CHAPTER XX.
M
MAY 6. Saturday, 8 p. m.—This is the strangest May weather I have ever experienced. The wind has blown a gale from the north without a moment's cessation for four days. It is twenty-five degrees below the freezing point. I was in the vicinity of the Hanson Camp yesterday, but got no birds. I saw only one pair of chickadees and one redpoll. They were never so scarce all winter as now. The natives assure me that a change is due shortly, and then there will be "emik apazh," and the "ting emeruk" will come.
The Hanson boys came near getting me into serious trouble yesterday. It was one of Joe Jury's jokes. When I left his cabin I started back into the woods. Nolan, of the Sunnyside, called in. Joe told him that I had reported seeing two caribou across the river on the way down. Joe garnished the tale with a few extra details, and Nolan left for Sunnyside pretty well excited. He got nearly everyone in camp out before noon. I happened along on their trail about four o'clock, and the first fellow I met was Nolan, just returning from a long tramp. He informed me that he had seen the caribou tracks (?) and wanted to know where I had last seen the animals. I was taken by surprise and told him that I hadn't seen acaribou in Alaska. It then dawned on Nolan that he had been the victim of a joke, and he was somewhat "beside himself." I tried to explain matters by telling him that I had said to Joe Jury something about having seen "ptarmigan." which no doubt he had taken for "caribou." The rest of the fellows took the joke all right, but said they would "get even" with Joe some way. One man fired his rifle at a target and split the barrel over two-thirds its length, owing to snow in the end, I suppose. The gun was ruined and so the joke was a costly one.
There is a string telephone between two cabins at Sunnyside which is a real novelty. The box resonators in each cabin are fixed up with features like a human face with a tin mouth. It was exceedingly funny to see the expression on the faces of the natives when they first heard that box "talk." Greenberg was talking in at the other end, and they recognized his voice. One old woman fled in terror. She thought it was a "doonak" (evil spirit). It is no wonder these things frighten the Eskimos so. Doubtless our own ancestors would have been burned at the stake by their townspeople for witchcraft in the early days of New England had they dared to make a tin box "talk."
I bought eighteen pounds of No. 8 shot for $1.20 at the Hanson Camp. It took me nearly three hours to bring it three miles against the wind. I had no snowshoes, as I had let Brownie have mine when he started for the schooner. The extra weight was just enough to make me break through the crust every five steps, and down I went to my knees. That eighteen pounds grew to one hundred pounds before I reached home.
John Miller, the cripple, has moved over to one of the Iowa cabins, so we are alone for the first time in many weeks. Only three of us. We cannot use all the game we shoot now, and I am rather glad to have the opportunity of giving it to the hungry natives. I do not waste a bird body. I give some of them to Charley for his mickaninies, and he loans me his snowshoes whenever I want them for hunting. At first the boys dubbed me "the bird fiend," but they have quit that now. Too many scurvy victims have blessed me for the ptarmigan which, in some cases, have been all the fresh meat obtainable, not to mention our own possible suffering had it not been for the birds I shot. And now I do not object at all to the wordless thanks of these poor natives, who devour every scrap of a bird of any sort, excepting the skin, which only I claim. I save souls, bird skins being the only visible or invisible soul of which the creatures are possessed.
We have just learned of a superstition which is the most cruel of any noted among these strange people. It has roused our civilized horror. A very pretty little girl about thirteen years old, who has been the pet of the camps all winter, and whom the boys have looked upon as a "little sister," has been shut up all by herself in a small snow cave back in the woods. There she is doomed to stay until the snow melts, without speaking to anyone or leaving her cramped position, with no fire and with only such cold food as may be brought to her. And she must live alone in such an igloo for one year, so their statutes decree. This is the law concerning all Kowak-mitt women when they are supposed to have reached marriageable age.
This is but the beginning of the little woman's punishments, which will be many and varied from this date.
The "cabloonas" around this vicinity are very much incensed over this new superstitious cruelty. To demonstrate our convictions in the matter, eight of us armed ourselves with guns, marched over to the village and demanded that old Omechuck and his wife, Atungena, Kalhak's parents, take the child back into their igloo. The man laid all the blame on the mother and grand-mother (as it was in the beginning), and we had a big wrangle. We informed them that if they did not end this and other cruelties, and liberate the girl by to-morrow noon, we would come over in a great body and tear down the cave and take her away. They were pretty well frightened. It gave us lots of fun, though we didn't change our austere countenances. We meant what we said. Uncle Jimmy headed the expedition. He had a great big knife belted on, and we all presented a dangerous front. What if the Eskimos had taken it seriously and mobbed us? Mobbing is not their tendency. They are gentle in spite of other things, and were actually in fear of our threats. We are not sure of the full extent of our influence, but we stirred them up and they may conclude that this "missionary association" of gold-hunters is not here for nothing. Later the girl was released.
May 14, Sunday.—Spring is breaking the winter's reign at last. The snow has almost disappeared from the sand-dunes andis softening everywhere. Little pools of water are appearing in the low places. A gentle rain is falling, the first since last September—eight months. The days of slush and water are upon us, but oh, such exciting days for me! The first geese and gulls have arrived, very shy and very few, and I saw two swans. They stay about the muddy places across the river. I got a fairly good shot at a goose, but missed it. Everyone is after the poor geese and lots of rifle balls are wasted, with never a goose as yet. I shot a solitary glaucus-winged gull sitting on the ice, with a thirty-calibre Winchester rifle at 143 yards range. The bullet went straight through the neck, cutting a very clean way, and the skin made a beautiful specimen. Yesterday was my red-letter day. I found, almost by accident, a jay's nest and eggs, the thing I have been looking for so constantly for three months. I also found a fine set of hawk owls—six eggs, three newly-hatched young and both parents. The nest was in a hole in a rotten spruce stub about twelve feet above the snow. When I tapped on the tree the male, which was sitting, left the nest and flew away about a hundred feet, turned and made for my head as straight and swift as an arrow, planting himself full force, and drawing blood from three claw marks in my scalp. My hat was knocked about twelve feet and the crown torn out. All this the owl did without stopping in its swoop. I recovered myself just in time to receive a second charge and had to dodge clear to the ground. When the courageous defender of home and country turned for its third attack a charge of No. 10 met it, and it died an honorable death, deserving to be ranked among heroes. I have the entire set preserved.
I have a flock of white-winged crossbills spotted in a spruce forest ten miles away, which I expect will nest in a couple of weeks, but I doubt if I can reach the place, now the snow is going. I wore snowshoes nest-hunting yesterday, but probably for the last time this year. It is far easier snowshoeing over the snowy tundras than walking through the peat and water and "nigger heads" after the snow is gone.
The Prisoner We Rescued.
The Prisoner We Rescued.
May 21, Sunday.—Uncle Jimmy and Dr. Coffin still keep up the Sunday services. Three of the Iowa men and half a dozen Eskimos have come in. As I have just finished a bird I thought it a good idea to desist until after church, on Uncle Jimmy's account. So, until singing begins, I will have a little time to write. I cannot afford to waste a second these days. Most of the snow is gone. All the ponds and sloughs are full of water and the river has risen fully eight feet.
All the slush ice has gone, but the thick winter ice is on top and extends unbroken down the middle of the river. The Eskimos say that if the warm weather and high water continue this ice will break up and float away very soon. And then it would be "finis" to bird collecting, for the steamers would whistle and we would all have to pack up and start. I am just living in dread of the "Helen." I would not cry should she spring a leak or otherwise disable herself, so that she would be laid up until the last of June. This is a wicked thought and I repent of it. Solitary sandpipers and Baird's sandpipers are here, and I know they will nest by the middle of June. Small birds are beginning to arrive. I heard the beautiful song of the fox sparrow for the first time this morning, also the tree sparrows and varied thrush. I saw a single robin yesterday with its familiar call note. We have goose dinners galore, but the geese are lean and tough, far from such eating as they were in the fall. We prefer duck and ptarmigan. The doctor has made some very nice cranberry jelly from the berries which have beenstored on the vines under the snow all winter. The native women and children picked over two gallons yesterday, which they brought to us.
The Kowak Breaking Up.
The Kowak Breaking Up.
May 24.—The Kowak is breaking up and it is a tremendous sight. The water has risen until it is on a level with the bank on this side, and on the opposite side it is spreading out over the tundras. It is covered completely from side to side with a crunching, grinding mass of ice from three to five feet thick. Yesterday there was a jam on a sand-bar below and the ice course was stopped. Then that from above came down with force, crushing and piling into great ridges of blue and green blocks from ten to fifteen feet in height. There must be a tremendous momentum in a moving field of ice. In one place a field many yards in diameter was forced up a steep bank until it toppled over on itself. The banks are plowed by the resistless stream and trees are broken off like threads.
Indian Charley borrowed our kyak, which belongs to Rivers, three days ago to go up and look after a birch canoe which he wanted to carry out of reach of the ice. He was only going as far as the Guardian Camp, and there was plenty of water along the edges there. He was expected back the same day, but has not returned yet. We fear he has lost his life. His father, an old, withered man, who smoked himself last winter when Charley was sick, walks the river bank all day watching, and yesterday afternoon cried and howled a long time, mourning "Kayuruk" who, he said, was surely "mucky" (dead). I saw a birch canoe yesterday crushed and lying on a passing cake of ice.
If this was Charley's he must have met with misfortune. One would think that a native, who has experienced many such occurrences, would know enough to keep out of harm's way. Night before last a couple of the Iowa boys spent two or three hours tramping through the swamp looking for ducks which they kept hearing. But they were not able to catch sight of the authors of the numerous "quacks," which always lured them to greater distance. To-day, after telling everyone of the strange birds, the boys are being "joshed" in true camp fashion. The bullfrogs are appearing in every pond and to-day one has begun his warble in a pool a few feet from the door. We did not expect to see frogs so far north. I fail to see how they resemble the quacking of ducks, but some imagine the sound to be the same. The first mosquitoes are abroad, just a few, a sort of "foretaste," according to Scripture. The birds are arriving in large numbers, like a stampede, and the woods are full of the songs of robins, thrushes, sparrows and warblers. I am working hard, too.
May 31.—Oh, but spring is lovely! I am sure I never spent three such happy weeks, and I have been happy all my life. Yet I have been working hard, some days until I was tired enough to drop. Last week I went up to the mountains and was gone forty-three hours, with only about one hour's sleep. We tramped fifteen miles across the tundra with heavy rubber boots on, sinking into the moss and among the "nigger heads" every step. And then through streams, and snow, and tangles of brush. The second day it rained heavily and we started home at 7 p. m., tramping until midnight, when we reached a point where we had left our boat in a slough about two miles below on the opposite side of the Kowak. While we had been gone the river had fallen and the heavy boat was high and dry. We had to drag it through a narrow channel over mud and grass a hundred yards to the river. And then there was a stiff east wind and a swift current to cross the river against, and we finally had to tow up to the Landing. There were four of us, including Dr. Coffin, who has been my companion in many of these bird hunts, so soon, alas! to be over. I was so tired when I got in thatI fell asleep half undressed and without supper. But I obtained what I went for, and it was worth the hardships—white-winged crossbill's nests. Young, an Iowa man who was with us, fell to his chest in a narrow stream of ice water, and we were all soaked from the rain and dripping under-brush.
The river is entirely free of ice now and people are starting down. Many are passing every day, but they will be unable to go farther than the delta, for the Sound doesn't clear earlier than July 1.
We have heard that the "Helen" is all right and is expected down in a day or two. She may get stuck on a sand-bar. If so I shall have a week longer for the birds. We have been packing all day. I have a good deal of stuff in bulk, though not heavy. I wouldn't blame the boys if they "kicked." We may have to make two trips from here down. We learned that our barge, which we left last fall on the bank of the Squirrel River eighty miles below us, was burned last winter, so our carrying capacity is limited. The steamer "Riley" has been repaired. She came up as far as the Hanson Camp yesterday. Indian Charley has turned up all safe. He has been down to a village below, gambling for another wife.
According to the Eskimos I am to die before the snow is all melted off, because I robbed that jay's nest. Grass is springing up, and last night, while I was strolling through the woods, I found a patch of crocuses. The woods were beautiful, the long, deep shadows contrasting with the yellow sunlight. The silence was intense, and yet there were many sounds—the quavering song of the thrush, breaking out and then dying back; the chorus of frogs from a distant pond, and the occasional demoniacal laugh of a loon. Yet it was silence broken in pieces. The scene from the sand-dunes north across the river was most beautiful. I wish I were able to depict the scene as I perceived it and the indescribable sensations it awakened. I wonder if I were the same age as Uncle Jimmy if I would be impressed the same way. It is something for me to remember all my life, this wonderful winter on the mighty Kowak. And I must bid it "Good-by."
We had a regular thunder storm to-day, with a heavy shower which set the roof to leaking, in spite of the tents stretched over it. Dr. Coffin has inaugurated a new decoration. It denotes rank of vice-president of the L. B. A. M. & T. Co. A double row of safety pins up his shirt front. There are only three of illustrious company at present in the "Penelope" cabin, but all the more need of distinctive decorations.
B., the partially demented individual who might have died of scurvy last winter if we hadn't drawn up his "will" for him, is the source of amusement to us, with his various tricks. He spends most of his time on the river bank watching for passing boats. He hails everyone with a mixed set of questions; first, "Have you any white lead for sale?" second. "Did you have the scurvy?" third, "Where'd you come from?" etc., until the boat is out of hearing. B. has a skiff he is very proud of, and he threatens anyone who touches it. I am on very good terms with him and he tells me whenever he sees a goose on the river (usually it is a loon). He makes a noise in his throat like a chicken disturbed after it has gone to roost. I do not know what will become of him. He is perfectly harmless.
This evening I traded three pounds of raisins for a sailor bag. I have more clothes now than when I left San Francisco, enough to last me five years. Dr. Coffin is a real convert. He is himself a "bird fiend" now, after starting that nickname for me in the beginning, he thinks of stopping this summer at Dutch Harbor. If it keeps on I shall have the whole crew. I think we shall pull out from the company entirely and so escape the turmoil of the ultimate disbandment. There is little hope of realizing from the trip, even on the "Penelope." She cost us enough in the first place, but who knows where she is now?
I just now thought I heard the whistle of the "Helen." There is nothing in sight. That "Helen" haunts me. She it is who will bear me away from this fascinating region. By the way, she has a fine whistle. A better one than any other boat on the river. Perhaps we can trade that whistle for something, even if nobody will accept the gift of the boat and engines. Oh. I forgot; there's Cape Nome. The boys there may have staked out rich claims for us by this time. However. I would be willing to trade all my stock in the L. B. A. M. & T. Co. for some plaster-of-paris, cotton batting and some arsenic.
June 6.—My Last date on the Kowak. The "Helen" arrived on the evening of the 2d. She is O. K. and the eight boys well. They brought down with them a man who is afflicted with black-leg, too helpless to leave.We shall take him to the Mission, so we are now quite a large family. Nearly everyone above has already passed down the river in all sorts of boats and rafts. We have persuaded the rest to remain here a few days, as it will be impossible to get into the Sound so early. We are having a little more time for game. I have taken several sets of rare eggs, and have a number of nests "spotted." But the boys are getting restless and I fear we will have to pull out to-morrow or next day. We are living "high." A varied assortment was served up in the fricassee yesterday—ten old-squaws (ducks), a curlew, two ptarmigan, one loon and a blackbird. Indian Charley brought us twenty fish, so we have plenty of fresh meat, a welcome change of diet for the boys of the upper winter camp, as they have not been afflicted with a bird fiend in their crowd.
Some Friends We Left Behind.
Some Friends We Left Behind.
The steamer "Agnes Boyd" was saved from the ice, but is now high and dry on a sand-bar and the river is still falling. The Hanson boys are having a peck of trouble and the prospects are now that they will not get out until the August rains come. I was out collecting until one a. m. night before last, and the pink sunlight never left the mountain peaks. The trees are nearly full foliaged to a beautiful fresh green, and several varieties of flowers are in bloom. It is too bad to be compelled to leave here just at this season. I certainly can never regret leaving a place or home so much. But such is life. We hesitate moving always. And yet who knows but there may be better prospects further on? It is with something of a lump in my throat and heart that I turn my back on what has been the scene of such wonderful experiences to me. Still I must say it, "Good-by, old Kowak, good-by!" Good-by, mice, little redbacks; good-by, sand-dunes and tundras, winter, spruces, birches, cabin, all. Good-by, Eskimos, funny people, who have a kind heart in a little, brown, superstitious body. Here's the deserted village for missionary souls, houses, woodpiles, pictures yet pinned on the walls, echoes of Sunday services and literary societies—and voices of gold hunters.