Anthropological Survey in Alaska

by Aleš Hrdlička

The Diomedes

Late that night we leave slowly for the Diomede Islands, the nearer of which is only about 18 miles distant. The two islands lie, as is well known, just about in the middle of the Bering Strait. One is known as the larger or Russian, the other as the smaller or American Diomede. The boundary line between Russia and the United States passes between the two. Both islands have been occupied since far back by the Eskimo. To-day there is one small village on the American and two small settlements on the Russian island.

July 26. Up at 5.40, breakfast 6, and off in one of our staunch motor boats, with Jenness, for the Little Diomede. Countless birds flying in streams about the island.

The island is just a big rock, with barren flat top and steep sides, covered where inclination permits with great numbers of larger and smaller granite bowlders. There is neither tree nor brush here. The village, if it deserves that name, with a school, occupies an easier slope, facing the larger island across a strait seemingly about a mile broad. There are but a few dwellings, due to local necessities and conditions built above ground and outside of stone. One that was entered showed a dark fore-room, a storage attic, and a cozy somewhat lighted living and sleeping back room, entered through a low and narrow entrance. The houses seem to be built on old débris of habitations, and there are refuse heaps, one of which was eventually worked in by Doctor Jenness, though without much profit.

The bowlder-covered slope above the village was the burial ground of the natives. (Pl. 5, b.) Unfortunately most of the skeletal remains have been collected by a former teacher and then left and lost. With Doctor Jenness and the present teacher, himself an Eskimo, we climb from bowlder to bowlder and collect what remains. The work is both risky to the limbs and difficult in other respects. The large bowlders are piled up many deep; and there being little or no soil, there are all sorts of holes and crevices between and underneath the stones. Deep in these crevices, completely out of sight or reach, nest innumerable birds (the little auk), and their chatter is heard everywhere. But into these impenetrable crevices also have fallen many of the bones and skulls of the bodies that have been "buried" among the bowlders, and also doubtless many of the smaller articles laid by the bodies.

The burials here were made in any suitable space among the rocks. The body was laid in this space, without any coffin and evidently not much clothing. About it and on the rocks above were placed various articles. We found clay lamps, remnants of various wooden objects, the bone end pieces of lances, and finally one or two pieces of driftwood to mark the place. Here the bodies decayed and what was left had either tumbled or was washed by rain into the crevices. It was suggested, however, that much may have been taken by dogs and foxes. Some of the skulls and here and there one of the larger bones remained, to eventually be covered by moss and eroded. With the help of Doctor Jenness and the teacher I was able to find five male and seven female crania in fair condition, which will be of much value in the study of this interesting contingent of the Eskimo.

No evidence in the graveyard among the rocks of any great antiquity, nothing more than perhaps a few scores of years. But traces of older burials would surely be completely lost among the rocks, though they may lie in the deep crevices and holes where they can not be reached.

Upon return am treated to a cup of good hot coffee—never can get a real hot cup of coffee on the boat—and excellent bread, made by the Eskimo wife of the teacher; and see his family of fine chubby children. Can not help but kiss his girl of about 10—she is so fresh and innocent and pretty. Obtain also from the wife of the teacher a good old hafted "jade" ax, though she hesitates much to part with it—it used to belong to her grandmother; and from the teacher himself a number of interesting articles in old ivory. Leave Doctor Jenness. Have learned to like him much, both for his careful work and personally, in our short association; and at 11 a. m. return to the boat.

Cold, but calm and sunny. Sit on boxes at the very end of the good old Bear. See Asia, the two Diomedes, and Seward Peninsula, all in easy reach, all like so many features of a big lake. Pass around Greater Diomede.

There never could have been any large settlement on the Diomede Islands—they are not fit for it. The Great Diomede has just two mediocre sites, which are occupied now each by about half a dozen dwellings. A small old settlement, a few stone houses, has also once existed, I am told, on the elevated top of the larger island opposite the Little Diomede. On the latter only the one visited—everywhere else the steep slopes or walls come right down into the water, and there is even no landing possible (or only a precarious one at best) except where we landed. The old natives of the Little Diomede are said to have believed that another village had once existed farther out from the present site and that it has become submerged. The evidence cited (told by the native teacher) is not conclusive, and no indication of such a settlement could be seen from the beach. But in front and possibly beneath the native houses, in the old refuse, there may be remnants of older dwellings.

Just passed from Monday to Tuesday, and then back to Monday, all in a few hours—the day boundary. We are now just north of the Bering Strait and see all beautifully, in moderate bluish haze.

A grand panorama of utmost anthropological interest. A big lake, scene of one of the main migrational episodes of mankind. Sea just wrinkling some, day calm, mostly sunny, mildly pleasant, with an undertone of cold.

How trivial feel here the contentions about the possibilities of Asiatic migrations into America. There can be no such problem with those who have seen what we now are witnessing. Here is a great open pond which on such days as this could be traversed by anyone having as much as a decent canoe. As a matter of fact it has always been and is still thus traversed. (Pl. 6, a.) The Chukchee carried on a large trade with America, so much so that we find the Russians complaining of their interfering with their trade. (Pl. 6, b, c.) The Diomede people stand in connection on one hand with the northeastern Asiatics and on the other hand with the whites as far as Nome, where most of them go every summer to sell their ivory and its products and bring back all sorts of provisions. And in the same way the King Islanders come every summer to Nome, on the east end of which, as the Diomedes on the west, they have their summer habitations. (Pl. 7, a, b.) Only a year or two ago, the natives tell, an Eskimo woman of St. Lawrence Island set out alone in a canoe with her child to visit a cousin on the Asiatic coast, 50 miles distant, and returned safe and sound after the visit was over.

BUREAU OF AMERICAN ETHNOLOGY FORTY-SIXTH ANNUAL REPORT PLATE 5

a, Cape Prince of Wales from the southeast. (A.H., 1926)

b, Village and cemetery slope, Little Diomede. (A.H., 1926)

BUREAU OF AMERICAN ETHNOLOGY FORTY-SIXTH ANNUAL REPORT PLATE 6

a, Asiatics departing for Siberia from the Little Diomede Island. (Photo by D. Jenness, 1926)

b, "Chukchis" loading their boat with goods on Little Diomede Island, before departure for Siberia. (Photo by D. Jenness, 1926)

c, "Chukchis" loading their boat with goods on Little Diomede Island, before departure for Siberia. (Photo by D. Jenness, 1926)

BUREAU OF AMERICAN ETHNOLOGY FORTY-SIXTH ANNUAL REPORT PLATE 7

a, Eskimos from East Cape arriving at Nome, Alaska

b, East Cape of Asia (to the southward). (Photo by Joe Bernard)

BUREAU OF AMERICAN ETHNOLOGY FORTY-SIXTH ANNUAL REPORT PLATE 8

A Group of Women at Shishmaref

(Taken at 2 a. m. by A. H., 1926.)

To bed dressed—the captain tells me we shall soon be at Shishmaref, on the north shore of the Seward Peninsula, and that he will have me called, if I want to visit the village.

Awake 11.30 p. m. At 11.45 word comes that we have arrived and a boat is getting ready. On deck in five minutes. Of course it is still light—there is no real night any more in these regions.

Have a cinnamon roll—the night specialty for the crew on the Bear—and a bowl of coffee. The natives, two boats full, already coming, and a fine full-blooded lot they show themselves to be. They are accompanied by Mr. Wegner, a big, pleasant young teacher.

Leave natives trading and set off in ship's boat. The Bear is anchored about 1⅓ miles off. Fortunately fairly quiet or we should not be able to go ashore. Teacher and a young English-speaking native go with us. We have the launch and the skin whaleboat. Anchor first off shallow beach and transfer into the skin boat for the landing.

Tuesday, July 27. It is about 12.30 a. m. Many native women, youngsters, and some men gather about us at the school. Talk to them—explain what I want, which is mainly skulls and bones—all quite agreed. Take two young natives, some bags, and proceed to where they lead me.

Find, about half a mile from the present village, a big and important old site, which existed up to the white man's time. But dunes on which burials were made and house sites have been largely graded by a fox-farm keeper and trader, Mr. Goshaw. He had gathered many skulls—shows me a photo of two rows, at least 40—will not tell what he did with them. Says he sent "many things to the Smithsonian," but can give no details, "and to the universities," but will not mention which. Also "buried a lot." Bad business.

Gathering what is possible from the débris thrown out by the Eskimo working for the fox farm, we proceed rapidly from mound (dune) to mound. Find burials still on the surface in situ—i. e., nearly buried by the rising carpet of the vegetation—but skulls gone. Many of those on remaining heaps imperfect, but at least something can be saved. Collect all that is worth collecting. See Mr. Goshaw—get but little out of him. Donates a few archeological specimens of no great value—has no more.

We hurry on to the other village and burial ground, almost a mile west of the present settlement. Find only a small pile of bones, with one whole male skeleton of fairly recent date.

Then back, as fast as possible, the Indians carrying the bags with bones, and load on boat. My shoes and feet have long since become thoroughly wet, after which Mr. Wegner loaned me wool socks and native shoes that protected my feet. But now these must be left behind and I have to get into my wet, cold shoes—socks too wet. Officers in a hurry to get back. It is now 3.00 a. m.; the sun rose about 1.30. Pay my men, change shoes, photograph women (pl. 8) and then men—all pleasant and willing. See a few poor articles of archeological nature—not worth getting; and after a hearty handshake with the teacher we take off through the somewhat rougher water to the whaleboat, then on to the motor boat and the ship. Arrive with six bags of specimens, reaching boat just a little after 4. Sleepy captain meets us, but luckily shows no grudge, though this stop and his loss of sleep were essentially for me. Though it would seem they could have readily waited for our going ashore until morning, or have given me a little more time at the Diomedes, which would have brought us here later. Am too much awake now and worked up to sleep. Lie down a while but fully awake. Total sleep last night 2½ hours. But it was worth it, except for the vandalism.

Pack—inadequate boxes—until 3.30 p. m. Whole collection made last night put in order. But back and knees stiff. Weather two-thirds fair (my own estimate), some wind, sea choppy. Lie down but can not sleep.

At 5.30 off Kotzebue. Due to shallowness of water must anchor far out of sight. At 6 go to land in ship's larger launch. Waves rather bad, much tossing about and spray, have to get behind the canvas canopy that is raised over one seat. It is 15 miles from where the Bear is anchored to the Kotzebue village—over two hours of (at times) rather violent tossing up and down and sidewise. Run for a part of the time not far from beach—a number of isolated, orderly fish camps—lots of fish drying. Wonder at not getting seasick again—it must be the open air or difference of movement.

Kotzebue village lies around a point on a not very high, flat bank, facing the bay of three rivers (Selavik, Kobuk, Noatak). As we approach I count over 50 clean tents of Eskimos, about 15 frame houses and stores, and many skin and other boats on beach or in water. Many natives hurry to meet us.

Go ashore. Thomas Berryman, the trader, with the local judge and two or three other whites come also to meet us. After getting acquainted inquire about possibility of exploring the Kobuk and reaching the Koyukuk and Yukon. But all that I learn is uncertain and discouraging. There are but few native villages on the river, all Eskimo; and higher up the water is rapid, necessitating much hauling of the boat by the natives, which is costly; upon which follow three or four days' portage. The trip would cost much, and no loads over 40 pounds to a man could be carried.

Only a few old sites hereabouts are known by those whom I have a chance to ask. Say there is a somewhat important one at Cape Krusenstern. Mr. Berryman has from there a big stone (slate) lance. He also has a huge piece of serpentine, over 80 pounds in weight, with a moderate depression in top and some cutting (old native work), said to have been used as a lamp. Wants to keep this and spearhead, but donates an old rusty tin box full of smaller things and promises to obtain skulls for us; and I get a similar promise from a man (probably one of Mr. Berryman's storekeepers) from farther up the country.

Later meet here Mr. Chance, the school superintendent of these parts; a young and not prepossessing man, but one who steadily improves on closer acquaintance. Learn from him of a skeleton recently dug out from the ground under the schoolhouse.

See many natives, all Eskimo, good looking, clean, and kind. Some mix bloods, but the majority pure. Good to moderate stature, well proportioned though not fat body, medium to somewhat lighter brown color, physiognomies less typical Eskimo than hitherto and often strongly like Indian. Too late and dusky to photograph.

Go to see the teacher and find that the skeleton he dug out was placed by him in an open box, pushed as far as possible under the rafters of the floor of the schoolhouse and covered with gravel and earth. There are four of us—start hurriedly digging for it, remove with shovel, hoe and arms about a ton of the "filling"—and can not reach the box. It is 10 p. m., the wind rising, officer comes and urges me to get back to the boat. So must leave with promise that the box will be gotten out and await me on our return from the north. Have by this time decided the best policy will be to go with the Bear as far as she may go. Load empty boxes, some packing—and one of the young white men who have been digging with us runs up from the distant schoolhouse announcing that they "struck" the box. Urge him to run back as fast as he can and get it. Luckily the postmaster and a good many others who came to see us off delay us; also the transfer of the mail and boxes to the larger boat. Finally, after a good many anxious looks, I see at last the two young men appear, one with a wheelbarrow on which is the box of bones. Bones look not very old, and Eskimoid at first sight, but take box, which contains a good deal of gravel, carry it through the very interested Eskimo to the boat, all get in, hurried good-bys to everybody, and we are off.

A two and a half hours' trip once more, and the last more than half of it very rough. Such tossing and dancing and dipping and twisting, with the spray, fortunately not cold, shooting high up at times, or an angry wave splashing over. But the boat is large and strong and so eventually we reach the Bear, which was completely out of sight until about an hour after we started, and in a few minutes off we go to the north. A little fruit, bed, and know nothing more until near 7 the next morning. It was a long day—over 25 hours in a stretch without a wink. Yet did not feel bad; the work and good nature of people about and those met with, with some success, are good tonics.

Wednesday, July 28. All of us have to consult the calendar to be sure of the day and date.

Sort and wash Berryman's specimens—a nice lot of little things, mainly of stone, slate, flint, etc.

Then go after my bones. Find the spray made the earth and gravel in the box thoroughly wet, so that it is necessary carefully to excavate all the bones. Find a male, rather short-statured, typically Eskimo. May have been a burial of the Russian times. Wire for all details. Must dry bones. Meanwhile try to catch up with notes. Toward evening expect to be in another village. Weather fair. Have passed the Arctic Circle during night, but it is not cold nor in any way strange here. Sunset coloring lasts long and passes into that of sunrise—no real night, no stars; but moon seen late at night and far to the south.

May this weather continue, for in rough weather landing at any of these places—there are no harbors whatever and always shallows and bars and shoals—would be extremely risky or impossible and my work, for which I feel ever more eager, would suffer. If only I could see all worth seeing, and stay a little longer when I find what I am after.

We reach Kevalina. It is just a schoolhouse and about seven sod houses. Only a native school teacher, from whom I do not get much.

No remains or old site very near, but an old village, with "good many things," exists on the Kevalina River within a few hours' distance (by canoe) from Kevalina.

Natives bring old adzes (mounted by them, however), and a harpoon handle from the old site—bought.

Spend rest of day in washing, sorting, and packing specimens.

After supper am invited to the officers' room and given by Lieut. M. C. Anderson a fine selection of old ivory harpoon heads and other things. Many of these are from the old site on the St. Lawrence Island, and especially from little isles off that island named Punuk. All this strengthens the importance of those islands for regular exploration.

Thursday, July 29. In anticipation of being called up again during the night, at Point Hope, which is evidently another important spot for archeological exploration, for the natives are said to bring many old articles for sale each year, I do not undress and go to bed earlier, but have, because of the anticipation, closeness of air, and a cat jumping on my face just as I am dozing off, a very poor night; and no call came after all. In the morning there are cold showers, the sky is much clouded, and the wind keeps on blowing from the north-northwest, threatening, the officers say, to drive the ice toward this shore, which would be bad for us. It is cool and disagreeable. We have anchored to the south of the spit on which stands the village and can not unload or get ashore. Nor can the natives come here to us.

The village consists of a schoolhouse, a little mission (Rev. F. W. Goodman), an accumulation of houses, semi-subterraneans, and tents. A few tents are also seen a good distance to the right—a reindeer camp. Otherwise there is nothing but the long, low, sandy, and grassy spit projecting far out into the ocean.

Later. The north-northwest still blows, and so the ship has to anchor to the south of the long spit on the point of which is the village. Of this but little can be seen, just a few houses, and it seems near and insignificant.

The captain is evidently waiting again for the natives to come out, and I am helpless. Finally, however, a boat is made ready and I am taken to the shore with the mail. This is piled on the beach, and with two officers we start to walk toward the dwellings opposite to us, which are the mission. Heavy walking in the loose sand and gravel of the steep beach, and as we ascend it is seen the buildings which seemed so near to the shore are about a mile or more away.

A man coming toward us—the missionary, Archdeacon Goodman. Tell him my mission; says he has some business on the ship, but will come, and there will be no trouble in helping me to a "good deal of what I want," which sounds fine.

In the absence of the missionary, go to see the teacher. The school is over a mile in the direction toward the point. Find him at home and helpful. In 15 minutes, with his aid, engage two native boys, give two sacks to each, and send them out over the long flats (old beaches) to pick up every skull and jaw they can find. They go cheerfully, and we depart shortly after to see Mr. La Voy, a movie-picture man, who has been staying here for some time making movie pictures of the natives, and at the same time collecting all the antiquities they could bring him. We go to see his collection, but find him not home; has gone for mail. The rare mail in these regions is, of course, the most important of events. So back to the school (a good many rods from the sod house part of the native village to the left), and then—it is now near noon—to the mission, a good mile from the school and more from the village.

Road staked on one side with whale ribs about 2 rods distance. Flats on both sides show many parts of bleached human bones. They are a part of the old extensive burial grounds. Unfortunately, about two years ago the predecessor of the present missionary had most of the skulls and bones collected and put in a hole in the new cemetery, now seen in the distance to the right of the mission. This new burial place is surrounded by a unique whale-rib fence. Reach mission, but no one there. Does not look good. Try one building and door after another—no one—learn later that the missionary has no family. Twenty minutes to 1. Nothing remains but to go back to the school for some lunch. So leave my raincoat, camera, and remaining bags (expecting to do main work on the buried bones) and hurry back to the school, which I reach just after 1, and, thanks to their late clock, just in time for a modest lunch, but with a real hot cup of coffee. Queer that the only genuinely hot cups of coffee I got on this journey were furnished by Eskimo—for Mrs. Moyer, the wife of the teacher, is an Eskimo.

Then comes the mail and Mr. La Voy, and I go to see the latter's collection.

Find a mass of old and modern material, of stone, bone, and wood. All the older things are from an old site on the point. It is an important and large site, as found later (at least 50 houses), which the natives (getting coffee, tea, chewing gum, chocolate, candy, etc., for what they find) are now busy digging over and ruining for scientific exploration. Women dig as well as men, confining themselves to from 2 to 3 uppermost feet that have thawed; but even thus finding a lot of specimens. Bones, of course, and other things are left and no observation whatever on the site is made. It is a pity.

Mr. La Voy donates some stone objects, mainly scrapers, and then I go with a native he employs to the "diggings." Find much already turned over—one woman actually digging—but very much more still remaining. Examine everything—site evidently not ancient but of the richest—and then return with the woman to get some of her "cullings."

On the way am called by a man whose sod house (semisubterranean) we pass. We sit on the top of his house and soon establish a regular trading place, with a big flat stone as a counter. One after another the native women and men bring out a few articles, good, bad, or indifferent, lay them on the stone, I select what I want, lay so much money against the articles, and usually get them. Everybody in the best of humor. The natives surely enjoy the sport, and so do I, if only I was not hurried. Thus trade for at least an hour until my pockets are bulging. Then once more to the school and once more to the mission. In the latter get my things, as nobody is there yet, Doctor Goodman having doubtless been delayed on the boat. I hear that there are prospects of both him and Mr. La Voy going north with us on a little vacation. Send the coat with spare bags to the school by a native I meet, while I go to look at the rib cemetery and photograph it. Find the bones have been interred in its middle and a low mound raised over them, so there is for the moment nothing to do there. Therefore go over the plain a little farther, picking up a few odds and ends, a damaged skull, and finally, from a fairly recent burial box, a fine skull with its lower jaw. Then attempt to pass a pool of water and sink in the mud to above my rubber boots, so that the icy water runs in, wetting me thoroughly, and gurgling henceforth with every step in the shoes. Try to get these off but can not. The feet must be congested. So spill out all I can by raising the feet, and then do some hard walking which takes away the cold.

Evening, though no dusk approaching. Sit on gravel to empty more water from shoes, but can still hardly get one off. And just as I succeed I see, across another long pool, two men, one with a cap of an officer of the ship, waving their arms, evidently signifying to me that the time is up and I am to return. Call to them to wait. Impossible to make them hear me or for me to hear them. All here is elusive—enchanted-like—distances, sounds. Finally they stop. I catch up with them after passing a broad ditch, and learn that the ship is about to sail and they are waiting for me. My coat, however, and collections are still at the school, over a mile away, so once more it is necessary to hurry to the school and then back to the ship. So things go when promises go wrong and one is alone under a constant apprehension.

The boys collected four bags full. Moreover, they undertook to bring them toward the boat, and are bringing the last two just as I approach the beach. There are Eskimos on the beach with dog teams and sledges waiting to cart off what was unloaded from the ship. Photograph one of the teams and then on into the boat and to the Bear with the four bags, a box full, part of another bag, and all pockets full of specimens. Only to learn when we reach the boat that both Doctor Goodman and Mr. La Voy are going with us and that the former after supper is still to go and get his things from the mission. I have no boat to go back with, and so lose several hours.

July 30. Gloomy morning, windy, cool, sea not good. Do not feel easy. But need to pack. One of the officers, Boatswain Berg, lends me his short sheepskin coat, and I pack up to lunch. The sea is getting worse. Have but little lunch and soon after have to take to bed or would again be sick. To avoid the pitching of the end of the boat where my bed is I go to the dispensary and lie until 6. From 6 on the sea moderates somewhat, so that I am able to have a little supper. After that go to officers' wardroom, play two games of checkers with the doctor, get some more specimens from two of the officers, and retire.

When I boarded the Bear it became plain to me that I must earn as much as possible the sympathetic understanding of my work by both the officers and the crew, and so I gave two talks, one to the officers and the other to the men, telling them of our problems in Alaska, of the meaning and value of such collections as I was making, and of other matters that I felt would be useful on this occasion. As a result I had throughout the voyage nothing but the friendliest feelings of all and their cooperation. Sincere thanks to the officers and the crew of the Bear, from the captain downward.

Saturday, July 31. At 4.30 a. m. suddenly a heavy bump forward, followed by several smaller ones. Ship rises and shivers. Have struck ice floes. Going very slowly. Further bumps at longer or shorter intervals and occasionally the ship stops entirely. Sea fortunately much calmer.

Up at 7. We are in a loose field of ice—aquamarine-blue ice covered with hillocks of snow, all shapes and sizes, as after a hard winter on the Hudson, only floes mostly larger and especially deeper.

Soon after breakfast hear walrus and seals had been observed on the ice, and shortly before 9 the captain comes down hurriedly to tell us they have just spied—they now have a man in the crow's nest up on the foremast—a white bear.

Run up—everybody pleasurably excited—to the front of the ship. See a black-looking head of something swimming toward a large ice floe about 500 yards in front of us. As we approach the head reaches the floe, then a big yellowish paw comes out upon the ice, then the shoulders, and finally the whole bear. The officers hurry forward, each with a gun. Soon men all there. Some one fires. Bear stands broadside watching us. The bullet goes way over. Then other shots—still missing—water spouting high in many places. Bear bewildered, does not know what to do, lopes off a little here and there, stops again, looking at us, and now—we are less than 100 yards from him it seems—a bullet strikes him above the loin—we can see him jerk and the red spot following. He runs clumsily, but other shots follow, some seemingly taking effect, and then he drops, first on his belly, then, twisting, turns over on his back. A few more movements with his paws and head, and he lies still, quite dead. Can not but feel sorry for the poor bear, who did not know why he was being killed, and had no chance.

A motor boat is lowered and goes to get him. They find on the floe the remains of a seal on which he fed. Tie a rope to him, drag him into the water, tow him to the Bear, which has stopped and where all stand on the bows in expectation and with all sorts of cameras, and prepare to hoist the brute aboard. Captain says it is the second case of this nature in 20 years. Ropes are fastened about the big body, attached to a winch, and the big limp form is hauled up, though not without some difficulty, due to its size and weight. All stand about him, examine, photograph. They will let the natives at Wainwright skin it and give them the flesh. It is a middle-sized, full-grown male. It shows only two wounds, the one in the side and one where the bullet passed through his mouth, knocking out one of the canines.

Cold—must put on second suit of underwear. Very gloomy, but storm abated. No land in sight—above Cape Lombard all is flat. It rains in that direction. We meander among the floes, now and then bumping and shivering. Should a wind come up and blow the ice landward we would be in danger of being closed in and stopped or delayed.

Evening. Arrive off Wainwright. Village recent—older site 20 miles away. People the usual type of Eskimo. Visit the village, but soon return.

After supper the boat stops—fear the ice. Another passenger is added here, Jim Allen, the local trader, with a bagful of white fox skins and a bear skin. Conditions becoming a bit crowded.

Sunday, August 1. No movement to-day. They are apprehensive of the ice, and so we stay here, the one place of all where there is nothing for me to do. Of course there are the natives, but with the constant uncertainty as to when we shall start and a lack of facilities I can not do much with them.

The weather is quiet but still cloudy, though the sun may possibly peep out. Ice seen in the offing. Would be more interesting to be in it, as yesterday. The bear has been skinned, cut up, and we shall try some of its flesh at noon. Rest of day quiet but still mostly cloudy, though occasionally a little of pale, lukewarm sun. At 3.30 give lecture to the officers and fellow passengers on the subject of evolution. Seems quite appreciated. Reading, writing, and walking the deck fills the time. Ate a little of the bear meat—somewhat tough, otherwise not much different from reindeer or even beef. If better prepared (especially roasted on coals) would be quite palatable.

Yesterday there were several flurries of snow, none to-day, but air cold enough to make a long stay outside disagreeable.

Toward evening Captain announces that he is going to try to reach Barrow, about 80 miles northeastward, and soon after supper we start. He also tells me we may be there at or not long after midnight and so to be ready, for the boat will be unable to stop more than an hour or two. As the only place where a few skulls and bones may be found is about 1½ miles outside of the village and it takes a good 30 minutes to make a mile over the tundras, I shall have to rush once more. But I am promised a man to help me.

August 2. With clothes on, and anticipation, slept poorly. Ship stopped about 1 a. m. and I imagined we were off Barrow. But on rising find that we have gone on and then backward again, encountering ever more ice. It is cold and foggy outside, and cloudy and gloomy. We now meander among the big floes, now and then bump into one until the whole ship heaves and shivers, and occasionally the siren, stop for a while to diminish the shock. We are now on way back to Wainwright. If we only could go as far back as Point Hope, where there is so much of interest. I might have stayed over, but would surely have reproached myself for missing the remainder of the coast.

Back off Wainwright, cold, windy, sky gloomy as usual.

Late in the afternoon go with the trader to land, to visit the site of an older village, about a mile down the shore. Walk along the beach. Cold wind, raincoat stiffens. Walrus meat and blubber chunks (slabs, etc.) along the beach at several places, also a large skinned seal. Traces, as one nears the village, of worked stones, but all waterworn and no finished objects. At one place in bank, about 3 feet deep, a layer of clear blue ice about 20 inches thick—strangely pure ice, not frozen earth or even inclusion of any dirt or gravel.

Village site small, along the edge of the low (about 10 feet) bluff. Count remains of eight dwellings. Some animal bones, but nothing else on surface or in vicinity. Burial place not seen. Companion says there is nothing.

A simple supper at the trader's, prepared by his Eskimo wife, and good company: Doctor Smith, of the Geological Survey, with two of his men; Jim Allen, the storekeeper, a big, good-hearted fellow; La Voy, the big, active movie man, who knows all the gossip and enjoys telling it with embellishment; and two men of the trader. Menu: Soup, boiled reindeer meat, underdone biscuits, coffee.

After supper go to a meeting at the school, where our missionary, Doctor Goodman, is to talk to the natives. Large schoolroom crowded. I talk through an interpreter—a serious disadvantage—on cleanliness. Fine study for me on the many present, though like elsewhere on such occasions they are mainly women and children. Good many Indianlike faces, though cheekbones more prominent and more flatness between them. But hair, low foreheads, eyes (except in children where they are more superficial, less sunken, and with more epicanthus than in Indians), lips, and other characteristics the same as in Indians. Some of the faces are strong, many among the younger pleasant, some of the young women handsome. A moderate number of mix bloods, even among the adults. Color of skin in full bloods medium to submedium brown, exactly as in full-blood Indians along the Yukon, but cheeks more dusky red.

The behavior of these people is in all important points radically that of the Indian, but they are more approachable and open and matter-of-fact people. More easily civilized. Good mechanics. Less superstitious, more easily converted to white man's religion. And good singers. Their singing at the meeting in the schoolhouse would have shamed a good many whites in this respect.

Except for epidemics, I am told, these natives would more than hold their own in numbers. They are fecund, if conditions are right. Sterility is rare. They marry fairly young.

August 3. Still standing, though we had to pull out farther south and away from the shore. The water was pretty rough and I had to go to bed again, but weather moderated.

We are in touch with the world through the ship's radio, but get more trash—same all through the radio service in Alaska—than serious news. Spend time in reading, talking; some play solitaire games; captain and Allen play cribbage. Deck too small for any outside games, even if it were not so cold.

Ice floes floating about us, now scarce, now thicker; water splashing against them and wearing them out into pillared halls, mushrooms, and other strange forms. Due to their snow covering, the water upon them, so far as it results from melting, is sweet, and in it swim many small fishes. It snowed a bit again to-day.

August 4. No change, except that the sea is somewhat calmer, and for a while we have once more seen the sun, but it was hazy and just mildly warm, while the same wind, from the sea, even though now subdued, has an icy undertone. It snowed a little this morning.

Thursday, August 5. Sea calm, atmosphere hazy, but the wind has turned at last slightly offshore and the sun penetrates through the mists, until it conquers and shines, warm and bright if not wholly clear, once more. Ice visible only on the horizon. At 7.15 we start on another effort to reach Barrow.

Pass Wainwright, and all is well until after lunch, when fog (though fortunately not thick) develops and the floes increase until they are as thick as at the first attempt in this same region. Heavy bumps and strains follow one another and the boat must often go very slow or even stop altogether. Sometimes the heavy ship just staggers from the impact, but the floes are generally broken by the shock and swirl away out of our way, or scraping the ship pass to the rear. All aboard show new interest and energy. The forced stops and inaction were dulling even to the crew.

File a wireless to be sent from Barrow. It will reach Washington to-morrow after we shall have started on the return journey.

Two dogs on board fight fiercely. An officer, the owner of one, trying to separate them is bitten by his own through a finger.

A marine, in swinging the heavy lead with which they are constantly sounding the depth, gets the cord caught about his hand and suffers a bad sprain with fracture.

The captain's little black cat, Peter, helps to entertain us by his antics. No wonder sailors in their often monotonous existence like all sorts of mascots.

Friday, August 6. Of course our dates got mixed, and more than one has to consult the calendar and count. The Bear had to turn back once more last night; ice too heavy. Anchored, however, not far to south. This morning very cloudy, rainy, chilly, but wind from near to east, and so from about 6 a. m. we are once more laboriously on our way. Now and then a bump, heave, stagger, then again the screw resumes its cheerful song. We are passing through the most dangerous part of all the coast here where many vessels have been lost, sometimes whole small fleets of whalers. But very few come here now—we have seen but one since leaving Kotzebue. They call this stretch "the boat graveyard."

Saturday, August 7. Stalled, about 30 miles from Barrow. Anchored in the protection of a great grounded flat, in a clear pond of water, with ice all around it, but especially seaward, where the pack seems solid. Some open water reported beyond it, but wind (wild) keeps from the wrong quarter and the captain will make no further attempt until conditions change. Of course it is cloudy again and has rained some during the night and morning, but the temperature is somewhat higher, so that one does not need an overcoat and gloves, although the officers wear their sheep-lined short coats which are nice and warm.

After noon asked the captain for the skin whaleboat to explore the shore. The latter is nearly a mile distant and shows about 60 feet high dirt bluffs. Got the boat and went with the boatswain. Berg, a young "hand," Weenie, and the movie man, La Voy. Rowed with La Voy. Had a wholesome two and a half hours exploring. Found a little stream, with traces of native deer camp (collected two seal skulls); a moderate number of flowers and grasses (collected some mushrooms); some fossil shells from the bluffs; and two Eskimo burials. One of these, a woman, nearly all washed away and lost; of the other, a man, secured the skull, jaw, one shoulder blade and part of a diseased femur with corresponding socket (mushroom arthritis), also the two humeri. A good specimen. Returned, rowing again, near 4. All there playing cribbage and solitaire.

Am tempted to walk to Barrow; but there are some streams in the way which it might be impossible to ford. Moreover, no one knows the distance.

Sunday, August 8. Morning finds us once more thwarted, and standing at our place of refuge. No change in conditions, but there will be a change of moon to-night, so I at least have hopes. In my travels I learned too much about the moon not to believe in it. Toward evening ice begins to move out.

Monday, August 9. At 12.30 a. m., unexpectedly, a new start. The wind has turned at last (new moon!) to northeast, but is mild. Soon in ice. Many bumps and much creaking and shaking. Captain's collie gets scared and tries to get into our beds, one after another. But very little sleep under these conditions.

In the morning we find ourselves in a thicker ice field than any before, with floes on all sides. Boat barely creeps. Toward 10 a. m. further progress found almost impossible, and so forced to turn backward once more. However, can not even go back and so, near 12, anchor about a mile offshore opposite a small river with lagoon-like mouth and two tents of natives—"Shinara," or "Shinerara."

Ask captain for a boat to visit and explore the coast. Consents, and so at 1 we go forth, about eight of us, with the captain's dog. Reach Eskimo, photograph the group. All look remarkably Indianlike. Then go to look for skeletal material. Nothing near, so return for the Eskimo boy. He leads me about a mile over the highland tundra to two burials in boxes—not old. Look through crevices shows in one an adolescent, in the other a female (or a boy) with hair and skin still on. Leave both.

Then into the boat once more after buying some fossil teeth, and with the boy Isaac—his father is Abraham—try to go into the river, and soon get stuck in the stickiest mud (oily shale) imaginable—great work to clean even the oar with which we had to push ourselves off. Land then on the beach and for the next two hours explore that side of the basin. Find remains of two small settlements—seven huts in all, none very old.

Gather five skulls with parts of four skeletons, most bones missing; also some mushrooms, several interesting humeri of seals, and a piece of pumice-like fossil bone. Near 4.30 begins to rain a bit so we hurry to boat, and in a little while, after depositing Isaac near his camp, reach the Bear.

Eskimo on shore had two skinned seal lying on the ground, and there were many reindeer horns. A pile of them was over a fire, being smoked.

The wind has been the whole day from the northeast, the long-wished-for wind, and the ice has moved out sufficiently to induce the captain to make another start. So at 5 p. m. off we go again, and for quite a while the screw sings merrily, until we reach some remaining ice, when there are more bumps and staggers.

The waters about the ship show, whenever calmer, the heads of swimming seal, grown and little. But they are wary and keep at a distance. Otherwise the only live things are an occasional gull, and rarely a couple of ducks. In the icy water, however, on and about the floes, are seen again numerous small, dark fish (from the size of a big minnow to that of a tomcod); and along the shore swim merrily hundreds of very tame and graceful little snipes, lovely small birds, too little, luckily, to be hunted.

Little enthusiasm about my collecting, but the boatswain and some at least of the men are genuinely helpful. I believe some of the others are a bit superstitious. But I get some chance at least, and that is precious.

Expect to reach Barrow before 12 p. m., and to start back before morning—a big chance for some sleep again if I want to do some collecting. Sleep, through the frequent lack of it, has become a kind of obsession in one's thoughts, yet when there were chances during the days of waiting it would not come.

August 9, evening, to 10 next morning. This is a land of odds and wonders. In the morning things looked hopeless; toward evening the wind has driven away enough ice to make a narrow open lane near the shore, and utilizing this we arrived without difficulty at 8 p. m. at the long unreachable Barrow. At 9 boat takes us ashore. At 9.30 p. m. I start with an Eskimo and a seaman (Weenie) from the Bear on a collecting trip over about 3 square miles of tundra behind Barrow, and at 12.30 return to ship with four bags of skulls and bones. But sleep! Hardly any since 12.30 last night, and very little after return to-day, for due to fear of ice they called in everybody from shore before 3 a. m., and the newcomers keep on walking and talking and banging with their baggage until 5, when, fearing a return of the ice, we start once more southward, toward—it feels strange, but it is so—home. It was a remarkable good fortune, our getting there thus and getting out again, as we did, without damage.

Barrow is a good-looking and rather important place. It stretches about 2 miles along the low shore, in three clusters, the two main ones separated by a lagoon. It has a radio station, a mission hospital, and a school. There are over 200 natives here, and also quite a few whites, including Mr. Charles Brower, the trader, observer and collector, with his native wife and their family, the teacher, the missionary and his family, and the nurses.

The burial place here is the most extensive in the Eskimo territory. Taking the older parts and the new, it covers over a square mile of the tundra, beginning not far beyond the site of the hospital and extending to and beyond a small stream that flows over a mile inland. But the burials were grouped in a few spots, the rest being barren.

This extensive burial ground is now about exhausted for scientific purposes, except for such skeletons and objects as may have been assimilated—i. e. buried—by the tundra. That such exist became quite evident during our search, and they naturally are the oldest and most valuable. We secured two good skulls of this nature. They were completely buried, only a little of the vault showing, and had there been time we should doubtless have found also parts of the skeletons. The skulls were discolored brown.

Of the later skeletal material we found but the leavings, the best having been carried off by other collectors. There were remnants of hundreds of skulls and skeletons, but for the most part so damaged as not to be worth saving. Nevertheless our diligent midnight search was not in vain, and we brought back four sacks full of specimens, the Eskimo carrying his with the utmost good nature. The destruction here is due to sailors and other whites and to dogs, foxes, and reindeer.

The reindeer herds, going in hundreds over the ground, help materially to scatter and damage the bones. So, the older material gone, while the more recent burials are, at least so far as the younger element is concerned, quite worthless to science, containing many mix bloods of all sorts—even occasionally with the negro (men from the wrecked whaleboats). The collection now secured was the last one possible from this locality, except through excavation.

Tuesday, August 10. The boat is now crowded. We lost one woman and got three; also about five or six men—newspaper, movie, radioman, a dog teamster, a trapper. Quite a variety, in every way, and most are to go with us at least as far as Nome. They will have to hang up two hammocks in our little cabin each night, and some must sleep elsewhere.

Packing the whole morning. Five boxes. My man of last night helping, a fine, big young fellow. This aid in the work is a great boon to me, and the transportation of the many specimens by the Bear down to Seattle or San Francisco will be a fine service to the Institution.

The older of us, that is those who have been longer on the ship, feel like veterans and are drawn closer together. The new lot, heterogeneous, do not attract, particularly one of the women. An older one, evidently a well-liked nurse, goes off at Wainwright, which we reach once more at 8 p. m. Here goes off also Jim Allen, the trader, who is a good fellow in a rough shell and whom I learned to like. He helped us all a good deal while in the ice.

The movie man from Point Hope is a somewhat spoiled, gossipy, and roughshod, but otherwise, a good-hearted big kid—not very wise, but not mischievous, and more than efficient in his own calling. Is 40, but already aging, like a weather-beaten poplar—not pine or oak. Is violently against all "kikes," or eastern money-lending Jews, from whom he used to borrow at usurious interest and who sold him out once or twice when he could not pay.

Lost Jim Allen and dropped the nurse, but are still too many. At 10 p. m., just as the minister and I have retired, there comes a call for the former to go up. A couple of Eskimos have arrived, with their friends, to be married. So he dresses and performs the function. I am too weary to rise and dress to go and look at it. He says it was quite tame. Then the anchor, and once more we are off. No ice any more, and the sea has again a swell, which was absent in the ice-covered waters.

Wednesday, August 11. Swell, but not bad, though one of the women, another nurse, is ill, and the other, a "writer," etc., will not get up for breakfast. Quite a problem now to get washed and shaved. Both the minister (archdeacon) and the movie man like to use perfumed things, and the former takes much time with his toilet, so I endeavor as before to be first up.

August 12. A great day. Was called a little after 12.30 a. m., after but little sleep (through anticipation), to examine a site ashore—a coal mine, a water source, and possibly something human. Two miles to shore, in semidarkness; no night yet in these regions. A long tramp over the mossy and grassy tundra; mosquitoes. One native igloo, and on a little elevation some distance off a grave of a child; otherwise nothing. After examination of the coal strata, a curious secondary inclusion in sand and gravel, and the stream of water (good to drink, even if not clear), we depart and reach ship again after 4 a. m.

Beginning to be—in fact am already—a "night doctor," for sure. Never thought I could stand such doings, but am standing it, and that even with some cold and bothersome night cough. But am sure short on sleeping, for it is impossible for me to catch up during the days; am not a day sleeper. I suppose when one is most of the time half hungry his mind naturally reverts to hunger, as mine does to sleep.

We are due to-day again at Point Hope, and I am anxious for a little time there.

At night. This was a day of harvest. Reached Point Hope about 3 p. m., but had to go around again to the other side, due to the swell and surf on the north. I went to shore in the first boat, about 4 p. m. Doctor Goodman, with whom we are very friendly, was with me and promised to go over and help me get some men with whom I want to excavate the burial hole of his predecessor. But when on the shore stays behind and remains. So we go on with my man from the ship to the whalebone graveyard. Near there see two Eskimo men with some dogs. They smile; so I tell them what I want; in two minutes have engaged them; in about three more we begin to dig, and in about five minutes after strike first bones.

My good friend the boatswain, Mr. Berg, comes to help, and as I now have four to work I take a bag and go on collecting a little more over the plains beyond where we are. Get a good bag. Find another good-natured Eskimo, Frank, coming from fishing, engage him to help carrying and eventually to take place of one of my first workers, who is an old man. Then we see Doctor Goodman, far away, coming to the mission. Borrow two more shovels from his stock and a few coal bags. Meanwhile bone and skull pile is fairly exposed from one side and top gravel partly removed, so I give up intended trip to old village site and, as we were given only to 9.30 p. m., go to work on the pile.

A great deal here. More than anticipated, though all is a jumble, with the long and other bones of the skeleton on the top. The work is to get down in the moist gravel, disengage one bone and skull after another as rapidly as possible, give it a rapid look-over, and either save, if fairly well preserved or showing some special feature, or discard. If saved, the specimen is handed to one of the Eskimo, who cleans it of gravel, lays it out to dry a little, and then places it gently in a bag.

Many of the bones and skulls were found so damaged that they had to be left. But much was also good. The strenuous work, however, had to go on without interruption and at the fullest possible speed, if the main part of what was there was to be saved. So no supper, no stop for even a minute, until after 8 p. m. Sixteen bags full, and some of the sacks quite spacious. At last had to give up—no more time, no sacks, and lower down everything frozen as hard as flint. The main part, however, secured—183 good skulls, several hundred lower jaws, and a lot of long and other bones. This, together with the rest of the material from this place, ought to give us data of much value.

But now, how shall the lot be got on the boat. Luckily, one of the Eskimo that has been working for me has a dog team and sled. So I engage these; and shortly after we finish putting everything in order—in the presence now of Doctor Goodman, who comes to look at us—the man arrives, with a good-sized sled and 13 whitish dogs. Load all the bags on—and then a sight never to be forgotten—the dogs pulling the load across the tundra, depressions, gravels, right down to the water's edge and to the motor boat that is waiting for us. How they strained, pulled with all will, and obeyed. A wise leader in front, six pairs behind. No reins, only a few calls from the Eskimo, and they knew just what to do. Tried to photograph them, but light already poor—advancing season. (Pl. 9, a. b.)

Then hurry to the teacher, not home; to La Voy, not home. Find teacher in tent, sick, trembling; I fear beginning of typhoid. Did not get anything for me in our absence. La Voy promised to give me some things from his collections, but now is not here. A native woman, however, meets me far out on the beach, and I learn she has dug out for me since our first visit five good skulls from the ground—some, she shows, deep to above the elbow. She has them near the ship—we go on—on the road boys and women overtake me with a few things to sell. Then the woman brings her skulls, in a bag on her back, in excellent condition. I pay her for her trouble. Reach our boat, and the bell on the Bear rings 9.30.

The bone pile—the sled and dogs and load over the tundra—the woman carrying a native (seal) bag with skulls—will be three rare, indelible pictures.

On the Bear at 10. A little sandwich, fruit, and a cinnamon cake with coffee, and to bed. But irritating tire-cough keeps me up for another hour.

Friday, 13th. Packing. A nice day. Toward evening stop at Kevalina. Obtain a few things and pictures. To bed soon, but cough still bothers. I have nothing for it; there is but little on the boat in the way of medicines outside of the most ordinary things.

Saturday, 14th. Up 5.30, early breakfast, and 6.45 start once more for Kotzebue. The Bear has anchored about 12 miles off, so do not reach village until 8.35, and have to go back at 9.10. Rush to store, get boxes, barrels, and packing. And then to the schoolhouse, where I expect some information about the skeleton found under the house and obtained on my former visit. Also promised information from Mr. Chance, the supervisor, about old sites. But Mr. Chance is gone, and no letter or message—it came later, to Washington. A few words with the teacher, and one of the boys from our boat is already calling me.

Return at 11 a. m. and spend the rest of the day packing, finishing just at supper. A curious sunset at 8, a horizontally banded sun, several clear-cut, fairly broad, dark bands. Sea getting rougher.

Sunday, August 15. Bad sea, wind, waves, fog. Have to take to bed and do without breakfast. Stay in until lunch. We could not stop again at Shishmareff; could not get ashore. The next stop, late afternoon, is to be at the Little Diomede, to take off Jenness; but if too rough we shall go on to Teller. The wind is from the northwest and the foghorn keeps on blowing.

The whole day continues rough, foggy, unfriendly. The ship can not stop at the Diomede, nor go to Teller; obliged to go to Nome. After supper all chairs and movable articles have to be tied up. Most day in bed, but escaped real seasickness, and got some sleep.

Monday, 16. Weather moderated. We are in lee of the mountainous part of Seward Peninsula. After breakfast off Nome, and at 11 a. m. in town. First stop at Lomen's. Then from one to another till 4.55 p. m., when Dan Sutherland, the Alaska Delegate to Congress, escorts me to the boat. Saw many friends, got some mail, and, best of all, got a fine deposit collection for the National Museum from Mr. Carl Lomen. The judge asked me for another lecture for next Saturday, when we are to see Nome for the last time.

About 5 a. m. arrive at Golovnin Bay to take water. At this place this is generally a day of partial rest and recreation for the crew. The water is taken from a small stream fed by a spring that comes out from a cave of the mountain, and is put direct into the whaleboats, brought to ship, and pumped into its tanks.

Shortly after breakfast the captain gives us the larger motor boat, and with Mr. Berg and two of the seamen I start for a little survey trip along the northern shore of the bay. In less than an hour we reach a sheltered nook with a small stream, where there is an old frame dwelling with some out-structures, all evidently abandoned, though various articles of use hang or lie about, including several guns of old patterns.

On a bluff to the left of the house are six burials, some old, wood near all rotten, some more recent. The latter, two in number, both show a large animal skin covering of the body, besides which the latter shows remnants of clothing. Secure two good skeletons, practically complete; also head and a few parts of a newborn (or near) child. A unique feature—with one of the male skeletons is found a complete skeleton of an eagle. Could have got also a female skeleton, but was still unclean, and we perceived a small native motor boat coming toward us from the reindeer camp about 1½ miles farther inward. So we replaced everything (outwardly) and started off to meet the native boat. Found in it two young men and three women. Inquired about old sites and learned of one about 3 miles farther inward.

Stopped at the reindeer camp. Found there about a dozen individuals. Got more information, also a young man to go with us, bought for the Bear a dozen good-sized silver salmon—caught this morning and lying for protection against flies, in a pool of water—and left for the old site "around the point."

A nice site, but small. Fine beach for bathing if it were in a warmer climate. Remains of about a half dozen semisubterranean houses. A copper nail from one shows they were not very ancient. And no burials left, save one, more recent, of a child, most of which is gone. But there is a green elevated plane rising from the beach and we soon find several varieties of berries, especially large and good blueberries, a variety of huckleberry, and a sort of wine-tasting dwarf blackberry. Collect enough for immediate consumption—a most welcome diversion in every way—and get some for the captain.

Leave near 1 p. m. A little lunch on boat, then once more the reindeer camp, where the young women make us good hot coffee with as good biscuits as one could find anywhere. Buy more berries from them, load our fish (12 salmon ranging about 12 pounds each, for $3), and start off for another site just around Stony Point.

Round up one point, then another and another, up to five, and by that time the going has become so rough that we get much tossed about, ship water, dog gets frightened and near sick, and just as we reach what we thought must be the last point there juts out still another. It is now so rough that the boatswain thinks we could not land, and so nothing remains but to turn back to the mother boat. Reach there near 3.30 p. m. Soon all boats are hoisted, and at 4 the Bear is on her way to St. Michael.

August 18. Arrived about midnight off St. Michael; must stay outside due to shoal water. Somewhat rough.

In the morning boat coaling, dirty work, so all who can go ashore. Meet Mr. Williams again; buy a few native articles in stores, visit Mrs. Evans, the teacher-nurse, who has on an occasion successfully amputated a native's finger. The deputy marshal takes me to his house, gives me some dried deer meat and smoked salmon strips, and promises to be on a lookout for specimens for us. Near noon return. Still rough.

At night a bad blow and the ship tossing a great deal, almost as during the storm to St. Lawrence. Feel it considerably, but after 3 a. m. wind and water moderate. Feel effects of it, however, whole morning. For an explorer to be ever in rough weather subject to seasickness is a horrid affliction.

August 19. Off Nome once more. Everything, city, mountains, appear exceedingly, unnaturally clear—not a good sign. After 9 a. m. go to town. Soon at the Lomens' headquarters, and the sons, particularly Carl, bring out three smaller boxes full of things from St. Lawrence and Nunivak Islands, and give me the choice of all. And after I am through—near two hours' fast work—Carl adds one beautiful tusk (carved) from Nunivak Island, and then adds another, and two big bones of a mammoth, some as gifts, some as an addition to his loan to our institution. Excellent men.

Lunch with Ralph and Carl; then a good walk in the open; and then another lecture. All pleased, and two bring me specimens for our museum. Slowly back to boat and 4.45 on the Bear again. Nice day, but getting cooler and blustery.

Captain Ross comes to port, the graphophone starts its usual jazz songs next (ward) room, then the supper, all visitors gone, and the Bear raises anchor to be off for the north once more.

August 19, evening. A new, final chapter begins with to-day. What will it contain when over?

August 20. Rough. Go north until in plain sight of the Diomedes as well as Cape Wales, and then the captain decides landing would be risky, if not impossible; and so reluctantly we turn back and proceed toward Teller. What a tantalizing experience this must have been to poor Jenness, who is waiting for us on the Little Diomede, a most dreary place, to be taken off; and I, too, expected collections at both the Diomedes and the Cape.

Saturday, August 21. Port Clarence, off Teller. This proved a day never to be forgotten; for failure of a rigid system, for bad weather, for strain and endurance, and nearness to almost anything.

My purpose was to utilize the Bear's visit to Teller for a survey of a Chukchee-Eskimo battle field, of which I heard repeatedly from the Yukon onward. Sometime during the earlier half of the last century the Chukchee from Asia are said to have made an invasion of the peninsula and to have reached as far as the Salt Lake, east of Teller, when they were met by the united Eskimo and badly defeated. The exact spot where this happened is, however, somewhat uncertain, and it was to locate it, examine, and collect what might be possible of the remains that were said to be still there that I asked Captain Cochran to let me have one of the motor boats, to which he kindly consented, uniting the trip with some topographical observations for his own purposes.

The evening before I was told by the second officer that we shall start some time soon after midnight for that part of the old battle field—there seemed to be two of them—at the eastern point of the Salt Lake. As a result could not undress, and after ship stopped in Port Clarence, near 11 p. m., had but a little rest. The call came at 4 a. m. A little breakfast, a package of lunch, and start at 5.10.

First note. Ship about 7 miles from Teller. Water deep enough much nearer, but we came at night. Here there are already dark nights between about 9 p. m. and 4 a. m., and so they were cautious.

Second. The officer says he has orders not to stop at Teller, where there is an old Indian (Dunak) from whom I expected to get exact bearings, and where there is also a white trader, Mr. Peterson, who knows the place and might possibly have accompanied us.

Third. Distances, as usual, longer than estimated. We find eventually that the destination is about 32 miles from Teller.

Fourth. A brisk head wind and sea retarding us.

Fifth. As we approach our spot, a shoal water, with grass, preventing us from going straight to the most likely place, and no other way was tried. It is 11 a. m. and already I hear an intimation that we shall not have time for anything except to make a lunch. This is the same officer, a very good man at his post but rigid and without much interest in anything else than his own field, who after 10 miles' trip to Kotzebue gave us 25 minutes there, when it required 15 minutes alone to reach the school from the boat.

So we end by landing on the extremity of a spit there to make lunch, and I have only the time it takes to prepare the latter. I find, in hurry, remains of five old semisubterranean dwellings on the northern side of the point, and about as many low mounds with remnants about of rotten driftwood—undoubtedly old burials. Probably the skeletons have been assimilated by the tundra vegetation and blown material. A single native skull, a female, without face, is lying about. Collected.

While lunch is being made ready the officer and the boatswain, Mr. Berg, each shoot a duck. Then the lunch, a hurried loading, and departure, after some delay in setting the sail, at 1.30 p. m. I saw nothing that looked like a battle field. Its determination and survey must be left for some future explorer.

Sail rapidly. Wind fresh, with us, also waves. Cross Salt Lake, and Tussoc "River." About 4.30 reach Grantly Harbor and wind increases; also waves. We run fast, and well enough, but the umiak (skin boat) we are pulling begins to suffer. It rides crazily and is jerked over the seething waves. The crossbar by which it is partly held breaks, and now the boat goes more sidewise, with water lapping over its border and getting in. Wind now quite a gale, breaking waves everywhere—every now and then a big one—whitecaps all over. A dim view of Teller in distance, when the skin boat begins to fill more rapidly and sag. Must stop engine—waves toss us like mad—one could be thrown bodily out of the boat if not careful in bending or moving and holding. The sail comes down and the mast is laid down, a bad piece of work. Berg and Pete Brant (an elderly trapper with us but formerly of Coast Guard Service at Nome, a good sailor and knowing these waters) work very hard and well. The skin boat has to be pulled alongside and bailed out by young Weenie, a very hard and dangerous task. Mr. Berg's rain hat ("souwester") blows off and is lost in the seething waves. Later Weenie nearly loses his—snatches it out between the boats with a narrow escape for his head. Then Weenie climbs into the skin boat—a brave act—and finishes the bailing, but is much "in" after getting back. Then our big staunch motor launch starts again at reduced speed. But the skin boat does great antics and threatens to fill again or break; so Pete Brant holds the rope and is jerked every now and then, until I fear that he may any moment be jerked out into the waves and watch to catch his legs. Fortunately he succeeds in preventing it, but there was a slim margin.

It has drizzled or rained, besides the wind, most of the afternoon, and there is a lot of spray to splashes from the waves. All this has to be taken as it comes, but the water is not cold, and our boots and oilskins give protection. Nevertheless my right knee to hip gets thoroughly wet and chilly, and I was not alone. But there is little time to think of such things. We see at Teller the waves breaking high on the shore, some boats already on the beach and others being driven there, a few people looking helplessly on.

About 5.50 we round the Teller spit and come in the lee of it into calmer water. But the visibility over the water is probably not over a mile now, and we see no trace of the Bear. The gasoline supply is getting rather low; and all are more or less cold, though dressed warmer than I and, due to their hip-high rubber boots—mine reach only to the knee—not wet. I now shake a lot with the cold, without being able to stop it. So we skirt the protecting bluffs southward to where everyone thinks the Bear is, near a little stream from which they were to take fresh water. But though we all strain our eyes to the limit, there is no trace of the ship.

Thus reach Cape Riley and the stream, which is found dry, without a drop of water. Get on the pebbly beach, turn skin boat over to get the water out, and hurry to chop wood. No wood save the water troughs, so chop these. Must have fire. I warm up a little by running around and chopping. They pour gasoline on the wood, make a big fire, cook a pot of coffee, and with bread and preserved meat make a supper, though it is mainly coffee.

Near 8 and getting dark. Storm, outside of protection of cliffs, unabated. There is a second watering place, 7 or 8 miles across the bay, and our only chance to find the Bear is to rush for this. But to do this we must go diagonally across the waves and similarly against the wind—a bad prospect. Also, we have only just about enough gasoline to reach the place. But there is no help.

Thus a new start, and before long we are once more in the waves. It is now quite obscure. The waves break now and then and splash over us. Before long the skin boat is again sagging and in danger of sinking. Once more pull alongside and dangerous, exhausting bailing by Weenie.

And so on, tossed, driven aside, but thanks to the good engine never stopping. I hold to seat not to be thrown against things or even out; the others are becoming gruff, irritable. And then Higsby makes out a faint light far ahead. No one certain, but in a while it seems moving. A solitary small light somewhere far on the shore, probably, not the boat.

But soon another stronger light discerned, seemingly moving to the left, and later several—the ship in all probability.

We toss and reel and stagger nearer, but motor still going strong. For the skin boat they found at last a position in which it takes but little water. Finally see decisively a blinking light, the mast signal. We show our lantern a few times. Then the ship looms before us, but there is still the risky task of getting alongside and aboard. However, all is accomplished without real damage.

The cabin—the good and anxious captain—a little canned grapefruit, and bed. But head falls and rises, the events of the day reappear, wonder what has become of the trade schooner we saw being driven on the beach—and so on until consciousness passes into deep sleep. The Bear is fairly quiet, not in the brunt of the weather. And this eventually moderates, so that a little after 4 we start again, only to anchor once more at 6, a little below where last night we had our supper.

August 22. Cloudy, drizzly, rough still, and wireless news of widespread bad storms, even in the States. So we shall wait. One more hope for my collections at the Cape and with Jenness.

Captain says this morning the officer misunderstood his orders about Teller. The trip demonstrated a number of things. One of the main and most gratifying was the sterling quality of the men with me, officer, boatswain, motorman. Weenie, Pete, in the teeth of real danger. They were all that men should be under such conditions, which is the best way I can express it. The trip may have been in vain so far as its scientific object was concerned, but it brought a number of men face to face with life's stresses and found their mettle of the truest quality, without exception, to witness which was worth the whole experience.

August 22-23. During the night have left Port Clarence and endeavored once more to reach Wales and the Diomedes, to be again turned away by fog and rough weather. The captain doubts if there will be any more decent "spells." The season for this stormy sea is too far advanced. Unable to land anywhere.

The day is followed by another horrid night, again off the St. Lawrence Island. Boat tossing and heaving and rolling, waves reaching and even splashing over the level of the high upper deck in the back, everything tied tip and cleared or fastened, a danger in making even a few steps of being thrown against something, or on the deck of being thrown overboard, and everything constantly cracking, creaking, with every few minutes an impact big thud-like or a splash of a wave, the floor heaving and twisting; and thus from before evening until morning. Then a trace easier, but the whole day gloomy and rough and the night again more unsettled. To-day better, wind which began east then turned northwest, then almost north, now stopped, but a heavy swell is running, heaving us nearly as much as yesterday. We have gone very slowly.

Have arrived off Savonga. The sky is now clear and there is not much wind, but the swell is and keeps on such that, notwithstanding the repeated calls of our siren, the Eskimo whom we see above the beach near their boats, do not dare to launch these and come, nor does the captain care to risk one of our own launches, though we need fresh reindeer meat and all would like once more to meet the nice lot of natives of this village. After a prolonged wait and as conditions show no improvement, nothing remains but to leave the island.

Our next stop, if the weather permits, is to be at Nunivak Island. This is a large island off the Alaskan coast, well below the present delta of the Yukon and some distance above Kuskokwim Bay. The island is one of the least explored, and the people living upon it one of the least known. It is only during the last few years that a trading and a reindeer post has been established on this island, and only the second year that there is a teacher. What little is known of the natives, a branch of the Eskimo, shows that they have many different habits from those farther north, in clothing, decoration, etc. They make rather good black pottery, and from this island come the most elaborate carvings in ivory, reminding strongly of small totem poles. A photograph of a group of these people, seen at the Lomen Studio at Nome, showed remarkably broad and short faces, unlike the Eskimo of the north. All of which made me very anxious to visit the island.

To be brief such a visit, though promised to me by the captain, could not be realized. The waters about the island are so imperfectly charted that in weather that continued half rough it was thought unwise to risk a landing. I felt this keenly, as the various other impossibilities of the trip. But I could never forget all the unexpected help I received from the Revenue Cutter Service, for which I was deeply grateful, and had to acknowledge the justice of the captain's position. We came so near that the land birds from the island were already about us, but then turned toward the Pribilofs and Unalaska....

Only little remains to be told. At the Pribilof Island, St. Paul, we stopped at night, to take on four live fur seals for the Academy of Sciences of San Francisco, and there we ran once more into stormy weather. Here are a few notes from this period:

August 27. Toward evening again a gale, southwest. At night worse. Ship tossing rather wildly. No possibility to me of either getting up or resting. Barely keep from being horribly ill again.

Later in night ship had to be turned back and just drift.

August 28. All day the storm continues. I could take no meals, not even a drop of water. In bed and barely standing it. Ship hove to at last and just drifting.

August 29. Gale keeps on just as bad, howling till 1.30 a. m. Then it moderates somewhat and ship starts going again. Last night we were only 60 miles from Unalaska, now a good deal farther out. Steam, still in half a gale and big sea, until after midday, when, not without some difficulty and danger, we reach the fine little protected harbor of Unalaska. Feel weak, near worn out.

August 30, p. m. Rest, and all is well again. Secure a little rowboat and go with old Pete Brant to near-by islands. Storm over for the day and fair, though not entirely. Row, climb hills, pick berries and mushrooms, watch a bearlike semiwild pig, out whole afternoon, returning strengthened, refreshed. Only no appetite yet. Found no traces of human occupancy, but heard of some in the "Captain's Bay" and at other spots.

The few Aleuts in Unalaska at this time show physiognomies akin to the brachycephalic Indian, and not the Eskimo type.

August 31-September 1. A new gale, with drizzles. Luckily we are at a dock, but I can do little. They are cleaning the boilers and coaling. Evening of 1st have a good dinner—captain and the rest of us from the Bear's cabin—at a friendly local trader, Louis Strauss, and after that give lecture on "Man's Origin, etc." Introduction by Capt. Van Buskirk, local commodore of the Revenue Cutter Service. Lecture well received, make numerous friends, get good information. Strauss's supper was the first I could eat with some taste and hunger. But the lecture did me good.

September 2. Coaling and overhauling of boilers finished. Gale stopped. Ship leaves 1 p. m. Day fairly sunny. Everyone sees us off. Harbor and hills look fine, though sky again clouded. Outside quite a swell after the gales. Pass the Haida, practicing with her cannon. The Algonkin was here too, with the story of their visit to the Punuk Islands. The fresh green steep mountains toward the entrance of the harbor are refreshing to the eye.

Pass through Akitan. Pass picturesque, especially the outstanding isolated rocks near the islands.

Toward evening, far to the left (east), see under the clouds a glorious icy cone, the "Pogrovemoi," and later a lower but still great mountain a little farther and to the right an old but not so very old volcano. Other volcanoes there are, the captain tells me, now hidden by the low clouds.

Have a new passenger, Mr. Charles Brower, the trader of Barrow. Came from the Brower, ship of his own company, a little larger and faster than the Bear, and going also to San Francisco, but with poorer accommodations. Brings with him a box of archeological specimens from the Barter Island, in the north. Examine them, but find little of special interest.

It takes us a little less than 10 days of a fairly good journey to reach San Francisco. Dock at Oakland late in the evening. The next morning, after breakfast, the boxes and barrels with collections are taken on the dock—a big pile. Then the Santa Fe officials kindly run a flat freight car to the pile, the boxes, etc., are loaded on, the main part taken to the freight depot, the most valuable ones to express, shipped, and shortly after what remains of the expedition is on the Santa Fe Limited for Chicago. It only needs to be added that, notwithstanding the variety of receptacles and the difficulties of packing, the collections reached the Institution without damage to a single specimen. Thanks once more for the help received in making all safe to the captain and officers of the Bear, to Mr. Berg, the best of boatswains, to the carpenter, and to all those of the crew who assisted.

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