For supper, though it is still early, am invited by Simel, an elderly Jew mail carrier. Have fine meat-and-potato soup, lettuce-and-cucumber salad (even if the cucumbers from the Holy Cross hothouse are overripe and bitter), fresh (storage) meat, cooked dried apples, and poor but hot coffee—all seasoned with the best will and genuine, simple friendliness.
Max Simel, whose home is at Ophir, has been in this country 29 years, and "never needed to buy a quarter's worth of medicine." Has a wife in Seattle, also a daughter and a son; has not seen them for four years. Wants me to call on them and tell them I met him. With his companion, Paul Keating, of Holikachakat, gives me some interesting information. They tell me independently and then together of an occurrence that shows what may happen along this great river. A well-known white man and woman, prospectors on their mail route, have last year thawed and dug out a shaft, nearly 40 feet deep, through muck and silt, to the gravel, in which they hoped to get gold; and just before they reached the gravel they found a piece of calico, old and in bad condition, but still showing some of its design and color.
7 p. m. It rains, but wind has moderated, and so near 7 p. m. we start on our way farther down the river, stopping just long enough at Holy Cross to attend to my reservation for St. Michael. The agent has no idea when the boat will go—maybe the 11th, maybe not until the 14th or later.
Going on an old leaky scow with an elderly, faded, chewing, not very talkative but for all that very kindly and accommodating man, who with one hand holds the steering wheel and with the other most of the time keeps on bailing. He carries supplies for his store and I my outfit, camera, and umbrella. Sky has here and there cleared, even patches of sun appear on far-away clean-cut hills. Water not very rough; make fair time downstream. Banks flat now, river broad, some hills in distance.
8.00 p. m. Hills nearer ahead of us. Some of the flats look from distance like fine tree nurseries. Getting cool. Cloudy ahead. The banks flat and low, no good site for habitation. Not even fishing camps here—just long "cut-banks" (banks being cut by the river) and low beaches. Here and there new bars and islands that are being built by the river. No birds, no boats, just an occasional floating snag or a rare solitary gull.
FOOTNOTES:
[4] Alaska and Its Resources, p. 19: "Our attention was attracted by the numerous graves. These are well worth the careful attention of the ethnologist; many of them are very old. The usual fashion is to place the body, doubled up, on its side, in a box of plank hewed out of spruce logs and about 4 feet long; this is elevated several feet above the ground on four posts, which project above the coffin or box. The sides are often painted with red chalk, in figures of fur animals, birds, and fishes."
Paimute
Paimute down river, I am told, has nothing but Eskimo; Holy Cross, but a few natives now, mainly Indian; above Holy Cross, Indian, Eskimo only as adapted or in admixture.
July 3, 8.30 p. m. Hills on right now right before us. Behind first a fish camp of the Holy Cross Mission natives. River narrows and bends. Two other fish camps become visible. Stop; damp, cold, smoke, fish smell, a few natives, Eskimo. River now like molten glass, but air damp and cold, and I must sit behind the engine and keep my hands over the hot exhaust pipe to keep somewhat comfortable.