Bay, and out into the open ocean. Early the next morning Yakutat came
into view, and our boat was quickly surrounded by canoes filled with
Indians, their wives, and woven baskets. These natives, supposed to
belong to the Tlinkits, were distinctly less advanced than the Haida
Indians.
In Yakutat we thought we were lucky in buying three Siwash bear dogs,
but were not long in discovering our mistake. One of the dogs was so
fierce we had to shoot him. Another was wild and ran away at the first
opportunity, and the "last of the Siwash," though found wanting in every
hunting instinct, had a kindly disposition and staid with us. We could
not bring ourselves to the shooting point. Finally we found a Creole,
who kept a store in a remote village on Kadiak Island, willing to take
him off our hands.
The sight of the massive snow face of Mt. St. Elias, rising 18,002 feet
above the immense stretches of the Malaspina glacier, called to mind the
successful Abruzzi expedition, which reached the top of this mountain a
few years ago. Looking at the rough sides of the grand old mountain,
more impressive than any snow peak in Europe, one unconsciously plans an
attack, as the climbing instinct is aroused.
Abruzzi has taken Mt. St. Elias out of the field of the mountain climber
looking for new peaks, but a glance at the map shows us Mt. Logan,
19,000 feet, backing up Mt. St. Elias from the north, and Mt. McKinley,
20,000 feet, the highest known peak we have, placed nearer the center of
the big peninsula. These should now claim the attention of some good
mountaineer, with time and money at his command. They demand both.
We did not fail to inquire at Yakutat about that rare animal, the blue
or St. Elias bear, and were told that two or three skins were secured
every year. I was later much disappointed in being unable to return to
this coast early enough in the year to look up this bear, which has
never been killed by a white man, and as its skull has never been
brought in by the Indians, it remains practically unknown.
The island of Kayak, the next calling place for boats, played a very
important part in the early history of Alaska. This is the first land
that Bering sighted, and where he landed after the memorable voyage of
his two boats, the St. Peter and St. Paul, from Kamtschatka.
The early Russian adventurers of this part of the world have, it seems,
been lost sight of, and have not had justice done them. The names of the
Dane Bering, the Russians Shelikoff and Baranoff, should mean to us
something more than the name of a sea, strait or island. A man who
fitted out his expedition in Moscow, carried much of the building
material for his two boats across Siberia to the rough shores of
Kamtschatka, and sailed boldly eastward, deserves our warmest
admiration. Bering never reached home. He died on the return voyage,
and was buried on the small island of the Commander group which bears
his name. The story of the expedition is one of extreme hardship and of
splendid Russian courage.
At Orca we were transferred to the Newport, with Captain Moore in
command, and, as on the Excelsior, everything was done for our comfort.
We looked with envious eyes on Montague Island as we passed it in Prince
William Sound, for we were told that the natives avoid fishing and
shooting here, claiming that the big Montague brown bear are larger and
fiercer than any others.
Our boat made a brief call at Homer, in Cook Inlet, one of the starting
points for the famous Kenai shooting grounds. This inlet was named for
the renowned voyager, who hoped that it would furnish a water passage
for him to Hudson's Bay.
The trees stop at Cook Inlet, there being only a few on the western
shore. To the south the wooded line intersects the Kadiak group of
islands, and we find the northeastern part of Kadiak, as well as the
whole of Wood and Afognak, except the central portion of the last, well
covered with spruce.
The absence of forests makes it often possible to see for miles over the
country, and explains why the Barren Grounds of Alaska offer such
wonderful opportunities for bear hunting. There are bears all along the
southern coast of the peninsula, but in the timber there, as elsewhere,
the bears have all the best of it.
On leaving Cook Inlet, we kept a southerly course through the gloomy
Barren Islands which mark the eastern boundary of the much-dreaded
Shelikoff Straits, and early one morning passed Afognak, and made Wood
Island landing, where we were most hospitably received by the North
American Fur Company's people. Wood Island, about 1-1/2 miles from Kadiak,
is small and well covered with spruce. It has some two hundred people,
for the most part natives, and under Russian rule was used for a huge
ice-storing plant. Kadiak Island, 100 miles by 30, is thickly studded
with mountains, and extremely picturesque, with the white covering of
early spring, as we found it, or when green with heavy grass dotted with
wild flowers in July.
[Illustration: ST. PAUL, KADIAK ISLAND.]
The Kadiak group looks as if it might have fallen out of Cook Inlet, and
one of the native legends tells us that once the Kadiak Islands were so
near the Alaskan shore that a mammoth sea otter, while trying to swim
through the narrow straits, got wedged between the rocks, and his
tremendous struggles to free himself pushed the islands out into their
present position. The sea otter and bear have always been most
intimately connected with the lives of the Kadiakers, and have exercised
a more important influence on their characters than any of their
surroundings except the sea. It is no wonder, then, that the natives
endowed these animals with a strength and size which easily takes them
into the realm of mythology. The sea otter being nearly extinct, the
bear is now made to shoulder all the large stories, and, strong as he
is, this is no light burden.
The Kadiak coast line is roughly broken by deep bays, running inland
from a half mile to fifteen or twenty miles. Some are broad, others
narrow, but all are walled in by serrated, mountainous sides, much
resembling the fjords of Norway. The highest peaks are about 4,000
feet.
The portions of Kadiak Island uncovered by spruce and the barren lands
of the mainland, are not absolutely devoid of trees or bushes. Often
there is a considerable growth of cottonwood trees along the bottom
lands of the streams, and large patches of alder bushes are common, so
that when the leaves are well out, one's view of the bottoms and lower
hillsides is much obscured. The snowfall must be heavy on the upper
reaches of the mountains, as there are great white patches to be seen
well into the summer time. The climate is not what one would expect,
unless he should look at the map, and note the warm Kuro Siwo (Japan
current) sweeping along the southern Alaskan coast. Zero weather is
uncommon, and except for the great rainfall the island is a very
comfortable place of existence; existence, because that is the limit
reached by most of the people. The few connected with the mission and
the two fur companies are necessarily busy people, the latter especially
so on steamer days, but a deep, unbroken peacefulness permeates the
island and its people; it is a place so apart that outside happenings
awaken but little interest, and time is not weighed in the balance. Some
of the rare old Kadiak repose seems to have come down to the present
people from the time when Lisiansky first visited the island and found
the natives sitting on their mud houses, or on the shore, gazing into
space, with apparent satisfaction.
[Illustration: SUNSET IN ENGLISH BAY, KADIAK.]
On the other hand, if there is any sailing, fishing or shooting to be
done, you will find the Kadiakers keen enough, and in trying situations
they will command your respect, and will quite reverse your impression
of them, gathered in the village life. The Eskimo inhabitants of the old
times are gone, and the population is now made up of Russians, Creoles
(part Russian and part Aleut), and a handful of Americans.
The natives are good-natured but not prepossessing in looks or
cleanly. They live in dwellings kept very hot, and both men and women
injure themselves by immoderate indulgence in the banya, a small Turkish
bath, often attached to the barabaras, or native huts. It is made like a
small barabara, except there is no smoke hole, has a similar frame, is
thatched with straw, and can be made air-tight. The necessary steam is
furnished by pouring water on stones previously heated very hot.
The women are frail and many die of consumption. When once sick, they
appear to have no physical or mental resistance. They must be
attractive, however, as there is a considerable population of white men
here who have taken native wives. From a condition of comparative
wealth, eight or ten years ago, when fur was plenty and money came
easily, and was as promptly spent on all sorts of unnecessary luxuries,
these people are now rapidly coming down to salmon, codfish and
potatoes. When a native wants anything, he will sell whatever he owns
for it, even to his rifle or wife. They almost all belong to the Greek
Church, the Russians, when we bought Alaska, having reserved the right
to keep their priests in the country.
The baidarka, the most valuable possession of the native in a country so
cut up by waterways that little traveling is done by land, deserves a
word. These are trusted in the roughest water more than any other
craft, except the largest. A trip from Kadiak to Seattle in a baidarka
is in fact on record. With a light framework of wood, covered, bottom
and deck, excepting the hatches, with the skin of the hair seal, it is
lighter than any other canoe, pliable, but very staunch, and works its
way over the waves more like a snake than a boat. The lines are such
that friction is done away with, and driven through the water by good
men, it is the most graceful craft afloat. It has a curious split prow,
so made for ease in lifting with one hand, and may have one, two, or
three hatches, according to its size. The paddles used are curiously
narrow and pointed.
What still remains unexplained is the native one-sided method of
paddling; that is to say, in a two-hatch baidarka, both natives make six
or seven short strokes on one side together, and then change to the
other side. An absolutely straight course is thus impossible, but the
Aleut is a creature of habit, and smiles at all new suggestions.
In the canoe is plenty of room for provisions and live stock. I speak of
the latter because a native will often carry his wife, children, and dog
inside a one-hatch baidarka while he paddles.
Water is kept out of the hatches by the kamlaykas which the natives
wear. This is a long jacket made of bears' intestines, very light and
water tight, and when the neck and sleeve bands are made fast, and the
skirts secured about the hatch with a thong, man and canoe alike are dry
as a chip.
In the early days, Shelikoff's severe rule in Kadiak actively encouraged
the hunting instinct, and the first Russian fur post was established at
St. Paul, named after one of Bering's boats, the present town of Kadiak,
by far the largest village of the island, and situated on the eastern
coast, opposite Wood Island. It is said that the Russians, after a few
very prosperous years of indiscriminate slaughter, recognized the great
importance of carrying on the fur industry in a systematic manner, in
order to prevent entire extinction of the game, and divided the lands
and waters into large districts. They made laws, with severe penalties
attached, and enforced them. Certain districts were hunted and trapped
over in certain years. Fur animals were killed only when in good
pelage, and the young were spared. In this way hunted sections always
had considerable intervals in which to recover from attacks.
A solitary sea otter skin hanging up in the fur company's store, at the
end of the season, told us plainer than words that these animals,
formerly so plentiful east of Kadiak Island, and along the coast of
Cook's Inlet, were almost extinct. Two of our hunters were famous shots,
and they liked to talk of the good old days, when sea otter and bear
were plenty. One of them, Ivan, it is claimed, made $3,000 in one
day. The amount paid a native is $200 or more for each sea otter pelt.
They are much larger than a land otter, a good skin measuring six feet
in length and three feet in width when split and stretched.
When fishing is allowed from schooners, the natives leave Kadiak for the
grounds early in May. Each schooner carries thirty or forty baidarkas
and twice as many men. Otters are often found at some distance from
shore, and can be seen only when the water is quiet. The natives prefer
the bow and arrow to the .40-65 Winchesters the company have given them,
even claiming that otter are scarce because they have been driven from
their old grounds by the noise of firearms. The bows, four feet long,
are very stout, and strongly reinforced with cords of sinew along the
back. The arrows, a little under a yard in length, are tipped with a
well-polished piece of whalebone. A sharp and barbed piece of whale's
tooth fits into a hole bored in the end of the bone, and a cord of
considerable length is tied to the detachable arrow head, the other end
of the cord being wound around and fastened to the middle of the shaft.
The advantages of this arrow are obvious. When the game is struck, its
struggles disengage the arrow head, and the shaft being dragged by the
cord attached to its middle, soon tires the otter out. The seal spears,
used for the finishing coup, are made in the same way, and in addition
have attached to the long shaft a bladder, which continually draws the
animal to the surface. So expert are the natives, that, after shooting
several arrows, they gather them all up together in one hand as they
sweep by in a baidarka. The arrow is not sent straight to the mark, but
describes a considerable curve. Good bows are valued very highly, and on
an otter expedition will not be swapped even for a rifle.
On a favorable morning the baidarkas leave the schooners, and, holding
their direction so as to describe a large fan, can view a good piece of
water. A paddle held high in air shows that game has been sighted, and a
large circle, perhaps a mile in circumference, is at once formed around
the otter, each baidarka trying to get in the first successful shot. To
the man who first hits home belongs the skin, but as an otter can stay
under water twenty minutes, and when rising for air exposes only his
nose, a long and exciting chase follows.
Some natives patrol the small island shores, and during the winter make
a good harvest picking up dead otters which have washed ashore. This
happens in winter, because it is during severest weather that the otter
freezes his nose, which means death. The pelts from these frozen
animals, however, bring only a small price.
In earlier days nets were spread beneath the water around rocks shown by
the hair rubbings to be resting places of otter. The method was often
successful, as the poor beast swam over the trap in gaining his rock,
but when leaving dove well below the surface, and was caught. This
barbarous custom, together with the netting of ducks in narrow
passageways, has, fortunately, long been a thing of the past.
In Kadiak Village, we met a Captain Nelson, the first man down from the
north that spring, who had sledded from Nome to Katmai on Shelikoff
Straits in two months. At Katmai he was held up several days, his men
refusing to cross the straits until the local weather prophet, or
astronom, as he is called, gave his consent. Seven hours of hard
paddling carried them over the twenty-seven miles, the most treacherous
of Alaskan narrows.
These astronoms are relics of an interesting type, who formerly held
firm sway over the natives. They are supposed to know much about the
weather from reading the sunrises, sunsets, stars, moon and tides, and
often sit on a hilltop for hours studying the weather conditions. They
are still absolutely relied upon to decide when sea otter parties may
start on a trip, and are looked up to and trusted as chiefs by the
people of the villages in which they live.
At Wood Island we heard of Messrs. Kidder and Blake, two other sportsmen
from Boston, who had already left for their hunting grounds in Kaluda
Bay.
The spring was backward, and the bears still in their dens, but Merriam
and I decided to take the North American Company's schooner Maksoutoff
on its spring voyage around the island, when it carries supplies and
collects furs from the natives. We were to sail as far as Kaguiac, a
small village on the south shore, and were here promised a 30-foot sloop
by the company. We added to our equipment two native baidarkas for
hunting and a bear dog belonging to an old Russian hunter, Walter
Matroken. Tchort (Russian for Devil) looked like a cross between a water
spaniel and a Newfoundland, and though old and poorly supplied with
teeth, many of which he had lost during his acquaintance with bears, he
proved a good companion, game in emergencies, and a splendid retriever.
Our rifle and camera batteries were as follows:
Merriam had a.45-70 and a.50-110 Winchester, both shooting half-jacketed
bullets. My rifles were a.30-40 Winchester, a double .577, and a
double .40-93-400, kindly lent me by Mr. S.D. Warren, of Boston, and on
which I relied. Besides the pocket cameras and a small Goerz, I carried
one camera with double lenses of 17-1/2-inch focus, and one with single
lense of 30-inch focus. The last two were, of course, intended for
animals at long range.
Hoping to prove something in regard to the weight of the Kadiak bear, I
brought a pair of Fairbanks spring scales, weighing up to 300 pounds,
and some water-tight canvas bags for weighing blood and the viscera.
We selected two good men as hunters for the trip, Vacille and Klampe.
On the second day out from Wood Island a storm came on, and though the
Maksoutoff was staunch, we could not hold for our port, owing to the
exposed coast, where squalls come sweeping without warning from the
mountain tops, driving the snow down like smoke, the so-called
"wollies." It was wild and wintry enough when we turned into the
sheltered protection of Steragowan Harbor.
A few mallards and a goose were here added to the ship's store next
morning from the flats, and the weather clearing, we made Kaguiac, and
found our sloop in good condition. In addition we took along an otter
boat, a large rowboat, from here, as our baidarkas proved rather
unseaworthy. Besides Mr. Heitman, the fur company's man, there was one
other white settler in Kaguiac named Walch, who came to Kadiak
twenty-seven years ago at the time of the first American military
occupation, and though he had served in many an exciting battle in the
Civil War, the Kadiak calm appealed to him. He married, settled down
among the natives contentedly, and has never moved since. This,
curiously, is the case of many men who come to the North, after leading
wandering and adventurous lives.
Unfavorable winds at Kaguiac delayed our sailing, so we passed the time
in excursions after ptarmigans and mallards. We also secured here
another native, a strong, willing worker, who knew the coast.
The weather cleared suddenly, the wind shifting from northeast to
northwest, and enabled us to make a run to our first good hunting ground
in Windy Bay, a large piece of water five miles long by three wide, and
surrounded by rock mountains covered with snow, the only bare ground to
be seen at this time being on the low foothills, and in the sunny
ravines. We made ourselves at home at the only good anchorage in a small
cove with high crags on two sides and a ravine running off toward the
east.
The following morning--April 28--opened bright and calm, and we were
soon viewing the snow slopes with our glasses. Ivan, the new man, was
the first to call our attention to a streak on a distant mountain side,
and although perhaps 2-1/2 miles away, we could make out, even with the
naked eye, a deep furrow in the snow running down diagonally into the
valley below, undoubtedly a bear road. I took a five-cent piece from my
pocket, tossed for choice of shot, and lost to Merriam.
Once on land, we found the going very bad, and often wallowed in the
snow mid-thigh deep. Then was the time for snowshoes, which we had been
told were unnecessary. Floundering along in this soft snow began to tell
a little on the keenness of the party, when Vacille and Ivan, who were
off on one side, suddenly waved, and hunting on to them we were shown
the bear far up the valley in some bushes. As he lay on his side in the
snow he looked much like a cord of wood, and very large. The wind came
quartering down the valley, and made a stalk difficult, so it was
thought best to wait, as the bear would probably come down nearer the
water in the evening. We watched nearly four hours, and during that time
the bear made perhaps 150 yards in all, crawling, rolling over, lapping
his paws, occasionally trying a somersault, and finally landing in a
patch of alders.
As night was upon us, we decided to chance the situation, and approached
along a ridge on one side of the valley until almost above the bear. At
this point Tchort, the dog, caught the scent, broke away, and raced down
over the bluff out of sight. Almost immediately the bear appeared in
the open 200 yards away, legging as fast as he could in the snow, and
headed for the hillside. Merriam made a good shot behind the shoulder
with his fifty. The bear fell, caught his feet again, and was in and
over a small brook, leaving a bloody road behind him, which Tchort was
quick in following. The dog was soon nipping the bear's heels, and
giving him a good deal of trouble. Up the side of the hill they raced,
Merriam firing when the dog gave him opportunity. The bear, angry and
worried, suddenly whipped around and made for the dog, which in the soft
snow at such close quarters could not escape. But Tchort, a born
fighter, accepted the only chance and closed in. He disappeared
completely between the forelegs of the bear, and we felt that all was
over. To our great wonder in a few seconds he crawled out from beneath
the hindquarters of his enemy, and engaged him again. One more shot and
the bear lay quiet. The skin was a beauty--dark brown, with a little
silvering of gray over the shoulders, without any rubbed spots, such as
are common on bears only just out of their dens. Some brush was thrown
over the bear, and we rowed back to the sloop, well content. The next
day, which was foggy and rainy, was spent in getting off the skin,
measuring and weighing the animal piecemeal, and carrying all back to
the sloop.
Contrary to expectation, the bear was found to be still covered with a
thin layer of fat, even after his long hibernation. Before weighing, our
men, who had killed some thirty bear among them, said that this one was
two-thirds as large as any they had seen.
The measurements and weights were as follows: Height at shoulder, about
4 ft. Length in straight line from nose to root of tail, 6 ft. 8 in.
Total weight, 625 lbs. Weight of middle piece, 260 lbs. Weight of skull
(skin removed), 20 lbs. Weight of skin, 80 lbs. The right forearm
weighed 50 lbs., and the left 55. This supports the theory that a bear
is left-handed. Right hind-quarter, 60 lbs.; left hindquarter, 60
pounds. The stomach was filled with short alder sticks, not much chewed,
and one small bird feather. Organic acids were present in the stomach,
but no free hydrochloric for digestion of flesh.
It was a great satisfaction to see that none of the bear was wasted,
which fact brings up one very good trait of the Creole hunters. They
dislike to go after bear into a district situated far from the coast,
because in so rough a country it is almost impossible to get all the
meat out. They sell the skin, eat the meat, and make the intestines into
kamlaykas for baidarka work.
April 30 a strong wind kept us from trying the head of the bay, and a
short trip was made up into a low lying valley, near the sloop, but
without results.
Our men had already proved themselves good. Vacille was the best
waterman and a good cook; Klampe the best hunter, and Ivan a glutton for
all sorts of work.