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[Illustration: THE BEAUTIFUL ALASKAN SUMMER]
THE LAND OF
TOMORROW
BY
WILLIAM B. STEPHENSON, JR.
FORMERLY UNITED STATES COMMISSIONER IN ALASKA
ILLUSTRATED
[Signet]
NEW YORK
GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
COPYRIGHT, 1919, BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
TO MY MOTHER
ALICE HERSHEY STEPHENSON
WITH GREATEST DEVOTION
FOREWORD
That the Voice of the North calls insistently to him who once has dwelt
amidst its snows is neither myth nor legend. It is history. Like the
Song of the Lorelei, having heard it once it rings in his ears forever.
True, it is a strenuous game which Man plays against Nature in Alaska.
There, as nowhere else on earth, he pays the price for what he gets.
Yet if you ask one who has loved and left her, one who has lived among
her mountains, experiencing alike the bitter winter and the wondrous
Alaskan summer, every day of which is perfect beyond the power of words
to describe, even though he may deny the call it is not difficult to
detect the hidden longing underlying his reply. For it is a fact not to
be gainsaid that after such an experience, no matter how much a man may
have looked forward to a life of ease after his return, he seldom finds
it satisfying. Usually when he goes back home it is to find his old
friends scattered or dead. The old pleasures turn to gall and wormwood
in his mouth. In time the jar and turbulence of cities get on his
nerves. He begins to hear the Voice! The old residents of Alaska, they
who have lived there so long that they seem a part of the land itself,
always smile grimly when they hear a man begin to curse the land where
he has made his wealth and swear that he never wants to see it again.
To them it is an old story. They have seen many return to the regions
whence they came. And they have seen most of them come back! They alone
know the truth of the line from the old Norse legend:
"_Dark and true and tender is the North!_"
Following the opening up of the gold fields much was written of Alaska,
but it was confined largely to the territory of the Yukon and the
unsettled, chaotic conditions of the hour. The fortunate few who,
through the medium of poem, song or story, have revealed the glories
and the tragedies of this part of the country have done their work
well. The record of that now-historic stampede to the Klondike gold
fields has journeyed to the uttermost parts of the earth. But all this
was twenty years ago. The Alaska of to-day is not what it was then, and
there are sections of this marvelous country which no artist has yet
painted and of which no poet has yet sung. Were this not true the
present scribe would have no task,--no reason for adding to the list.
Sixty miles north of the mouth of the Yukon lies the little island of
St. Michael on which the writer spent five years (first as manager of
the Pacific Cold Storage Plant and afterward as United States
Commissioner), journeying later from this island to almost every spot
in the country which the white man has yet penetrated. Moved by the
astonishing discovery during a recent visit to the States that there is
practically nothing to be had in any library in regard to this island,
so important a connecting link between the Yukon and the outer world,
he is inflicting this little volume upon a patient and long-suffering
public. He has been moved to do this, not from a desire to pose as a
creator of literature, but because of a belief which can not be shaken
that Alaska is _The Land of Tomorrow_! It is the only bit of Uncle
Sam's territory where it is still possible for a man to get in on the
ground floor. Now that the great World War is at an end thousands of
soldiers are coming home again--to begin life over! They will be
seeking a new environment. Travel, especially by water, even though (as
is the case with those lately in the service) it be under difficulties
and not always of one's own choosing, never fails to breed _wanderlust_
in man. It awakens something within him which urges him to go
adventuring, to seek the far spaces of the world, no matter how much
his heart may cry out to him to stay at home. In Alaska there is room
for all who know how to fight! Untold opportunity for him who is
willing to fight! With a physique made strong by the life in the
trenches, with muscles hardened by military training, the returned
soldier will be fitted as he never has been before and perhaps never
will be again to cope with the somewhat rigorous life demanded of him
who dwells "north of fifty-three."
Alaska is calling for men,--men to cultivate her farms, to develop her
mines, to build her railroads, to man her fisheries and her lumber
camps. She will soon be asking for business men to manage her stores,
for lawyers, doctors and dentists, for teachers, ministers and priests,
for actors and motion picture operators. In another year Uncle Sam's
great railroad will be running Pullman cars across this
sparsely-settled country. This means progress. Alaska will begin to
live. She will prove a good although at certain seasons of the year a
frigid mother to thousands yet unborn. The homely old proverb in regard
to the early bird is peculiarly applicable to Alaska. The worm is only
waiting to be caught.
To know Alaska is to love her. As one old North-Pacific sea captain
once put it,--"A man can get along without the woman he loves if he
has to. But he can't get along without Alaska after he has fallen in
love with her!"
It is Robert Service, however, who in _The Spell of the Yukon_ has
breathed the real spirit of the land:
"Some say God was tired when He made it;
Some say it's a good land to shun;
May be. But there's some as would trade it
For no land on earth--and I'm one!"
W. B. S.
St. Michael, Alaska.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. NORTHWARD HO! 19
II. THE LAND OF TOMORROW 30
III. ST. MICHAEL 38
IV. NORTHERN LIGHTS 46
V. GREAT OPPORTUNITIES 52
VI. POLITICS AND GOVERNMENT 63
VII. THE PARALLEL STEEL BARS 72
VIII. FLOWERS AND BIRDS OF THE NORTHLAND 83
IX. MT. MCKINLEY NATIONAL PARK 91
X. THE ALL-ALASKA SWEEPSTAKES 100
XI. BURIED WEALTH 115
XII. THE HAUNT OF THE SALMON 126
XIII. THE EIGHTH WONDER OF THE WORLD 137
XIV. THE CITIES OF THE FAR NORTH 151
XV. THE NATIVE RACES 161
XVI. SOCIAL LIFE IN ALASKA 197
XVII. THE PRIZE OF THE PACIFIC 210
XVIII. ALASKA AND THE WAR 216
XIX. ALASKAN WRITERS 222
CONCLUSION 236
ILLUSTRATIONS
THE BEAUTIFUL ALASKAN SUMMER _Frontispiece_
PAGE
THE AUTHOR DRESSED FOR THE TRAILS AT
KOTLICK, MOUTH OF THE YUKON 40
AN ISLAND ON WHICH IS LOCATED ONE OF THE
FINEST FOX FARMS IN ALASKA 40
NEARLY TWENTY THOUSAND FURS READY FOR
SHIPMENT 40
"SIMROCK MARY'S" HERD OF REINDEER COMING
OVER THE HILL 56
SLEDDERS OFF FOR PROVISIONS FOR THE REINDEER
HERDERS 56
PRIBILOF ISLANDS WHERE UNCLE SAM PROTECTS
THE FUR SEAL 56
COUNTLESS THOUSANDS OF "MURRS" HAVE
MADE THIS ISLAND THEIR OWN 56
A TYPICAL TOURIANA VALLEY GARDEN 88
THE TRAIL NEAR WRANGELL IN SUMMER. NOTE
THE BEAUTY OF THE WOODS 88
LOVER'S LANE, NEAR SITKA, GUARDED BY
TOTEM POLES 88
SLUICING THE WINTER DUMP AT FAIRBANKS 120
THE THIRD BEACH AT NOME FROM WHICH WAS
TAKEN MILLIONS OF DOLLARS WORTH OF GOLD
IN DUST AND NUGGETS 120
ONE NIGHT'S CATCH. NEARLY FIVE THOUSAND
SALMON WEIGHING APPROXIMATELY 75,000
POUNDS 120
A FISHWHEEL 120
SITKA, THE OLD RUSSIAN CAPITAL OF ALASKA 152
JUNEAU, THE CAPITAL 152
ESKIMOS OF ST. MICHAEL 152
"SCOTTY" ALLEN AND BALDY 200
GENE DOYLE, ONE OF THE OLDEST MAIL CARRIERS
ON SEWARD PENINSULA. A HERO OF
THE TRAIL! 200
COMING IN TO ST. MICHAEL WITH OUR THIRTY-THREE
DOG TEAM AFTER GOING OUT TO MEET
THE MAIL CARRIER 200
DUTCH HARBOR 200
REVEREND HUDSON STUCK, ARCHDEACON OF
THE YUKON, PREACHING WITH INDIAN AND
ESKIMO INTERPRETERS 224
INTERIOR OF GREEK CATHOLIC CHURCH IN ST.
MICHAEL, BUILT IN 1837 224
FINE OLD NATIONAL HOUSE WITH TOTEM
POLES NEAR WRANGELL 224
THE LAND OF TOMORROW
THE LAND OF TOMORROW
CHAPTER I
NORTHWARD HO!
Memory, with unerring exactitude, carries me back to a
never-to-be-forgotten day,--the twenty-ninth of May, 1909,--the day on
which I sailed from Seattle on the S. S. _St. Croix_ to take charge of
the plant of the Pacific Cold Storage Company at St. Michael, Alaska.
In my early manhood I had studied law, but the years immediately
preceding this date I had spent among the great forests of British
Columbia in charge of the interests of the British Columbia Tie and
Timber Company. It was a life which appealed to me,--one which I loved
and had planned to follow during my working years. But man proposes!
And that inexplainable thing for which we have no definite name,--call
it fate, fortune, destiny, or what you will--often disposes! Some
sudden and utterly unforeseen event, almost in the twinkling of an
eye, will change the whole current and meaning of a man's life. Such an
experience was mine. So, like Columbus of old, I set forth once more
upon the uncharted sea of life in search of a new world.
The last decade has brought about marvelous improvement in travel
northward. Most ocean voyages are eventful and mine was particularly
so. Therefore it may not be amiss to begin with it. At that time
sailing to Alaska was unlike voyaging to any other part of the world.
Man knew not whither he was going or whether he would return. The air
of mystery which broods ever over all the northland seems to cast a
spell upon the traveler from the moment of starting. Once there, the
Land of Silence wraps her arms about him and holds him close, sometimes
absorbing him!
There are two routes by which one may make his way northward. One is by
what is known as the Inside Channel, by far the more beautiful and
diverting and carrying him into the heart of the Yukon territory. The
other is the Outside Passage and bears him directly across to the
Alaskan Peninsula and thence around the coast to Nome. It was the
latter route which I took on my first voyage to Alaska.
No man can see the lights of Victoria or Vancouver fade behind him
without a feeling that he is standing in the dawn of a new life. Behind
him lies the known; ahead, the unknown! From Vancouver to Skagway, up
the Inside Channel, is a wonderful journey of a thousand miles, and as
the boats pull away from shore one sees lying to right of him the
mainland of British Columbia and to the left the island which bears the
name of that intrepid explorer who navigated the then unknown waters of
the North Pacific and charted them. Those who now journey northward
will never realize their debt to Captain Vancouver. To the land-lubber
the journey up the Channel seems fraught with a thousand dangers. But
not so. Not a sunken rock but this old sea-dog has charted it, and the
vessels thread their way with the utmost safety through a perfect maze
of islands. To realize the miracle of this thousand miles of tangled
maze one has but to stand in the bow of the boat and attempt to pick
out the channel through which it will pass. He will guess wrong every
time. One can not distinguish the isles from the shore. The mountains
crash skyward, seemingly from the very deck of the vessel itself. But
the inexperienced can not tell whether they crown an island or are on
the mainland. The tourist gazes with admiration, not unmixed with awe,
at the countless little bays and straits through which the boats
twist, turn, creep forward and ofttimes turn backward! And so it is
until the thousand miles of water, with its fairy islands and its
gigantic icebergs lie far behind him,--a part of that past upon which
he has turned his back.
The journey of the _St. Croix_ (making the _outside_ trip) was
uneventful until we reached Cape Flattery. Here we encountered a
terrific storm from the northwest. For a couple of days we had had a
feeling that the glorious Pacific was in one of her sullen moods. It
began with a gray sea and a few flying clouds. Followed a head wind
which knocked fifty miles off the day's run and then,--a real storm, a
miniature hurricane. It continued with unabated violence until we were
within a day's run of Unimak Pass, at the foot of the Alaskan
Peninsula. For six days we had sailed straight across the ocean to
northwest, seeing nothing but sky and water,--huge, mountain-like waves
which rose and fell with monotonous regularity. When we reached this
point, however, we had a little diversion. Great numbers of walrus were
splashing about in the water and lying on the ice. Here, also, I saw
the first whales I had ever seen.
One of the sights of this ocean voyage is Mt. Shishaldin, an active
volcano nearly nine thousand feet high and located about thirty miles
east of Unimak Pass. In symmetry and in the beauty of its curves it
rivals Fujiyama, the sacred mountain of Japan. No geographer has ever
visited Mt. Shishaldin. No man has yet ascended it. Unimak, the island
on which it stands, is a continuation of the Alaskan Peninsula, being
separated from it only by a narrow strait. Like the rest of the
Aleutian chain, it lies between Bering Sea and the Pacific Ocean.
It was about three o'clock in the morning of June ninth that we sighted
the volcano. Scarcely any one on board had retired, as none wished to
miss the view of the mountain. It is safe to say that none regretted
the loss of sleep. It was a sight long to be remembered. Directly over
the smoking cone the early-morning sun, dark red of hue, was slowly
rising. The effect was most spectacular and--symbolic! No work of the
Master's hand so symbolizes life as do the mountains. No matter how
dark the vales and cañons, on the heights there is always light!
It was shortly after we entered the Pass that our journey began to
afford us excitement. Here we encountered the first large ice floes and
caught between them were many vessels,--the _Ohio_, _Senator_,
_Victoria_, _Olympia_ and _Mackinac_ being plainly visible. Each was
trying to find a passage through the ice and it was most amusing to
see the grim smile which came over the face of our own Captain W----
when he saw their predicament. It is considered quite an honor to bring
the first boat through the ice in the spring. No wonder, then, that the
Captain was pleased. All these boats had sailed from one to three days
ahead of us. Now the _St. Croix_ had an equal chance with the rest.
At about half speed we started to plow through the ice. We made about
fifty miles. Then the ice became much thicker and more difficult to
penetrate. Many times we came to a standstill. Then we would back up
some eight or nine hundred feet and at full speed would go ahead again,
ramming the ice with all possible force. It was necessary to hold on to
the rail in order to keep one's feet.
Now, this sort of thing may be interesting for a certain length of
time, but when it becomes continuous one's interest flags! Operations
were suspended for thirty minutes three times a day while meals were
served, but except for these intervals, it went on night and day. I say
night and day, but it was principally day. At this time of year there
was only about one hour of the twenty-four when one could not see to
read in his state-room without the electric light.
On the morning of June eleventh I was awakened by a terrific crash. I
heard the swift scampering of feet along the deck toward the bow. I
dressed as quickly as possible and hurried forward. We had bumped
squarely into a young iceberg at full speed and had smashed our bow
stem. This meant that we were caught in the ice floe with no means of
getting out! We could no longer ram the ice with the ends of the
planking exposed. It further developed that the owners had neglected to
equip the boat with material necessary for repairs. But the Captain
realized the necessity of doing _something_, so, in his dilemma, he
ordered some of the steerage bunks torn up in order to get two by four
lumber with which to patch the bow. It was wasted effort. The material
was too light to be serviceable. It did not last as long as it took to
put it on. One bump finished it.
There was among the passengers a ship-builder named Trahey. Being a
practical individual, he suggested chaining the anchor across the bow
and ramming the ice with it. This seemed to be all right, and we were
beginning to think that our troubles were over, but all of a sudden we
struck an ice floe about thirty feet thick. The anchor slid up the side
and tore out the planking. The Captain (and the rest of us as well) saw
that he was up against it. The boat began to take water. We all
realized that the situation had become serious.
Presently the click-click of the wireless was heard. Calls for help
were sent immediately. The first response was from the S. S. _Thedias_.
She replied that she was stuck in the ice off Nome and could render
assistance to no one. The second response was from the _Corwin_. She
lay off St. Michael. She refused to come to our aid for less than six
thousand dollars, which terms Captain W----, evidently valuing our
lives at nothing, refused to accept. We carried no freight. Already the
meals on the boat were getting poor, but at the moment no one was
troubled with a large appetite! The Captain would give out no
information as to his intentions, but it chanced that one of the
passengers, an old friend of mine, a former Passenger Agent for the
Santa Fe railroad, had been a telegraph operator and he kept me
informed as the wireless messages broke over the antenna.
In our helpless condition we began to drift toward the Arctic Ocean at
the rate of four miles an hour and we could not keep our minds from
reverting to the tragic experience of the _Portland_ which only a few
years previously had floated about the Polar Sea all summer. It is
needless to say that there was little sleep on the _St. Croix_ that
night. I retired at eleven-thirty but was up again at four and
entertained myself by watching the seals and walruses playing near the
boat.
We spent the next day, June twelfth, wondering what was to become of
us, but as is usually the case in such crises, after the first shock is
over one becomes philosophical about most things,--even the imminence
of death. No man in his right mind really fears death. But the sudden
realization that all one's plans have come to naught, that one shall
never realize his cherished dreams, the thoughts of loved ones far
away,--it is these and kindred things which make of it the staggering
proposition that it is. So the men on board realized the necessity of
keeping a stiff upper lip. We tried to make the others believe that we
were cheerful, and although none of us could stifle his vague
uneasiness we managed to keep it out of sight. In the afternoon a party
of us got out on the ice, chose sides and had a snow-ball battle. It
helped us to forget the seriousness of our plight and to amuse those
who watched from the boat. By nightfall we had drifted as far north as
latitude sixty-four, a few miles south of Nome. But--we danced on deck
until two in the morning, the thirteenth day of June.
I have always scouted the prevailing notion that there is any bad luck
connected with the number thirteen! I had no more than fallen asleep
when I was awakened by the jar of the machinery. My first thought was
that the Captain had decided to make a final attempt to buck the ice
and I was confident that this could have but one result,--the wrecking
of the boat. I dressed immediately and went on deck, only to come face
to face with another of those mysterious twists of fortune which
ofttimes in an instant turn danger to safety and just as frequently
make of apparent surety a disaster. Right ahead of us, as far as the
eye could see, was an open channel, straight as a die and just a little
wider than the boat!
All was activity now. It seemed only a moment until we were under way.
Once started we forged ahead with all possible speed in order that we
might get out of the ice pack before the channel should close again.
Luck favored us. A few hours later we landed at Nome. There was no coal
to be had here and as we had only enough for twelve hours, after
unloading the passengers the _St. Croix_ headed immediately for St.
Michael. At two o'clock in the afternoon, the _thirteenth_ day of
June, I reached my destination.
No steamers can land at the island. Both passengers and freight have to
be lightered ashore. The inner bay was filled with ice. We anchored
five miles out. I went ashore with a friend in his gasoline launch
which had been sent out for him. We left the _St. Croix_ at two-thirty,
and we had to get out several times and pull the boat along the ice
until we could launch her again in open water. At seven o'clock we
reached the beach. I stepped ashore and took a look at what was to be
my abiding-place for the next five years. Home was never like this! I
was informed that the largest building in sight was the Steamboat
Hotel. I took my way thither and was the sole occupant of this
now-historic hostlery for more than a week.