Heroes of To-Day

by Mary Rosetta Parkman

The paddler on the Yukon, however, cannot become too absorbed in the beauties by the way. There are dangerous rapids and unexpected cross currents that require a steady head and a strong hand, and the new bishop frequently had reason to be grateful for the skill in canoeing that he had won in his camping days in Canada.

If he had been out for game he would have found more than one opportunity for a good shot. There were brown bears looking at him from the brush along the banks, and bears fishing for salmon in the swift water. Sometimes he caught a glimpse of an antlered moose among the trees, and now and then he saw an eagle swoop down to seize a leaping fish in its claws. Flocks of ducks with their funny, featherless broods scurried over the water, disturbed by the sudden appearance of the canoe.

The bishop visited the Indian villages along the stream, as well as the missions that had been planted at various points to minister to the natives. Imagine what his cheering presence meant to the lonely workers in the wilderness. As he went along he was planning how best he might meet the needs of the people with new missions, hospitals, and schools.

“Why is it that all you tough, rough-riding Alaskan fellows set such store by this Bishop Rowe?” a man from Fairbanks was asked.

“Well, for one thing his works have not been in words but in deeds,” was the reply. “Let me tell you how it was with us when he came over the ice from Circle City in the winter of 1903. He looked us over and saw the thing we most needed. He saw no dollars, either in sight or in the future. He saw only that a poor lot of human creatures, up against a dead-hard proposition, needed a hospital. ‘You have the ground,’ said he; ‘you raise half the money and I will leave the other half for the building. Then I will take care of the nurses, medicines, and everything else you need.’ Of course he is for his church, but he and his church are always for their people—and their people are any that fare over the trail.”

It was soon said of this master missionary that he was “the best musher in Alaska,” “Mush!” or “Mush on!” is the cry that the men on the winter trails give to their dog teams. It is, perhaps, a corruption of the French word marchons, which means “Go on!” There is seldom a winter when Bishop Rowe does not travel from one to two thousand miles with his team of six huskies to visit his people.

Do you picture him sitting comfortably wrapped in fur robes on the sledge while the dogs pull him as well as the store of food for the six weeks’ journey on which he is bound? Look again! There he is walking on snow-shoes ahead of the team leader; he is “breaking trail” for the dogs who have all they can do to drag the laden sled. In order to lighten their load he selects a tree at each camping-place to serve as a landmark, and hides there a store of food for the return trip.

“That is a plan that works well unless the sly wolverines manage to get on the scent of the cache,” he said. “But you must go as light as possible when you travel over a waste of snow, and are forced at times to cover forty miles a day. It is a trip that takes all the unnecessary fat off you; and you get as strong as a mule and as hungry as a bear.”

You would think that the mountain climbing, canoeing, and marching on snow-shoes which are part of his yearly round would be all that he could possibly need to take off the “unnecessary fat” and keep him in the “pink of training.” The winter trip with the dog sledge, however, brings many situations when life itself depends upon one’s physical fitness. In preparation for those journeys, the bishop goes through a regular series of exercises—long distance running, hill-climbing, and even jumping rope. The following extract from one of his diaries kept during a six weeks’ trip over the Arctic waste when mountains and valleys alike were muffled in a white silence, and all the streams were voiceless, spell-bound rivers of ice, will show what making the rounds in the diocese of all Alaska means:

Our sled was loaded with robes, tent, stove, axes, clothing, and food for sixteen days for dogs and selves. Wind blew the snow like shot in our faces. I kept ahead of the dogs, leading them, finding the way. We had to cross the wide river; the great hummocks made this an ordeal; had to use the ax and break a way for the dogs and sled. In the midst of it all the dogs would stop; they could not see; their eyes were closed with the frost; so I rubbed off the frost and went on. The time came when the dogs would—could—no longer face the storm. I was forced to make a camp. It was not a spot I would choose for the purpose. The bank of the river was precipitous, high, rocky, yet there was wood. I climbed one hundred feet and picked out a spot and made a campfire. Then returned to the sled, unharnessed the dogs, got a “life line,” went up and tied it to a tree by the fire. By means of this we got up our robes and sufficient food. Here after something to eat we made a bed in the snow.... It was a night of shivers. Froze our faces.