The Return Voyage.—Prince of Wales Island.—Peculiar Effects.—Island and
Ocean Voyages contrasted.—Labyrinth of Verdant Islands.—Flora of the
North.—Political Condition of Alaska.—Return to Victoria.—What
Clothing to wear on the Journey North.—City of Vancouver.—Scenes in
British Columbia.—Through the Mountain Ranges.
The return voyage from Sitka by the inland course takes us first through
Peril Straits, so named on account of its many submerged rocks and
reefs. It is, however, a wonderfully picturesque passage between the two
lofty islands of Chichagoff and Baranoff, strewn as it is with
impediments to navigation. We pass the Indian village of Kootznahoo,
occupied by a tribe of the same name, people who have always proved to
be restless and aggressive, requiring a strong hand to control them.
They are peaceable enough now, having been taught some severe lessons by
way of discipline. This tribe as a body still adheres to many of the
revolting practices of their ancestors, which other Alaskans, who are
brought into more intimate relations with the whites, have discarded.
They are also said to be more under the influence of their medicine-men,
who foster all sorts of vile rites and superstitions, without the
prevalence of which their occupation and importance would vanish.
We make our way through the winding channels of the Alexander
Archipelago, of which the Prince of Wales Island is one of the largest
and most mountainous. It is about a hundred and seventy-five miles long
by fifty miles in width; that is to say, it is as large as the State of
New Jersey, and in fact contains more square miles. It is mostly covered
with dense forests of Alaska cedar, the best of ship-timber. The shores
are indented on all sides by fjords extending a considerable distance
into the land. Salmon abound in and about this island, which has led to
the establishment of several large fish-canning factories, two new ones
being added during the past season. The principal native tribe upon the
island is known as the Haidas, whose villages are scattered along the
coast. The interior of the island is not only uninhabited, but it is
unexplored. The shore hamlets are called “rancheries.” Each sub-tribe
has a special one representing its capital, where the head chiefs live.
Their laws seem to be simply a series of conventionalities. The houses
of these Haidas are better structures than those of most natives of the
Territory, and they surround themselves, as a rule, with more domestic
comforts. Woolen blankets appear to be the investment in which all the
spare means of the members of this, as well as most other tribes, are
placed, and by the number they possess they estimate their wealth.
Woolen blankets, in fact, averaging in value from two dollars and a half
to three and a half, are the native currency or circulating medium,
being received as such when in good condition; and also given out at the
trading stations as payment to natives for furs or for any service,
unless specie is preferred.
The meandering course of the steamer brings us now before one Indian
hamlet and island, and now another; but these villages are very few in
number, hours, and even a whole day, being sometimes passed, while on
our course, without meeting a solitary canoe or seeing a human being
outside the vessel’s bulwarks. These islands, as a rule, have no
gravelly or sandy beach, but spring abruptly from out the almost
bottomless sea, in their proportions ranging from an acre to the size of
a European principality.
Now and again we come upon a reach of the shore where it is shelving,
and for a mile or more it is bastioned by a course of stones, of such
uniform height and even surface as to seem like the work of clever
stone-masons. Skilled workers with plummet and line could produce
nothing more regular.
In some places, as we quietly glide close in to the shadow of the land,
shut in by the morning fog and mist wreaths, the effects are very
curious and even startling. It not being possible to see very far up the
shrouded cliffs, down whose sides there rush narrow, silvery cascades,
with a merry, laughing sound, they often have the appearance of coming
directly out of the sky. It seems as though some peak had punctured one
of the over-charged clouds, and it was pouring out its liquid contents
through the big aperture.
The contrast between a voyage across the open ocean and a sail of two
weeks in this inland sea is notable. In the former instance the voyagers
find fruitful themes in the vast expanse and fabulous depth of the
ocean, the huge monsters and tiny creatures occupying it, the record of
the ship’s progress, her exact tonnage, and the trade in which she has
been engaged since she was launched. Few persons have in themselves
sufficient intellectual resources not to become oppressed with _ennui_
under the circumstances. Between Puget Sound and Glacier Bay how
different is the experience! There is no monotony here; every moment is
replete with curious sights, every succeeding hour full of fresh
discoveries. The panoramic view is crowded all day long with
sky-reaching mountains, scarred by wild convulsions; verdant islands
embowered in giant trees; rocky peaks rising from the bottom of the sea
to a thousand feet and more above our topmast head; cascades tumbling
down precipitous cliffs; Indian hamlets dotted by totem-poles; canoes
gliding over the silent surface of the deep channels; inlets crowded
with schools of salmon; mammoth glaciers emptying themselves into the
sea and forming opaline icebergs sharply reflecting the sun’s dazzling
rays. There is no time for _ennui_ among such scenes as these; the eyes
are captivated by the beauty and the variety, while the imagination is
constantly stimulated to its utmost capacity.
The flora of this far northern country does not exhibit the wonderful
luxuriance and productiveness which captivates us in the tropics, though
one gathers some extremely attractive specimens. Neither the flowers,
the insects, nor the birds are marked with the brilliancy of color which
distinguish those bathed continually in waves of equatorial sunlight.
Here, grandeur prevails over beauty; the trees, if not so verdant, excel
in size and majesty; the mountains, in height; the rivers, in volume and
length; while the glaciers are without comparison in magnitude and
power. Here, is simplicity, vastness, magnificence; there, fertility,
fragrance, loveliness. Neither in the north nor in the south is there
the least infringement upon the great harmonies of Nature; admirable
consistency and order exist everywhere, typifying a great, overruling,
supreme Intelligence.
We pause for a moment amid the silent tranquillity to sum up our
experience while gliding along this beautiful and peaceful inland sea on
the return voyage. The author does not hesitate to pronounce Alaska to
be one of the most attractive regions in the world for summer tourists.
From early June to September the temperature prevailing upon the entire
route is equable, the thermometer ranging all the while between sixty
and seventy degrees Fah. The progress of the steamer always creates a
gentle and agreeable breeze, which renders warm clothing desirable,
especially at early morning and in the evening, though these are periods
not so distinctly defined as with us in New England. An overcoat is
rarely rendered necessary or desirable. If the mosquitoes are
troublesome at certain places on shore, in marshy regions, they are
never so on the water, as the breeze inevitably drives such insects
away. Let us say especially there is no other such inviting resort for
pleasure yachts as this inland, island-dotted sea of Alaska. If the fogs
put in an appearance sometimes in the morning, they are after a while
burned away by the warmth of the sun. Local rains on shore are to be
occasionally endured, but they are no great drawback to observation and
brief excursions. At Sitka, Wrangel, and Juneau several showers may
occur during the day, with intervals of bright and cloudless skies
between. We have witnessed seven copious, well-sustained showers of rain
on a May forenoon in Chicago, the intervals sandwiched with sunshine of
gorgeous clearness and warmth. Why pretend that Alaska is exceptional in
this respect? The weather is not perfect, according to our estimate,
anywhere. Finally the extended trip upon the boat was found to cover a
little over two thousand miles in all, and was with us one of continuous
pleasure, enlivened by as bright and cheerful weather as one experiences
on an average elsewhere, winding among an immense archipelago of
mountains, emerald islands, and land-locked bays, through narrow
channels dominated by precipitous cliffs, and crossing broad, lake-like
expanses as placid as the serene blue overhanging all.
No other government on the globe, in this nineteenth century, would
permit so large and important a portion of its territory to remain
unexplored. Congress should send at once a thoroughly equipped
scientific expedition, competent to report minutely upon the geology,
fauna, flora, and geography of this immense division of the country. It
is more than an oversight, it is a gross blunder, not to do this without
further delay. If our own pen-pictures of this neglected Territory shall
incite to the fulfillment of such an act of official duty, these pages
will have served at least one important purpose.
“With a comparatively mild climate,” says C. E. S. Wood, in an account
of a visit to Alaska, printed in the “Century Magazine,” “with most
valuable shipbuilding timber covering the islands, with splendid
harbors, with inexhaustible fisheries, with an abundance of coal, with
copper, lead, silver, and gold awaiting the prospector, it is surprising
that an industrious, shipbuilding, fishing colony from New England or
other States has not established itself in Alaska.”
The political condition of Alaska is anything but creditable to our
country. It has little more than the shadow of a civil government, and
is entirely without any land laws by which a resident can secure a title
to the soil upon which he builds his house. The act of Congress dated
May 7, 1884, providing an apology for a civil government, was not passed
until twenty years after the Territory had been acquired. As a
consequence the material progress of the country and its inviting
possibilities remain undeveloped. With the extension of the United
States local laws to this section, immigration would be at once promoted
and various industries established. “Why we are so neglected is
incomprehensible,” said a resident of Sitka. “All we ask is the same
advantages enjoyed by the citizens of the other Territories of the
United States.” It is certainly to be hoped that Congress will give
early attention to this important matter, for Alaska is destined to
become one of our most valuable possessions. We shall be excused for
making use of so strong an expression, but it is only too true that her
interests have been persistently and shamefully neglected by the
law-makers at Washington.
“Like the dog in the manger,” says Miss Kate Field, “Congress will do
nothing for Alaska, nor will it permit Alaska to do anything for herself
locally, or at Washington through a delegate. Yet, in 1890, two islands
of this despised and neglected province will have paid into the United
States Treasury $6,340,000,—within one million of Alaska’s entire
purchase!”
The present comparative isolation of Alaska will not be of long
duration; not only are the facilities for reaching the Territory being
annually increased from the east, but it is being also rapidly
approached in this respect from the west. The Russian government is
building a railroad in almost a straight line from Moscow to Behring
Sea, which it is confidently believed will be completed within five
years. Direct communication will thus be established between St.
Petersburg and the Russian Pacific ports, through Siberia, whose most
easterly point is less than forty miles from the soil of Alaska.
After sailing four or five days southward, bearing always slightly to
the east, through a wilderness of islands and along the mountain-fringed
coast of the mainland, the ship comes upon the open sea, and the
passengers realize for a short time the effect of the Pacific Ocean
swell. The sensitiveness of some people to its influence is as
remarkable as the stolid indifference of others. Here, where the
Japanese Current meets the cold air from off the coast, fogs are very
liable to prevail, though it was not so in the writer’s case. We are now
in comparatively open navigation and can lay our course without fear.
Soon Queen Charlotte’s Sound is entered, and for a day and a half the
steamer again skirts the picturesque shore of Vancouver, whose features
are reproduced in the deep, quiet waters with marvelous distinctness,
until finally we are once more landed at Victoria, the capital of
British Columbia.
We are frequently asked since our return what clothing and other
articles one should take, with which to make the inland voyage through
Alaskan waters. This is easily answered.
As the rainfall is frequent be sure to have a good stout umbrella.
Ladies would do well to take a gossamer waterproof and gentlemen a
mackintosh. Heavy shoes, that is with double soles, and a light overcoat
should be provided. There is no occasion for full dress,—court dress, on
this route, swallow-tails are so much needless baggage. Ladies’ skirts
should be short so they will not draggle on the wet deck of the steamer,
or in walking through the damp grass, or over the surface of a glacier.
In the latter instance gentlemen generally carry portable spikes that
can be screwed on to the bottom of the shoes, and a staff cane with a
stout ferule. When a party is formed to ascend a glacier a small hatchet
and small rope should always be taken by some one of their number. In
case of an accident these often become of great importance. There need
not be any accident, however, if ordinary prudence is observed.
A large and well-appointed steamer named the Islander, which plies
regularly on this route, takes one across the island-sprinkled Gulf of
Georgia in six or seven hours from Victoria to Vancouver on the
mainland. This is the terminus of the Canadian Pacific Railway, situated
a short distance from the mouth of the Fraser River. From here the
homeward course is almost due east through British Columbia, Alberta,
Assiniboia, Manitoba, Ontario, and Quebec to Montreal, thence southeast
to Boston.
So late as 1886 the present site of Vancouver was covered with a dense
forest of Douglass pines, cedar and spruce trees. The Canadian Pacific
Railway was completed to Vancouver in May, 1887, when the first through
train arrived from Montreal. The youthful city is well situated for
commercial purposes on what is called Burrard Inlet. It has extensive
wharves, substantial warehouses, and very good hotel accommodations.
Well-arranged public water-works bring the needful domestic supply in
pure and healthful condition from the neighboring hills. The surrounding
scenery is strikingly bold, embracing the Cascade Range in the north,
the mountains of Vancouver Island across the water in the west, and the
Olympian Range in the south, while the great snowy head of Mount Baker
rears itself skyward as the main feature in the southeast. The steamer
which brings us here from Victoria passes through a beautiful
archipelago of peaceful islands, verdant and wooded to the very brink.
The busy population of this infant city number between thirteen and
fourteen thousand, and the place is growing rapidly. It is lighted by
both gas and electricity. Forty substantial edifices for business and
dwelling purposes are in course of erection at this writing. There are
steamers which sail regularly from here for Japan, China, and San
Francisco. As it is in the midst of what may be called a wild country,
there is excellent hunting near at hand and large game is abundant. Many
sportsmen, especially from England, make their headquarters here while
devoting themselves to hunting for a large part of the summer season.
Four large English sloops of war were observed in the harbor at the time
of the writer’s visit, together with a couple of torpedo boats bearing
the same flag, destined for Behring Sea, to “emphasize” the British side
of the Alaska fishery question as between our government and that of
Great Britain.
As one stands on the shore the harbor presents a picture of great
variety and interest, comprising men-of-war boats pulled by disciplined
crews; canoes, paddled by Indian squaws wrapped in high-colored
blankets; boats loaded with valuable furs and propelled by aboriginal
hunters; here a raft of timber, and there a steam ferry-boat. Just in
shore there is passing as we watch the scene a native canoe carrying a
sail made of bark-matting, brown and dingy, steered with a paddle by an
aged, withered, white-haired Indian, while in the prow is a four or five
year old native boy, trailing his hands idly in the water over the side
of the tiny craft. A striking picture of the voyage of life:
thoughtless, happy, vigorous youth at the prow, with weary age and
experience awaiting the end at the stern. A couple of large steamers
close at hand are getting under way loaded with preserved fish, put up
at the canneries near by; one is bound for Australia, the other for
England, by way of Cape Horn.
Vancouver has many edifices of brick and stone, with good churches and
several schools; some of the private residences being remarkable for
their complete architectural character in so new a city as this which
forms the terminus of the Canadian Pacific Railway.
The principal part of the city occupies a peninsula, bounded north by
the waters of Burrard Inlet, south by a small indentation called False
Creek, and west by English Bay. The city is fast extending beyond these
limits, both east and south. The peninsula rises gradually to an
altitude of two hundred feet, more or less, affording the means of
perfect drainage for the new city, which is laid out on a grand scale. A
tramway, embracing the several suburbs, is in course of construction,
the motor for which will be electricity.
We take the cars at Vancouver for our long journey homeward over the
Canadian Pacific Railway, through the British Dominion to the Atlantic
coast, indulging in a last admiring view of the grand elevation known as
Mount Baker, which in these closing days of July is a mass of snow two
thousand feet from its summit. Upon starting our attention is first
drawn to the gigantic trees, big sawmills, immense piles of lumber, and
extensive brick-yards in the environs of the city. Small villages are
passed, straggling farms, Indian camps, mining lodges, and Chinese
“hives,” where these people congregate after working all day at placer
mining, and gamble half the night, sacrificing their laboriously
acquired means. The grand winding valley of the Fraser River—a
watercourse as large as the Ohio—is followed for over two hundred miles
in a northeasterly direction, affording glimpses of most charming and
vivid scenery, leading through cañons fully equaling in grandeur of form
and beauty of detail anything of the sort in Colorado.
Now and again groups of Indians are seen preparing the salmon they have
caught for winter use. The fish are split and stretched flat by wooden
braces, then hung in long pink lines upon low frames of wood. They use
no salt in this curing process, but simply dry the fish by atmospheric
exposure, and succeed very well in thus preserving it. Dried salmon
forms the principal staple of food for this people in the long Canadian
winters. These natives, as in our own instance, are subsidized by the
Dominion; that is, they are placed upon reservations and receive a
certain amount of money and rations annually from the government. Light
green patches of raspberries are passed here and there, where children
are gathering the ripe fruit in abundance, the bright color about their
mouths betraying how abundantly they have feasted while thus engaged. It
was a pleasant picture to gaze upon under the pearly blue sky, where we
were surrounded with the fragrant odor of pine and spruce, and the
ceaseless music of hurrying waters.
At times the river rushes through deep rocky ravines, and at others
expands into broad shallows with glittering sand bars, on which eager
groups of miners are seen washing for gold. We cross a deep, cavernous
gorge of the river on a graceful steel bridge, which, though doubtless
of ample strength, yet seems of spider-web proportions, then plunge into
a dark tunnel to emerge directly amid scenery of the wildest nature, set
with huge bowlders and noisy with boiling flumes and roaring cascades,
where color, splendor, and inspiration greet us at each turn, while
every object is softened by the pale afternoon sunlight.
By and by we pass up the valley of the Thomson River, a tributary of the
Fraser, finding ourselves presently in what is called the Gold, or
Columbian, range of mountains, a grand snow-clad series of hills. Our
route through them for nearly fifty miles is in the form of a deep,
narrow pass between vertical cliffs, forming land channels similar to
the water-ways which we have lately left behind us in the Alexander
Archipelago.
At the small stations boys and girls board the cars with tiny baskets of
luscious blackberries and ripe raspberries for sale, soon disposing of
them to the passengers. These are picked within a dozen rods of the
railway track, where they are seen in great abundance. Wild flowers
beautify the roadway, among which the most attractive are the
golden-rod, the bright pink fire-weed, the towering and graceful spirea,
the wild musk with its large bell-shaped scarlet flower, the fragrant
tansy, with snow-ball clusters of white, and big patches of the tiny
wild sunflower, its petals in deepest yellow, while among the lily-pads
dotting the pools of water, orange-hued lilies are in full and gorgeous
bloom.
The scenery is strictly Alpine, but constantly varies as our point of
view changes, and we thread miles upon miles of snow-sheds. Heavy veils
of mist fringe the mountain-tops, and the tall peaks are wrapped in
winding-sheets of perpetual snow. The rugged scenery is fine, but finer
is yet to come. Still climbing upwards, we are presently in the
Selkirks, threading tunnels, dark gorges, sombre cañons, and narrow
passes to the summit of this remarkable range, forced onward by two
powerful engines, one in the rear the other in front of the train.
At a point known as Albert Cañon the railway runs along the brink of
several dark fissures in the solid rock, three hundred feet deep,
through which rushes the turbulent waters of the Illicilliwaet River
(“Raging Waters”). Here the cars are stopped for a few moments that the
passengers may the better observe the boiling flumes of angry waters,
flecked with patches of foam, and compressed within granite walls
scarcely twenty feet apart.
In approaching Glacier House station, at a certain point the train
ascends six hundred feet in a distance of two miles. This is
accomplished by a zigzag course, utilizing two ravines which are
favorably situated for the purpose; the consummation is a grand triumph
of engineering skill. While passing through this winding course we are
serenaded by a chorus of dancing rapids, foaming cataracts, and rushing
cascades. Here the torrents and waterfalls are innumerable, first on one
side then on the other of our slowly-climbing train, and finally on both
the right and the left, gleaming with bright prismatic rays while moving
with tremendous impetus. Sir Donald, the highest peak of the Selkirk
Range, shaped like an acute pyramid, now comes into view, rising to
eleven thousand feet above the level of the sea, and piercing the blue
zenith with its inaccessible summit. It is named after one of the most
active promoters of this transcontinental railway. Sir Donald sends down
from its immense snowfields a ponderous glacier half a mile wide and
eight miles long, presenting most of the characteristics of such frozen
rivers, though lacking the grand effect of those so lately seen in
Alaska, where they join the ocean in partially congealed form, thus
producing thousands of icebergs. This Donald glacier is nevertheless
equal to the average of European ones. The mountain has never yet been
ascended. We were told that a thousand dollars and a free pass over the
railway for life await the successful mountain-climber who reaches the
summit.
In making our way through Beaver Cañon and Stony Creek Cañon, the
highest timber railway bridge ever constructed is passed, three hundred
feet high and four hundred and fifty long, supported by direct uprights.
Safe enough, perhaps, but one breathes freer and deeper when it is
passed.
It would seem as though mosquitoes could hardly thrive at such an
altitude, but their number here is myriad, and their vicious activity at
Glacier House station beggars description.
------------------------------------------------------------------------