OFF FOR THE NORTH--A RUNAWAY
My winter wardrobe of deerskin--Shoes that keep the feet
warm when it is sixty degrees below zero--_Plemania_, a
curious native food in tabloid form--Other
provisions--Outline of proposed exploration about the
sources of the Ghijiga River--Four hours of sun a day--When
dog meets deer--A race for life and a ludicrous
dénouement--More queer native dishes--Curious habits of the
sledge-dog.
I now set about preparing my winter wardrobe. With the aid of my good
friend Mrs. Braggin, several native women were set at work to make a
complete suit of native clothes, for I knew that only in these would I
be able to endure the rigors of their arctic winter. The trousers were
made of yearling-deer skin tanned soft on the inside, and the short
hair left on the outside. A short jacket of the same material
completed the inner suit. The socks were made of the same skin with
the fur left on the inside. They reached well to the knee. Over these
came a pair of boots made from skin taken from reindeer's legs, with
soles of seal-hide. A cushion of grass is used in the boot. The skin
taken from the reindeer's leg is better adapted to the manufacture of
boots than any other part of the skin, because the hair is shorter and
denser in growth. I also had boots with soles made of the fur which
grows between the toes of the reindeer, and which is of such a texture
that it prevents slipping on the ice. On each foot of the reindeer
there is a tuft of this hair about as large as a silver dollar, and it
takes twelve of them to make the sole of a single boot. These boots
are used only in extremely cold weather. Even with the thermometer
sixty degrees below zero they prevent cold feet.
For an overcoat I had a great koklanka made. It was shaped like a huge
night-gown, reaching to the knee. It was made of two thicknesses of
yearling-deer skin, and was provided with an ample hood. It is too
heavy to wear when walking, but is used in the dog- or deer-sledge and
when sleeping. It is usually belted in with a gay-colored woolen
scarf. For head-gear I wore a "Nansen" woolen hat capable of being
drawn down over the face. Without it my nose would have been severely
punished. My heavy mittens were made of fur from the deer's leg, with
the hair outside. Even in the worst of weather they were a complete
protection from cold. Of snow-shoes I took three pairs, two being
designed for use in soft snow. They measured five feet and ten
inches long by eight inches wide, being pointed and curved up in front
and gathered to a point at the back. They were shod with reindeer fur,
with the hair pointing back, thus preventing slipping. One pair for
use on hard snow were three feet long and eight inches wide.
[Illustration: Deer crossing River.]
An indispensable part of my equipment was a sleeping-bag made of the
thick winter fur of the reindeer, with the fur inside. It was provided
with a hood that, when pulled down, completely shut out the cold. One
would suppose that the sleeper must smother in such a case; but,
although at first it seemed rather close, I suffered no inconvenience.
Enough air found its way in around the edge of the hood for
respiration.
For provisions I first laid in several hundred pounds of _plemania_,
as the Russians call it. It consists of little balls of reindeer meat
chopped fine, and surrounded with a casing of dough. Each ball was
about the size of an English walnut. These froze immediately and
remained so till thrown into a pot of boiling water. Ten minutes then
sufficed to make a most tempting dish. To this I added several hundred
pounds of hard rye bread, which had been cut in slices and dried on
the top of the oven to the consistency of stone. Tea, sugar, and
tobacco were added as luxuries, though the first is well-nigh a
necessity, and all of them are potent levers in opening the hearts of
the native Korak or Tunguse. I took a small quantity of dried fruits,
which, of course, proved most useful in a land where food is almost
all of an animal nature.
It was my intention to explore first the mountains in which the
Ghijiga River has its source, together with the tributary streams; and
after that to cross over the mountains and explore the head waters of
the rivers flowing north into the Arctic Ocean. I anticipated that
this would take at least two months.
Old Chrisoffsky furnished six dog-sledges; he himself and two of his
sons acted as drivers. The other three drivers were hired from
Ghijiga. My party consisted, then, of the following members: my
faithful Kim, who stuck to me through thick and thin, though, at
first, he little dreamed how far I would take him from the pleasant
hills and valleys of his beloved Chosun; my Tunguse guide, Fronyo, who
had proved such a valuable help in my trip into his district; the six
drivers, myself, and the eighty-four dogs. I had left behind all my
Russian help, as they would have been of no value on such an
expedition as this.
The reader may imagine that our stock of food was small for such a
party, but we were going into a reindeer country where we were sure of
securing all the meat we wanted. So all the available space on the
sledges was loaded with dog-food--namely, salmon heads and backs. It
was now November, and there were only four hours of sunlight--from ten
to two. But the northerner does not depend on the sun. The glistening
snow and the stars overhead give sufficient light for ordinary travel.
[Illustration: Reindeer.]
We were off with a dash and a happy howl of mingled dogs and village
children, at one in the afternoon, and that night we spent at
Chrisoffsky's village. The next morning we were off again in the gray
light at seven o'clock, up the bed of the Ghijiga River. The third day
out we neared the yourta of a wealthy Tunguse magistrate. At four
o'clock in the afternoon the dogs suddenly broke into a swift run, and
we knew they had scented something that interested them. We soon
perceived that we had struck a deer trail and that we were nearing an
encampment. We turned a bend in the road and there, a hundred yards
ahead of us, saw the cause of the dogs' excitement. A team of reindeer
were running for their lives. Their Tunguse driver was lashing them
with the whip and urging them on with all his might, for he knew as
well as we that if our dogs overtook them before the camp was reached,
we seven men would be utterly powerless to prevent the dogs from
tearing the deer to pieces. Chrisoffsky put on the brake with all his
might, but it had not the least effect. Our fourteen dogs had become
wolves in the turn of a hand and no brake could stop them. There were
many stumps and other obstructions along our path, and my driver had
great difficulty in preventing a smash-up. For a short time the deer
held their own, and, in fact, gained on us, but before the yourta came
in sight we were gaining rapidly. While we were still at some distance
the people of the village, warned by the cries of the dogs,
comprehended what was the matter, and, arming themselves with sticks
and spears, came running toward us. As they came on they spread out in
a fan-like formation across the trail. When the terrified deer reached
them they opened and let the team through, and instantly closed again
to dispute the passage of our dogs. Chrisoffsky was in no wise minded
to let these natives club his dogs and perhaps injure the valuable
animals, so he resorted to the last expedient. Giving a shout of
warning to me he suddenly, by a deft motion, turned our sledge
completely over, landing me in a snow-drift on my head. In this
position the sledge was all brake and the dogs were forced to stop,
leaping in their harness and yelling like fiends incarnate. I sat up
in the snow-bank and laughed. The other drivers had followed our
example, and the struggling tangle of sledges, harness, dogs and men
formed a scene that to the novice at least was highly ludicrous. The
drivers and the village people were belaboring the dogs, and the
entire herd of reindeer belonging to the village were escaping in all
directions up the hills.
When order was at last restored, which was not accomplished till every
deer was out of sight, we made our way to the yourta, which was large
and comfortable, and, as usual, the women set about making tea. The
reader may well ask how the natives can use both dogs and reindeer if
the very sight of a deer has such a maddening effect on the dogs. The
explanation is simple. The two never go together. There is the dog
country and the deer country, and the two do not impinge upon each
other. Even among the same tribe there may be a clear division. For
instance, there are the "Deer Koraks" and the "Dog Koraks." In some of
the villages of the former there may occasionally be seen a few
low-bred curs which are not used for sledging and have been trained
not to worry deer. Confusion is often unavoidably caused by traveling
with dogs through a deer country, but the natives do not take it in
ill part, knowing that if they themselves have to travel with deer
through a dog country they will cause quite as much inconvenience.
While we were drinking tea and eating hard bread I noted that the
settlement contained some thirty men, with their wives and children.
The women hastened to prepare a dinner of unborn-deer's flesh and deer
tongues. Frozen marrow bones, uncooked, were broken and the marrow, in
the shape of sticks or candles, was passed around as a great delicacy.
These dishes, together with frozen cranberries, formed our repast, and
a very good one we voted it.
When we were done I went outside and found, to my surprise, that the
dogs had not yet been fed. I remonstrated with Chrisoffsky, but he
answered that they had not yet finished their evening toilet. Then I
saw that the dogs were busy licking themselves and biting the pieces
of frozen snow out from between their toes. My driver explained that
if they were fed before performing this very necessary task, they
would immediately lie down to sleep and wake up in the morning with
sore feet and rheumatism, and then they would be useless for several
days. It takes the dogs a good hour before they have groomed
themselves fit for dinner. They seem to know that they can get nothing
to eat before this work is done, but the minute they have finished
they sit up and begin to howl for their meal. Each dog receives two or
three salmon backs and heads. This is a fairly good amount considering
that the salmon were originally eighteen- or twenty-pound fish. The
dogs were all left in harness and still attached to the main tug.
This is pulled taut and anchored at the front with the polka, which
prevents the dogs from fighting, for no more than two can reach each
other at a time. As they feed, the drivers watch them to see that they
do not steal each other's food. After they finish their dinner they
scratch a shallow place in the snow, curl up with their backs to the
wind and go to sleep. They are never unfastened from the sledge from
one end of the journey to the other. They literally live in the
harness. While the dogs were eating, the mongrel curs belonging to the
encampment (an entirely different breed from the sledge-dog) stood
around and yelped saucily at the big intruders, but the sledge-dogs
gave them no notice whatever.
[Illustration: Theodosia Chrisoffsky, Guide.]
The dogs sleep quietly all night unless one of them happens to raise
his nose and emit a long-drawn howl. At this signal they all join in
the howl for about three minutes, stopping at the same instant. If
some puppy happens to give an additional yelp, all the others turn a
disgusted look at him as if, indeed, he ought to display better
manners. This howling concert generally comes off two or three times a
night. We do not know what causes it, but probably it is some
subconscious recollection of their ancestral wolfhood. The same thing
happens whenever the team stops on the road. They all sit and howl for
several minutes.
On the road the dogs are fed simply with the dried fish heads and
backs; but at home a more elaborate meal is prepared for them. Water
is put into a sort of trough, and then rotten fish, which has been
kept in pits, is added, with a few of the dried fish, and the whole is
cooked by throwing in red-hot stones. This is fed to the dogs only at
night. In the summer-time the dogs have to forage for themselves,
which they do by digging out tundra-rats. By the time summer is over
the dogs are so fat that they have to be tied up and systematically
starved till brought into condition for the sledge again. This period
is one long concert of howls, but the natives do not seem to mind it.
The food of the dogs is entirely carnivorous, for they would rather
live by gnawing their own harness than to eat bread, even if the
latter could be supplied. The instinct by which these animals foresee
the coming of a blizzard is truly wonderful. The unfailing sign of a
coming storm is the pawing of the snow. For what reason they paw the
snow will probably never be known. This, too, may be some residual
taint of their original savage state.