Finding no one to admit us to the Russo-Greek church, we admitted ourselves easily with our stateroom key; but the tawdry cheapness of the interior scarcely repaid us for the visit. The graveyard surrounding the church was more interesting.
There is no wharf at Unga, but there is one at Apollo, about three miles farther up the bay. We were taken up to Apollo in a sail-boat, and it proved to be an exciting sail. It is not sailing unless the rail is awash; but it seemed as though the entire boat were awash that June afternoon in the Bay of Unga. Scarcely had we left the ship when we were struck by a succession of squalls which lasted until our boat reeled, hissing, up to the wharf at Apollo.
Water poured over us in sheets, drenching us. We could not stay on the seats, as the bottom of the boat stood up in the air almost perpendicularly. We therefore stood up with it, our feet on the lower rail with the sea flowing over them, and our shoulders pressed against the gunwale. Had it not been for the broad shoulders of two Englishmen, our boat would surely have gone over.
It all came upon us so suddenly that we had no time to be frightened, and, with all the danger, it was glorious. No whale—no "right" whale, even—could be prouder than we were of the wild splashing and spouting that attended our tipsy race up Unga Bay.
The wharf floated dizzily above us, and we were compelled to climb a high perpendicular ladder to reach it. No woman who minds climbing should go to Alaska. She is called upon at a moment's notice to climb everything, from rope-ladders and perpendicular ladders to volcanoes. A mile's walk up a tramway brought us to the Apollo.
This is a well-known mine, which has been what is called a "paying proposition" for many years. At the time of our visit it was worked out in its main lode, and the owners had been seeking desperately for a new one. It was discovered the following year, and the Apollo is once more a rich producer.
In a large and commodious house two of the owners of the mine lived, their wives being with them for the summer. They were gay and charming women, fond of society, and pining for the fleshpots of San Francisco. The white women living between Kodiak and Dutch Harbor are so few that they may be counted on one hand, and the luxurious furnishings of their homes in these out-of-the-way places are almost startling in their unexpectedness. We spent the afternoon at the mine, and the ladies returned to the Dora with us for dinner. The squalls had taken themselves off, and we had a prosaic return in the mine's launch.
"What do we do?" said one of the ladies, in reply to my question. "Oh, we read, walk, write letters, go out on the water, play cards, sew, and do so much fancy work that when we get back to San Francisco we have nothing to do but enjoy ourselves and brag about the good time we have in Alaska. We are all packed now to go camping—"
"Camping!" I repeated, too astonished to be polite.
"Yes, camping," replied she, coloring, and speaking somewhat coldly. "We go in the launch to the most beautiful beach about ten miles from Unga. We stay a month. It is a sheltered beach of white sand. The waves lap on it all day long, blue, sparkling, and warm, and we almost live in them. The hills above the beach are simply covered with the big blueberries that grow only in Alaska. They are somewhat like the black mountain huckleberry, only more delicious. We can them, preserve them, and dry them, and take them back to San Francisco with us. They are the best things I ever ate—with thick cream on them. I had some in the house; I wish I had thought to offer you some."