Sound are steep and palisade-like, but usually the forest trees come
right up to the edge of the water. In this part of the Sound the
scenery preserves its primeval aspect, human habitation being rare; but
occasionally an Indian hut may be seen, with a family group consisting
of a “warrior” taking his ease on his back, while his wife chops the
wood wherewith to cook his dinner, and his mother mends his clothes.
These dusky squaws have secured the right of doing masculine work which
so many of their white sisters are now clamoring for; and they have
husbands, too, which the latter usually have not: and yet they are not
happy.
Only one town of any significance—Steilacoom—is seen on this route. Not
far from it is one of the most beautiful scenic points on the Sound—a
place where it widens out amid the islands in such a way that it seems
the meeting-place of five large rivers, resembling a central square
in a city into which as many streets lead. A few hours more, and we
come to the capital of the State. Like the capital of Oregon, Olympia
has not kept pace in growth with some other cities in the State, its
population being about the same as that of Salem—five or six thousand;
and if it is ever to become a commercial centre, it will have to rely
on railways rather than on navigation, because its harbor is too much
affected by the tide. The mile-long pier which stands on the sand in
low tide has been the subject of many cruel jokes in rival towns. But
Olympia is considered a quiet and pleasant place to reside in; and
while Tacoma arrogates the title of “City of Destiny,” and Seattle that
of “Queen City of the Sound,” Olympia likes to be called the “City of
Homes.” The houses are surrounded by gardens in which flowers bloom
every month in the year and roses run riot, and from elevated points
near by the scenic outlook embraces half-a-dozen snow-peaks, including
those of the Olympic range.
It is on the route from Tacoma to Seattle and Victoria, however, that
the Olympic range shows to best advantage. The Sound here is, as I have
said, less winding and less puzzling to all but the pilot, but there
are the same endless changes and surprises in the watery vista. At one
place the channel is no wider than a river, so that one can count the
pebbles on the shore; at another it widens out into a spacious lake
dotted with islands; and in the upper part it expands so much that land
for awhile is out of sight altogether, and we seem to be on the ocean.
Here the water is not littered with the débris of saw-mills, as in many
places below, but seals may still be encountered basking on logs in
the sunshine. It must be admitted that the immediate bank-scenery of
Puget Sound nowhere equals in grandeur and interest that of the Middle
Columbia River; but the background of snow-mountains is even grander:
the scenic frame is here more interesting than the picture itself.
Tacoma, St. Helens, and Adams are to be seen, and just as we enter the
bay of Seattle we catch our first glimpse of Mt. Baker,—another one of
the North Pacific extinct volcanic snow-cones, eleven thousand feet
in height. From the hill above Seattle a much more complete view of
this peak, which stands like a sentinel just this side of the British
boundary, is afforded; and here, too, the Olympic range shows to best
advantage.
Unlike the other mountains of the Pacific Northwest, the dozen or more
peaks which make up the Olympic range are not isolated volcanic cones,
but form a range of jagged peaks connected below. They are covered
with snow the greater part of the year, and rise in the two highest
peaks, Mts. Olympus and Constance, to a height of 8150 and 7770 feet
respectively. It is an odd fact that until a few months ago the region
enclosed by this range, though appearing within stone’s-throw of
Seattle’s thirty thousand inhabitants, was almost as unknown as parts
of Africa before Stanley. A few trappers and prospectors for minerals
had made spasmodic efforts to cross the mountain barriers, and hence
arose rumors of the existence in this wilderness of Indians who had
never seen a white man, of beautiful lakes full of fish, fine valleys
suited for grazing and agriculture, gold, silver, iron, and lead ores,
and bears and elks enough to make this a sportsman’s paradise. But
nothing definite was known until last June, when two parties that had
gone out in the autumn returned in a deplorable condition, and reported
on the correctness of the rumors. One of these parties consisted of
Ex-Lieutenant-Governor Gilman of Minnesota and his son, and the other
was sent out by the Seattle _Press_. Thus a new and valuable territory
has been added to the new State.
In writing about Puget Sound it is difficult to get the mind away from
the mountains, but I will only add that as the steamer enters Elliott
Bay we get a most picturesque view of Seattle, framed in by Mt. Baker
on the left, and Mt. Tacoma (here always called Mt. Rainier, of course)
on the right; and that the view of the latter peak is quite as fine
as at Tacoma. Like Tacoma, Seattle is built on the side of a hill
sloping down to the water, and the harbor is excellent, affording room
for several miles of wharfage. The business streets are again (as in
almost all cities of the Pacific Coast) the only ones on level ground,
while the residence streets run at right angles to them up hill. In
one respect Seattle is perhaps the most modern of all American cities,
as there is not a single horse-car line in the town, their place being
taken by cable and electric lines, which do the work much better,
quicker, and without cruelty to animals, of which all horse-car
companies are inevitably guilty.
The first time I saw Seattle was a few weeks after the great fire in
1889 which consumed the entire business section of the city, with the
wharves, and entailed a loss of eight to ten millions on its twenty
thousand inhabitants. It was a most curious sight,—a city of tents
built on the charred ruins of the former city, on the site of which
it had literally grown up in a day, like a bed of mushrooms. Hotels
consisted of large tents with the office in front, cots behind, and the
kitchen and dining-room in other tents. Druggists, barbers, dry-goods
dealers, grocers, etc., all had their business in tents; and as a
sufficient number of these could not be obtained immediately, one could
see here and there a “happy family,” consisting, say, of a jeweller,
milliner, and real-estate dealer, all in one tent. But the oddest
sight I came across was a large tent filled with miscellaneous goods,
displayed on improvised benches, and outside the tent was this notice
in large letters: “POSITIVELY NO GOODS AT RETAIL.”
It is possible that the reporters overdrew matters somewhat (contrary
to their natural propensity) when they wrote of a theatrical manager
who, when he saw his building on fire, forthwith rushed to an architect
for plans for a new one; of a merchant who telegraphed for iron for a
new store when he saw the flames had taken hold of his old one; and
of wagons unloading stone for the foundations of a new building while
the hose was still playing on the débris of the old one: but like an
exaggerated perspective in a picture, such stories, after all, only
show the situation in a true light, since the energy, pluck, and
hopefulness shown by the Seattleites on this occasion have never been
paralleled. When the anniversary of the fire was celebrated, on June
6, 1890, it was stated that during the year two hundred and sixty-five
new buildings had been put up, together with sixty new wharves, with
a frontage of over two miles—all of which, with other improvements,
involved the expenditure of almost twelve million dollars. Sixty
blocks, or one hundred and twenty acres, had been consumed, and
in rebuilding this portion the streets have been made wider and
straighter, and the buildings are of much better material and higher
than formerly. The old ones would have been torn down anyway in a few
years, so that, after all, the fire proved a blessing in disguise to
the community as a whole. On re-visiting Seattle in June, I found that
the new buildings were not in such an advanced stage as the newspaper
accounts had led one to fancy; but there was no mistake about their
being there, and their metropolitan dimensions, and their stone and
iron constitution. The air was hideous with the noise of stone-cutters
and carpenters, and the sidewalks were impassable for the piles of
bricks and lumber. There were also a few direct traces of the fire in
piles of charred timber, and in a few scattered tents where groceries,
clothing, etc., were still being sold, the owners having probably lost
too much to be able to rebuild at once.
Seattle enjoys almost exactly the same advantages as Tacoma regarding
scenery, climate, shipping, coal, and lumber, and further details can
therefore be dispensed with. Both these cities doubtless have a great
future before them, and there is no ground for the fierce jealousy
between them. But if the Seattleites do not wish to alienate the
sympathies of tourists, they should cease naming the glorious Mt.
Tacoma after an obscure English lord when we have such a beautiful
American name for it.
Beyond Seattle the Sound widens out, and forty-seven miles to the north
we come to the last of our cities this side of Alaska,—Port Townsend,
the United States customs stations, at which all vessels that enter or
leave the Sound have to report. It has most of the advantages of other
Sound cities, and a population at present of five thousand. In the
number of customs entries, Port Townsend claims to be next to New York.
The climatic vagaries produced on the Pacific Coast by the “Chinook”
wind, which comes from the Japan Current, are curiously illustrated
by the rainfall at this city. As a general thing, the rainfall on the
Pacific Coast may be said to increase steadily from San Diego’s ten
inches to Sitka’s one hundred and eight. But, oddly enough, there is
less rain in the Puget Sound region than in Oregon, the “web-foot”
State. Tacoma has forty inches, and Port Townsend only sixteen.
Similarly, it is observed that less rain falls in Vancouver’s Island
than in British Columbia in general. But when he gets into Alaska, the
tourist is fortunate if he comes upon a rainless week even in summer;
and in rainy weather its scenic wonders can only be half appreciated.
It seems, therefore, as if Puget Sound had been placed where it is as
a sample of Alaskan scenery and inland coast navigation; and a most
excellent sample it is, for it is only when we get up as far as Sitka
that the Alaskan salt-water river boasts of snow-peaks comparable to
Mts. Tacoma, Adams, Baker, St. Helens, and Hood, which adorn Puget
Sound.
XV.
A WEEK IN ALASKA.
A GREAT SALT-WATER RIVER—THE GENUINE AMERICAN SWITZERLAND—HIGHEST
SNOW-MOUNTAIN IN THE WORLD—THE EXCURSION SEASON—ISLANDS AND
FORESTS—INDIAN TRAITS—ALASKAN VILLAGES—GLACIER BAY—AN ICEBERG
FACTORY.
If Long Island Sound could be continued for about a thousand miles,
past the coasts of Maine, Newfoundland, and Labrador, as far as the
entrance to Hudson’s Bay, so that tourists might go all the way on fast
river-steamers, with state-rooms on the main deck, and without the
slightest risk of sea-sickness; and if this hypothetic “Long Island”
could be broken up into several thousand, which, instead of being flat
and sandy, were covered with forests of almost tropical luxuriance and
with mountains of an infinite variety of shape, continually increasing
in altitude until they culminated in two snow-peaks higher than Mt.
Blanc, outrunners of the third highest mountain range in the world, and
sending clear down and into the salt water numerous glaciers, compared
with which those in Switzerland are mere pigmies,—if, in other words,
the strip of coast which extends from Tacoma, Washington, to Glacier
Bay in Alaska could be transferred to the Atlantic side, it is safe to
say that at least a score of large steamers, crowded with passengers,
would be going up and down this salt-water river all summer long. The
Atlantic Coast people, however, even if they possessed this scenic
bonanza, would hardly be able to enjoy it comfortably, on account of
the icy ocean current which sweeps down Davis Strait and chills and
befogs Labrador and Newfoundland even in summer. Most persons in the
East seem to imagine that Alaska must be in a similar, if not a worse,
predicament; but they reckon without the warm Japan Current which does
for Southern Alaska what the Gulf Stream does for the British Islands.
Northwestern Alaska, indeed, shares with Northern Siberia the honor of
having the coldest climate in the world; but the southeastern portion
of the coast, as far north as Sitka, has a climate much warmer than
that of Maine, though Sitka is some fifteen degrees of latitude north
of Portland, Maine. It must be borne in mind how vast a country Alaska
is,—as large, one writer has calculated, as the original thirteen
States. A still more graphic way of realizing its extent is by noting
that from California it is as far to the western extremity of Alaska as
it is to New York; so that the central city of the United States is not
Omaha or St. Paul, but San Francisco!
Fifty years hence, in my humble opinion, San Francisco, or the then
metropolis of the Pacific Coast, will be not only geographically but in
many other ways the centre of American life. The agricultural, scenic,
climatic, and hygienic superiority of the Western to the Eastern Coast
is too great not to affect the question of population and civilization.
But long before that era Alaska will have universally established its
claim to that much abused-phrase “the American Switzerland,”—unless,
indeed, the terms should be converted, and Switzerland come to be
complimented as “the European Alaska.” Yearly the number increases of
those who ask themselves whether, instead of going to Europe every
summer, it would not be worth while to try a Western trip. Before the
Yellowstone Park and Alaska were made conveniently accessible, this
Western trip could hardly have been recommended as an equivalent for
Europe; but now the scales are pretty evenly balanced, and as soon
as the St. Elias range shall have been included in the regular round
trip, and provided with guides, roads, and hotels, Switzerland will
have to “take a back seat”; for St. Elias rises twenty thousand feet
into the air, and can be seen from base to top, with a snow-and-ice
mantle reaching down to the very level of the ocean, while the highest
mountain in Switzerland is only 15,784 feet high (to the spectator only
about twelve thousand, as he is already several thousand feet high when
he sees it), and has a snow-mantle of only about seven thousand feet.
Indeed, considering that in the Himalayas and the Andes, the only two
ranges that tower above the St. Elias, the snow-line is as high as
fifteen thousand to twenty thousand feet, it is clear that St. Elias
must be the highest _snow_ mountain in the world.
Unfortunately, the present Alaskan round trip does not include St.
Elias, although the majority of the tourists would gladly risk the
chances of sea-sickness by making the additional two hundred miles from
Sitka in the open sea. Two mountains of the St. Elias range, with their
stupendous glaciers,—Fairweather and Crillon, both higher than Mt.
Blanc,—are, however, visible to those who make the present tour; and
although, like St. Elias, they are lamentably apt to hide themselves
beneath and above clouds, even those who miss this wonderful sight find
so much that is unique in the other attractions, that no one has ever
been known to feel the slightest desire to “get his money back.” Were
the scenery much less inspiring than it is, yet would the trip be worth
making for its hygienic value. Here, for two or three weeks, one can
breathe a delicious mixture of ocean and mountain air, the latter just
sufficiently impregnated with the fragrance of pine forests to prevent
that enervating languor which an exclusive lung diet of ocean air is
apt to breed. As regards the appetite for solid food, its average
size may be inferred from Captain Carroll’s favorite joke,—that,
as the provisions are running short, he shall be compelled to take
the turbulent outside passage back in order to curb the gastronomic
propensities of the passengers.
The fare provided on these steamers is about as good as that on the
average Atlantic steamers, but the daily salmon and a few other dishes
become monotonous, and the passengers look in vain for “local color” in
the bill of fare; _i. e._ for venison and bear steak, wild ducks and
geese, salmon-berries, and some of the usual kinds of fish that haunt
these waters. The fault for this omission is laid on the shoulders of
the Indians, who are said to be too lazy to hunt and fish for more
than they need for themselves daily. But as they willingly work in the
mines for two dollars a day, it is probable they would gladly hunt and
fish for the steamer stewards if enough were offered them. Yet, as
just intimated, one needs no such special stimulants for the appetite,
and one thing is certain, that the large number of invalids who cross
the Atlantic yearly, chiefly to get the benefits of a sea-voyage,
would do much better to go to Alaska, for there they would be _sure_
of gaining in weight daily, owing to the absence of sea-sickness. And
another thing in favor of the Alaskan tour is, that one is certain to
find pleasant companionship on the steamers. The passengers on Atlantic
steamers represent all classes of society, and even of the tourists
not all are pleasure-seekers in an æsthetic sense; but of the Alaskan
passengers the majority are apt to be persons of refinement and taste,
since the only magnet that can draw them there is the hope of enjoying
fine scenery.
Most of the tourists, not feeling quite certain whether Alaska will
come up to their expectations, go on the elegant new steamer which is
provided with all modern comforts and makes the round trip in twelve
days; but not a few regret afterwards that they did not take one of
the old freight steamers, _Idaho_ or _Ancon_, which require about a
week more for the trip, and, as they repeatedly stop a whole day at
interesting places, allow the passengers more time to explore the
neighborhood, and go fishing, observe the natives, hunt for curios,
etc. The fast steamer makes only six or seven stops in twelve days,
remaining from two to six hours at each place; and for almost three
days after leaving Victoria she makes no stop at all, thus resembling
an ocean steamer,—a resemblance made the more suggestive by a series
of rocky islands near Victoria that look very much like the coast of
Ireland when first approached on the voyage to Liverpool.
The regular tourist season extends from the middle of April to the
middle of October. Early in the year passengers will see more of the
“midnight sun,” but in July and August fogs and rain are less common,
although even during those months the warm winds blowing inland from
the Japanese Current are very apt to condense into clouds and rain,—a
wise arrangement which prevents the scenery from becoming monotonous to
the tourists; and if any interesting point is thereby missed, there is
always a chance of seeing it on the return trip,—unless, indeed, the
captain should choose a different channel. There is an endless variety
to select from, and the marvel is that any captain or pilot should ever
be able to find his way through this labyrinth. For what the Milky Way
is among stars, this island-studded archipelago is among terrestrial
water-ways. Captain Carroll, however, finds his way as unerringly as
the salmon which at some seasons splash about the ship, bound for the
rivers of the interior. There is not a single lighthouse—only here and
there a rude post. Fortunately the nights never become entirely dark,
and even a dense fog does not arrest the steamer’s progress; for the
pilots have learned, by blowing the steam-whistle, to judge by the echo
the distance from either shore; and the water is almost invariably so
deep that danger is reduced to a minimum.
During our trip, which commenced on August 22, the fog was never dense
enough to call for the steam-whistle; but the dense smoke, the result
of forest fires and “clearings,” which had prevented us from enjoying
the Columbia River scenery and Mts. Hood and Tacoma, also hid from us
the charms of the far-famed Puget Sound region with its background of
Olympian and other snow-mountains. Gradually, however, as we passed
along British Columbia towards Alaska, the smoke grew less dense
and finally disappeared entirely. Isolated columns of smoke were
still to be seen frequently in the midst of the primitive forests,
indicating Indian camps; but in Alaska, thanks to the frequent rains,
forest fires cannot occur—a fact which will console the economically
minded for the enormous wastes of timber in Washington Territory and
Oregon. The visible wealth of Alaska, as Mr. Hallock remarks, lies
in these forests: “There is a supply here of 5,700,000,000 feet at a
low estimate, a very large part of which is at once accessible for
shipment, as saw-mills and vessels can lie right alongside the timber
at tide water all the way up the coast as far as it extends”; and
Alaska with its islands is said to have a coast line of twenty-five
thousand miles, equal to the circumference of the globe.
Not only has Alaska the third highest mountain range in the world, but
if the greatest landscape artist had been consulted, its members could
not have been arranged in a manner more continuously impressive to the
tourist. Beginning near Victoria with a moderate altitude and mere
patches of snow on the sides, they daily grow higher and whiter until
the climax is reached in the St. Elias group. When we were northward
bound, the smoky atmosphere hid the distant peaks and left the
impression that snow was rather scarce for the first three days; but
on the return trip a shower had preceded us, clearing away this smoke,
revealing snow in abundance, including, about thirty-six hours from
Victoria, an undulating range with immense snow-fields that would not
be without honor even in Switzerland; and this was before Alaska proper
had been reached.
The whole of the second and third days the passengers could imagine
themselves sailing along the Hudson River Highlands or Loreley Rock on
the Rhine; but after that all comparison with Eastern rivers ceased,
and the Columbia alone, with its background of snow-mountains, afforded
approximate terms of comparison. The hour for sleep was postponed as
long as possible, from fear of losing some of the grand sights. As one
of the passengers remarked, it would be possible to make hundreds of
Lake Georges out of this Alaskan salt-water river. The word “lake” is
very appropriate, as the channel widens and apparently comes to an end,
as in a few places on the Hudson, so that tourists frequently amuse
themselves by guessing which way the pilot is going to turn next. In
some places the channel is so wide that land disappears on one side; at
other times so narrow that a woman could throw a stone on either shore.
Of the abundance and variety of islands which adorn this water-way,
only those can form a remote conception who have seen the Thousand
Islands of the St. Lawrence. But in Alaska, as one writer has remarked,
we see not a thousand islands only, but “a thousand miles of islands,”
some as large as a State or a European kingdom, others just large
enough for a house and garden; while many look as if future generations
would inevitably call them “Picnic Islands,” so cosey and inviting are
they. Like the mountains that line the shores, all these islands are
densely wooded and very few of them are flat. Indeed, a strip of flat
land in this part of Alaska is such a curiosity that the tourist’s
attention is unconsciously attracted by it—reminding one of the
young Tyrolean girl’s exclamation on entering for the first time the
monotonous plain between Munich and Stuttgart: “Oh, mamma, look out of
the window. How beautiful! there is not a mountain in sight!”