A direct projection of the northern hemisphere would resemble a pie with the Equator at its rim and the Pole at its center. Now imagine our pie cut into four quarters. We have, obviously, four ways to the Pole. But now suppose the arrival of unexpected company, four in number; a less generous distribution of our pie becomes necessary. The scientific housewife would at once solve the difficulty by cutting the pie on intervening lines. We now have eight pieces to our pie and, consequently, eight ways to our pole. If we have eight we may have sixteen, if sixteen, thirty-two, and so on, by subdivision, to infinity. Q.E.D.[5]
THE BIG HUNTING
As soon as the early August frosts warn the Eskimo huntsman that winter is nigh, he begins to think about his food-supply. In fact this is a thing he thinks about most of the time. Food is the paramount consideration in polar-regions. It is the standard of value, the source of warmth, the unit of measure it is everything.
There are in reality but two seasons, Winter and Summer, in the regions immediately surrounding the Pole. Hunting is impossible in the one because of the intense cold. But between the two periods come a few days, a week at most, of intermediate temperature, too short to be called Spring or Autumn, but too valuable to be lost. It is during these short spells that the native must lay in his winter or summer supply of meat, skins, etc. Consequently he is always in a hurry.
The photograph shows Makuik at his favorite sport of seal-slaughtering. Dr. Traprock tells us that owing to the amazing abundance of game in these remote regions it was possible for the mighty hunter to pursue his prey for four days without stopping for rest or food save for an occasional hunk of flesh or fat torn from one of his victims en passant.
"Makuik's elation," says the intrepid author, "became almost unpleasant." As the herds of seal, walrus and otary accumulated about him their blood seemed to go to his head. Uttering a low crooning cry which rose to a wild screech at every thrust of his raktok (trident) he leaped about the floe with the soft agility of a Mordkin. An extraordinary sight was to see him hurl his weapon into a passing flock of pemmican, spearing a fine bird on each of its prongs. But his favorite game was seals because of their comparative inability to escape and their rich food-value. Incidentally the skins would make excellent gifts for his wives during the approaching Yule-tide season (Kryptok-Boknik-lok or Feast of Food). Makuik evidently believed in "doing his Christmas stabbing early."
At the close of the "big hunting," Makuik had to his credit, besides countless other game, four hundred and seventy seals. The photograph pictures him making three holes in one, a feat which no golf-player can ever hope to rival.
The Big Hunting
The question immediately arose as to which route I should select. I decided on the straightest, just as I had decided, in Cambridge, to take the Kawa to the North Pole instead of the South because it was nearer. Obviously I must reach the polar ice-pack before making my beeline as my ship was adapted for but two elements, ice and water. Travel over bare ground was not contemplated. Wheels had never entered my head. How nearly this fact cost us our lives makes a thrilling story but one which comes later.
Thus, our object was to round Cape Race and pick our way through Davis Strait which runs due north through Baffin Bay, well beyond the Arctic Circle. This is the most direct water route from New York.
Our last glimpse of the homeland was the white water over Sow-and-Pigs Ledge off Cuttyhunk, from which we set a course North by slightly East to pick up the gas-beacon at mouth of St. John's Harbor. As we swashed along outside of Cuttyhunk I saw through my glasses a signal flag waved from the piazza of the old fishing club which I recalled having visited as a small boy in '88 when the last sea-bass was hauled from those waters. A moment later a small boat put off from the beach near the lighthouse and rowed in our direction. It was a hard pull for the sturdy islanders but we stood by and finally took their helmsman aboard who handed me a letter marked "Rush" which proved to be a notice from the Westchester Lighting Company informing me that there was still a payment due on my gas range. As I had opened this missive in the privacy of my cabin I was able to go on deck and tell the messenger, rather curtly, that there was "no answer" and the good fellows rowed away, giving us a hearty cheer as we turned our nose to the open sea.
St. John's was our first port-of-call for I had to redeem my promise to Triplett to pick up the woman, "Sausalito," as he called her. I think the old man was inspired by the thought of seeing her, for he gave us an exhibition of navigation that was an eye-opener. After leaving Cuttyhunk we ran into a dense fog. For forty-eight hours this continued, thick and impenetrable. Once we heard the distant sound of the cod-fishers on the Banks singing their morning song—an unspeakable chantey about a dissolute person named Mary Brown—but we saw no gleam of binnacle, sun or shorelight. Yet through this murk, with the magnetic pull on our bowsprit tending always to veer us from our course, Triplett led us with such accuracy that at exactly the appointed time we caught the distant flash of the beacon and knew that our first leg had been completed.
My followers knew nothing of my plan to take Sausalito aboard and my instructions to Triplett were to keep silent. The lady's first appearance was not reassuring. She was standing on a dilapidated pier head, valiantly defending herself from volleys of stones hurled by native village lads. Crouching behind a rusty try-out kettle she responded in kind, directing her missiles with vicious speed and accuracy. A curious morning picture.