Gold Hunting in Alaska

by Joseph Grinnell

This spread was one hardly to be expected in the wilds of the Arctics; though, as I have said, the Hanson Camp is never lacking in luxuries. Toward the end toasts were proposed and speeches made. My toast was to the ptarmigan, "The Turkey of the Kowak."

Our Big Haul of Ptarmigan.

We were two hours and a half at the table, and I hesitate to say that some of us, myself included, had eaten more than was for our intellectual good, and we were glad to throw ourselves on the beds which bordered the dining-room. For the next two hours we rested and gradually revived. Meanwhile our hosts entertained us in original style. One of the jokes was as follows: A pot was set in one corner and in it was placed a small spruce branch. Then Joe Jury sat down behind this combination and picked a tune from a string which was stretched on a small wooden block. The translation of this performance, as we were informed, was, "After dinner the orchestra dispensed sweet music from behind potted plants." After we had enjoyed hours of fun, all the guests were summoned from all the cabins and crowded into ours. Several speeches followed, by Solsbury, Dr. Coffin. C. C. Reynolds. Jury. Normandin and others. Then came more jokes.

At last the party broke up, and, after three cheers for the Hanson boys, we marched home in the bright Arctic moonlight, in the order we had come. Thus ended the first Thanksgiving ever celebrated on the mighty Kowak. On our return home we found the house had not been burglarized—another proof that we were not in the limits of civilization.

And here we are, spending the winter in ease and luxury, while our friends at home are "remembering us in their prayers," and imagining us in all sorts of peril, with danger of overwork, amid privation and hardship. The fact is, we haven't done a stroke of work worth mentioning, when we had expected to be digging out the precious nuggets. In which condition are we the happier or best off? I prefer the situation as it is. What is gold anyway? It is the "root of all evil," according to a misquotation, and, conversely, I believe the less money a person has, the happier life he leads. Anyway it is good policy for us to advance this doctrine until we strike something. It tends to keep us content.

Nov. 28.—The doctor and I have been out hunting. We directed our course down through the sand-dunes on this side of the river, and had the best luck so far with the ptarmigan. We got eighteen with twenty-four shots, which beats all records, as the birds are shy and, on account of their thick coat, extremely hard to kill. We stalked them among the hillocks, finding them feeding in the grass or in the thickets of dwarf willows which grow in the low places. We kept together and when we had spotted a flock we crept up behind the nearest dune, often getting quite close before alarming them. I got three at one pot-shot. They are hard to see on the snow, but where the sand is bare or with a background of bushes they are conspicuous. I had one vexatious accident. We spotted some birds on the opposite side of the lake and crept around the margin on the ice, hidden by bushes until we were within a few yards. I had two ptarmigan beautifully lined up and was just pushing the trigger, when my feet slipped from under me and my gun went off into the air. Before I could recover myself the ptarmigan were also up in the air. The ice is very slippery where the snow is blown off, as the sand driven over it by the north wind keeps it polished and prevents the hoar frost from forming on it. The doctor found a muskrat frozen to death near its hole. It fell to my mammal collection. I also caught a gray meadow mouse alive, as it was crossing a little pond. It is but my second. The burrows and runways of the little red-backed mouse are common in the woods and meadows. My steel traps have caught nothing but jays so far. I am sorry to catch the jays, for I do not disturb them near home, hoping to get their eggs next spring. I shall have ptarmigan to skin for several days now and so make recompense for my recent idleness. I can only work by daylight, which lasts but about three hours now,—that is, light enough for me to work at my table. The sun scarcely climbed above the horizon to-day. Clyde took the doctor's and my photos to-day with our big haul of ptarmigan.

Yesterday there was a fair attendance at church. Services were held in our cabin, as the meeting-house fireplace fell in. It will probably not be used again soon, as it is too cold to mix clay to mend the breach. Twenty-nine degrees below zero, and one has to be careful to keep ears and hands covered.

"Uncle Jimmy" (Mr. Wyse) gave me a fatherly talking to for skinning ptarmigan on Sunday. Hitherto I have used any time available for skinning birds, but yesterday, after a long argument and discussion, I yielded for the winter. Uncle Jimmy argued that I couldn't fill in all the time there is on week-days, and even if I don't see a reason for not working on Sunday, I should "consider the feelings of those who do." He is a nice old Scotchman, and I like him.

I have just finished reading "Hugh Wynne." The doctor brought home some numbers of "Appleton's Science Monthly" from the Hanson Camp, also some back numbers of "Harper's," and I am reading articles in them.