Home of the White SheepHome of the White Sheep
There was a low pass over the mountain and we had to wind our way up, down, andaround in order to make it, for it was only accessible by way of an almost perpendicular rock. The leaders reached the top and were required to wait for the rear-guard, but the tail end, before he could get up, had to have the assistance of a rope tied around his body. What with pulling and tugging by the guides on the upper end of the rope, the big fellow was gently and carefully landed in safety. When he reached us he was puffing and blowing like a wind-broken horse and insisted we must camp right there, for he could go no farther. And although we had intended to reach the valley some five miles beyond,where we could get wood and water, we were forced, out of sympathy for a big-hearted, congenial companion, to camp just where we were, he being completely tired out from his trying experience.
After a restless night, with visions of sheep and photographs galore, we were up and ready to start about the time the ptarmigan were clucking their announcement of the rosy dawn. The country was cut into gently-sloping valleys clothed with verdure, between long ridges of mountains partly covered with snow. Through the glasses a dozen or more white specks on the mountain-side could be distinguished as sheep moving slowly as they grazed. We were too far away to tell whether there were any big rams in the flock.
Considering the topographical conditions, the wind and the method of approach, we mapped out ourmodus operandiand started up the ridge of the mountain on the right. It was a long, hard pull and by the time we reached the summit all were wearied, especially my companion, who kept shouting a request not to go so fast. Several hours after we spied the sheep we were crawling stealthily over the backbone of the ridge where we expected to find the flock, but were sadly disappointed. The photographerthrew his kodak back into the case with a quiet “d——”; the other pushed his “safety” on, threw his gun over his shoulder, and turned back with a shaking of the head that was more expressive than language. After examining carefully every likely place, all that we could find of the flock was one lonely little lamb looking at us as though in disgust. Presently it went away down into the valley and we watched it as it ascended the opposite side and disappeared as a little speck over the divide.
When we left camp in the morning the tenderfoot was still in bed and on our return we were surprised to see how happy he was. Pointing to the carcass of a little lamb, and beating his breast with his good right hand, he said: “I’ve got my sheep. No more tramping those d—— mountains for me. I’m going back to camp.” We were very much disgusted to think he would travel six thousand miles and spend so much money to hunt one half-day and then turn “quitter.” We used every argument in our power and as tactfully as possible tried to persuade him not to turn back, but of no avail. Turning to us he retorted: “You old Sourdoughs, I wouldn’t follow you over those mountains for ten thousand dollars.” So with a packerhe started around the mountain towards camp, happy as a lark, promising us he would send the packer back with flour and other provisions. Little did we suspect that he would try to starve us out of the camp and thereby force us to return to headquarters.
According to prearranged plan, we intended to move down the valley and select a camp site where we could get wood. About the time we started the wind blew a gale, bringing rain and sleet. For four hours we tramped through the wet underbrush with the elements pelting and lashing us in their fury. We were drenched to the skin. As soon as our camp site was selected, we threw off our packs in a drizzling rain and each man turned to his task. Two arranged the canvas under a spreading scrub hemlock, for we needed the protection from the wind. Soon a huge fire was going, dispensing its cheerful warmth through the gloom, driving away the blues of my companion, who was beginning to complain a great deal. Disrobing, we hung our wet clothing over the surrounding limbs, where it was soon steaming away, while the hunters were toasting their shins as they waited for dry clothes and liquid refreshment, for by this time the teapot was trying to quench the little side fire and the sizzlinglamb chops were about done to a finish. After a while my friend began to thaw out; turning to me, he said: “Billy, I wonder what our friends would say if they saw us now. I have no doubt they would suggest a committee of the person,” and I answered: “But this is only one side of it. We enjoy life by contrast. When we get into our dry clothing, how we will enjoy it, and when the sun shines to-morrow, how it will fill our hearts with gladness! Every thorn has its rose, the darkest cloud its silver lining.”
Seeking a FordSeeking a Ford
After a good night’s rest and something to eat, we divided into two parties. Mycompanion and his guide going toward the north, I started westward up Benjamin Creek with the intention of crossing, but the current was so swift that it was impossible to find a ford. Although the guide, with me on his back, waded into the ice-cold water several times, he was forced to return for fear of being carried off his feet. On the opposite side of the creek could be seen a great many sheep, some feeding, others lying down on rocky points from which they could command a good view of the surrounding valley. They are very quick to distinguish any strange object a long way off, and before you can get at all near they take to the summit and disappear beyond. In the flock there was not a single head that could be considered a trophy worthy of the chase, even to a tenderfoot. I am sorry I did not have a telephoto lens, for I could have secured a fairly good picture of the group. My friend, George Shiras, III., got many good pictures in this same location with a telephoto lens.
In ecstasy I followed the stream, reveling in the solitude of the rocky fastnesses, where the right of eminent domain is granted by the Creator to none save the cloven-hoofed creatures who have roamed there unmolested from time immemorial. But now they arebeing taught a new lesson. The modern gun in hands controlled by steady nerves and unerring eye sounds the death knell of the species, unless they are given protection. They are learning slowly and by bitter experience that even at any distance they are in imminent danger from the rifle.
Away yonder on the uppermost crag stood His Majesty, as though chiseled out of and forming a part of the very rock itself. A little below stood his companion, another big ram. Selecting the lower sheep for a trophy, I elevated the sights for six hundred yards. I instructed the guide to watch with the field-glasses where the lead struck the rock. A loud report, a great recoil, and a thud carried the message of danger to the curious, though unsuspecting, sheep. The guide said, “A little too high.” In the meantime the rams were nervous and undecided what to do, seeming uncertain as to the exact location of the enemy. Another thud on the rocks, this time below, and then away they went out of sight over the crest. We did not see them again, and they offered the only desirable trophies of their kind that we found on the trip. In the fall the big rams roam together a great deal in the most remote and inaccessible places, the ewesgenerally flocking by themselves. It seems to be the popular belief in that country that the large rams separate from the flocks and withdraw by themselves at that season. We saw several flocks, an average of seventy-five sheep a day, but there were no big rams among them.
Our attention is attracted by a movement on the ground, a glimpse of a marmot, as, making a bolt along its well-worn path, it disappears into a hole, reappears, and again disappears,—a caper which is characteristic of the little animal, as though he were curious to know something definite about the invaders of his domain. This habit frequently gives the hunter a shot, but their tenacity of life is so great that they usually get back into the hole and one seldom recovers the body. Their flesh is quite a delicacy among the natives, as well as to the hunter when hungry. He is conscious of their presence at all times, for their whistling can be heard continually in every direction.
The ptarmigan are plentiful, some partly concealed among the rocks, and some walking about craning their necks, all beautiful in their moulting plumage. Each is in a different stage of transformation from the handsome brown of summer to the more beautifulwinter dress of snow-white. How wonderful are the ways of the Creator for the preservation of the species! If the summer plumage were to remain until the whole land is covered with snow, how easy it would be for the ptarmigan hawk, occasionally seen soaring in the air, to distinguish the bird, make a dart, pick it up for his evening meal—and thus bring about the speedy extermination of this beautiful species! They are so tame you could kill with stones all you would eat. The manner in which nature provides protection for the inhabitants of the snow peaks is illustrated again in the case of the sheep, which are white.
We saw many beautiful little flowers, the bluebell always in evidence, daisies, a bunch of forget-me-nots, and what fascinated me beyond description,—several bunches of violets away above the snow-line. They took me back to the springtime in the Middle States. The wild geraniums were in bloom, varying in color from a delicate purple to a faded hue, with leaves colored from green to scarlet.
When we left the main camp provisions enough to last two days were packed. It was our intention to keep a packer going between camps carrying our supplies; thuswe could move from place to place as light as possible. When Doc returned from the last camp to headquarters with his lamb and a packer to show him the way, he promised faithfully to send the Indian back to us with a good supply of provisions. We suggested writing down the articles desired, but he thought this was not necessary,—that a good supply would be forthcoming. Thus we separated. My companion was uneasy for fear of the Indian not being able to find our camp, for our supplies were getting low. I had no fear from this source, knowing well the natural instinct of a child of the forest for taking our trail, which was so pronounced that even a novice could follow us. You may imagine the chagrin of the party when he returned on the following day with no flour and only bread enough to last one meal. We then came to the conclusion that Doc was tired of the hunt and had adopted this means of forcing us by starvation to return to the provision camp. We hunted all that day with only one small biscuit apiece. It was raining, and in the evening, when we returned to camp wet and hungry, a large fire was built and our wet clothing dried. A tin cup full of boiling hot tea soon revived our depressed spirits. This, with a few ptarmigan roasted on a spit, enabled us to retire in good condition.
By this time my comrade could not stand the hardships any longer and wanted to return to the lake. He insisted that there were no big trophies in the country. I succeeded in getting him to stay a day or two longer by telling him I had seen a large ram. The last day we hunted together we came upon a prospector’s cache. On top of a large stone we noticed a pile of small stones arranged in a way that at first sight indicated the hand of man. Examining the pile we found beans, flour, and dried fruits. Although we had been living on porcupine for two days, the natives refused to touch the cache. There is an unwritten law among prospectors and hunters that is never violated in this far-away land. The cache is never disturbed, for they know full well that some fellow-man is depending upon the provisions to reach civilization, and to disturb it may cost the life of the owner. However, if one in a starving condition helps himself, he leaves his name and the owner considers it an act of humanity. Those only who have been in a similar situation can appreciate what it means. One of the guides insisted it was cached by the owner, who had gone back tocivilization and left it in the hope that some person in great need might find it. How we longed to have a mess of those navy beans, but we had not yet reached the condition where we could help ourselves, for we were only one day’s march from plenty.
Finally my companion had his way, and in the morning, though the weather looked threatening, we started, two of the packers towards camp with the outfit, and the hunters for the summit once more. While resting a little before we made the ascent of a high mountain, my guide pointed out a large moose, with huge palmated horns. He was feeding peacefully in the distance, occasionally looking around as though always on the alert for foes. One horn was still in the velvet, and on the other the velvet was dangling down just ready to drop off, with the red corpuscles on the antlers glittering in the rain.
By and by the clouds began to form on the mountain-tops, and gradually lowered until they enveloped the entire mountains and valleys. Again the rain commenced, and continued a steady downpour for the remainder of the day. The fates were against us in respect to the weather, but we did not have to go hungry, for the marmots wereplentiful, whistling here and there, as though a kind Providence had provided a good supper for the camp. After walking all day in a cold, drizzling rain that was almost sleet, we overtook our packers, who had been traveling since morning in order to reach a camping place where there were both wood and water. We finally reached the foothills, where we found water and scrub spruce in abundance. One of the guides, while “rustling” sticks for fire, ran onto a large porcupine, and between marmot soup and porcupine roast we had an abundance to satisfy the inner man.
After the Indians had eaten their fill,—and the amount they could eat was surprising,—the one that got the brisket had picked it clean and started to twirl it in the air, uttering some chanting words each time he tossed it, until it fell with the narrow side up, then he turned to his companions laughing and shaking his head. Then another went through the same motions. I subsequently learned that if the narrow side turned up frequently this indicated they would have another “porky” on the morrow. Porcupine they prefer to any other kind of meat. The intestines seem to be considered the choice morsels. Our guide would take hold of the intestine withone hand and with the other would strip it of its contents in the various stages of digestion. Then to each man would be allotted hispro ratashare,—and each was careful to see that he got his full portion of the delicacy. Next they would string the sections on sticks and gather round the fire on their “hunkers,” singeing the tidbits more or less, each according to his taste. Upon our inquiring why they did not wash the dainties, they explained that washing spoiled the flavor. There was a great deal of humor about them and they frequently tried to play simple jokes on each other. Occasionally one would reach for the field-glasses, look long and earnestly, then point in the direction of the mountain to some rocks and shout “Mushee”[1](meaning “Sheep”), and when another member of the party would hurriedly reach for the glasses and shout “No mushee,” all would have a laugh at his expense. They are great tea drinkers and when in camp the teapot is always on the fire getting hot for the next cup. If for any reason they were compelled to do without it, they would sulk until they got it.
[1]The term for mountain sheep in the language of the British Columbian Indians is “Scoulaps.”
[1]The term for mountain sheep in the language of the British Columbian Indians is “Scoulaps.”
It rained all night and we did not restwell, although very tired after our trip over long stretches of mountain-side covered with loose stones of all sizes and forms thrown down by the elements from the mountain-top. The bed was hard; the tent was pitched under a scrub hemlock to get protection from the strong wind that was blowing down the pass. The wind moaned and groaned all the fore part of the night, then subsided, but the rain continued till morning. The Nimrods huddled together in a small depression on the ground, with no bed but the rubber blankets and very scanty covering. Our hip bones would get sore, and one would turn and then the other, continually. We were glad to see the dawn of another day. All night long, “drip, drip, drip” in different parts of the tent the rain could be heard. The hunting shoe of my companion, standing upright under one of the largest leaks, proved an opportune receptacle, consequently in the morning his shoe was about half full of rain water. After a breakfast of porcupine stewed with a spoonful of evaporated potatoes and washed down with a cup of tea, we folded our tent and plodded our weary way towards camp. Blueberries and salmon-berries were very plentiful. We found at the higher elevations an abundanceof a species of blueberry, the woody plants of which grew less than three inches in height. They were laden with a small berry, very sweet to the taste, and so plentiful that they could be stripped off by the handful. Among them grew another species as heavily laden with red fruit, which I think was a species of partridge-berry. The two grew about the same height. The Indians preferred the red berries and seemed fond of them. As for myself, I was not partial to them, but ate liberally of the blue.
Among the berries we came upon a covey of ptarmigan feeding. Doc, murderously inclined, fired some ten shots at one of them before it flew. Indeed, so recklessly did he scatter his leaden pellets as the birds rose, that old Shanghai, one of our Indians, called to me: “Hey, Billy, Billy! Come on! Damn! Him make bullets whiz by head!”
As we reached lower levels, the blueberries gave way to salmon-berries. They resemble raspberries in growth and appearance, but have a peculiar tart flavor. They were in great abundance, and were much relished by our party.
We arrived at camp in due time, tired and hungry, but none the worse for our experience, and after a short rest, quite ready foranother tramp through the enchanting forest of birch, Cottonwood, and hemlock.
PtarmiganPtarmigan
On our way through the woods the Indians gathered for snuff-making a great many fungi growing on the birch trees. In preparing the snuff, they first take a birch limb of sufficient size and with a pocket-knife cutout a round hole about two inches in diameter and an inch and a half deep; this is the mortar. The fungi are then placed in the hot coals of a birch-wood fire until they are charred through and through, when they are broken into the mortar with a like amount of tobacco leaves. Then with another piece of birch wood about three feet long for a pestle the mixture is ground in the mortar until it becomes of the color and consistency of a moist snuff. This the Indians continually chew and rub in their teeth. Of the many uses of the noble birch surely this is the most unique.
From the seedling to the giant tree the life history of the birch is one of usefulness to the inhabitants of the wild. The hardwood ridge over yonder looks like the woods in the vicinity of a beaver community, only over a much larger area. Acres and acres of birch trees averaging two inches in diameter are broken off a couple of feet from the ground by the giant moose, which straddle a sapling and bend it down to browse upon the boughs and tender twigs of the top. An old-timer in the country told us that once after a hard winter he came upon several “moose yards” in the spring and found many bodies of moose that had starved to death. He also told us that he had saved the lives of quite a numberby cutting down trees where they could feed and thus tide themselves over a severe spell of bad weather. The birch-buds nourish the grouse during the winter. Birch-bark starts the fire and birch-wood furnishes the fuel. Birch-bark supplies the natives raw material from which to manufacture canoes and various utensils and trinkets. Taking it all in all I do not know of any other tree of the forest that is put to so many uses. An interesting instance of its application to the culinary art comes to mind. According to a tradition in our family, some of whom were pioneers in the Huron district of Canada, the Indians taught them to make a very fair substitute for baking powder out of a compound of the ashes of birch and hickory wood. I am sorry I never learned the formula.
Around the camp fire we gathered just before retiring. The night was dark. The doleful cry of the solitary great northern diver (Urinator imperator) came through the stillness of the invigorating atmosphere, and scarcely would the echo die away in the distant hills until the call was repeated. The bird may have been floating on the surface of the lake, or flying in the air, calling, as it frequently does while in flight. The native Indians, like the sailors, do not takekindly to the laughing of the loon, for there is a superstition among them that it forebodes bad weather or some misfortune. The camp-fire was burning brightly, cutting a luminous hemisphere out of the inky darkness. In the north the aurora borealis was throwing its weird light in streamers stretched in a semicircle over the horizon. While I was admiring these the moon pushing up over the black hilltop across the lake, looked cherry-red. It seemed as though I was under a spell. In my fancy I could see a great boat approaching over the dark water, with a huge search-light just rotating into view and sweeping the northern heavens with its rays. But even as I gazed the full moon appeared in all its northern splendor, the vision dissolved, and I realized that the northern lights and Old Luna had played a prank on me.
The next day we packed our belongings and shifted camp some four miles farther south on the same lake. As soon as the bow of our little boat struck the shore we hopped out and began a reconnoiter for a camp site. A well-worn path across the narrow neck of land separating one little fiord from another attracted our attention. A stroll in that direction disclosed a camp which had latelybeen occupied by some unknown party. On a tree we found the card of our fellow townsman, George Shiras, III., who had recently left the camp for the sheep country. It was like receiving a letter from home. How pleasant the surprise had we been so fortunate as to meet him! The “few days in camp together,” suggested by his invitation of long standing, would have been realized by a strange coincidence. While he left civilization from Seward, we departed by way of Kenai, several hundred miles distant, yet both arrived at the same place, he by way of the upper Kenai and we by the lower.
A hurried pitching of camp in anticipation of rain, which had been incessant for the past four days, with only brief intervals of relief from the downpour, put us in excellent shape, with plenty of spruce boughs for bedding, before the rain began to patter, patter on the stretched canvas. To me a most interesting experience is that of being lulled into dreamland under such conditions. It may be due to the effect of the ozone and to the fact that in the woods one is always tired when night comes.
On the following morning we divided the parties and left camp in different directions. After tramping many miles alone I came toa swamp country. Crossing over one arm of the swamp, wading up to my knees in water, I came upon a path worn almost a foot deep by moose traveling from one place to another. I was unable to figure out why they traveled backward and forward along this particular route. After returning home I learned from Mr. Shiras that not far from this point was a salt lick and the path was the regular route to and from the lick.
The path led through a little depression in a ridge that projected into the swamp. Mounting an elevation in the center of the ridge, I could see on every side little lakes and ponds, surrounded with alders and acres of yellow swamp grass, an ideal home for moose. Taking my field-glass, I looked in every direction for game, and finally my eye rested on a yellowish-brown object, then another and another, which proved to be cow moose feeding among the birches. While resting, there came to my ears from another direction the snapping of bushes. I knew it was a moose feeding, a cow, to be sure. I at once started in the direction whence the sound came, and happened upon three cows feeding and resting. They did not seem to be wild, for on seeing me they threw their ears back and hair forward, just likemules, then walked off a short distance and stopped. In fact, they appeared to be very tame and evidently knew that the law protected their sex. While looking in the finder of my camera I noticed that their curiosity seemed to be aroused and that they were advancing towards me a little too closely for safety. I hurriedly set down my kodak and raised my gun for fear the foremost would take a notion to charge. Just at this moment she wheeled straight around and with a trotting motion, took to the closest cover. Before I returned to camp my intention had been to come back the next day, but I found the entire party had decided to turn homeward the next morning. What an opportunity I missed to get some photographs of big bull moose! The party saw at least ten cow moose that day. Without a doubt, when the rutting season arrived in about ten days, the large bulls, now in the high timber, would be scouring the forests in search of their mates, bellowing in answer to the call of their lady-loves.
As soon as he reached the camp that evening Cheechalker began to inquire about his bath, and his equilibrium was greatly disturbed when the Indians refused to erect a tepee for a sweat box and give him a bath. Theguide, pointing to the crystal water of the lake, said, “Him good water, make good wash.” Now Cheechalker took as kindly to the crystal water as fish take to the land. Finally the party went for a bath, each performing his ablution in installments, and while they were sunning themselves, Old Sourdough took a header into the lake as an example that they might follow. This was too strenuous for the balance of the party and they were satisfied to look on.
A Bath in Lake SkilakA Bath in Lake Skilak
Doc took a stroll along the beach with his shotgun and returned with a brace of snipe. The white crescent over the eye was veryconspicuous between the black bill and slaty-black feathers of the crown.
Pulling stakes after our breakfast was over next morning, we were soon on our way homeward. We were just one day going down the river. The current was very swift and save for a few stops we made excellent time. At two of the worst rapids we all got out and the Indians ran the rapids. Before we pulled into Kenai we were told theBydarkyhad left for Seldovia and would not make another trip for three days, which, if true, would be too late for us to catch the last boat of the season from Seldovia to Seattle. After arriving at Kenai we had about completed arrangements for a little schooner to take us up the inlet to Sunrise, on Turnagain Bay, where we expected to get a train for Seward, in time for the steamer, when, much to our pleasant surprise, the belatedBydarkycame into port on her way to Seldovia. We had been misinformed. We quickly transferred our outfit, much relieved that we would not have to miss the last boat of the season.
At two o’clock in the afternoon the boat left Kenai under full steam for the westward. The waters of the inlet were as smooth as glass and we were making good headway.Not even a gentle breeze was blowing as the sun disappeared behind the snow-covered peaks of Iliamna and Redoubt. The afterglow, reflected from the snowy cap, and the steam bursting from the side of old Redoubt gave it a weird appearance.
All the passengers had retired except Doc and myself, who had been left without a bunk. We first thought we would throw our blankets on the floor of the combination cabin, kitchen, and dining-room. A strong breeze began to blow and we decided to go into the hold for the night, coil ourselves up in our duffel, and go to sleep. The wind increased to a hurricane. What a night we spent down in the hold of that old tub! She was carrying little freight, had no ballast, and could make no time. The tide caught us, and between the outgoing and the incoming tide-rifts the boat was tossed about at the mercy of the elements. When she pitched forward the propeller was out of the water and spun like a button on a barn door. The engine throbbed and beat, stopped and started, with jerks and bounds, and the climax came when it broke.
We were in the most treacherous water of the Pacific, rolling and tumbling in the trough and on the ridge of the high seas. The boatwas drifting out of the charted course and toward a coast bristling with unknown rocks, upon which we were sure of being lost. The instant the engine broke, the engineer came down the hatchway like a meteor. The boat made a plunge and he landed in a heap on top of the doctor, who was so sick that in his misery he did not care whether the craft went down or floated. Righting himself, the engineer made a dash for the engine-room to repair the damage. In the storm the poop deck went to windward over the stern. The repair-men were at work; above the din of the hammer and chisel could be heard the cargo shifting from side to side with the billows. Oh! how I longed to hear again the vibrating of the engine and smell the stench of the fuel oil, which before the storm had made our condition almost unbearable. The doctor lying on the broad of his back lifted his head and stared through the now open poop deck and asked, “Where are those sparks coming from?” I looked up and thought the stack was belching sparks from its fiery bowels. A second look, however, sufficed to show that what seemed to be sparks were the stars as they passed back and forth over the hatch with the rocking of the boat. The illusion was muchmore realistic than the narration of it would indicate.
I mustered up enough courage to crawl to the ladder, climbed up, looked out,—and what a night! The stars seemed large and brilliant enough for planets, the moon almost large and bright enough for the sun. How it danced on the foamy crests of the tide-rifts when the whitecaps broke, throwing the silvery spray all around the heaving, plunging, tossing boat. Iliamna and Redoubt stood in their majesty, silent onlookers at the battle that was waging between the little boat and the powerful elements,—wondering who was going to be the victor. I dropped bade into the hold half believing it was all a dream, when I heard the captain shouting to the pilot, “Keep her head on, head on!” For fear of drifting upon the rocks they were obliged to run many miles out to sea before they dared make the turn for the harbor. I heard him shout to the man at the wheel, “Head her into the harbor as quickly as possible when she is in the next trough!” We had now reached the critical moment,—would they select the right time to make the turn? When the boat was turned halfway to leeward and on the crest, the turbine without resistance spun around at afearful rate, then the engine stopped for a moment and the breakers struck the side a terrific blow, causing the hull to creak and groan as though it were human and about ready to collapse. The water in the cabin overhead swished back and forth and the pots and kettles, as they beat against the walls, kept time with the rolling and plunging of the boat. The old tub righted herself, we had crossed the danger line, and were heading straight for the harbor.
When we reached quiet water the old-timers shook their heads and vowed that was their last trip in theBydarky. What happened in the bunks no one would tell, though at least one of the party said that during the night he had offered many a silent prayer for the safety of the craft. There was a foot of water on the cabin floor, the pots and pans were drifting about amid a flotsam and jetsam of pork and beans, vegetables, and what not.
Thus we reached Seldovia and learned that the steamerPortlandwas about due on her last trip for the season. Coming home by way of the inside passage, we had a pleasant trip, full of interest in a hundred ways. On one occasion, while many miles from land, a curious little bird came flutteringfrom mast to mast. Evidently on its way south it had become exhausted in the long flight from some northern point and had taken a short cut across the water. Finally one of the passengers caught the little fellow and it proved to be a crossbill. The mandibles of this species are considerably crossed to assist in picking seeds from the pine cones of the northern land. It stayed with us all day and seemed to be perfectly contented and satisfied to be caressed in the open hand, but just as soon as the boat neared land it took to wing and with a graceful flight reached the timber safely. So the days passed until in due time we arrived at Seattle, where we took the train for the East.
In the spring I had made all preparations for a trip to Newfoundland, and arrived at North Sidney to take the steamerBrucefor Port aux Basques. Walking into the offices of the company upon the dock to make arrangements for my passage, my attention was attracted to a little group of men. I learned that the Government doctor was vaccinating every passenger before allowing him to enter Newfoundland, because at this time Sidney had an epidemic of smallpox. One of the officers shouted to me: “Here you, going over? Bare your arm.” I answered, “Not for me,” knowing it would be useless to go into the woods with a punctured arm. Just a little while before the boat cleared I slipped aboard, heard the officer shout “Cast away!” and we were off for Port aux Basques.
The sea was rough and in the morning allthe “landlubbers” were “pale behind the gills.” On landing, every person called upon the customs officer to have his baggage cleared, and I was required to leave a deposit of fifty dollars for the return of my Auto Graflex camera. The train was scheduled to start in a few minutes, and all the passengers were aboard waiting for more than an hour, wondering what was delaying the start. Inquiry developed the fact that the trainmen were waiting for the wind to subside before they would venture across the viaduct over a swamp a few miles out. It seems that the train had been blown off the track several times by a strong wind. We finally crossed in safety.
Among the passengers were several fishing parties, and they were bubbling over with good fellowship in anticipation of the excellent sport they were going to have in pursuit of their favorite pastime. I believe every person should have a hobby of some kind to divert his mind from his burdens and petty cares. A chance to do something that we like fills us with pleasant thoughts, both in anticipation and realization. Several of the fishermen returned on the same train with me; they looked much better and were quite talkative about “whipping the stream,” their “wonderful casts,” and the “big fellows” they didn’t get. Their hearty appearance confirmed my theory.
Passing through the country, as far as the eye could reach we looked out over barrens covered with moss. Here and there a small body of blue water, like a jewel, broke the monotony. Perhaps a solitary duck floated peacefully on its glossy surface, waiting for the little brood soon to appear. Away over yonder on the opposite shore of one of the lakes stood a sentinel, the sandhill crane (Grus mexicana), knee-deep in the water, sedate and motionless, waiting an opportunity to catch some unsuspecting fish that might fortunately pass his way. The countless herds of caribou had returned to the north and were scattered all through the woodland hills, attending to their domestic duties. Towards evening the fishing parties began to drop off, one by one, at Middle Brook, Fischel’s Brook, and Harry’s River, all ideal streams for salmon and trout. They seemed scarcely able to restrain themselves until the morrow, when they could joint their rods, wade the crystal water, and cast the Jock Scott or Silver Doctor into the riffles again and again in anticipation of a strike.
Arriving at Bay of Islands in due time, we found it a very interesting place, sloping gently up from the water’s edge, with here and there a two-story frame house on its few acres of clearing. The inhabitants live almost wholly by fishing. Each had his own salmon net stretched out at some little projection of rocks in the bay, for the salmon were just beginning to run.
A guide employed, we made a trip up a long valley by the old “Twitchen” road, used years ago and grown up with alder, fir, and balsam so as to be almost closed; up the old caribou path, worn at some places three feet deep in the moss and soft black mire by countless herds of caribou that had passed beyond. To one looking backward before crossing over the divide, as far as the eye could see extended the blue waters of the bay, with the snow-capped mountains in the distance, and in the foreground the park-like lowlands where the stately caribou roamed at will.
Bay of IslandsBay of Islands
Constructing a RaftConstructing a Raft
One Took to the WoodsOne Took to the Woods
Our objective point was a small lake nestled somewhere in the direction we were going, among the pine, birch, and spruce, but on the way we missed the location and got lost in the undertaking. My guide climbed a tree in order to get a peep of the lake, butwithout success. While wandering about we heard from afar the doleful “who, who, hum, hee” of the loon. We had considerable difficulty determining the direction of the sound, but finally made a bee-line for the lake. No sooner had we put in an appearance than from a small grassy island in the middle of the lake a dozen or more herring gulls (Larus argentatus smithsonianus) rose into the air, uttering their distressed, plaintive cries as they soared round and round. After getting a cup of tea and a bite to eat, we cutdown four or five old tree stubs, bone dry from years and years of exposure to the elements. Lashing them together with redwood twisted into a “gad” and propelling the impromptu raft with a pole, we landed safely on the island. Our appearance startled from their island home three little birds, whose whitish down was covered with irregular dusky spots. In their excitement one took to the woods, and when requested to pose for its picture displayed all the resentment and fierceness charged to the American herring gulls. The others took to the water. I am almost surethis was their first experience in the water, and how the little flesh-covered palmated feet churned it in their desperate efforts to lend the enchantment of distance to the view of their unwelcome visitors. The colony had almost deserted its annual nesting-ground, but here and there a tardy mother bird had not completed incubation, and the little chicks were about due and calling to be released from their prison. At the point of the island, just at the water-line, we found a loon’s nest (Urinator imber). Its two big olive-brown eggs (size 3.50” × 2.25”), marked with dark brown spots, were lying on thebare, wet ground, with a few rootlets scattered here and there. The old pair floated gracefully on the surface of the water some three hundred yards in the distance, without uttering a sound. What a contrast between the gull and the loon in this respect,—the gulls soaring in the air above us with great excitement and noise, the loons quiet and apparently resting peacefully in the blue distance! The water in the lake was higher than usual. A family of beaver (Castor canadensis Kuhl) had dammed the entrance and had taken possession by building their home close at hand. Occasionally from the fortifications came across the lake a report almost as loud as a gun, the smack of the beaver’s flat tail on the water as he disappeared when alarmed by the intruders.
One of the OthersOne of the Others
After taking several photographs we boarded our raft, crossed over to mainland, and returned homeward in the dead stillness of the evening. Softly we make our way through the forest, our feet sinking deep into the moss, turning over with our toes the evergreen oval-shaped leaves of the trailing arbutus (Epigæa repens), exposing to the light of day the beautiful delicate flower that loves sylvan seclusion. Again and again I plucked a cluster which filled the air with a fragrant perfume thatmingled with the odor of the pine; then I thought of the lines,
“Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,And waste its sweetness on the desert air.”
Trailing ArbutusTrailing Arbutus
On the following day we took the train for the head of Deer Lake, some thirty miles away. After leaving the train we pulled our boat across the lake and pitched our tent on an island at the mouth of the Upper Humber River. The day was beautiful, and the sun hot enough that the eggs of the mosquito, deposited at dawn, were wigglers by noon. All day long the black flies madeour lives miserable, and as night approached the “nippers” took their place. Our tent was brand-new and erected with the most painstaking care, but we were unable to keep them out. We made ourselves busy before retiring for the evening by killing everything in sight, black flies, mosquitoes, and spiders, and then we tucked ourselves away on the balsam fir bed for a night’s rest. But no sooner were we fixed nicely than the music began, and they seemed to come from every direction, so the fight was renewed again and again until we had exhausted ourselves and our “dope,” and fell asleep from sheer weariness. Their favorite point of attack seemed to be behind the ears, and the singing still continued, adding considerably to the torment. In the morning our brand-new tent looked like a slaughter house, all blotched over with red, each mark indicating the death of one of the vicious little pests.