THE PRINCE OF WALES ISLAND.
Like Kouiu and Kuprianoff islands, the Prince of Wales Island is another
home of the yellow or Alaska cedar. It was named by Vancouver, and when
the Coast Survey changed his name of the George III. Archipelago to the
Alexander Archipelago, this largest island of the group retained its
former designation. It is from one hundred and fifty to two hundred
miles long, and from twenty to sixty miles wide, but the surveys have
never been complete enough to determine whether it is all one island or
a group of islands. Great arms of the sea reach into the heart of the
island, and dense forests of cedar cover its hills and dales. The salmon
are found in the greatest numbers on every side of it, and the pioneer
and most successful cannery and packing houses are on its shores. On
account of its timber and its salmon, it was once proposed to declare
the island a government reservation of ship timber for the use of the
navy yards on the Pacific coast, and to lease the valuable fisheries.
The very mention of Alaska has been provocative of roars of laughter in
the houses of Congress, and though the reservation would have been
larger than the State of New Jersey, and its value incalculable, the
wits took their turn at the measure and nothing was done. A citizen of
Alaska, who has chafed under the neglect and indignities put upon this
Territory, made scathing comments upon the debates of both House and
Senate, brought about by these cedar reservation bills and the bill for
a Territorial government. His final shot was this:—
“If those Senators and Congressmen don’t know any more about the tariff,
and the other things that they help to discuss, than they do about
Alaska, the Lord help the rest of the United States. Their ignorance of
the commonest facts of geography would disgrace any little Siwash at the
Fort Wrangell School. What have they paid for all these special
government reports for, if they don’t ever read them when they get ready
to speak on a foreign subject, to say nothing of what can be found in
the encyclopædias and geographies?”
These Alaskans are keenly critical of all that is written about their
Territory, and they scan newspaper accounts with the sharpest eyes for
an inaccuracy or a discrepancy. The statesmen who have assailed the
Territory in speeches and debates in Congress are condemned with a
certain thoroughness and sweep; and to introduce a copy of _The
Congressional Record_, containing such efforts, causes even worse
explosions than the one quoted. It was one of these revengeful jokers
who laid the scheme for having an eminent senator introduce a bill to
build a wagon road from Fort Wrangell to a point on the Canadian Pacific
Railroad on the eastern slope of the Rocky Mountains. An appropriation
of $100,000 was asked for, and every married citizen was to receive six
hundred and forty acres of agricultural or grazing land in the
Territory. As the contemplated highway would lead for a thousand miles
across British Columbia, through the densest woods and over the roughest
country, and from the island town of Fort Wrangell only ten leagues of
the route would be within the Alaska boundaries, some of the joke can be
discovered.
On the west shore of Prince of Wales Island there is a large salmon
cannery and saw-mill at Klawak, belonging to Messrs. Sisson, Crocker, &
Co., of San Francisco. It was established in 1878, and the shipments of
salmon are made direct by their own schooners to San Francisco, or by
their steam launch, which makes frequent trips to Kaigahnee and Fort
Wrangell, the nearest post offices and landings of the mail steamer. In
1883 the Klawak cannery shipped 10,000 cases of salmon to San Francisco,
and in 1884, 8,000 cases were sent below. The Klawak settlement is off
the regular line of the steamer, and rarely visited by it, now that the
cannery is well established and furnished with its own boats; but it is
described as one of the many beautiful places in the archipelago where
the silver salmon run in greatest numbers.
For salmon fisheries and salmon canneries there exists a perfect craze
all along the Pacific coast, and from the Columbia River to Chilkat such
establishments are projected for every possible place. At the most
northern point of our cruise we picked up a piratical-looking man, in
flannel shirt and tucked-up trousers, who had been sent to Alaska “to
_prospect_ for salmon,” by the owners of one of the large canneries at
Astoria, Oregon. This piscatorial prospector had for years been a pilot
on the Columbia River, and this fact, together with his buccaneer air,
made him quite a character on deck. The prospector was the kindest and
best-natured man that ever lived, with a bushy head and beard, and a
mild, twinkling blue eye. Months of strolling in the mud and moisture of
Alaska soil had taught him to roll his trousers well up at the heel, and
he continued that cautious habit after he came on board, often pacing
the dry and spotless decks of the _Idaho_ with his checked trousers
rolled halfway to his knees, and the gay facings of red leather
streaking his nether limbs like the insignia of the knightly order of
the garter. Confidentially he said to the mate one day, “Did you notice
the terrible cold I had when I came up with you? Well, it was all
because my wife made me wear that —— white shirt.” The sincerity and
earnestness with which he said this sent his accidental listeners off
convulsed, and the prospector’s latest remarks passed current in the
absence of daily papers and humorous columns.
Not all of the “salmon prospectors” are as worthy and reliable as this
shipmate, and in their solitary quests they have time to gather and
manufacture some fish stories that leave all the Frazer River yarns far
behind. At every place that we touched we were shown or told about “the
biggest liar in Alaska.” These great prevaricators and embroiderers of
the truth were not always in the salmon business, and quite as often
were searching for coal or the precious metals. One pretty bay was
famous as the residence of such a man, who had beguiled capitalists
below into letting him sink $10,000 in a fishery. When the ship anchored
off his lodge in the wilderness early one rainy morning, a hirsute man
on shore ran down the beach, and, making a trumpet of his hands,
conversed with the officers on deck. He had sent word previously that he
had eighty barrels of salmon ready for shipment, but when the
inquisitive men from the steamer went off to his packing house, not more
than four hundred salmon lay pickling in the vats, with not a barrel
ready. This Mulberry Sellers followed them back to the small boats,
talking volubly all the way, and the last that we saw, as the anchor
chains rattled in and the ship moved off, was the mendacious fisherman
standing in the rain, and talking through his hand trumpet. “Captain!
can’t you wait a while?” was the farewell plea that we heard wafting
over the water, and all of that afternoon in the cabin, while the rain
pelted overhead, we were entertained with anecdotes of this same
celebrity and other champion prevaricators of the Territory.
When we left Sitka on the _Ancon_, and went out over the rolling main
and around Cape Ommaney, the first stopping-place was at the north end
of the Prince of Wales Island, where a narrow winding channel, not more
than twice the width of the ship’s beam, leads into the beautiful basin
of Red Bay.
This intricate little place was known to the Russian traders long ago,
and called Krasnaia Bay, but it was only in 1884 that a packing-house
was built and the shining silver salmon decoyed into seines. It is a
beautiful little place, hidden away on the edge of the great island, and
its air must be restful to the nerves. The beating of the ship’s
paddle-wheels could be heard for miles in such quiet land-locked waters,
and the steamer’s whistle gave warning of its presence long before it
rounded the last bends of the bay. Nevertheless, there were no signs of
life or excitement about the fishery, and the two men in sight and at
work on the beach did not even turn their heads to look at the large
ocean steamer bearing down towards them. No freight seemed ready,
neither boats nor canoes put out, and the passengers longed to be
listeners when the captain and purser went ashore in the first gig and
held parley with the easy-going fishermen on the beach. When we followed
in the next boats the spicy part of the interview was over, and we
simply found that Red Bay was the most awful smelling place in Alaska,
the beach a dirty quagmire covered with kelp and heads and tails of
salmon, and the Indians a hard and fierce-looking set. The captain had
only the pleasure of the scenery and the excitement of some skilful
pilot practice for going in there, as the lone fishermen had no salmon
ready to ship after all the requests for the steamer to call on the July
trip.
Once out of the tortuous channel and along the shore some miles, we
anchored at the mouth of Salmon Creek, where a lighter lay ready loaded
at the packing-house, and three hundred and twenty-five barrels of
salted salmon were towed out to the ship and put on board as the result
of the first catch of the first year of this new fishery. There was an
energetic proprietor running that establishment, and he welcomed the
boat-load of visitors on shore and led them over a half-acre of shavings
into the side door of the packing-house. A prying man of the party spied
a great string of salmon trout on the floor and raised hysterical
shrieks. “Oh! that’s nothing,” said the proprietor coolly, “a little
mess that I caught for the captain of the ship. The creek is full of
them out here. This Injun will get you some lines.” A veritable
war-whoop followed the announcement, and the anglers broke into a
war-dance, circling at all hands round, doing the pigeon-wings and
chains in such a frenzied manner that the astonished Indians crept up on
the barrels and sat gaping and trembling in their blankets at the sight
of their uncivilized white brethren.
The Indians brought the fish lines, with common hooks and small stones
tied on for sinkers, and the anglers were rowed out in an old scow and
anchored not fifty feet from the front of the packing-house. It was not
artistic fishing with fancy flies, and anglers with patent reels and
nets would have looked scorn at the little group steadily pulling in all
the hungry trout that snapped at the bits of salmon or salmon eggs hung
out to them. An old Indian and a small boy came paddling around in a
leaky canoe, and were pressed into service to cut bait for the busy
fishermen. As the trout flopped into the scow faster than one a minute,
wild shouts rent the air, and the Siwash adjutants joined in the yells
that would have frightened off anything else in scales but these
untutored Alaska trout. The flapping fish splashed and spoiled the
clothes of the fishermen, but they never heeded that, and a tally-keeper
was installed on the flour bags and barrels at the end of the scow. The
excitement was communicated to the idlers who had stayed on the ship,
and soon a second boat put out for the fishing ground, full of wild-eyed
anglers anxious to join in the carnival. They anchored near the scow,
and their efforts were received with shouts of derision as they began
pulling in devil-fish, toad-fish, sculpin, skate, and marine curios
enough to stock a museum, before a single trout was hooked. The Indians
came down and sat in solemn rows on the logs on shore to watch the crazy
white fishermen, and they made picturesque groups that were repeated in
the glassy mirror of water before them. One old fellow in a red blanket
made a fine point of color against the thick golden-green wall of
spruce-trees on the shore, and children and dogs gave a characteristic
fringe to all the groups. When the last lighter put out for the ship the
lines were wound up, and the tally-keeper on the flour bags read the
record written on the barrel tops. The two men, one small boy, and the
brave creature in six-button gloves who baited and tended her own hook,
caught altogether one hundred and ten trout in the hour and a quarter at
anchor in the old scow. The weight was sixty pounds, and the fishermen
were wild with glee. The one fair angler and the tally-keeper having
mopped the slimy boat and the pile of fish with their dresses, and then
seated themselves on flour bags, had full view of the fishing scene
photographed on every breadth of their gowns. “What shall I do with my
dress?” asked one of them when she reached the calm and well-dressed
company on deck, and a cheerful woman said briskly: “I guess you’d
better fry it, now that it is dipped in batter.”
Sailing southward through Clarence Straits, a trader long resident in
the country told us of many Indian superstitions, among others repeating
that of their belief that the aurora flames are the shadows of the
spirits of dead warriors dancing in the sky, and that a great display of
northern lights portends a war between the tribes.
The folders of the Pacific Coast Steamship Company head the notice of
the Alaska route with the inspiring line; “Glaciers, Majestic Mountains,
Inland Seas, Aurora Borealis, and Nightless Days.” All of this official
promise had come to pass according to schedule, with the exception of
the aurora, and although the sky never grew dark, even at midnight, we
clamored for one display of northern lights. The captain told us to wait
and take the trip in December if we wanted to see the arches of flame
spanning the sky, and jets of brilliant color flashing to the zenith
like spray from a fountain. He further wrought our fancies to the
highest pitch by his descriptions of the marvellous auroras that he had
seen on his mid-winter cruises, and the dazzling moonlight effects, when
each snow-covered peak and range shone and glistened like polished
silver in the flood of light, and the still waters repeated the
enchanted scene. Bright as the midnight sky was with the lingering
twilight of the long day, we had an aurora that night as we steamed down
along the shores of the Prince of Wales’ Island. The pilot roused the
enthusiasts to see the promised display in the northern sky, and the
arches and rays of pale electric light were distinct enough to maintain
the word of the steamship company. The stars twinkled in the ghostly
gray vault overhead, and the wan, white light flashed and faded in
fitful curves, broad rays and waving streamers, that rested like a vast
halo above the brows of the grand mountains lying in black shadows at
our left.
The inexorable law of ship’s duty only permits it to linger at a harbor
for the time necessary to load or unload cargo, or for the time
specified in the mail contract, and in this same hard practical vein it
makes little difference whether a place is reached by night or day. It
is light enough these summer nights to carry on all outdoor work, and
the rare visits of the steamer are enough to set all the inhabitants
astir at any hour, while the constant excitement of the trip, and the
strange spell of the midnight light, makes the tourist indifferent to
his established customs. Once on the _Idaho_ we were at anchor in Naha
Bay only from five to six o’clock in the morning, but it was barely two
o’clock on a clear, still morning when the rattling of the _Ancon’s_
anchor chains again broke the silence of Naha Bay. Although we lay there
for five hours, few passengers could be roused to watch the sunrise
clouds, the leaping salmon, and the brilliant green and gold of the
sun-touched woods and water. In the dew and freshness of the early
morning, Naha Bay was more lovely than ever, and the little black canoes
seemed to float in emerald air, so clearly green were the calm waters
under them.
For another perfect summer afternoon the _Ancon_ lay at the wharf in
Kasa-an Bay, and, in the mellow, Indian summer sunshine, we roamed the
beach, buying the last remaining baskets, bracelets, pipes, and spoons
of the Indians, and pulling hard at the amateur’s oar as we trailed
across the bay in small boats to watch the fishermen cast and draw the
net. The huge skeleton wheels on which the nets are dried had raised
many comments at every fishery, but we had never been lucky enough to
catch the men doing anything but winding the nets on these reels to dry.
The fishermen had dropped the weighted net when we reached the cove on
the opposite shore, and the line of bobbing wooden floats showed how
this fence in the water was being gradually drawn in, and the area
limited as it crept toward the beach. The sun was hot on the water, and
the far away peal of the lunch gong, sounding in the stillness of the
mountain bay, caused us to turn back to the ship before all the shining
salmon were drawn up and thrown into the scows. The fascination of the
water was too great to resist, and in the warmer sun of the afternoon we
followed the shores of Baronovich’s little inlet, rowing close in where
the menzie and merton spruce formed a dense golden-green wall and threw
clear shadows and reflections upon the water. We dipped into each little
shaded inlet, posed in the boat for the amateur’s camera to preserve the
scene, and floated slowly over the wonderland that lay beneath the keel.
It was with real regret that we saw the last barrel of salmon dropping
into the hold, and, steaming down the beautiful bay in full sunshine,
had a glimpse of the inlet where the village of Karta and its _totem_
poles lies, before we turned into Clarence Strait.
[Illustration: INDIAN PIPE.]