by the three lines that were kept going until about
eleven o'clock, by which time it was too dark to fish with any comfort,
for the heavy banked clouds in the sky brought on darkness much earlier
than usual. Red and white mixed flies were eagerly snapped by the
voracious and active creatures, and as the evening shadows deepened,
a resort to more white in the mixture kept up the exhilarating sport
until it was too dark for the fisherman to see his fly on the water.
The grayling caught that evening seemed to be of two very distinct
sizes, without any great number of intermediate sizes, the larger
averaging about a pound in weight, the smaller about one-fourth as
much. So numerous and voracious were they that two or three flies were
kept on one line, and two at a cast were several times caught, and
triplets once.
On the morning of July 1st, we approached the great rapids of the Grand
Cañon of the Yukon. Just as I had expected, our Tahk-heesh guide in
his cottonwood canoe was _non est_, until we were within sight of the
upper end of the cañon and its boiling waters, and tearing along at
six or seven miles an hour, when we caught sight of him frantically
gesticulating to us that the rapids were in sight, which was plainly
evident, even to us. He probably thought that our ponderous raft was as
manageable in the seething current as his own light craft, or he never
would have allowed us to get so near. In the twinkling of an eye we
got ashore the first line that came to hand, and there was barely time
to make both ends fast, one on the raft and the other to a convenient
tree on the bank, before the spinning raft came suddenly to the end of
her tether with a snappish twang that made the little rope sing like a
musical string. Why that little quarter-inch manilla did not part seems
a mystery, even yet,--it was a mere government flagstaff lanyard that
we had brought along for packing purposes, etc.--but it held on as if
it knew the importance of its task, and with the swift water pouring
in a sheet of foam over the stern of the shackled raft, she slowly
swung into an eddy under the lee of a gravel bar where she was soon
securely fastened, whereupon we prepared to make an inspection of our
chief impediment. A laborious survey of three or four hours' duration,
exposed to heat and mosquitoes, revealed that the rapids were about
five miles long and in appearance formidable enough to repel any one
who might contemplate making the passage even in a good boat, while
such an attempt seemed out of the question with an unmanageable raft
like ours.
[Illustration: VIEW IN GRAND CAÑON FROM ITS SOUTHERN ENTRANCE.
The only cañon on the Yukon, 1870 miles from Aphoon mouth.]
The Yukon River, which had previously been about three hundred or three
hundred and fifty yards in width, gradually contracts as it nears the
upper gate of the cañon and at the point where the stream enters it
in a high white-capped wave of rolling water, I do not believe its
width exceeds one-tenth of that distance. The walls of the cañon are
perpendicular columns of basalt, not unlike a diminutive Fingal's cave
in appearance, and nearly a mile in length, the center of this mile
stretch being broken into a huge basin of about twice the usual width
of the stream in the cañon, and which is full of seething whirlpools
and eddies where nothing but a fish could live for a minute. On the
western rim of this basin it seems as though one might descend to the
water's edge with a little Alpine work. Through this narrow chute of
corrugated rock the wild waters of the great river rush in a perfect
mass of milk-like foam, with a reverberation that is audible for a
considerable distance, the roar being intensified by the rocky walls
which act like so many sounding boards. Huge spruce trees in somber
files overshadow the dark cañon, and it resembles a deep black
thoroughfare paved with the whitest of marble. At the northern outlet
of the cañon, the rushing river spreads rapidly into its former width,
but abates not a jot of its swiftness, and flows in a white and shallow
sheet over reefs of bowlders and bars thickly studded with intertwining
drifts of huge timber, ten times more dangerous for a boat or raft than
the narrow cañon itself, although perhaps not so in appearance. This
state of things continues for about four miles further, offering every
possible variety of obstacle in turn, when the river again contracts,
hemmed in by low basaltic banks, and becomes even narrower than before.
So swift is it, so great the volume of water, and so contracted the
channel, that half its water ascends the sloping banks, runs over them
for nearly a score of yards, and then falls into the narrow chute
below, making a veritable horseshoe funnel of boiling cascades, not
much wider than the length of our raft, and as high at the end as her
mast. Through this funnel of foam the waves ran three or four feet
high, and this fact, added to the boiling that often forced up columns
of water like small geysers quite a considerable distance into the air,
made matters very uninviting for navigation in any sort of craft.
Every thing being in readiness, our inspection made, and our resolution
formed, in the forenoon of the second of July, we prepared to "shoot"
the raft though the rapids of the grand cañon, and at 11:25 the bow
and stern lines were cast loose and after a few minutes' hard work at
shoving the craft out of the little eddy where she lay, the poor vessel
resisting as if she knew all that was ahead of her and was loth to go,
she finally swung clear of the point and like a racer at the start
made almost a leap forward and the die was cast. A moment's hesitation
at the cañon's brink, and quick as a flash the whirling craft plunged
into the foam, and before twenty yards were made had collided with the
western wall of columnar rock with a shock as loud as a blast, tearing
off the inner side log and throwing the outer one far into the stream.
The raft swung around this as upon a hinge, just as if it had been a
straw in a gale of wind, and again resumed its rapid career. In the
whirlpool basin of the cañon the craft, for a brief second or two,
seemed actually buried out of sight in the foam. Had there been a dozen
giants on board they could have had no more influence in directing
her course than as many spiders. It was a very simple matter to trust
the rude vessel entirely to fate, and work out its own salvation. I
was most afraid of the four miles of shallow rapids below after the
cañon, but she only received a dozen or a score of smart bumps that
started a log here and there, but tore none from the structure, and
nothing remained ahead of her but the cascades. These reached, in a
few minutes the craft was caught at the bow by the first high wave in
the funnel-like chute and lifted into the air until it stood almost at
an angle of thirty degrees, when it went through the cascades like a
charge of fixed bayonets, and almost as swiftly as a flash of light,
burying its nose in the foam beyond as it subsided. Those on board of
the raft now got hold of a line from their friends on shore, and after
breaking it several times they finally brought the craft alongside the
bank and commenced repairing the damage with a light heart, for our
greatest obstacle was now at our backs.
Near the spot where we camped, just below the cascades that terminated
the long rapids, was found a small grove of sapling spruce through
which the fire had swept a year or two before, and the trees were
thoroughly seasoned and sound, the black burned bark peeling as freely
from them as the hull of a chestnut, leaving excellent light and tough
poles with which we renewed our two decks, our constant walking over
the old ones having converted them into somewhat unsatisfactory places
for promenades unless one carefully watched his footsteps. Evidences of
conflagration in the dense coniferous forests were everywhere frequent,
the fires arising from the carelessness of the Indian campers, and from
the making of signal smokes, and even it is said, from design, with
the idea of clearing the district of mosquitoes. While waiting at the
cascades of the rapids to repair our raft, our fishing tackle was kept
busy to such an extent that we landed between four and five hundred
fine grayling, a fishing ground that excelled any we afterward found on
the Yukon River.
[Illustration: THE CASCADES AT THE END OF THE GREAT RAPIDS.
Head of Navigation on the Yukon, 1866 miles from Aphoon mouth.]
Our favorite fishing place was just below the cascades, where a number
of the disintegrating columns of basalt had fallen in, forming a talus
along which we could walk between the water and the wall. A little
beyond the wall itself sloped down and ran close beside the little
ripples where we were always sure of a "rise" when the grayling would
bite. This was nearly always in the cool of the mornings or evenings,
or in the middle of the day when even a few light fleecy clouds floated
over the sun. Yet there were times when they would cease biting as
suddenly as if they were disciplined and under orders, and that without
any apparent reason, returning to the bait just as suddenly and as
mysteriously. Light northern winds brought fine sunny weather, and
with it a perfect deluge of light brown millers or moths migrating
southward, thousands of which tumbled in the waters of the river and
filled every eddy with their floating bodies. These kept the grayling
busy snapping at them, and indicated to a certain degree when to go
fishing, but still it was remarkable that our efforts should be so well
rewarded when there were so many living, struggling bait to tempt them
away from our flies. Strangest of all we were most successful when
casting with brown flies. The millers caught by the water and drifted
into eddies would not be touched, and it was only when a solitary moth
came floating along beating its wings and fluttering on the surface
around the swiftest corners that a spring for it was at all certain,
and even then a brown hackle dancing around in the same place would
monopolize every rise within the radius of a fish's eyesight. Our
Tahk-heesh friends, who had been made useful by us in several ways,
such as carrying effects over the portage, helping with poles and logs,
and so on, were as much surprised at this novel mode of fishing as the
grayling themselves, and expressed their astonishment, in guttural
grunts. They regarded themselves as admitted to high favor when we gave
them a few of the flies as presents. They ate all the spare grayling
we chose to give them, which was often nearly a dozen apiece, and, in
fact, during the three or four days we were together their subsistence
was almost altogether derived from this source, as we had no provisions
to spare them. The largest grayling we caught weighed two pounds and a
quarter, but we had the same invariable two sizes already mentioned,
with here and there a slight deviation in grade. These grayling were
the most persistent biters I ever saw rise to a fly, and more uncertain
than these uncertain fish usually are in grasping for a bait, for there
were times when I really believe we got fifty or sixty rises from a
single fish before he was hooked or the contest abandoned.
The portage made by the Indians around the cañon and rapids was over
quite a high ridge just the length of the cañon, and then descended
abruptly with a dizzy incline into a valley which, after continuing
nearly down to the cascades, again ascended a sandy hill that was
very difficult to climb. The hilly part around the cañon was pretty
thoroughly covered with small pines and spruce, and all along the
portage trail some miners who had been over it had cut these down near
the path and felled them across it, and had then barked them on their
upper sides, forming stationary skids along which they could drag
their whip-sawed boats. Two large logs placed together on the steep
declivity, and well trimmed of their limbs and bark, made good inclines
on which the boat or boats could be lowered into the valley below. Here
they had floated their boats by towlines down to the cascades, around
which point they had again dragged them. It may readily be imagined
that such a chaparral of felled brush and poles across our path did not
improve the walking in the least. It was a continued case of hurdle
walking the whole distance. The day we walked over the trail on the
eastern side of the cañon and rapids was one of the hottest and most
insufferable I ever experienced, and every time we sat down it was only
to have "a regular down-east fog" of mosquitoes come buzzing around,
and the steady swaying of arms and the constant slapping of the face
was an exercise fully as vigorous as that of traveling. Our only safe
plan was to walk along brandishing a great handful of evergreens from
shoulder to shoulder. As we advanced the mosquitoes invariably kept
the same distance ahead, as if they had not the remotest idea we were
coming toward them. An occasional vicious reach forward through the
mass with the evergreens would have about as much effect in removing
them as it would in dispersing the same amount of fog, for it seemed
as if they could dodge a streak of lightning. Nothing was better than
a good strong wind in one's face, and as one emerged from the brush
or timber it was simply delicious to feel the cool breeze on one's
peppered face and to see the rascals disappear. Our backs, however,
were even then spotted with them, still crawling along and testing
every thread in one's coat to see if they could not find a thin hole
where they might bore through. Once in the breeze, it was comical to
turn around slowly and see their efforts to keep under the lee of one's
hunting shirt, as one by one they lose their hold and are wafted away
in the wind. If these pests had been almost unbearable before, they
now became simply fiendish while we were repairing our raft; nothing
could be done unless a wind was blowing or unless we stood in a smoke
from the resinous pine or spruce so thick that the eyes remained in an
acute state of inflammation. Mosquito netting over the hat was not an
infallible remedy and was greatly in the way when at work.
A fair wind one day made me think it possible to take a hunt inland,
but, to my disgust, it died down after I had proceeded two or three
miles, and my fight back to camp with the mosquitoes I shall always
remember as one of the salient points of my life. It seemed as if there
was an upward rain of insects from the grass that became a deluge over
marshy tracts, and more than half the ground was marshy. Of course not
a sign of any game was seen except a few old tracks; and the tracks
of an animal are about the only part of it that could exist here in
the mosquito season, which lasts from the time the snow is half off
the ground until the first severe frost, a period of some three or
four months. During that time every living creature that can leave the
valleys ascends the mountains, closely following the snow-line, and
even there peace is not completely attained, the exposure to the winds
being of far more benefit than the coolness due to the altitude, while
the mosquitoes are left undisputed masters of the valleys, except for
a few straggling animals on their way from one range of mountains to
the other. Had there been any game, and had I obtained a fair shot, I
honestly doubt if I could have secured it owing to these pests, not
altogether on account of their ravenous attacks upon my face, and
especially the eyes, but for the reason that they were absolutely
so dense that it was impossible to see clearly through the mass in
taking aim. When I got back to camp I was thoroughly exhausted with my
incessant fight and completely out of breath, which I had to regain
as best I could in a stifling smoke from dry resinous pine knots. A
traveler who had spent a summer on the Lower Yukon, where I did not
find the pests so bad on my journey as on the upper river, was of
opinion that a nervous person without a mask would soon be killed by
nervous prostration, unless he were to take refuge in mid-stream. I
know that the native dogs are killed by the mosquitoes under certain
circumstances, and I heard reports, which I believe to be well founded,
both from Indians and trustworthy white persons, that the great brown
bear--erroneously but commonly called the grizzly--of these regions is
at times compelled to succumb to these insects. The statement seems
almost preposterous, but the explanation is comparatively simple.
Bruin having exhausted all the roots and berries on one mountain, or
finding them scarce, thinks he will cross the valley to another range,
or perhaps it is the odor of salmon washed up along the river's banks
that attracts him. Covered with a heavy fur on his body, his eyes,
nose and ears are the vulnerable points for mosquitoes, and here of
course they congregate in the greatest numbers. At last when he reaches
a swampy stretch they rise in myriads until his forepaws are kept so
busy as he strives to keep his eyes clear of them that he can not walk,
whereupon he becomes enraged, and bear-like, rises on his haunches to
fight. It is now a mere question of time until the bear's eyes become
so swollen from innumerable bites as to render him perfectly blind,
when he wanders helplessly about until he gets mired in the marsh, and
so starves to death.
[Illustration: ALASKA BROWN BEAR FIGHTING MOSQUITOES.]