DAVID MAKES A BOAT-JOURNEY
Late in June, when the leaves were full-grown and the grass and flowers
luxuriant, there came a storm of rain which turned into a damp snow.
About two inches fell, and remained on the ground several hours. The
hardy vegetation seemed to suffer no injury, and indeed the storm
proved quite a godsend, for it discouraged the mosquitoes, and they
were unable to rally again in such numbers and with such vigor as
before.
By the middle of July the Bradfords had two sluices in operation, and
were taking out from thirty to fifty dollars a day. The Thirty-six were
working with varying success on the hillsides. Their first supply train
of horses had arrived with provisions and the mail, including a few
Seattle newspapers only three weeks old.
About this time the leader of the Thirty-six invited David to join a
small party which he was going to take north on an exploring trip.
He needed a young fellow, he said, to take charge of a cabin at
Champlain's Landing, twenty-five miles north of Pennock's Post, for a
week or two, until one of Moran's men could be spared.
David begged to be allowed to go, since he was not imperatively needed
at Alder Creek, and his father consented, believing that the experience
would be valuable as a training in self-reliance. He warned his son,
however, that he might be very homesick and lonely. As David had never
been homesick in his life, that malady had no terrors for him, and he
declared that he was quite willing to take the risk.
Thus it happened that he found himself one afternoon starting down the
gorge from Moran's Camp in company with the captain, a civil engineer
named Dunn, who had recently arrived, and Greenwood, who had been a
cook in the army. Three others had already set out with horses to make
the journey overland, while the captain's party was to proceed by boat
down Lake Dasar-dee-ash and its outlet river to the Landing. There the
parties would unite and continue the journey by land, leaving David at
the cabin.
At the shore of the lake Paul Champlain was encamped. He was that
member of the Thirty-six who had selected on the north branch of
the Alsek the landing place called by his name, and had built the
storehouse there, while Pennock's party and the Bradfords, on the same
stream, were building Pennock's Post. He was a Michigan man of French
descent, possessing a thorough knowledge of woodcraft and a magnificent
physique. By the captain's directions he had hired and brought up the
boat which had been built near this point earlier in the season.
Hardly had the tents been pitched on a gravelly open space overlooking
the water, when a cold and drenching rainstorm came on. A fire was
kindled with difficulty, around which the shivering party gathered to
cook and eat their evening meal. Rubber blankets and oiled canvas were
pressed into service to protect them from the storm, but there was no
keeping entirely dry in such a downpour. Around the small tent which
had been assigned to David, the ground was so level that the water was
presently standing an inch deep, and only by hastily digging a ditch
was he able to prevent it from being flooded. As it was, he found a
comparatively dry spot along the centre of his blanket-bed when he
crawled in out of the rain, and having rolled up his damp coat for a
pillow, he went to sleep in a twinkling in spite of all discomforts.
By morning the sky cleared, tents were struck, provisions and goods of
all kinds were put aboard the little craft, and soon they were sailing
merrily northward before the wind, the captain at the helm, Champlain
holding the sheet in his hand that he might let it go instantly in
case of a squall, Mr. Dunn on the centre seat, and Greenwood and David
sitting forward near the slender mast. Occasionally they were obliged
to bail, but considering the fact that there was not a drop of paint
on the boat, she was remarkably seaworthy.
It was a glorious morning. A fresh, bracing wind blew from the south.
The cloud-flecked mountains loomed sharp and blue around the lake, and
the great range on the western shore was especially grand and imposing.
David discovered beneath one of its glaciers, several thousand feet
above the lake, what appeared to be a yawning cave as big as a house,
and the captain's glass brought it out more distinctly. Here was a
natural wonder fairly begging to be visited, and right well would David
have liked to explore its mysteries; but time was precious to the
voyagers, and they held their course steadily to the north, crossing
the mouth of a great bay which extended several miles eastward. There
was a similar bay to the west, but the lake narrowed again as they
approached the outlet. At noon they landed for dinner in a little cove,
which they named Shelter Bay, and there, the wind deserting them, they
had recourse to the oars and rowed the short distance to the river,
after which the current assisted them. The water was here so clear that
they could see the fish as they darted away from the shadow of the
oars. Several yellow-legged plover were shot along the banks, but no
attempt was made to bag ducks, as it was their breeding season.
Early in the evening they reached the sandy bluff near Pennock's cabin
and moored the boat to a tree. The cabin was now deserted by human
beings, but when David opened the door a fat ground-squirrel scurried
across the floor and ran out through a hole under the side log. It
seemed too bad that such a stanch dwelling should be given over to
neglect, but such is often the case in a new country. The travellers
did not sleep in it, for the mosquitoes were in possession. They
pitched their insect-proof tents by the side of the river and passed
the night in comfort.
But before they turned in, Champlain and David took trout flies and
lines and sauntered down the stream to try to discover what kind of
fish they had seen. They cut rude willow poles and fished carefully
but in vain until they came to the mouth of Frying-Pan Creek. Here the
current of the brook cleared for a space the now muddy river water, and
Champlain had a rise almost immediately. A few seconds later he landed
a delicately spotted, gamy fish about eight inches long, which he
recognized as a grayling. The sport became exciting at once, and David
soon had half a dozen catches to his credit. When the anglers could
no longer induce a rise, they marched back to camp in triumph with a
handsome string.
The voyage was continued next day. Champlain entertained his companions
with an account of his successful moose-hunt a few weeks previous,
which had relieved the hunger of the northernmost party of the
Thirty-six. Then he told of the difficulties he and others had overcome
in rafting the goods from their great cache and Pennock's Post down
to the Landing. He had shot an otter on one of his journeys along the
stream, but said he had seen hardly a trace of beavers.
The river now became extremely tortuous. Greenwood wondered how
it could make so many loops without tying itself into a knot, and
expressed a decided preference for walking as a means of getting to the
Landing. As he was taking his turn at rowing at that moment, it was
easy to account for his sudden feeling in the matter.
By skilful use of helm and paddle Champlain guided the boat through a
number of rocky stretches in safety, but he was not to be invariably
so successful. David, who had been intently gazing forward, suddenly
shouted a warning. Five or six boulders lay in the stream so nearly
submerged that they could hardly be discerned from a distance, while
others just below the surface betrayed their position only by eddies.
Champlain put all his strength into the paddle, but in that current the
heavy boat could be swerved but little. A dangerous eddy was barely
avoided, but beyond and directly in their path a ragged rock appeared.
How the paddle flashed! And how the rowers struggled! But in a moment
it was evident that the boat must strike.
Crunch! went her side against the rock. She careened as she stopped,
and the current piled up against her, while her passengers fully
expected shipwreck and instinctively measured the distance to the
shore. But the force of the stream, instead of swamping the stout
little craft, swept her past the obstruction, and all breathed freely
once more. By great good fortune not the least damage had been
sustained.
Early in the afternoon they passed between Father and Son, otherwise
known as Mount Champlain and Mount Bratnober respectively. The pass
was about a mile wide, with perpendicular cliffs several thousand feet
high on either side. In this wild place they found the forest recently
burned, and in one spot near the base of Mount Bratnober smoke was
still rising. It was this great conflagration, covering thousands of
acres, which had filled the atmosphere with smoke a few weeks before
and caused the sun to look like a blood-red ball as it sank in the
west. Champlain related how, in company with a Canadian government
surveyor, he had climbed the mountain which had received his name.
He was sure they could have seen Mount St. Elias in the west had not
clouds obscured the view. They noticed a flock of mountain sheep, but
did not get near enough for a shot.
The voyage was presently enlivened by a race with a brood of little
ducks which Mother Mallard had taken out for an airing,--or "watering,"
as David put it. There were a dozen of the little fellows not two
weeks out of the shell, and what a splashing they set up when they
saw the strange, oared craft bearing down upon them! The mother
duck quacked anxiously from the rear of her flotilla and urged the
youngsters forward at the top of their speed, which proved just about
equal to that of the boat.
The little ducks could not fly, and the river was so narrow that at
first they dared not swerve toward either shore, but flapped and
paddled and splashed straight down the river. Not until they became
utterly exhausted did they seek the bank. Then one by one, as a
convenient log or hole appeared, they dropped away from the others and
hid themselves while the terrible monster went by. The old duck paid
not the slightest attention to these stragglers, but continued with
that part of her brood which was still in danger, turning her head from
side to side and talking vigorously in duck language to her terrified
children.
Finally only one duckling remained in the middle of the river, probably
at once the strongest and most foolish of the brood. He did not know
enough to follow the example of his brothers and sisters, but kept
splashing along until he could flee no longer. Then he too sought the
friendly bank. And now, having seen all her brood safely disposed, the
brave mother-bird made use of her wings, rising in a graceful sweep and
turning back up-stream to gather her scattered family.