STARTING NORTHWARD--KAMCHATKAN SCENERY, VILLAGES, AND PEOPLE
I cannot remember any journey in my whole life which gave me more
enjoyment at the time, or which is more pleasant in recollection, than
our first horseback ride of 275 versts over the flowery hills and
through the green valleys of southern Kamchatka. Surrounded as we
continually were by the wildest and most beautiful scenery in all
northern Asia, experiencing for the first time the novelty and
adventurous excitement of camp life, and rejoicing in a newly found
sense of freedom and perfect independence, we turned our backs gaily
on civilisation, and rode away with light hearts into the wilderness,
making the hills ring to the music of our songs and halloos.
Our party, aside from drivers and guides, consisted of four men--Major
Abaza, chief of Asiatic exploration, Dodd the young American, whom we
had engaged in Petropavlovsk, Viushin (view'-shin) a Cossack orderly,
and myself. The biting sarcasm directed by Mithridates at the army of
Lucullus--that if they came as ambassadors they were too many, if as
soldiers too few--would have applied with equal force to our small
party made up as it was of only four men; but strength is not always
to be measured by numbers, and we had no fears that we should not be
able to cope with any obstacles which might lie in our way. We could
certainly find subsistence where a larger party might starve.
On Sunday, September 3d, our horses were loaded and despatched in
advance to a small village on the opposite side of the bay, where we
intended to meet them with a whale-boat. On Monday the 4th, we made
our farewell calls upon the Russian authorities, drank an inordinate
quantity of champagne to our own health and success, and set out
in two whale-boats for Avacha, accompanied by the whole American
population of Petropavlovsk. Crossing the bay under spritsail and jib,
with a slashing breeze from the south-west, we ran swiftly into the
mouth of the Avacha River, and landed at the village to refresh
ourselves for the fifteenth time with "fifteen drops," and take leave
of our American friends, Pierce, Hunter, and Fronefield. Copious
libations were poured out to the tutelary saint of Kamchatkan
explorers, and giving and receiving three hearty cheers we pushed off
and began to make our way slowly up the river with poles and paddles
toward the Kamchadal settlement of Okuta (o-koo'-tah).
Our native crew, sharing in the universal dissipation which had
attended our departure, and wholly unaccustomed to such reckless
drinking, were reduced by this time to a comical state of happy
imbecility, in which they sang Kamchadal songs, blessed the Americans,
and fell overboard alternately, without contributing in any marked
degree to the successful navigation of our heavy whale-boat. Viushin,
however, with characteristic energy, hauled the drowning wretches in
by their hair, rapped them over the head with a paddle to restore
consciousness, pushed the boat off sand-bars, kept its head up stream,
poled, rowed, jumped into the water, shouted, swore, and proved
himself fully equal to any emergency.
It was considerably after noon when we left Petropavlovsk, and owing
to the incompetency of our Kamchadal crew, and the frequency of
sand-bars, night overtook us on the river some distance below Okuta.
Selecting a place where the bank was dry and accessible, we beached
our whale-boat and prepared for our first bivouac in the open air.
Beating down the high wet grass, Viushin pitched our little cotton
tent, carpeted it with warm, dry bearskins, improvised a table and
a cloth out of an empty candle-box and a clean towel, built a fire,
boiled tea, and in twenty minutes set before us a hot supper which
would not have done discredit to the culinary skill of Soyer himself.
After supper we sat by the fire smoking and talking until the long
twilight died away in the west, and then, rolling ourselves up in
heavy blankets, we lay down on our bearskins and listened to the low
quacking of a half-awakened duck in the sedges, and the lonely cries
of night birds on the river until at last we fell asleep.
Day was just breaking in the east when I awoke. The mist, which for a
week had hung in grey clouds around the mountains, had now vanished,
and the first object which met my eyes through the open door of the
tent was the great white cone of Villuchinski gleaming spectrally
through the greyness of the dawn. As the red flush in the east
deepened, all nature seemed to awake. Ducks and geese quacked from
every bunch of reeds along the shore; the strange wailing cries of
sea-gulls could be heard from the neighbouring coast; and from the
clear, blue sky came down the melodious trumpeting of wild swans, as
they flew inland to their feeding-places. I washed my face in the
clear, cold water of the river, and waked Dodd to see the mountains.
Directly behind our tent, in one unbroken sheet of snow, rose the
colossal peak of Korátskoi (ko-rat'-skoi), ten thousand five hundred
feet in height, its sharp white summit already crimsoning with the
rays of the rising sun, while the morning star yet throbbed faintly
over the cool purple of its eastern slope. A little to the right was
the huge volcano of Avacha, with a long banner of golden smoke hung
out from its broken summit, and the Raselskoi (rah'-sel-skoi) volcano
puffing out dark vapour from three craters. Far down the coast, thirty
miles away, stood the sharp peak of Villúchinski, with the watch-fires
of morning already burning upon its summit, and beyond it the hazy
blue outlines of the coast range. Shreds of fleecy mist here and there
floated up the mountain sides, and vanished like the spirits of
the night dews rising from earth to heaven in bright resurrection.
Steadily the warm, rosy flush of sunrise crept down the snowy slopes
of the mountains, until at last, with a quick sudden burst, it poured
a flood of light into the valley, tinging our little white tent with a
delicate pink, like that of a wild-rose petal, turning every pendent
dewdrop into a twinkling brilliant, and lighting up the still water
of the river, until it became a quivering, flashing mass of liquid
silver.
"I'm not romantic, but, upon my word,
There are some moments when one can't help feeling
As if his heart's chords were so strongly stirred
By things around him, that 'tis vain concealing
A little music in his soul still lingers,
Whene'er the keys are touched by Nature's fingers."
I was just delivering the above quotation in impassioned style, when
Dodd, who never allowed his enthusiasm for the beauties of nature to
interfere with a proper regard for the welfare of his stomach, emerged
from the tent, and, with a mock solemn apology for interrupting
my soliloquy, said that if I could bring my mind down to the
contemplation of material things he would inform me that breakfast
was ready, and begged to suggest that the little music in my soul be
allowed to "linger," since it could do so with less detriment than the
said breakfast. The force of this suggestion, seconded as it was by a
savoury odour from the interior of the tent, could not be denied. I
went, but still continued between the spoonfuls of hot soup to "rave,"
as Dodd expressed it, about the scenery. After breakfast the tent was
struck, camp equipage packed up, and taking seats in the stern-sheets
of our whale-boat we pushed off and resumed our slow ascent of the
river.
The vegetation everywhere, untouched as yet by the autumn frosts,
seemed to have an almost tropical luxuriance. High wild grass, mingled
with varicoloured flowers, extended to the very river's brink; Alpine
roses and cinquefoil grew in dense thickets along the bank, and
dropped their pink and yellow petals like fairy boats upon the surface
of the clear still water; yellow columbine drooped low over the
river, to see its graceful image mirrored beside that of the majestic
volcano; and strange black Kamchatkan lilies, with downcast looks,
stood here and there in sad loneliness, mourning in funeral garb some
unknown flowery bereavement.
Nor was animal life wanting to complete the picture. Wild ducks, with
long outstretched necks, shot past us, continually in their swift
level flight, uttering hoarse quacks of curiosity and apprehension;
the honking of geese came to us, softened by distance, from the
higher slopes of the mountains; and now and then a magnificent eagle,
startled from his solitary watch on some jutting rock, expanded his
broad-barred wings, launched himself into air, and soared upward in
ever-widening circles until he became a mere moving speck against
the white snowy crater of the Avachinski volcano. Never had I seen a
picture of such wild primitive loneliness as that presented by
this beautiful fertile valley, encircled by smoking volcanoes and
snow-covered mountains, yet green as the Vale of Tempe, teeming with
animal and vegetable life, yet solitary, uninhabited by man, and
apparently unknown. About noon the barking of dogs announced our
approach to a settlement, and turning an abrupt bend in the river we
came in sight of the Kamchadal village of Okuta (o-koo'-tah).
A Kamchadal village differs in some respects so widely from an
American frontier settlement, that it is worthy, perhaps, of a brief
description. It is situated generally on a little elevation near the
bank of some river or stream, surrounded by scattered clumps of poplar
and yellow birch, and protected by high hills from the cold northern
winds. Its houses, which are clustered irregularly together near the
beach, are very low, and are made of logs squared and notched at the
ends, and chinked with masses of dry moss. The roofs are covered with
a rough thatch of long coarse grass or with overlapping strips of
tamarack bark, and project at the ends and sides into wide overhanging
eaves. The window-frames, although occasionally glazed, are more
frequently covered with an irregular patchwork of translucent fish
bladders, sewn together with thread made of the dried and pounded
sinews of the reindeer. The doors are almost square, and the chimneys
are nothing but long straight poles, arranged in a circle and
plastered over thickly with clay. Here and there between the houses
stand half a dozen curious architectural quadrupeds called "balagáns"
(bah-lah-gans'), or fish storehouses. They are simply conical log
tents, elevated from the ground on four posts to secure their contents
from the dogs, and resemble as much as anything small haystacks trying
to walk away on four legs. High square frames of horizontal poles
stand beside every house, filled with thousands of drying salmon; and
"an ancient and fish-like smell," which pervades the whole atmosphere,
betrays the nature of the Kamchadals' occupation and of the food upon
which they live. Half a dozen dugout canoes lie bottom upward on the
sandy shelving beach, covered with large neatly tied seines; two or
three long, narrow dog-sledges stand up on their ends against every
house, and a hundred or more sharp-eared wolfish dogs, tied at
intervals to long heavy poles, lie panting in the sun, snapping
viciously at the flies and mosquitoes which disturb their rest. In the
centre of the village, facing the west, stands, in all the glory of
Kamchatko-Byzantine architecture, red paint, and glittering domes,
the omnipresent Greek church, contrasting strangely with the rude log
houses and conical _balagáns_ over which it extends the spiritual
protection of its resplendent golden cross. It is built generally of
carefully hewn logs, painted a deep brick-red, covered with a green
sheet-iron roof, and surmounted by two onion-shaped domes of tin
which are sometimes coloured sky-blue and spangled with golden
stars. Standing with all its glaring contrasts of colour among a few
unpainted log houses in a primitive wilderness, it has a strange
picturesque appearance not easily described. If you can imagine a
rough American backwoods settlement of low log houses clustered round
a gaily coloured Turkish mosque, half a dozen small haystacks mounted
on high vertical posts, fifteen or twenty Titanic wooden gridirons
similarly elevated and hung full of drying fish, a few dog-sledges and
canoes lying carelessly around, and a hundred or more grey wolves tied
here and there between the houses to long heavy poles, you will have a
general but tolerably accurate idea of a Kamchadal settlement of the
better class. They differ somewhat in respect to their size and their
churches; but the grey log houses, conical _balagáns_ drying fish,
wolfish dogs, canoes, sledges, and fishy odours are all invariable
features.
The inhabitants of these native settlements in southern Kamchatka
are a dark swarthy race, considerably below the average stature of
Siberian natives, and are very different in all their characteristics
from the wandering tribes of Koraks and Chukchis who live farther
north. The men average perhaps five feet three or four inches in
height, have broad flat faces, prominent cheek bones, small and rather
sunken eyes, no beards, long, lank, black hair, small hands and feet,
very slender limbs, and a tendency to enlargement and protrusion of
the abdomen. They are probably of central Asiatic origin, but they
certainly have had no very recent connection with any other Siberian
tribe with which I am acquainted, and are not at all like the
Chukchis, Koraks, Yakuts (yah-koots'), or Tunguses (toon-goo'-ses).
From the fact of their living a settled instead of a wandering life
they were brought under Russian subjection much more easily than their
nomadic neighbours, and have since experienced in a greater degree the
civilising influences of Russian intercourse. They have adopted almost
universally the religion, customs, and habits of their conquerors, and
their own language, which is a very curious one, is already falling
into disuse. It would be easy to describe their character by
negatives. They are not independent, self-reliant, or of a combative
disposition like the northern Chukchis and Koraks; they are not
avaricious or dishonest, except where those traits are the results of
Russian education; they are not suspicious or distrustful, but rather
the contrary; and for generosity, hospitality, simple good faith, and
easy, equable good-nature under all circumstances, I have never met
their equals. As a race they are undoubtedly becoming extinct.
Since 1780, they have diminished in numbers more than one half, and
frequently recurring epidemics and famines will soon reduce them to
a comparatively weak and unimportant tribe, which will finally be
absorbed in the growing Russian population of the peninsula. They have
already lost most of their distinctive customs and superstitions, and
only an occasional sacrifice of a dog to some malignant spirit of
storm or disease enables the modern traveller to catch a glimpse of
their original paganism. They depend mainly for subsistence upon the
salmon, which every summer run into these northern rivers in immense
numbers to spawn, and are speared, caught in seines, and trapped in
weirs by thousands. These fish, dried without salt in the open air,
are the food of the Kamchadals and of their dogs throughout the long,
cold northern winter. During the summer, however, their bill of fare
is more varied. The climate and soil of the river bottoms in southern
Kamchatka admit of the cultivation of rye, potatoes, and turnips, and
the whole peninsula abounds in animal life. Reindeer and black and
brown bears roam everywhere over the mossy plains and through the
grassy valleys; wild sheep and a species of ibex are not unfrequently
found in the mountains; and millions upon millions of ducks, geese,
and swans, in almost endless variety, swarm about every river and
little marshy lake throughout the country. These aquatic fowls are
captured in great multitudes while moulting by organised "drives" of
fifty or seventy-five men in canoes, who chase the birds in one
great flock up some narrow stream, at the end of which a huge net
is arranged for their reception. They are then killed with clubs,
cleaned, and salted for winter use. Tea and sugar have been introduced
by the Russians, and have been received with great favour, the
annual consumption now being more than 20,000 pounds of each in the
Kamchatkan peninsula alone. Bread is now made of rye, which the
Kamchadals raise and grind for themselves; but previous to the
settlement of the country by the Russians, the only native substitute
for bread was a sort of baked paste, consisting chiefly of the
grated tubers of the purple Kamchatkan lily. [Footnote: A species of
fritillaria.] The only fruits in the country are berries and a species
of wild cherry. Of the berries, however, there are fifteen or twenty
different kinds, of which the most important are blueberries,
"maróshkas" (mah-ro'-shkas), or yellow cloud-berries, and dwarf
cranberries. These the natives pick late in the fall, and freeze
for winter consumption. Cows are kept in nearly all the Kamchadal
settlements, and milk is always plenty. A curious native dish of sour
milk, baked curds, and sweet cream, covered with powdered sugar and
cinnamon, is worthy of being placed upon a civilised table.
It will thus be seen that life in a Kamchatkan settlement,
gastronomically considered, is not altogether so disagreeable as we
have been led to believe. I have seen natives in the valley of the
Kamchatka as pleasantly situated, and enjoying as much comfort and
almost as many luxuries, as nine tenths of the settlers upon the
frontiers of our western States and Territories.
[Illustration: Travelling Bag made of Reindeer skin]