Nov. 25.--To-day we are resting and slowly recovering from
yesterday's "spree." It was the most gratifying Thanksgiving, as far
as the gastronomic and social celebrations are considered, that I
have experienced. At eleven o'clock in the morning our "Penelope"
crowd of nine were marshaled into line out on the ice, and marched
three miles down to the Hanson Camp. Harry Reynolds was elected
captain, and he bore a streamer of red, white and blue. We were all
dressed exactly alike in our brown Mackinaw suits, sealskin muckluks
and hoods. Our appearance was picturesque, and we regretted that
there were so few spectators to review us. We admired ourselves. When
we reached the first of the Hanson cabins, which are built within a
short distance of each other in a spruce forest on a hillside, we
lined up and sang "Marching Through Georgia" and other patriotic
airs. We have only recently heard of the defeat of Spain, so were
necessarily in harmony with the songs we sang.
After breaking ranks we were divided among the cabins for the day's
entertainment. Cabin No. 1 is occupied by Joe Jury. Normandin,
Jack Messing and Solsbury, and these gentlemen invited C. C.
Reynolds, Clyde Baldwin, Rivers and myself. We felt the honor of our
invitation, for they had been before styled the "Aristocracy of the
Kowak."
After the "Penelope" crowd was apportioned, each division became
the guests of the cabin to which it was assigned. Until about three
o'clock our company sat quietly engaged in conversation. Meanwhile
one could scarcely believe that a state dinner was in process of
preparation, and that in the same room in which we were sitting.
Solsbury was cook, and what appeared at his touch was marvelous,
considering that the cabin was short on culinary utensils and he must
"potter" over a little sheet-iron stove.
At three o'clock the table was ready and we sat down to it, eight
of us. We were seated opposite our hosts--Rivers opposite Solsbury;
C. C, Normandin: Clyde. Jack Messing: and I opposite Joe Jury (Big
Joe and Little Joe), in the order named. At each plate was an
"Arctictically" executed menu--a section of birch, one of the logs
of our hosts' cabin: thus literally were we the guests of the house.
This in itself was a very appropriate memento of Thanksgiving on the
Kowak.
On one side of the plaque was written indelibly the menu. In one
corner was a sketch of the cabin. On the opposite we later wrote our
names, alternately, in order as we sat at table. Here is a partial
statement of the menu:
Split pea soup. Wafers.
Roast ptarmigan. Jelly.
Turkey pot-pie.
Sweet potato. Baked potato. Sweet corn.
Sago pudding.
Mince pie. Jelly tarts. Olives. Pickles.
Coffee. Cocoa.
This spread was one hardly to be expected in the wilds of the
Arctics; though, as I have said, the Hanson Camp is never lacking in
luxuries. Toward the end toasts were proposed and speeches made. My
toast was to the ptarmigan, "The Turkey of the Kowak."
[Illustration: Our Big Haul of Ptarmigan.]
We were two hours and a half at the table, and I hesitate to say
that some of us, myself included, had eaten more than was for our
intellectual good, and we were glad to throw ourselves on the beds
which bordered the dining-room. For the next two hours we rested and
gradually revived. Meanwhile our hosts entertained us in original
style. One of the jokes was as follows: A pot was set in one corner
and in it was placed a small spruce branch. Then Joe Jury sat down
behind this combination and picked a tune from a string which
was stretched on a small wooden block. The translation of this
performance, as we were informed, was, "After dinner the orchestra
dispensed sweet music from behind potted plants." After we had
enjoyed hours of fun, all the guests were summoned from all the
cabins and crowded into ours. Several speeches followed, by Solsbury,
Dr. Coffin. C. C. Reynolds. Jury. Normandin and others. Then came
more jokes.
At last the party broke up, and, after three cheers for the Hanson
boys, we marched home in the bright Arctic moonlight, in the order
we had come. Thus ended the first Thanksgiving ever celebrated on
the mighty Kowak. On our return home we found the house had not
been burglarized--another proof that we were not in the limits of
civilization.
And here we are, spending the winter in ease and luxury, while our
friends at home are "remembering us in their prayers," and imagining
us in all sorts of peril, with danger of overwork, amid privation
and hardship. The fact is, we haven't done a stroke of work worth
mentioning, when we had expected to be digging out the precious
nuggets. In which condition are we the happier or best off? I prefer
the situation as it is. What is gold anyway? It is the "root of all
evil," according to a misquotation, and, conversely, I believe the
less money a person has, the happier life he leads. Anyway it is good
policy for us to advance this doctrine until we strike something. It
tends to keep us content.
Nov. 28.--The doctor and I have been out hunting. We directed our
course down through the sand-dunes on this side of the river, and
had the best luck so far with the ptarmigan. We got eighteen with
twenty-four shots, which beats all records, as the birds are shy
and, on account of their thick coat, extremely hard to kill. We
stalked them among the hillocks, finding them feeding in the grass
or in the thickets of dwarf willows which grow in the low places. We
kept together and when we had spotted a flock we crept up behind the
nearest dune, often getting quite close before alarming them. I got
three at one pot-shot. They are hard to see on the snow, but where
the sand is bare or with a background of bushes they are conspicuous.
I had one vexatious accident. We spotted some birds on the opposite
side of the lake and crept around the margin on the ice, hidden
by bushes until we were within a few yards. I had two ptarmigan
beautifully lined up and was just pushing the trigger, when my feet
slipped from under me and my gun went off into the air. Before I
could recover myself the ptarmigan were also up in the air. The ice
is very slippery where the snow is blown off, as the sand driven
over it by the north wind keeps it polished and prevents the hoar
frost from forming on it. The doctor found a muskrat frozen to death
near its hole. It fell to my mammal collection. I also caught a gray
meadow mouse alive, as it was crossing a little pond. It is but my
second. The burrows and runways of the little red-backed mouse are
common in the woods and meadows. My steel traps have caught nothing
but jays so far. I am sorry to catch the jays, for I do not disturb
them near home, hoping to get their eggs next spring. I shall have
ptarmigan to skin for several days now and so make recompense for my
recent idleness. I can only work by daylight, which lasts but about
three hours now,--that is, light enough for me to work at my table.
The sun scarcely climbed above the horizon to-day. Clyde took the
doctor's and my photos to-day with our big haul of ptarmigan.
Yesterday there was a fair attendance at church. Services were
held in our cabin, as the meeting-house fireplace fell in. It will
probably not be used again soon, as it is too cold to mix clay to
mend the breach. Twenty-nine degrees below zero, and one has to be
careful to keep ears and hands covered.
"Uncle Jimmy" (Mr. Wyse) gave me a fatherly talking to for skinning
ptarmigan on Sunday. Hitherto I have used any time available for
skinning birds, but yesterday, after a long argument and discussion,
I yielded for the winter. Uncle Jimmy argued that I couldn't fill in
all the time there is on week-days, and even if I don't see a reason
for not working on Sunday, I should "consider the feelings of those
who do." He is a nice old Scotchman, and I like him.
I have just finished reading "Hugh Wynne." The doctor brought home
some numbers of "Appleton's Science Monthly" from the Hanson Camp,
also some back numbers of "Harper's," and I am reading articles in
them.
The doctor. Brownie. Uncle Jimmy and I had a hot argument to-day on
capital punishment, also one on "how a young student should begin to
specialize in any branch of study." I always take the side opposite
the majority, so I can have more opportunity for argument. We have
good and instructive times in this employment. Wednesday evening
next is the first of a series of literary entertainments to be held
weekly. Solsbury will lecture on "The Practical Value of Art."
Dec. 3.--This morning Harry Cox and Harry Reynolds started with
Indian Tom up the Kowak. Tom was our guide on our first steamer trip
across Holtham Inlet last summer, and he has been camping in the
delta until now. He is on his way to the Par River, where his winter
igloo is located. The Harrys took advantage of company to go along
with Tom. They took a sled and two dogs, with just enough outfit
to supply them on the trip. Their object is to visit the various
camps up the river and find out all the news, especially in regard
to the strike at the head of the Koyukuk. An Indian by the name of
Shackle-belly visited us yesterday. He has just come down from the
Kalamute River, about one hundred and fifty miles above us, and
brings exciting news. He speaks pretty good English for a native. He
said that he had heard that on the Alashook white men were as thick
as mosquitoes and digging out "plenty gold." These men had come up
the Koyukuk last summer from the Yukon with lots of steam launches.
They could not get further up than one hundred and fifty miles below
the place where the gold is found on the Alashook River, on account
of the rapids, so they had to wait and sled up. Shackle-belly also
said that most of the men above us on the Kowak had already started
over.
[Illustration: Indian Tom and Family.]
It will be very dangerous for these men now at twenty-nine degrees
below zero, and it must grow much colder with more wind, up on those
barren mountain passes between the heads of the Kowak and Alashook.
The Indian said one man had already frozen to death on the trail
this side, and one had fallen through a hole in the ice, getting out
all right, but before he could build a fire he had frozen through.
Several are frost-bitten. We are anxious about our six boys who
started from the Upper Penelope Camp over three weeks ago. However,
if they met with no accidents, they must be over into the valley of
the Alashook by this time, where the natives tell us there is plenty
of large timber. Tom tells us that seven Indians have died down the
river, and that white men are very sick. Tom has his family with
him and of course all his belongings, which seldom amount to much,
according to our estimation of values, among these natives. He has
two sleds and six dogs. He and his family spent the night with us. We
spread tents for them on the floor. We have not been affected with
vermin so far, and take precautions.
[Illustration: Windings of Squirrel River.]
Last Wednesday was the first evening of the proposed literary
society. Solsbury was to have been the lecturer of the night, but was
sick and couldn't come. However, the society elected officers--Joseph
Grinnell as president, and Dr. Coffin secretary. Then the doctor
conducted a question box. Some of the questions asked and written on
slips of paper, with the name of the man who was to answer, were very
serious; others were humorous.
By the way, I must record a new pie which has fallen to the lot of
the Penelope Camp. C. C. makes dozens of pie. We have pie every meal
and between meals, and if a fellow gets hungry in the night when the
rest are snoring, there is pie for his satisfaction. An old Eskimo
woman from the village brought C. C. a pail of what she considered a
rare delicacy, a gift expressive of her motherly consideration. It
was a concoction of wild cranberries and seal oil.
It was suggestive to the natural bent of the cook's mind, and he made
a pie of the stuff. We ate every bit of it--that is, three of us did;
the rest wouldn't touch it. I ate my share, and must say that if you
overlook the strong seal flavor, it would not be considered bad. I
learned to eat cranberry done in oil when I was near Sitka three
years ago. It is too extravagant a dish to be eaten every day, and
the natives keep it, American-wise, "for company."
Last Tuesday the wind blew a gale at seventeen degrees below zero,
and I thought I would see what I could stand. I wear now a union
suit of fleece-lined underwear, a pair of blanket-lined canvas
trousers, and a heavy wool shirt, with a pair of thin wool socks and
a pair of lumber-man's socks inside my muckluks. I put on a leather
corduroy coat and my heavy wool hood, with a scarf around my neck
and across my face. I was gone, down among the sand dunes, about an
hour and a half. The wind had an unmolested sweep there and I had
good opportunity to test my clothes. It did not penetrate my clothing
a particle, and I was perfectly warm all except my face. The wind
pierced like a sword right through my scarf and wool hood. When I
got home the lobe of my left ear was frost-bitten and also the same
side of my nose. Both sections of my countenance are now very sore
and are peeling off. I should have worn a canvas hood outside of my
wool hood. Canvas keeps the wind out better than anything else. Furs
are the best clothing in this country, but are very scarce among
these poor Indians, and but few of our company have any. Again we
regret not having traded for furs at Cape Prince of Wales. But we do
not suffer by any means. We have clothing enough to last for years.
We are not so fortunate in the provision line. However, should we
strike it rich enough, lying around in our warm cabin, to make it pay
another winter, it will be an easy matter to send the "Penelope" back
to San Francisco for another load. The "Penelope"! What will be her
fate when the ice breaks up in the spring no one can foretell. At the
mercy of the unlimited and savage ice of Bering Sea, a frail little
craft, no longer than the frontage of a city lot. We do not think or
speak of the "Penelope" very often. We may be orphans in the spring.
[Illustration]