During my stay in St. Michael’s I was fortunate in having the skilful treatment of Doctor Fernbaugh, the government surgeon, so that I soon got around again. He was very good to me, making me feel at home and treating me like a brother. The boys at the wireless station were kind enough to give me the back files to read, so that I could get an idea of what had been happening in the world. The agents of the Northern Commercial Company, too, were most hospitable and treated me as one of their own.
When I first reached St. Michael’s, the Bear, coming up from San Francisco, was about due in Nome, to bring the mail and take up her regular summer work, the first ship from the “outside” to reach Nome that year. On account of the ice around Nome and the delay of the mail-boat Victoria from Seattle, which ordinarily would have brought the mail from Nome to St. Michael’s, the Bear came in to St. Michael’s and landed the mail there. I went on board and Captain Cochran and his officers talked over the plight of the men on Wrangell Island with me and expressed a desire to go to the island and rescue the men. At this time they had not received instructions from Washington regarding the trip, but not long afterwards, while they were on their way over to the Siberian coast, their orders came by wireless to go to the island and to take me with them. It was while the Bear was at St. Michael’s that I first made the acquaintance of Lord William Percy, the son of the Duke of Northumberland. He was making a summer cruise in the Bear to study the ducks of Alaskan waters. He was a master of his subject. My first meeting with him was down in the ’tween-decks of the Bear, in a corner among boxes and barrels, surrounded by various kinds of knives, scissors and the other gear necessary to mount birds. He gave me welcome messages from friends of mine whom he had met in Boston and New York. Later on I was with him on many of his ornithological expeditions and learned a good deal about ducks from him. He could tell at a glance the sex and species of a bird; to the average man, even to many a fairly experienced hunter, a duck is a duck. On the Bear I found another ornithologist, an enthusiast named Hershey, who left us later on and went over to the mouth of the Yukon.
The latter part of June I went over to Nome to wait for the Bear. I was feeling better all the time, and looked forward to being on my way to Wrangell Island before many weeks.
At Nome I was the guest of Mr. Japhet Linderberg, mine-owner and operator, who in many ways might be called the Cecil Rhodes of Alaska. There was no limit to his kindness and generosity to me. Though he has made a fortune in gold-mining he works as hard as ever and attends personally to a vast number of details. The forty-two-mile ditch-line that conveys water to his sluices is the result of an idea of his own and he still gives it his personal attention, going over it frequently to see that everything is all right. The season is short in Nome and the expense of mining is great; whatever is to be done must be done between the middle of June and the middle of September, and without water very little could be done at all.
On several of his inspection-trips over the line I had the pleasure of accompanying him. On one occasion we were joined by Major MacManus, with whom I had come over by motor-boat from St. Michael’s; the major was on an inspection tour among the army posts, a typical soldier of the very best type, alert, vigorous and a great companion. I believe he could ride a horse forever without getting tired. On this occasion he rode a horse belonging to Mr. Linderberg, who rode his own favorite mount, while I rode a horse from the army post. It was a typical northern summer day, with bright sunshine and not a breath of air stirring. The slopes of the distant mountains were green, and their jagged peaks, with crowns of perpetual snow, stood out brilliantly against the clear, blue sky, while in the distance was the blue haze that I have seen so many times in the mountains of New England in the early fall before the leaves begin to turn. As we were riding along we came to a bend and Mr. Linderberg got off his horse to see how deep the water was at this particular place. My saddle-girths were slack, so, while we were waiting for Mr. Linderberg to complete his calculations, I dismounted and began to tighten them. I had my pipe with me, so I filled it and lighted up. While I was doing this the others started on their way; I finished lighting my pipe, mounted my horse and started after them.
There were many turns in the path and as they were trotting along I soon lost sight of them. I was enjoying myself, however, and let my horse walk along at his leisure, while I let my eyes wander gratefully over the scene before me; no sound was to be heard but the singing of the birds. I just gave the horse his head and sat or lolled in the saddle, smoking and day-dreaming.
I was rudely recalled from dreamland by something altogether realistic, a wheelbarrow which was turned bottom-up on the path. The horse saw it before I did, evidently, and was so violently prejudiced against it that he tried at once to avoid it, without considering whether I disliked wheelbarrows or not, for the first thing I knew I was in the icy waters of the ditch, which at that point was six or eight feet deep. My cap floated away at once, but I kept my pipe in my mouth and when I came to the surface still had it.
I was soon out of the water, of course, and then was seized with an uncontrollable fit of laughter. I just stood and laughed and laughed and laughed again. The horse ran only a short distance and then stopped and waited for me. I took off my clothes and wrung them out; when I put them on again, remounted and started along the path, I felt quite warm and dry before long, at least on the left side where the sunshine pelted down. I did not hurry the horse but let him walk along slowly until, by the time I came up with the others, I looked dry enough on my port side.
The major heard me laughing as I came near them and wondered quite naturally what was the matter with me to be so uncontrollably mirthful, but I kept my right side carefully turned away from them and they were none the wiser. Again and again, as we rode along, I would go off into a fit of laughter until finally, when we dismounted at the house of one of the men who looked after the ditch-line, I took pity on their curiosity and told them what had happened to me.
It was now about midnight and the sun had just set behind the mountain peaks so Mr. Linderberg said that we would do a little trout-fishing. We started out and I was eager to see what luck we should have but in a very short time I completely lost interest in the sport, the mosquitoes were swarming about us in such clouds. They were large, well-built and utterly unterrified by any word or act on my part, though I am not conscious of omitting any, and the Recording Angel was busy for a short time. It was only for a short time, however, for, though my companions were apparently untroubled and even took a curious kind of pleasure in my struggles, I was glad to acknowledge myself beaten by the far-famed Alaska mosquito. I was literally a sight, my face, neck and hands red and swollen the next morning, whereas the major and my host showed no evidences that there had been any mosquitoes in their neighborhood.