In Chatham Straits, Alaska, only a stone's throw from the mainland,
there is a little island called Kilasnoo. It boasts of a tiny Indian
village named after the island, and a factory where they turn out
fish-oil. At a little wharf belonging to the factory, in the summer of
1895, lay the United States survey steamer _Patterson_, on board which
Charles Henderson, a native of Gefle, Sweden, and myself were able
seamen. We were fast friends, and had agreed to be sporting companions
whenever we got the opportunity. Up to the present time we had never
done any hunting, although we owned two guns. The only things we had
shot at so far were condensed milk cans, which we threw into the water
and fired at from behind a bush, at a distance of about fifty feet. I
regret to add that we never hit one. It was our first year up there,
and so far we had had no chance of showing what we could do against
big game, but the chance came along rather sooner than we expected.
One Saturday afternoon, seated in a canoe, Henderson and I paddled off
to the opposite shore. Landing just above a large inlet called Hood's
Bay, we hauled our canoe up into the edge of the wood, and then,
taking our fishing-tackle and guns, we started off along a trail which
brought us, after a three-mile tramp through the wood, to the shores
of a lake where we intended to fish for trout. Although we had
brought our guns, we knew that no game had been seen around there
for years--at least, so the Indians told us. We carried our guns,
therefore, but there was no likelihood of them being required, and I
believe in our hearts we were both glad of it--I know I was, at any
rate.
Presently, tramping steadily through the woods, we arrived at a
clearing or flat at the head of the lake, where, for a space of about
twenty yards, from the edge of the forest to the water, the ground was
bare, save for a solitary dead tree in the middle. We were crossing
this barren stretch when, all of a sudden, a sight met our gaze which
brought us to a standstill. There, coming round the corner of the
clearing, was a bear! I had seen one before at a zoo, and knew at once
what it was, only this bear looked about three times as big as the
beast at the zoo.
I will not speak for Henderson, but if I could have moved just then I
should have taken a header into the lake. When we got our breath after
the first shock of surprise, my companion shouted excitedly, "Shoot!
Shoot!" He yelled so loud that the bear stopped in surprise, had
a good, comfortable look at us, gave what sounded like a grunt of
disgust, and then turned tail and quietly trotted off along the trail
in the direction we had come from. Directly he had disappeared we
unslung our guns and consoled each other by declaring that the reason
we had not fired at the bear was not because we were scared, but
because we were fascinated by our first sight of a real wild bear.
Nevertheless, it was remarkable how quickly and with what touching
unanimity we climbed up that dead tree in the middle of the flat,
in case Bruin should take it into his head to return. Seated in its
branches we at least felt more comfortable, until Henderson suddenly
remembered that bears could also climb. To make matters worse for
us, it was now getting late in the afternoon, and the sun had already
dipped behind the mountains. The thought of sitting up in that tree
all night was no joke; but, still, we considered it better than going
back through the woods, with thick undergrowth on both sides of the
trail, in which countless bears could lie in wait for us.
[Illustration: MR. A. WRIGHT, ONE OF THE "GREENHORNS" WHO HERE RELATES
HIS AMUSING ENCOUNTER WITH A BEAR.
_From a Photograph._
]
Presently Henderson suggested lighting a fire.
"All right," I replied. "You get down and collect the sticks; I'll
keep watch up here."
But this brilliant suggestion found no favour with my companion.
"No," he said; "let's toss for it." So we did, and I won. Henderson
got down--not so quickly as he got up, however--and began to look
round for sticks, circling warily round and round the tree at arm's
length. He did this two or three times, and then suddenly he shouted
out loudly, "There are no sticks down here." The yell so scared me
that I lost my balance and toppled down off my perch, landing with
a crash on the ground. When I picked myself up, fortunately unhurt,
Henderson was half-way up the tree, and I soon followed suit. Neither
of us had the pluck to descend again, so all night we sat perched up
in the tree, afraid to sleep lest we should fall, and shaking with
cold, fear, and hunger. The night was terribly dark, and the stillness
all around us was something that could almost be felt. The man who
says he never knew fear when spending his first night in the primeval
forest can have no respect for the truth. It is not excitement or
nervousness, but absolute fear of the unknown, and I know it from
experience, for Henderson and myself killed many a bear and spent many
a night in the forest after that first one. But we never experienced
the same sensation again.
When daylight arrived we clambered stiffly down from our perch,
crouching in a hollow at the foot of the tree, and held a
consultation. We finally decided to wait until the sun was well up
above the trees before making a move, as otherwise we might lose the
trail.
We had sat there chatting and smoking for about half an hour, when
suddenly I heard the sound of breaking twigs. It sounded rather faint
at first, but gradually got louder. "The bear!" I whispered excitedly
to Henderson, and we both grabbed our guns and knelt upon a little
stump ready to fire, our hearts beating like steam hammers behind our
ribs.
We had not long to wait. Within a couple of seconds we saw Bruin's
head between two trees, about a hundred yards in front of us: he was
coming along at a quiet trot, with his shaggy head swaying from one
side to the other. He did not look half so large as he had done the
night before; perhaps it was because we were not so scared. "You cover
his head and fire first," whispered Henderson.
[Illustration: "JUST AT THAT MOMENT HE FELL OFF THE STUMP AND HIS GUN
WENT OFF."]
Well, I did my best to cover his head, but speedily discovered that,
though I could have covered anything the size of Ireland, I could
tackle nothing smaller; I was shaking like a scarecrow in a gale. "Let
him get right in front of us before we fire," said I, unwilling to
confess my weakness. My companion did not answer, for just at that
moment he fell off the stump on to his face and his gun went off. The
report scared poor Bruin so badly that he stopped, bellowing loudly.
Thereupon I fired three shots at his head, or as near as I could get
to it. By this time Henderson had scrambled up in a mighty hurry, and
Bruin started off at a gallop. We fired about twelve rounds at him
before he disappeared into the bush, but did not go to see if he
was wounded or dead, because we shrewdly suspected he had not been
touched. He was moving too lively when we last saw him to have been
hit--unless he dropped dead with fright at the noise we made.
When the bear had vanished we decided to let well alone and cleared
out for the ship, which we reached without accident. We told no one on
board of our adventure--simply said we had seen a bear's fresh tracks,
and had waited all night to have a shot at it in the morning. "You're
hunting mad," growled the boatswain. "Never mind," said I, sagely;
"there's no sport like it."