Dec. 20.--A man has just come up from the Orphans' Home with bad
news. Poor Uncle S. is lost and probably frozen to death. He left the
Orphans' Home to walk to the Mission a month ago and has not been
seen since, although several parties have come up from the Sound. His
tracks were seen by the "Flying Dutchman" on one of the forks of the
Kowak in the delta. Uncle S. had our letters, so these will never
reach their destination and the home folks will be disappointed.
Possibly a whole year with no news from the gold-hunters of the
Arctics. I suppose the body will be found when the snow melts in the
spring. Uncle S. was a nice old Quaker, speaking "thee" and "thou"
habitually. He spent the night with us on his way down and was very
entertaining. He played a game of whist with us in the evening,
and it was very odd and amusing to hear such expressions as, "Now,
Joseph, play thy hand properly." "Is this my trick or thine?" "Did
thee play thy ace?" etc. Uncle Jimmy, who doesn't believe in card
games, tried to start an argument with Uncle S., but the latter only
said very quietly, "One can play music with good or evil intentions;
so I think with a simple game of whist." I never saw Mr. S. before,
and it is a strange incident up here in the Arctics, to hear him
tell me about my father, who, in his youth, paid some considerable
devotion to a relative of his, giving me many pleasant reminiscences
of both my father's and mother's families. These old-time memories,
told in the dim candlelight of the peopled cabin, interested our
whole company, and we all took to calling our guest "Uncle S.", as
much out of respect to the man as to a possible relationship which
might have existed between himself and me. But he is gone now and we
shall look forward to paying him suitable ceremonies in the spring.
Our undertaker is preparing to embalm the body when discovered. He
was a Friend of Some note from Ohio, who drifted up here, like the
rest of us "world's people," after gold.
Our camp is in quite a bustle this week preparing for Christmas. We
have invited the Hanson boys up to dinner with us, and we are getting
ready for a big time. The Saturday before Christmas we are to have
a tree and feed all the natives in the country. The doctor has been
at work on scrap picture books for the children, finding no end of
beautiful chromes on the tin cans about the respective camps, besides
other lithographs and steel engravings from various sources. Art
is taking on shape and form and expression under the magic of the
doctor's touch in a way surprising to both him and us.
The literary society last Wednesday was the best so far. Thies, of
the Los Angeles Camp, read a paper on Theosophy. It was entitled,
"The Home of Contentment," and was very reasonable from his point of
view, and well received by all. The doctor gave a short talk on "How
to Care for a Frost Bite." This was of great practical value to all
present.
Dec. 21.--Forty-six degrees below zero to-day, and I, for the fun of
it, walked down to the Hanson Camp. It was not at all uncomfortable,
nothing like what it is when the wind blows, at ten degrees below
zero. Normandin, of the San Jose cabin, has rigged up a turning
lathe, using a grindstone as the driving wheel. He is turning out all
sorts of things from birch and spruce. He has sent up a quantity of
dolls' heads and tops for the Eskimo Christmas tree. One of the Los
Angeles boys is carving faces on the dolls' heads, to distinguish
which is the front side of the head, the image being of the same
proportions all around. He gives them almond eyes and flat noses just
like the native babies.
Now that the first snow has appeared, the natives are busy at
snowshoes, and several of our boys are experimenting in the same
line. The Eskimos are very expert in this kind of work, and their
snowshoes are models of symmetry and neatness.
[Illustration: Near-by Neighbors.]
The aurora is very brilliant some nights now, but there is no reason
visible why, on other nights just as favorable, as far as we can
discover, there is none at all. In this extremely cold weather, and
especially during a sudden change of temperature, the ice in the
river cracks and groans terrifically. This morning, as I was walking
down to the Hanson Camp, the phenomena were very much in evidence,
so much so that it was gruesome to a lonely body. At one place when
I stepped off from a drift of packed snow on to the bare ice, there
came a series of thundering reports like cannon shots, and then
a succession of sharp reports and creaks and other awful sounds,
that finally died away into the dead silence of Arctic darkness.
Such combination of sounds, together with a reasonable amount of
imagination sure to accompany them, is startling, especially If it
is quite dark and one is all alone. Sometimes a faint crack will
start others like it all around, and these in turn will give rise to
a rapid fusillade extending hundreds of yards up and down the river.
And there are the crunch and crackle of the dry snow under one's
muckluks, emitting various modulations of sound, from the sharp bark
of a dog to the squeak of a mouse. One has company even in solitude,
and there can be no solitude in the world like this in the Arctics.
Oh, it is all so enjoyable and fascinating to me! It is like reading
a book on a new subject, for one interested in Nature to visit this
country. I fear I will be sorry to leave it when the time comes.
However, two years may change one's views of many things.
Dec. 29.--Four men from the Orphans' Home on their way up the river,
spent last night with us, and were interesting company. One of the
men, a Mr. Thornton, knows several people of Seattle and Sitka whom I
know. He was at Sitka and Mt. St. Elias with the Prince Luigi party
in 1897, and has an article in the "Overland Monthly" just out. He
claims to have seen the Silent City, a mirage exactly resembling a
distant view of a large city. Several have seen it, and one man,
a photographer whom I met at Juneau two years ago, claims to have
a photograph of it. I have heard it intimated that the photo is
a fake. Prof. Jordan's article on the Silent City in the March,
1898, number of "Popular Science Monthly" is to the point. Thornton
says there is no doubt about photos and cuts of the mirage being
unauthentic, but he affirms that he and five men of the Prince Luigi
party saw it just as he describes it. We had a big discussion on
mirages last night. Yesterday at the literary, my paper was on the
familiar topic, "What Birds Eat." and, though rather lengthy, was
well received. I think our men would be interested in almost any
paper that discussed the subject of eating. Dr. Gleaves lectured a
week ago on the "Cruise of the Revenue Cutter 'Bear' in 1893." He was
surgeon on board of her during that year. He is now president of the
Hanson crowd,--more properly speaking, "The Kotzebue Mercantile and
Trading Company,"--just as we of the "Penelope" gang are the "Long
Beach, Alaska, Mining and Trading Company." How bulky and pompous
that sounds! If we do not find a bit of gold while we are here, we
shall have the satisfaction of presuming ourselves to be one of the
best equipped companies on the Kowak, and are looked up to very much
as the Vanderbilts are in New York. Sense of such distinction as
tills tends to increase the size of our heads, which are really very
large indeed, when considered in their covering of wool hood, canvas
hood, scarf, etc. We are advised to enjoy these sensations while it
is feasible, as doubtless when we reach the wharf at San Francisco or
San Pedro on our return trip we may have to foot it home just like
common tramps, or prodigal sons who have wasted their substance and
that of our grub-stakers in "riotous living."
On Christmas, day of all days, didn't we have a "spread"! C. C.
worked at it for a month beforehand and even stayed up all the night
previous cooking and compounding. I suppose he will have forty pages
about it in his diary, for although he worked until he was exhausted,
he declares it the happiest occasion we have had. And the results of
all our labor were really immense.
[Illustration: Christmas Dinner.]
The ten Hanson boys and a Mr. Van Dyke dined with us. The table was
twenty feet long, covered with a snow-white cloth, and lighted by two
candelabra of eight candles each.
These beautiful articles of use and ornament were made by Clyde from
a many branched birch, and the effect in lighting our large cabin was
brilliant. The menu was gotten up by Rivers. It was a sketch of the
landscape around our cabin artistically done in India ink on thin
leaves of birch bark, and would have graced any table in New York.
I never sat at a table in New York, but I just know they never had a
handsomer menu card. The toasts were classic, and included a poem by
Dr. Coffin, which was also of a classical character. I cannot refrain
from quoting one or two stanzas of the latter, on account of their
sentiment as well as literary merit. The verses were well received
and delivered with startling effect.
Now just a few things I would like to say
To make us remember this Christmas Day--
It isn't very often you dine with a Coffin,
When the cook and baker is an undertaker.
Now and again on a bill of choice fare
You find such a dish as roasted black bear;
But outside of the valley of the Kowak river
You will not eat pate de poisson de liver.[A]
Or white Touste bake and Ukluk roast
Are rarely served without Antic frost.
On these hot mince pies there have been no flies,
For our pastry-maker is an undertaker, etc., etc.
Now on your memories we would make a mark
With a plain, simple piece of brown birch bark;
On one side a picture of the place we are at.
And a list of the stuff that we ate as we sat.
[Footnote A: Pie of fish liver.]
This is by no means the whole of the poem, but it is enough to
intimate its character. It is Christmas and we are ice-bound. The day
of all the days in a man's life, when he would naturally be blue,
has been mutually cheered by those who, but for this digression,
would have suffered under the circumstances. The feast lasted for
two hours, and was followed by songs and instrumental music. Cox and
I were waiters, Harry Reynolds served and C. C. cooked. After the
banquet we four were waited on by four of the Hanson boys, who took
everything into their own hands. Normandin established himself as
cook and Joe Jury as head waiter, with Hays and Jack Messing under
his charge. They made a combination so witty and droll in everything
they did that we could scarcely eat for a time. We finally succeeded
all too well for our subsequent comfort. Fun and frolic and candies
and nuts occupied attention for an hour, the party at last breaking
up with the singing of several church hymns.
On Saturday before Christmas the natives were all gathered in, as
well as the whites, and we served the former a "big feed," afterwards
exhibiting a brilliant Christmas tree and the venerable Santa Claus.
Everyone took part in contributing toys and so forth to the children.
There were dolls, tops, whistles, jumping-jacks, cooky people, nuts,
candy, etc. It would take a whole note book to describe this part of
the Christmas festivities on the Kowak--how the old people awkwardly
tried to use knives and forks in eating, and how Santa Claus was
greeted, and the wooden dolls, and all the rest. Some of the dolls
fell to our boys. I am sure they reminded us of home. After the
tree the natives danced, the girls in a graceful manner, and the
boys representing fights or something of the kind, all the while
being accompanied by a beating of tin cans, stamping and monotonous
singing. There were thirty Indians and as many white men present.
[Illustration: At High Noon.]
Jan. 7, 1899.--Last week we were surprised by what we took at first
for an Arctic apparition. Uncle S., whom everyone had given up for
dead, arrived, accompanied by the missionaries from Cape Blossom.
Mr. and Mrs. Samms. They had come up with dog sledges. Uncle S. had
brought mail from St. Michaels, and the load was very heavy, there
being two hundred and fifty pounds of mail alone. He had but nine
dogs, and left most of the mail at Kotzebue Camp, where the snow
was too deep to travel further with it. He and Mr. and Mrs. Samms
pushed on up here, and, as all were pretty tired, several of the
boys volunteered to go down to the Kotzebue Camp, which is sixty
miles below us, for the mail and other sled. I was a volunteer, along
with several from the Hanson Camp as well as of this, as we were
all anxious to get the delayed mail. But a few hours later, when we
began to realize what a hard trip it would be, everyone backed down
until only Cox and I were left. These boys stood on the burning deck,
and made believe they didn't care, especially as that brave little
missionary woman had just made a trip over the same road of more than
two hundred miles and on foot.
That same day Joe Cogan and Sam Colclough came along on their way to
the Allashook. They had a team of eight dogs, but, after inquiring
of all the natives, they found they could obtain no more dog's food,
nor is there any along the river above here. So as they were going
to start back down the next day. Cox and I decided to go with them.
I did not relish the anticipation of the trip at all, and, now that
it is over, I must say that it is the hardest journey I ever hope to
make. We returned last night, having been on foot for seven days,
making one hundred and twenty miles of very, very hard walking.
We had five dogs from here; these, with Cogan's, made thirteen. We
loaded our blankets and clothing on Cogan's sled and hitched up
the thirteen dogs to it in a line. The sled was a very heavy one
and the load resembled it. It went all right until we got on some
sand-bars about a mile below the Hanson Camp, and there our trouble
began. The snow was light and the heavy runners cut through to the
gravel beneath, making hard pulling. We were trying our best to get
over when the sled struck a rock, and, in dragging it off, two of
the standards broke off at the runner. Of course we had to return,
leaving the load cached on the trail. At the Hanson Camp we got some
wire and necessary tools, and by this time it was afternoon. The San
Jose crew of the Hanson Camp must have us stop for dinner, and it was
a fine one, too, with the immediate future ahead of us. Had we not
been thus refreshed. I do not think we could have made the Jesse Lou
Camp that night. Colclough declared our bad luck was all on account
of the dogs, thirteen in number, so we borrowed two more and also
another sled. The dogs pull much better in small teams and we now
made good time. They carry their bushy tails curled up gracefully
over their backs, and trot along the trail with ears erect and
pointed forward, the very picture of lively animation. It was three
o'clock by the time we got our second start and darkness was soon
upon us. Besides, it was cloudy, with no moon, and snow was falling.
Light snow had fallen to the depth of four or five inches, obscuring
the old trail so that we soon lost it. And then our fun began. It is
twelve miles from the Hanson to the Jesse Lou Camp, and it was not
until ten o'clock that we came around the bluff at the latter camp.
The snow-covered river bed was a uniform blank whiteness, bordered by
the dark line of willows and spruces, and whoever was in the lead had
nothing to guide him but kept as near as he could between the banks.
Occasionally the sleds would meet and grapple with snags and rocks or
sand-bars with little snow on them, and then we would have to strike
off at right angles. Just before we reached our destination for the
night, we got into a large field of broken ice in which we floundered
about for half an hour. The ice was in plates or narrow strips an
inch or less in thickness, all up on edge, jammed thus when the river
had first frozen over. These sharp plates mostly leaned obliquely up
stream and stuck out of the snow as high as two feet, with gaps and
holes between. We had a dreadful time. Our sled tipped over and the
dogs dragged it on its side for several yards before we could stop
them and fix the pack again. And then our shins! We could not see a
thing, and sometimes a step would be down into a hole and the next
step on top of a sharp edge of ice. If I fell down once I did twenty
times. Cox had never worn muckluks before, and it was particularly
hard on his feet. By the time we got to camp we were tired enough to
lie down anywhere, whether we froze to death or not.
We were warmly welcomed at the first of the three Jesse Lou cabins
which we struck, and they got us a hot supper and fixed our beds in
true Kowak hospitality. It was New Year's Eve. 1899, before we got to
bed.
By nine the next morning we were off again. The next halt was an
Indian igloo thirty miles below. Before we had gone a third of the
way my legs began to pain me so that I walked with difficulty. One of
them was strained by a fall on the ice the night before, and I was in
absolute torture all day. It was my first real suffering. Finally,
when we had gone about fifteen miles, as it was getting dark and we
did not care for a repetition of the previous night's experience,
we made camp. Cogan had a tent and stove, and his companion was a
"rustler." A patch of snow was soon scraped off and the tent put
up. But it took a long time to heat the interior above the freezing
point. Too much of the exterior gets into a tent.
It was forty degrees below zero that night and the next day.
After one has perspired a good deal during the day he soon chills
when he stops, if he forgets to put on more clothes. I had a big
reindeer parka and also a pair of huge deerskin mittens. Without the
latter I should surely have frozen my hands. The dogs ate up Cox's
leather-covered mittens, and I gave him one of my pairs. The pair
I wore got soaked with sweat and then froze on my hands as hard as
a rock. If I had not happened to have the deerskin mitts to change
with, I might have lost a few of my extra fingers. Cox did blister
his. Colclough got up some hot flapjacks and bacon and we were
filled. I slept in the parka and kept pretty warm. The rest occupied
the big deerskin sleeping bag, which is the only safe bed in an
Arctic camp.
[Illustration: The Jesse Lou Camp.]
[Illustration]