SITKA—SUBURBS AND CLIMATE.
Enthusiasts who have seen both, declare that the Bay of Sitka surpasses
the Bay of Naples in the grandeur and beauty of its surroundings. The
comparison is instituted between these two distant places, because the
extinct volcano, Mount Edgecumbe, rears its snow-filled crater above the
bay, as Vesuvius does by the curving shores of the peerless bay of the
Mediterranean. Nothing could be finer than the outlines of this grand
old mountain that rises from the jutting corner of an island across the
bay, and in the sleepy, summer sun, Edgecumbe’s slopes are bluer than
lapis lazuli or sapphire, and the softest, filmiest gray clouds trail
across the ragged walls of the crater. It is more than a century since
it poured forth its smoke and lava, but jets of steam occasionally rise
from it now, and if an exploration of its unknown slopes is ever made,
some signs of active life will doubtless be found. Great patches of snow
lie within the crater’s rim, and, standing as a sentinel on the very
edge of the great Pacific, Edgecumbe is perpetually wreathed with the
clouds that float in from the sea. The Indians have fastened many of
their legends and myths to it, and the Creator and the original crow are
supposed to have come from its depths and to still dwell therein, while
Captain Cook, the great navigator, gave it the name which it now bears.
A hundred little islands lie in the harbor of Sitka, within the great
sweep of the Baranoff shores, whose curve is greater than a semicircle
at this point. Each one is a tangled bit of rock and forest, and their
dense, green thickets and grassy slopes are bordered with mats of golden
and russet seaweeds, that at low tide add the last fine tone to a
landscape of the richest coloring. Every foot of island shore off Sitka
is sketchable, and a picture in itself; and the clear, soft light, the
luminous transparent tones, would be the rapture of a water-color
artist. Japonski, which is the largest of this group of little islands,
lies directly abreast of Sitka, and the Russians maintained an
observatory on it during their ownership. At the time of the transfer,
all of the larger islands of the harbor were marked off as government
reservations, but during these seventeen years nothing has been done to
maintain the government’s claim, and settlers have lived on, cleared,
and cultivated the land without molestation. The old observatory on
Japonski Island has dropped to ruins, the last vestige of it has
disappeared under the dense cover of vegetation, and the squatter who
now occupies it raises fine Japonski potatoes for the Sitka market.
During the time that the Russians kept their careful meteorological
records at the Japonski Observatory and on shore, the thermometer went
below zero only four times, and the variation between the summer and
winter temperature is no greater than on the California coast. It is the
warm current of the Kuro Siwo, or Black Stream of Japan, pouring full on
this shore, that modifies the temperature, and brings the fogs and mists
that perpetually wreath the mountains, so that Fort Wrangell, though
south of Sitka, is colder in winter and warmer in summer on account of
its distance from the ocean current. The Sitka summer temperature of 51°
and 55° pleases the fancy of dwellers in the east, quite as much as the
even and temperate chill of 31° and 38° in midwinter. Ice seldom forms
of any thickness, and skating on the lake back of the church at Sitka is
a rarity in the winter amusements. While St. John’s in Newfoundland is
beleaguered by icebergs in summer, and its harbor frozen solid in
winter, Sitka, ten degrees north of it, has always an open roadstead. As
compared with the climate of Leadville, or some of the torrid spots in
Arizona, the miners at Sitka and Juneau have nothing to complain of, and
never have to contend against the fearful odds that opposed the miners
during the first rush to the Cœur d’Alène region.
The mean temperature of the air and of the surface sea water, and the
precipitation for each month of the year at Sitka, as given in the
tables in the Alaska Coast Pilot for 1883, are as follows:—
────────────────────┬──────────────┬──────────────┬──────────────
│Temperature of│Temperature of│
Month. │the air. │surface sea │Precipitation.
│ │water. │
────────────────────┼──────────────┼──────────────┼──────────────
January │31.4 │39 │7.35
February │32.9 │39 │6.45
March │35.7 │39.5 │5.29
April │40.8 │42 │5.17
May │47.0 │46.5 │4.13
June │52.4 │48 │3.62
July │55.5 │49 │4.19
August │55.9 │50 │6.96
September │51.5 │51.5 │9.66
October │44.9 │48.9 │11.83
November │38.1 │44.4 │8.65
December │33.3 │41.7 │8.39
Year │43.3 │45.0 │81.69
────────────────────┴──────────────┴──────────────┴──────────────
The only drawback to this cool and equable climate is the heavy
rainfall, which even a Scotchman says makes it “a wee hair too wet.” One
soon gets used to it, and goes around unconcernedly in a panoply of
rubber and gossamer cloth, and rejoices that Sitka is not Fort Tongass,
where the rainfall was 118.30 inches a year, for the time that the
drenched and half-drowned officers kept the records. With all this
downpour there is little dampness in the air, and, contradictory as this
may seem, it is proven by the fact that clothes will dry under a shed
during the heaviest rains. Boots and shoes do not mould, clothing does
not get musty as in other climates, and on shipboard it is noticeable
that kid gloves and shoes show no reluctance at being pulled on on the
wettest mornings. The snow lies on the mountain tops and sides all the
year through, though in a warm, dry summer it retreats to the summits
and higher ravines. In winter the snow seldom lasts long on the level,
and mist and rain, coming after each snowfall, soon reduce it to slush.
These contradictions of climate are quite at variance with the accepted
ideas of Alaska, and although its enemies say that it can never be made
to support a population since grain and vegetables will not grow there,
vegetables continue to be raised in this part of the territory, as they
have for more than fifty years, and wild timothy and grasses grow three
and four feet high in every clearing. No very intelligent methods of
cultivating the soil have ever been attempted, and drainage is an
unknown science. Vancouver found the Indians cultivating potatoes and a
kind of tobacco, and there are little plantations back in sheltered
nooks of the archipelago, where the Indians go each year to plant and
gather their potatoes. The Siwash sows his potatoes as a farmer does his
grain, and very fine tubers cannot be expected from such farming. So far
the residents of the territory have been like those dwellers on western
cattle ranches, who count their cattle by thousands and use condensed
milk and imported butter, and the tin can is oftener seen than the hoe
or garden tools among them.
Although hay cannot be cured in the natural way in this rainy region,
scientific farmers think it feasible to cut and salt in trenches all the
hay that will be needed for the cattle for many years. Sleek cows are
grazing in the streets and open places around Sitka, and the residents
point with pride to two venerable mules that were left by the
quarter-master, when the garrison was abandoned, and that for seven
years ran wild and “rustled” for themselves summer and winter. They
weathered all the wet seasons, foraged for themselves in the winters,
and rioted in sweet grasses as high as their ears during the perfect,
luxuriant summers, and are good mules now.
The fine little sponges and the delicate coral branches that are
occasionally found in the harbor puzzle one with another hint of the
tropics in this high latitude. Great fronds of seaweed and kelp as large
as banana leaves drift on the rocks with the rushing tides, and the
long, snaky _algæ_ that float on the water are often found eighty and
one hundred feet long. It is of these tough, hollow pipes that the
Indians make the worms for their rude _hoochinoo_ distilleries, or,
splitting and twisting it, make fishing lines many fathoms in length.
The same little _teredo_ that eats up ship timbers and piles in southern
oceans is as destructive here in the harbor of Sitka as anywhere in the
tropics. The piles of the wharf only last five years at the longest, and
the merciless borers eat up the timbers of the old wrecks and hulks with
which the first foundations for a wharf were begun, and nothing but the
yellow cedar of the archipelago is said to withstand the _teredo_.
Among other things that Sitka can boast of as an attraction is a
promenade, a well-gravelled walk that the Russians built along the
curving line of the beach, and through the woods, to the banks of the
pretty Indian River. Up and down this walk the Russians used to stroll,
and during the stay of the mail steamer the walk to Indian River is
taken once and twice a day by the passengers, who are enraptured by the
scenery, and given such an opportunity to see the heart of the woods and
the mysteries of the forest growth. In seasons past, many primitive and
picturesque little bridges have spanned the rushing current of this
crystal clear stream, but high waters have swept them away season after
season. Lieut. Gilman, in charge of the marines attached to the _Adams_,
who rescued Princess Maksoutoff’s tombstone, and was general director of
public works and improvements, took his men and a force of Indians
belonging to the ship’s crew, and cleared a new pathway from the beach
to the river, in 1884. He led paths up either side of the stream for a
half mile or more; bridged the stream twice, and threw two picturesque
bridges across the ravines on the river bank. A great deal of taste and
ingenuity was shown in choosing the route along the river, so as to
bring in view all the best points of scenery, and the rustic bridges in
fantastic designs add greatly to many of the glimpses from under the
greenwood trees. All along Indian River the ferns run riot, covering the
ground in every clearing, and curling their great fronds up with the
huge green leaves of the “devil’s club,” that would make parasols for
people larger than elfs or fairies. The moss covers everything under
foot with a close, springy carpet six inches deep, and moss and lichens,
ferns and grasses envelop every fallen log and twig, and convert them
into things of beauty. Giant firs and pines rise above the prostrate
trunks of other large trees, whose wood is still sound at the heart,
although the roots of a tree seventy feet high are arched and knotted
over them. These overgrown trunks of prostrate trees are scattered all
through the woods, and on one side of the river there is a fallen tree
that would excite wonder even in the groves of California. Where the
upturned roots are exposed, they are matted into a broad flat base on
which the tapering trunk without tap-roots once stood like a candle on a
candlestick. The fallen trunk is over ten feet in diameter, and a man
six feet high is dwarfed when he stands beside the root. A second forest
of ferns, bushes, and young trees has sprung up on top of this
overturned tree, and its giant outlines will soon be lost in the tangle
of vegetation.
The size of the cedar-trees in the archipelago has long been a matter of
record. Army officers tell that cedars eight feet in diameter were cut
down when they built the post at Fort Tongass, and Mr. Seward often
boasted of the great planks, four and five feet wide, hewn by stone
hatchets, that he measured in Kootznahoo and Tongass villages.
One bridge hangs its airy trestles over Indian River at a point where
the main branch comes tumbling down in cascades, and a side stream pours
in its sparkling, clear waters. Beyond that bridge, the path winds out
into a clearing, and past an old brewery that flourished and made
fortunes for its owners under Russian rule. The United States has
prevented the manufacture and importation of all kinds of liquors in
Alaska, and the brewery has been abandoned for many years. All the acres
of the clearing in which it stands are covered thickly with blueberry
bushes and rose bushes, while white clover lies like snow-drifts on
either side of the corduroy road that leads into the town. The salmon
berries, that wave their clusters of golden and crimson fruit in the
woods and along the steep river bank, disappear at the edge of this
clearing, and the blueberries are thicker than anything else that can
grow on a bush. Big ravens croak in the tall tree-tops in the woods,
inviting a shot from a sportsman, but, when hit, they fall into such
thickets that the most experienced bird dogs could never retrieve one.
Tiny humming-birds, with green and crimson throats, nest in the woods
along the river, and the drumming of their little wings is the first
warning of their presence. All that woodland that borders Indian River
is a part of an enchanted forest, and more lovely than words can tell.
Where the path again reaches the beach and brings in view the harbor and
its islands, a large square block of stone lies beside the path. It is
popularly known as the Blarney Stone, and dowers the one who kisses it
with a charmed tongue. All the men-of-war and revenue cutters that have
visited the harbor have left their names and dates cut in the rock, and
some strange old Russian hieroglyphs antedate them all and give a proper
touch of mystery to it. Captain Meade speaks of this Blarney Stone as a
favorite rock “on which Baranoff, the first governor, used to sit on
fine afternoons and drink brandy, until he became so much overcome that
his friends had to take him home.” There are several improbable and
manufactured legends attached to it, but since the Indians have taken to
gathering around it and sitting on it in groups, faith in the miraculous
power of the stone has decreased among the white people.
In connection with this woodland walk along Indian River, a tragic
little story was told, to a company sipping tea around a shining samovar
one night, that invests even the garrison days that succeeded the
transfer with something of romantic incident. The captain and a
lieutenant of one of the companies stationed at Sitka in the first year
of United States possession fell desperately in love with the same
beautiful Russian. She was a most charming woman, with soft, mysterious
eyes, a pale, delicate face, and a slow, dreamy smile that set the two
warriors wild. All the garrison knew of their fierce rivalry, so
marvelled not a little when their old friendship appeared to be
restored, and the two suitors started off on a hunting expedition
together. One haggard man returned two days later, and said that his
companion had been attacked and gored to death by an enraged buck in the
forest. He was gloomy and strange in his manner, and at nightfall went
to the house of the Russian lady to break the news of his rival’s death.
The friends of the lost officer talked the thing over, and, suspecting
that a duel had been fought, decided to go out the next day and search
for the body. In the morning the surviving rival was found dead in bed,
with a look of agony and horror on his face. One story was that his
victim had appeared to him, and he had died of fright and terror; the
other was that some unknown and subtle poison had been administered to
him in a cup of tea, and the official report ascribed his death to
heart-disease. The body of the lost rival was found at the foot of a
steep bank on the shore of Indian River, where a tangle of ferns, bushes
and grasses shaded and almost covered the clear, still pool in which he
lay. His rifle was near him, and a bullet-hole in the heart told the sad
truth, that his friends had suspected. His death was officially
attributed to the accidental discharge of his own rifle while hunting,
and under these two verdicts the real truth was concealed. The family of
the Russian beauty disappeared from Sitka in a few months, and the story
had been half forgotten until the recent opening of a path along Indian
River recalled it to some of those who lived at Sitka at the time.
All around Sitka and its beautiful bay there are sylvan spots where the
sportsman and the angler rejoice. The late Major William Gouverneur
Morris, who lived at Sitka for several years, and was collector of
customs at the time of his death, was an enthusiastic fisherman, and
could tell tempting tales of his exploits with the rod. A small lake, a
few miles back from the town, was his favorite resort, and on one
occasion the Major’s party caught four hundred and three trout in three
hours. At Sawmill Creek a party of visiting anglers hooked sixty pounds
of trout one morning, and the little Indian boys land salmon-trout from
any place along Indian River.
At old Sitka, nine miles north of the present town, a salmon cannery was
established in 1879 by the Messrs. Cutting of San Francisco. The Sitka
Indians offered great objections to the landing of the Chinamen who were
sent up to start the work in the cannery, and their spirit was so
hostile at first, that the agent feared he would have to abandon the
Chinamen or the whole project. The chiefs were finally pacified by being
assured that the Chinese had only been brought to teach them a new
process of salmon-canning, and after a short time all but a few of the
Chinamen were sent back, and over one hundred Indians were employed at
the cannery. After four years the cannery was moved to a point further
north, and the Bay of Starri Gavan settled into its old deserted way.
Over twenty-one thousand cases of canned salmon were shipped from the
new cannery in 1884, and the owners felt justified in following the
prospectors’ advice to go further north.
South of Sitka the bay is indented with many inlets, and ten miles below
the town are the Hot Springs, destined to again become a resort and
sanitarium, when Sitka regains the size and importance of old. The
springs are situated in a beautiful bay, and the waters, impregnated
with iron, sulphur, and magnesia, are efficacious in cases of rheumatism
and skin diseases. The Russian Fur Company erected a hospital there for
its employees, but in late years only the Indians, occasional hunters,
and prospectors have patronized the springs to any extent. An eccentric
old lady, who writes blank-verse letters to the President and the
Secretary of the Navy when things go wrong in Sitka, spent some weeks in
solitude at the springs one summer, and was highly indignant when the
naval commander sent down and insisted upon her return to the
settlement, as they were all alarmed for her safety. The lazy Indians
who go to the springs are said to sit in the pools of warm water all
night, rather than gather the wood for a camp-fire, and they have great
faith in the powers of the medicated waters. Some of the enthusiasts,
who have the glory of the territory at heart, foresee the day when the
Hot Springs will be famous, and a summer hotel, with all civilized
accompaniments, draw visitors from all parts of the globe. Professor
Davidson, in an article in “Lippincott’s Magazine,” of November, 1868,
tells of a glacier hidden away near the bay, which will, of course, add
to the attractions of this summer resort of the next century.
At Silver Bay, nearly south of Sitka, the earliest indications of gold
were found in the archipelago. Soon after the California discoveries of
1848, the Emperor of Russia became convinced that there must be mineral
wealth in his possessions in America. The directors of the fur company
ignored all his first suggestions about undertaking a search expedition,
and, as they did not want their own business interfered with, gave the
hostility of the natives always as an excuse for not making any
attempts. Their course was quite the same as that followed later by the
Hudson Bay Company’s agents, when gold was discovered on the Frazer
River and in the Cariboo regions of British Columbia. The Emperor,
persisting in his notion, sent out from St. Petersburg, in 1854, a
promising and adventurous young mining engineer, named Dorovin, who,
beginning at Cook’s Inlet, searched the coast down to Sitka without
making any great discoveries. Arrived at Sitka, the gay northwest
capital, he plunged into all the social dissipations, and, after a
year’s idleness, sent back a report condemning the country. He made no
attempt to search for minerals on Baranoff Island, and some years later,
when a Russian officer found a piece of float gold in Silver Bay, the
governor quieted the interest without resorting to the knout, as old
Baranoff did. Years afterwards a United States soldier found float gold
in the same place, and, getting help from the garrison, discovered the
quartz ledge of Baranoff Island.
On Round Mountain, southeast of Sitka, are situated the Great Eastern,
the Stewart, and other mines, that attracted great attention at the time
of their discovery in 1871 and 1872. The pioneers in this mining
district were Doyle and Haley, two soldiers, who had lived in the mining
districts of California and Nevada. Nicholas Haley is the most energetic
of miners, and has carefully prospected the region about Sitka. He has
found stringers of quartz on Indian River, and has more valuable claims
at the head of Silver Bay than on the long ledge cropping out on the
slopes of Round Mountain. The mines on this ledge have had many
vicissitudes, have changed hands many times, have been involved in
lawsuits, while no one could hold a valid title to a foot of mineral
land in Alaska; and finally, through unfortunate management, the work
was stopped, and the mills have stood idle for years. The want of civil
government, or adequate protection for capitalists, has prevented the
owners from risking anything more in the development of these mines,
although the assays and the results of working proved these Sitka mines
to be valuable properties.