Day after day there is a continuous and unbroken chain of mountain scenery. On the right of our course is a broad strip of the mainland, an Alpine region, thirty miles in width, which forms a part of southern Alaska, bounded on the east by British Columbia, and on the west by the many spacious islands, which create so perfect a breakwater that the constant swell of the contiguous ocean is not felt. Some of these islands lie within a quarter of a mile of each other, on either side of our way, and yet the water is far too deep to admit of anchoring, the peaks rising abruptly from unknown depths to thousands of feet above the sea. The channels seem still more narrow from the great height of the mountains which line the course. The eye catches with delight the bright ribbons of waterfalls tumbling down their sides, in gleeful uproar, foaming and sparkling towards the depths below. These are fed by melting snow and hidden lakes far up in the cloud-screened summits. Some of these waterfalls, narrow and swift, leap from point to point, now forming small cascades, and now continuing in a perpendicular form like a column of crystal. Others, so abrupt and precipitous are the heights from which they are launched, fall in an unbroken stream, clinging to the cliffs at first, but quickly expanding into a thin sheet rivaling the Bridal Veil of the Yosemite, and reaching the base in a constant gauzelike spray.
The wide, open tracks seen now and then on the steep, thickly-wooded mountain sides, reaching from high up to the snow-line down to the very surface of the water, are the pathways swept by giant avalanches. What immense power and lightning-like speed are suggested by the broad, clean swath that is left! The wind caused by the rushing avalanches is almost equally resistless, the trees on either side of the track being torn into splinters by it.
Now and again, above the tops of the giant pines, one can see moving objects on the exposed peaks and cliffs, almost too far away and too small for identification, but we know them to be wild mountain goats,—the Alaskan chamois,—quite safe from the hunters in these perilous heights, never trod by the foot of man. The tender glow of twilight enshrouding mountain peaks, emerald isles, and the gently throbbing bosom of the sea, added daily a witching charm to a scene which already seemed perfect in beauty.
The principal island group lying off the shore of southwestern Alaska is named the Alexander Archipelago, in honor of the Tzar of Russia. It extends about three hundred miles north and south, and is seventy-five miles from east to west, embracing over eleven hundred islands, scarcely one of which has been explored. The group reaches from Dixon Entrance to Cross Sound, in latitude 58° 25′ north. Upon landing at one of these islands it was found to be covered by an impervious forest; the mass of timber and undergrowth was so compact as to defy our progress. The tangle of bushes, roots, vines, and branches formed almost as impenetrable a wall as though built of masonry. The wildest jungles of India are not more dense. Where not covered and hidden by trees, the earth was flecked here and there by the sun, being carpeted with moss and ferns so thickly spread as to form a spongy surface, upon which only the velvety feet of small wild animals could be sustained. A human pedestrian, were he to attempt to pass over it, would sink in this vegetable compound knee-deep at every step. There are no paths in these jungles; the natives have no occasion to penetrate them, their living comes from the sea, and the river courses are their hunting grounds.
This virgin soil, were it to be drained and cleared of trees, would be rich beyond calculation, while the climate is such as to warrant the growth and ripening of any vegetation which will thrive on the Atlantic coast north of Chesapeake Bay. One who has not seen it in Alaska knows not what rank and luxuriant forest undergrowth is. No tropical islands can surpass the Alexander Archipelago in this respect. Thus far no one has come to this region with the idea of testing its availability for agricultural purposes; it is other business which has attracted them. Nothing of any account has ever been done in the way of stock-raising, though the winters of southern Alaska, of Kodiak, and the Aleutian Islands are much milder than are those of Wyoming or northern Dakota, and there is plenty of food for innumerable herds all the year round. If government will but give the Territory of Alaska proper land laws, this region will promptly invite emigration, and be rapidly peopled by thrifty stock-growers.
As we increase our northern latitude forests of tall cedars, spruce, and hemlock still line the shore of the mainland, and cover the countless islands with a mantle of softest green. It is not surprising that artists become enthusiastic over the infinite variety of shades found in these verdant woods, an effect which we have never seen excelled even in equatorial regions. Gliding over the still, deep, pellucid surface of the ocean, we behold these cliffs, forests, and mountains, with coronets of snow reflected therein, as though there was another world below, like that above the rose-tinted sea. One finds almost exactly repeated here the bold, towering peaks, and low-lying rocky isles of the Lofoden group in the far North Sea of the opposite hemisphere, whose sharp, jagged pinnacles have been aptly compared to shark’s teeth.
Near Cape Fox, on the mainland, there are two large fish-canning establishments, where salmon are packed in one pound tin cases for shipment to distant markets, and in which a few Chinamen are employed. Some Indian women also find occupation in the establishment, while their husbands capture and bring in the fish in large quantities. This is a rapidly growing and profitable business in this region, there being already forty or fifty such factories along the coast and among the islands north of Cape Fox.
Kasa-an Bay makes into Prince of Wales Island twenty miles, more or less, from Clarence Strait. Here there are several villages of Kasa-an Indians. No spot on the coast is more famous for the abundance and excellence of its salmon; at certain seasons the waters of the bay swarm with them. Here is a large cannery, or fish-packing station, where native women do most of the indoor work. Two thousand barrels of salted salmon were shipped from this bay last year. This was independent of those used in canning. There would seem to be no limit to the expansion of an industry that can furnish such desirable, every way wholesome, and nutritious food to be sold in all parts of the world.
The North Pacific Trading and Packing Company of San Francisco has been doing a profitable business on the coast for many years. In spite of government neglect, commerce is steadily increasing and developing Alaska; it invades all zones, proving the greatest of civilizing agencies. Not only is it the equalizer of the wealth, but also of the intelligence, of nations, and this one branch alone is gradually populating whole districts. When the active packing season is over there is still profitable employment for all. Some are occupied in making the tin cans to hold one pound each; others are taught to become coopers, furnishing the casks for shipping such fish as are split, salted, and exported in that form; while others are occupied in making pine-wood boxes to contain two dozen each of the filled cans. Thus a well-conducted fish-packing establishment employs many people, and presents a busy scene all the year round.
The salmon are so plenty in the regular season that an Indian will sometimes deliver at the canning factory three or four canoe-loads in a single day. They are mostly caught by net or seine, but often during the height of the season the natives absolutely shovel the salmon out of the water and on to the shore with their paddle blades. We were told that as many as three thousand salmon, and even more, are sometimes taken at a single haul of the seine; also that fish of this species weighing from twenty to thirty pounds were common here. Great numbers are discarded at the factories because they do not prove to be of the high pink color which is required by the purchasers and consumers. It seems that the bears know very well when the run of salmon commences, and that there are certain quiet inlets where the fish are sure to get crowded and jammed, so that Bruin has only to reach out his paws and draw one after another on to the shore and eat until he has his fill. The bear-paths leading to these spots are strongly marked, and the animals are thus easily tracked and shot by the hunters. It is the white men who capture them most generally, as the natives have some mysterious reverence and fear combined regarding this animal. They do hunt them, however, but shrive themselves of all sense of wrong by going through some mystic rites. Mr. Charles Hallock says: “There are bears enough in Alaska, grizzly, cinnamon, and black, to furnish every man on the Pacific with a cap and overcoat, and leave breeding stock enough for next year’s supply.” The grizzly bear is a dangerous animal to encounter single-handed. A bullet seems to have no more effect upon him, unless it strikes a vital spot, than it does upon an elephant. It is necessary to use guns of large calibre when hunting the animal, and the whites rarely seek them unless several tried men band together for the purpose.