Transcriber Note
Text emphasis is denoted as _Italics_.
Gold Hunting in Alaska
_AS TOLD BY_
[Illustration]
Joseph Grinnell
[Illustration]
Edited by Elizabeth Grinnell
Author of "How John and I Brought Up the Child," "John and I and the
Church," "Our Feathered Friends," "For the Sake of a Name," etc.
Dedicated to Disappointed gold=hunters the world over
David C. Cook Publishing Company
ELGIN, ILL., AND
36 WASHINGTON STREET, CHICAGO
ALASKA.
The New World brings her daughter out
With fuss and bluster now;
Adorers seek her snow-white hand,
And at her beauty bow.
Each strives her favor first to gain,
And rudely steps upon her train.
They court her while they call her "cold"
And "distant" to her face;
The heiress smiles, while quick breaths lift
Her frills of ancient lace--
The eyes of all her suitors rest
On glint of gold upon her breast.--E. G.
Copyright, 1901,
By David C. Cook Publishing Company.
Gold Hunting in Alaska.
PREFACE.
The following story was originally written in pencil on any sort of
paper at hand, and intended merely for "the folks at home." It is
only by a prior claim to the manuscript that the young gold-hunter's
mother has obtained his consent to publish it. The diary has been
changed but little, nor has much been added to make it as it stands.
The narrative is true from beginning to end, including the proper
names of persons and vessels and mining companies. It is offered to
the David C. Cook Publishing Company with no further apologies for
its sometimes boyish style of construction. It will give the reader,
be he man or boy, a hint as to how a young fellow may spend his time
in the long Arctic winter, or in the whole year, even though he
be a disappointed gold-hunter. It may afford suggestion to mining
companies continually going to Alaska as to their responsibility to
each other and to the natives of the "frozen North." It may give "the
folks at home" some intimation as to possible "good times" under
trying circumstances. Blue fingers may not necessarily denote a blue
heart.
ELIZABETH GRINNELL.
Pasadena, Cal., Jan. 15, 1901.
CHAPTER I.
We are a company of twenty men bound for Kotzebue Sound, Alaska. It
is needless to say we are gold-hunters. In this year of our Lord
1898, men are flying northward like geese in the springtime. That not
more than one of us has ever set eyes on a real, live nugget passes
for nothing; we shall naturally recognize "the yellow" when we see
it. It is our intention to ransack Mother Nature's store-houses,
provided we can unlock or pry open the doors without losing our
lingers by freezing.
Why we have selected Kotzebue Sound as the field of our maneuvers it
would be difficult to give a rational reason. It may be nothing more
nor less than the universal rush to the gold fields of Alaska, which
rush, being infectious, attacks all grades and conditions of men.
That all grades and conditions are represented in our company will be
demonstrated later on, I believe.
The instigator of the Long Beach and Alaska Mining and Trading
Company is an undertaker by trade, a sometime preacher by profession
and practice when not otherwise engaged. His character is not at all
in keeping with his trade; he is a rollicking fellow and given to
much mirth.
We have also a doctor, as protection against contingencies. His name
is Coffin. He and the undertaker have been bosom friends for years.
The combined influences of these are sufficient to insure proper
termination to our trip, if not a propitious journey. The eldest of
our company is rising fifty, the youngest twenty-one. The oldest has
lived long enough to be convinced that gold is the key that unlocks
all earthly treasures; his sole object is the key hidden somewhere in
the pockets of the great Arctic. The youngest cares little for the
gold, being more concerned about certain rare birds which may cross
his devious path. The most of us have never met before, but are now
an incorporated mining company, like hundreds of ship's crews this
year. Each intends to do his share of work and to claim his portion
of the profits, if profits come.
We have a two years' outfit of every comfort possible to store away
on a little schooner seventy-two by eighteen feet. Her name is
"Penelope;" you can read it in plain type half a mile away. She was
built for Japan waters and has never set keel in Arctic seas. There
are numerous prophecies concerning her: "She will never reach her
destination;" "Impossible that she is built for a stormy coast;"
"You may as well make your wills before you embark." And many other
cheering benedictions are tossed to the deck by friends on shore who
watch us loading the freight into her hold.
We make no retort. Of what would be the use? Our hearts, our hopes,
ourselves, are on board of her for better or for worse. We wave
our handkerchiefs in a last "good-by." They are the only white
handkerchiefs in our possession, brought and shaken out to the
winds for this very purpose. From henceforth the bandana reigns
on occasions when any is required. Old Glory floats above us; the
"Penelope" is bright with new paint and trimmings and masts; she is
towed out of San Pedro Harbor, and heads for San Francisco for more
supplies.
Out of San Pedro Harbor! The very same of which R. H. Dana wrote in
1840 as a "most desolate looking place," frequented by coyotes and
Indians, but "altogether the best harbor on all the coast."
[Illustration: "Penelope" at Anchor in San Pedro Harbor.]
We have a copy of his "Two Years Before the Mast" on board, and shall
be complimented by what he says about the Englishmen and Americans
whom he met. "If the California fever (laziness) spares the first
generation, it always attacks the second." Did Dana mean the crew of
the "Penelope"? We shall see.
Having made a dutiful promise to my mother to "keep a faithful diary"
of our cruise, which, in event of disaster, shall be duly corked in a
large bottle and sent adrift, I now enter my first date since April
8, 1898, the day on which we set sail from San Pedro. California.
North Pacific Ocean, June 5.--We are seventeen days out from San
Francisco, and have made a little over twelve hundred miles: that is,
in a direct line on our course to Unamak Pass through the Aleutian
Islands, for we have had many unfavorable winds against which we were
compelled to tack. We have sailed two thousand miles, counting full
distance. We have experienced two storms which, put together, as the
captain says, makes "a good half a gale." While the "Penelope" rides
the highest billows like a duck, at times she pitches and rolls in a
terrific fashion. Her movements are short and jerky, unlike those of
a steamer or larger vessel. When the wind blows hard on her quarter,
the rail is often under water. This makes locomotion difficult,
especially if the waves are rolling high, and everything is bouncing
about on deck. It is my duty to carry "grub" from the galley to the
cabins, and I can never handle more than one thing at a time, as I
am obliged to keep one hand free. I wait for my opportunity, else a
heavy sea starts at the same time and we go down together, "grub" and
all. However, I have had few accidents. Once I landed a big platter
of mush upside down on the deck, and at another time a gust of wind
took all the biscuits overboard, while a big sea filled the milk
pitcher with salt water. This was not so bad as Dana's experience
with the "scouse," which "precious stuff" came down all over him at
the bottom of the hatchway. "Whatever your feelings may be, you must
make a joke of everything at sea," he wrote just after he had found
himself lying at full length on the slippery deck with his tea-pot
empty and sliding to the far side. We are better off than the crew
of the "Pilgrim" in 1840, for there is plenty more, if half the
breakfast goes to feed the fishes.
Down in the cabin there is the most fun. The table is bordered by
a deep rail, and several slats are fastened crosswise over the
surface to hold the dishes, besides holes and racks for cups; yet
when things are inclined at an angle of thirty-five degrees it is
almost impossible, without somebody's hand on each separate dish,
to keep the meal in sight. We have some trouble in cooking at times,
but the stove has an iron frame with cross pieces on top to keep the
kettles from sliding, which, in rough weather, can never be filled
more than half. We usually get up very good meals; that is, for such
of the crew as have an appetite. For breakfast, rolled oats mush,
baking-powder biscuit, boiled eggs or potatoes, and ham. For dinner,
light bread or milk toast, beans or canned corn, salt-horse, creamed
potatoes, and often soup with crackers. For supper, canned fruit,
muffins or corn bread, boiled ham and baked potatoes. Of course
tea or coffee with each meal. The cook makes fine yeast bread, ten
loaves a day. There are twenty-three men on board. Including the
hired sailors who are not of the company, and even with five in the
hospital we make way with a good deal of food.
Our fare differs somewhat from that of the crew of the "Pilgrim."
whose regular diet, Dana wrote, was "salt beef and biscuit," with "an
occasional potato." But it must be remembered that we had several
articles, such as eggs and ham and fresh potatoes, the first days
of our cruise, which we never saw later on when we were confined to
bacon and beans for staple supplies, with dessicated vegetables and
some canned goods for extras.
We left San Francisco May 10, after taking on board the parts of a
river boat, to be put together when needed, and much more Arctic
clothing than we can possibly use in two or even four years. The Sea
was very rough. Our captain had not been on board ship for two years,
and the result was that he, with every one of the party except the
sailors, was very sea-sick. The doctor was pretty well in a couple
of days, but the undertaker fared not so well, he stayed on deck
and sang and jumped about and did his best to keep jolly as long as
nature could hold out. Presently one could tell that he was feeling
rather uneasy about something, when all of a sudden quietness reigned
and only an ominous sound from over the rail gave indication of what
was passing.
We have some fine singing. "The Penelope Quartette" has been formed
and practices every evening, making voluminous noise, but there is
no fear of disturbing adjoining meetings or concerts. The quartette
is composed of Reynolds (the undertaker). Foote, Wilson and Miller.
There are other singers of less renown. We have a "yell." which is
frequently to be heard, especially at getting-up time in the morning.
It is "Penelope, Penelope, zip, boom, bah! Going up to Kotzebue! rah!
rah! rah!"
We are very much crowded and have many discomforts, as anyone can
imagine we should have in so close quarters; but we are a congenial
crowd. I was sea-sick for a week, but am all right now and capable
of eating more than anyone else, a symptom which the doctor fears
may continue, as I make it a rule to eat up all there is left at
both tables. There are eleven men in the after cabin and twelve in
the forward cabin, including the forecastle, and each set have meals
served in their respective cabins. Having been chosen as "cook's
assistant," I have ample opportunities.
We have seen but few things of interest outside the boat, and that
makes us more interesting to one another. We have sighted no vessels
for two weeks. I saw two fur seals. They stuck their heads above
the water just behind us, eying us curiously for a few minutes, and
then vanished. We have seen one shark, but no whales. Petrels, or
Mother Cary's Chickens, are almost always to be seen flitting over
the waves. Black-footed albatrosses, or "goonies." as the sailors
call them, are common, following the boat and eating all kinds of
scraps thrown to them. We caught two with a fish-hook, but let them
go, as there is now no suitable place to put the skins. One of the
albatrosses measured seven feet three inches from tip to tip of the
outstretched wings. We fastened upon his back a piece of canvas,
giving the "Penelope," with the date and longitude and latitude. I
wonder if he will ever be seen again, and, if seen, if this will be
the only news of us the world will ever receive!
There are several "goonies" which seem to follow us constantly.
We have named them Jim. Tom and Hannah. They know when meal time
arrives, and then come close alongside within a few feet.
Tuesday, June 7.--The past two days have been stormy, but we have
made good time and are only four hundred and sixty-seven miles from
Unamak Pass. We saw several pieces of kelp this morning, which gives
evidence of land not far off. This morning the sun came out several
times, and every one is feeling quite jolly, which makes even the
sea-sick ones better. One of the most popular songs on deck these
cloudy days has been the familiar one. "Let a little sunshine in."
Everyone was singing it to-day, when suddenly the clouds broke as if
by impulse and the warm sunshine flooded the damp decks.
The sun doesn't set now till nearly nine o'clock, and the whole night
long it is scarcely dark at all. To-day Clyde took the pictures of
the party in groups, or "unions." There is the "Sailors' Union" (six
of the boys besides the regular sailors, who go to the watch along
with them and take their tricks at the wheel), the "Dishwashers'
Union," the "Doctors' Union" (Dr. Coffin, and Jett, who is a
druggist), the "Cooks' Union" (Shafer and myself), and the "Crips'
Union" (the cripples, or those who are sea-sick, and do no work; they
are Fancher, Wyse. McCullough. Wilson, Reynolds and Shaul). If the
winds are favorable we expect to rest in Dutch Harbor for a few days,
as we are no doubt too early to get into Kotzebue. From all accounts
we cannot hope to reach the Sound until July 14.
This sort of experience is, so new to me. I thought I knew something
of life on a schooner, during the trip to San Clemente and San
Nicholas last year, but this is more and better. Nearly everyone
save myself is longing for land, and they watch our course each
day as it is traced on the chart with more interest than anything
else. Just now I am sitting alone on a bench in the little galley,
watching the potatoes and salt-horse boiling. The sun has come out
and everyone is on deck, the "crips" lying against the stern rail or
along the side of the cabin. By orders of the doctor all the bedding
is airing on the deck and rails amidships, and some of the boys are
taking advantage of the fair weather to do their washing. I did my
own yesterday, although it was raining, and, as I have a "pull" with
the cook, I dried the clothes in the galley at night. Of course all
washing has to be done in salt water and it is scarcely satisfactory,
to say the least. This necessary laundry work of ours is destined
to occupy a good deal of our time and patience, and I suspect that
before our cruise is over we shall long for a glimpse of a good,
faithful washerwoman with her suds, and her arms akimbo, and her open
smile.
[Illustration: Cooks' Union.]
[Illustration: Sailors' Union.]
[Illustration: Dishwashers' Union.]
[Illustration: Crips' Union.]
June 12.--We are in Bering Sea and all's well. It is partly clear,
but cold, with a sharp wind. We went through Unamak Pass in the
night. The captain thought it dangerous as well as delaying, to stop
at Dutch Harbor, so we gave it up with disappointment. After beating
for several hours, we are now well on our way straight northward to
St. Lawrence Island. There is no ice in sight, but we can smell it
distinctly. As we went through the Pass it was raining. and we could
see but indistinctly the precipitous shores. The Pass is not usually
taken by sailing vessels, as it is quite narrow, but our captain
brought us through all right in spite of fog and storm. He has not
slept for forty-eight hours. The shortest time ever made by a sailing
vessel from San Francisco to Unamak Pass, 2,100 miles, was eighteen
days; and we made it with the "Penelope" in twenty-three days. Hurrah
for the "Penelope"!
This morning we passed within hailing distance of the ship "Sintram,"
of San Francisco. She had taken a cargo to St. Michaels and was on
her way back. Her captain promised to report us, and he also told us
that the ice was yet packed north of St. Michaels and that several
ships were waiting. Clyde took a snap shot of the "Sintram."
There are plenty of birds to be seen now. If I had faith enough to
warrant my walking on the water I would go shooting. Our small boats
are all lashed to the dock of the "Penelope," but the captain says
that in a few days we can put a skiff overboard if it is calm, and
then ho! for murre pot-pie! Everyone is hungry for fresh meat. We try
fishing with no luck. Saw a fur seal to-day, the first in two weeks.
[Illustration: A Sunbath on Deck.]
June 19. Bering Sea, latitude 63 degrees, longitude 172 degrees, 38
minutes.--For the past few days we made good time, one hundred miles
to the day, but on this date we are becalmed. Clyde has gone out in
the boat to catch a snap shot of us. He need not hurry, for never was
mouse more still than the "Penelope" at this moment. The thermometer
registers 38 degrees on deck. We have sighted no ice yet, and hope
the Bering Straits are open.
I am sitting in the galley, as my fingers get too cold to write
outside. We have just cleared off supper, and the boys are pacing the
deck for exercise. Some of them are below, where an oil stove in each
cabin takes the chill and dampness from the air. It is seldom that
the galley is not crammed full, but just now the cook and the others
have gone below for a game of whist, so I embrace the opportunity to
write. My diary is always written after I have finished my daily bird
notes, which I make as copious as possible. I have some good records
already. We were becalmed three days in sight of the Prybiloff
Islands, and at the time were so close to St. Paul Island that we
could hear the barking of thousands of seals, and, by the aid of a
field glass, could see them on the beaches. A few were seen about the
"Penelope," and one came so near to the boat that it was touched with
an oar. We unlashed the smallest boat and rowed out with her during
the calmest days, so we had some much-needed exercise. Frequent fogs
kept us near the "Penelope's" side, as we should easily become lost.
We saw no ducks or geese, but we had murres in plenty and pot-pie for
several days. For a change they were served up in roasts, being first
boiled, and were finer than any duck I have tasted, though some of
the squeamish crew composing the "Crips' Union" declared they were
"fishy."
Of course I improve every opportunity during pleasant days to
collect, and the result is thirteen first-class bird skins. These sea
birds are almost all fat and the grease clings to and grows into the
skin so firmly that it is almost impossible to put them up. Among
the good things which I have secured are the crested auklet, red
phalarope, pallas, murre and horned puffin, but it will be difficult
to preserve the skins in this damp climate. Dr. Coffin is becoming
interested already, and talks of putting in his spare time collecting
with me. He has been taking lessons in skinning, and so far has put
up two specimens. We have rigged up a cracker-box for our bird-skins
and try to keep it in the dryest place, though it is so crowded on
shipboard that a convenient place for any particular thing is scarce.
[Illustration: Speaking the "Sintram."]
The currents in Bering Sea are quite strong, tending northward toward
the straits, so that even when the wind fails us we are drifting
towards our destination at the rate of fifteen to twenty miles a
day. On board we are all happy and in good spirits, notwithstanding
the fact that some have never before known a hardship, and their
eight hours watch per day on deck, especially when it is stormy, is
calculated to make them think longingly of their pleasant homes.
Besides, many of the boys have salt water sores on their hands and
chilblains on their feet.
Yesterday the sea was choppy and several were sea-sick again. Even I
felt that peculiar indescribable sensation, but I ate a hearty dinner
of beans and salt pork and felt better. C. C. is suffering from what
he declares is "indigestion" a weakness to which he has always been
subject. He feels a reluctance to owning that he has the common
ailment. "C. C." is our abbreviation for Reynolds, the undertaker
and sometime preacher. He makes so much fun for other people that we
cannot help amusing ourselves at his expense sometimes.
We passed St. Matthew Island and caught a glimpse of its rugged
shores through the thick fog. We can generally tell the proximity of
land by the increased number of sea-birds. It is not often that the
sun appears now, but occasionally it shows itself long enough for the
captain to take his observations. It is light all night and seems
like a dream of childhood to have to go to bed before the lamps are
lighted.
I must pay a compliment to our captain. Besides knowing his business
thoroughly, he Is a jolly, agreeable man, always cutting jokes except
during a storm. He has been created the "Penelope's" laureate, and
has written a couple of poems that would make good his rank anywhere.
There was one day when we all had an attack of the poetic fever and
wrote verses. They will be found in the ship's log.
To-day is Sunday, and as usual we all attended services, which
consist of songs and a short talk from C. C. The rest of the day is
like any other.
Last night an exhausted sandpiper flew on board and was caught. I was
asleep and the boys came and laid it on my breast. He Is now safely
wrapped in cotton wadding and laid to rest in the aforementioned
cracker-box. The boys declared they would whip me for not letting
him go, and yet when they get a chance they shoot at birds from the
boat for "sport," with no other purpose in view. I am doing my best
to educate them in bird lore, but whenever I get off the long Latin
names they give me the "ha-ha." By this time and after many lessons
the most of them know a murre by sight, and a fork-tailed petrel,
and a kittiwake; but when it comes to distinguishing the different
species of anklets at a distance they think I am fooling them, and
laugh at me until I show them the bird at close range. I never
realized before the vastness of the sea as when a solitary little
bird dips his wings and flies skyward.
[Illustration: Becalmed in Bering Sea.]