Along Alaska's Great River / A Popular Account of the Travels of an Alaska Exploring Expedition along the Great Yukon River, from Its Source to Its Mouth, in the British North-West Territory, and in the Territory of Alaska

by Frederick Schwatka

This part of the river was particularly abundant in Indian signs of a permanent character on both banks of the river, but not a living soul was seen anywhere.

A most exasperating gale of wind raged all day, driving us into areas of slack-water in which we could scarcely move, and keeping us alongside of steep banks in the river bends; and when camp was made shortly after eight o'clock, after being on the water over twelve hours, we had made but twenty-six and a half miles.

During the day we saw a number of places at which the red rocks crop out from the summits of the high hills, resembling those on the eastern side of Lake Lindeman, which had been named the "Iron-Capped Mountains" on that account. The contrast of color was not so great, however, for on the latter range the rocks projected through the snow and blue-ice of the glacier-cap, while in the lower ramparts they were surrounded by brownish-red soil and autumnal foliage. I doubt if I should have noticed them but for their great similarity to those on the headwaters of the river.

Our Camp 47 was near a small stream on the left bank and I observed that all of these little creeks passing through the wet moss and tundra-like carpet underneath the dense timber, were highly colored with a port-wine hue, although their waters were so clear that one could often see to the bottom in places three and four feet deep. Probably these streams have their sources in the iron-impregnated soil and rock of the adjacent mountains, and if flowing through land where the drainings have absorbed the dyes from decaying leaves and vegetation, acquire this deep red color, almost verging on purple, forming a sort of natural ink, as it were. Wherever these streams empty themselves, their waters make a striking contrast with the white and muddy river, and often where there was nothing else to indicate that we were approaching a tributary, we would see ahead a dark stripe running out from the bank and curving down stream as it took up the new direction of the river's course, and this would indicate the presence of a creek from the hillsides, long before we could reach its mouth.

Two days after entering this hilly country we approached the rapids of the lower ramparts, of which we had heard and read so much that we felt a little anxiety as to the danger of approaching them. We had a very good map, Raymond's, of this part of the river, and knew just about where to expect them, and this circumstance, coupled with the instructions received on the upper river to keep well toward the left bank, reassured us somewhat; but still we had double complements of men at both bow and stern oars to be used in case of emergency. A little bit uncertain at one point in regard to our position with respect to the rapids we made hasty inquiries at a small Indian village near which we drifted, and its occupants told us that we had passed the rapids about half a mile back, the natives pointing to an insignificant reef of low white bowlders that jutted out a short distance from the right bank. They were certainly the mildest rapids had ever seen. During higher water, when the current is swifter and the reef just projects from the swift water, these rapids may appear more formidable, but if this part of the river had been wholly unexplored until our arrival, I doubt seriously whether we should ever have observed them. At this point the river is only about two hundred and fifty yards wide, and although the current noticeably increases, its increase can not, I think, be in any proportional to the vast volume of water the river must carry through such a narrow channel; the stream must, therefore, be unusually deep. This part of the lower ramparts, which may be assumed to be the "backbone" or summit of the chain of high hills through which the river has cut its way, is very picturesque, and had it not been for the squally weather and the black clouds that were lowering over the crests, I should have lingered awhile so as to procure a few photographs of the scenery. Gloster's sketches served our purpose too well in such places to think of delaying very long for this object at any point of the journey, and one of them is shown on page [295]. I think it would be a fair estimate to say that the hills of the upper ramparts in their highest elevations are nearly twice the height of the corresponding ones in the lower ramparts.

We passed the rapids of the ramparts at 2:10 P.M., and the Indian village below ten minutes later. This is called Senati's (Senatee's) village upon previous maps, and at the date of our arrival was made up of two well-worn tents and four birch-bark houses, the whole containing from forty to fifty souls. Over half a dozen canoes put off from the village and were soon paddling around us, whereupon a lively competition ensued for supplying us with dried and smoked salmon. It was at this village that I first noticed the round-rimmed hand net spoken of in a former chapter as appearing on the lower river. Their handles of ten and twelve feet in length may appear to contradict my conjecture as to the unusual depth of the river here, or the Indians may go further down to fish, as we saw large numbers of their caches perched along the right bank some distance below. Our camp was a forced one that evening,—the 5th—as we got stuck on a sandspit at the head of an island where we had to make "a rubber-boot camp" as the men designated any place where we grounded in shoal water so far from the shore that rubber-boots had to be put on in order to carry the cooking and camping effects to the selected spot. Cold and stormy as the day had been the mosquitoes sent a fair representation to inform us that we had not been deserted by them. From Camp 47 to Camp 48, Mr. Homan figured the day's run of nearly twelve hours' uninterrupted drift at but twenty-seven miles, and this in the narrowest portion of the ramparts, where we had hoped the current would increase. I was much inclined to think that our progress had been underestimated four or five miles, and that a desire to coincide with Captain Raymond's maps had marred an otherwise almost faultless reckoning.

Shortly after noon on the 6th—having started at half-past eight—we passed the mouth of the Tanana, having found one more island on this stretch of the river than is mapped by Raymond. A half-dozen more islands in many parts of the wide river or even half a hundred more or less at any point in the flat-lands might have escaped detection on any previous map, but here the shores are so bold and the islands so few and conspicuous that they can hardly escape casual observation, and an error of even one upon the map would attract notice.

The Tanana River, to which I have referred, is the largest tributary of the Yukon, and is fully the peer of the parent stream, at the point of confluence. Were it not for the fact that the geographical features which must necessarily limit the drainage area of each preclude the Tanana basin from equaling that of the Yukon, a casual observer standing at the junction of the two might well be puzzled to know which of the two was entitled to be regarded as the main stream. The Yukon River at this point is a little over thirteen hundred miles in length from its head, and a glance at a map will show that in its great northward bend it has inclosed the Tanana, which would have to make a great many windings within this area in order to equal the Yukon in length, a case which we are not justified in assuming. There is a rough method, however, of arriving at its length, according to the story told me by an old trader on the river, upon whose word I can rely. With one white companion, and some Indians as packers, he crossed from the trading station at Belle Isle, near Johnny's village or Klat-ol-klin, in a south-west direction, over the hills that divide the Yukon and Tanana basins, ascending a tributary of the former and descending one of the latter, the journey occupying two or three weeks, after which the Indians were sent back. A boat was constructed from the hide of a moose, resembling the "bull-boat" of the western frontiersmen, and in this they drifted to the river's mouth. At the point where the two travelers first sighted the Tanana, the trader estimated it to be about twelve hundred yards wide, or very nearly three-quarters of a mile, and as they were floating fifteen or sixteen hours a day for ten days, on a current whose speed he estimated at six or seven miles an hour, it being much swifter than the Yukon at any point as high as Belle Isle, my informant computed his progress at from ninety to a hundred miles a day; or from nine hundred to a thousand miles along the Tanana. He estimates the whole length of the river by combining the result of his observation with Indian reports, at from ten to twelve hundred miles. Fear of the Tanana Indians appears to be the motive for the rapid rate of travel through their country, and although in general a very friendly tribe to encounter away from home, they have always opposed any exploration of their country. The trader's companion had suggested and promoted the journey as a quasi scientific expedition, and he collected a few skulls of the natives and some botanical specimens, but no maps or notes were made of the trip, and it was afterward said by the Alaska Company's employes that the explorer was an envoy of the "opposition," as the old traders called the new company, sent to obtain information regarding the country as a trading district. Allowing a fair margin for all possible error, I think the river is from eight hundred to nine hundred miles long, not a single portion of which can be said to have been mapped.[3] This would probably make the Tanana, if I am right in my estimate, the longest wholly unexplored river in the world, certainly the longest of the western continent.

[3] I have since learned that Mr. Bates made a map and took notes.