Our stay at the camp on the shore extended over a week, and enabled us to become familiar with many of the changes in the rugged scenery surrounding Yakutat bay. The bay itself was covered with icebergs for most of the time. Owing to the prevailing winds and the action of shore currents, the ice accumulated on the coast adjacent to our camp. For many days the beach toward both the north and the south, as far as the eye could reach, was piled high with huge masses of blue and white ice. When the bay was rough, the surf roared angrily among the stranded bergs and, dashing over them, formed splendid sheets of foam; while on bright, sunny days the bay gleamed and flashed in the sunlight as the summer winds gently rippled its surface, and the thousands of icebergs crowding the azure plain seemed a numberless fleet of fairy boats with crystal hulls and fantastic sails of blue and white. When the long summer days drew to a close and gave place to the soft northern twilight, which in summer lasts until the glow of the returning sun is seen in the east, the sea and mountains assumed a soft, mysterious beauty never realized by dwellers in more southern climes. The hours of twilight were so enchanting, the varying shades and changing tints on the mighty snow-fields robing the mountains were so exquisite in their gradations that, even when weary with many hours of toil, the explorer could not resist the charm, and paced the sandy shore until the night was far spent. Sometimes in the twilight hours, long after the sun disappeared, the summits of the majestic peaks toward the east were transformed by the light of the after-glow into mountains of flame. As the light faded, the cold shadow of the world crept higher and higher up the crystal slopes until only the topmost spires and pinnacles were gilded by the sunset glow. At such times, when our eyes were weary with watching the gorgeous transformation of the snow-covered mountains and were turned to the far-reaching seaward view, we would be startled by the sight of a vast city, with battlements, towers, minarets, and domes of fantastic architecture, rising where we knew that only the berg-covered waters extended. The appearance of these phantom cities was a common occurrence during the twilight hours. Although we knew at once that the ghostly spires were but a trick of the mirage, yet their ever-changing shapes and remarkable mimicry of human habitations were so striking that they never lost their novelty; and they were never the same on two successive evenings. One of the most common deceptions of the mirage is the transformation of icebergs into the semblance of fountains gushing from the sea and expanding into graceful, sheaf-like shapes. The strangest freaks due to the refraction of light on hot deserts, which are usually supposed to be the home of the mirage, do not excite the traveler's wonder so much as the phantom cities seen in the uncertain twilight amid the ice-packs of the north.
When the slowly deepening twilight transformed mountains and seas into a dreamland picture, the harvest moon, strangely out of place in far northern skies, spread a sheet of silver behind the dark headlands toward the southeast, and then slowly appeared, not rising boldly toward the zenith, but tracing a low arch in the southern heavens, to soon disappear into the sea toward the southwest. Brief as were her visits, they were always welcome and always brought the feeling that distant homes were nearer when the same light was visible to us and to loved ones far away. The soft moonlight dimmed the twilight, the after-glow faded from the highest peaks, and the short northern night came on.
After returning from the mountains, late in September, we were again encamped on the northwestern shore of Yakutat bay. A heavy northeast storm swept down from the mountains and awakened all the pent-up fury of the waves. The beach was crowded with bergs, among which the surf broke in great sheets of feathery foam; clouds of spray were dashed far above the icy ramparts, carrying with them fragments of ice torn from the bergs over which they swept; while the stranded bergs rocked violently to and fro as the waves burst over them. Sometimes the raging waters, angered by opposition, lifted the bergs in their mighty arms and, turning them over and over, dashed them high on the beach. It seemed as if spirits of the deep, unable to leave the water-world, were hurling their weapons at unseen enemies on the land. The fearful grandeur of the raging waters and of the dark storm-swept skies was, perhaps, enhanced by the fact that the landward-blowing gale, combined with a rising tide, threatened to sweep away our frail home. Each succeeding wave, as it rolled shoreward, sent a sheet of foam roaring and rushing up the beach and creeping nearer and nearer to our shelter until only a few inches intervened between the highwater line and the crest of the sand bank that protected us. The limit was reached at last, however, and the water slowly retreated, leaving a fringe of ice within arm's length of our tents.
The wild scene along the shore was especially grand at night. The stranded bergs, seen through the gloom, formed strange moving shapes, like vessels in distress. The white banners of spray seemed signals of disaster. An Armada, more numerous than ever sailed from the ports of Spain, was being crushed and ground to pieces by the hoarse wind and raging surf. Sleep was impossible, even if one cared to rest when sea and air and sky were joined in fierce conflict. Our tents, spared by the waves, were dashed down by the fierce north winds, and a lake in the forest toward the west overflowed its banks and discharged its flooding waters through our encampment. At last, tired and discomforted, we abandoned our tents and retreated to the neighboring forest and there took refuge in a cabin built near where a coal seam outcrops, and remained until the storm had spent its force. But I have anticipated, and must return to the thread of my narrative.
FIRST DAY'S TRAMP.
The impressions received during the first day spent on shore in a new country are always long remembered. Of several "first days" in my own calendar, there are none that exceed in interest my first excursions through the forest and over the hills west of Yakutat bay.
Every one about camp having plenty of work to occupy him through the day, I started out early on the morning of July 2, with only "Bud" and "Tweed" for companions. My objects were to reconnoiter the country to the westward, to learn what I could concerning its geology and glaciers, and to choose a line of march toward Mount St. Elias.
To the north of our camp, and about a mile distant, rose a densely wooded hill about 300 feet high, with a curving outline, convex southward. This hill had excited my curiosity on first catching sight of the shore, and I decided to make it my first study. Its position at the mouth of a steep gorge in the hills beyond, down which a small glacier flowed, suggested that it might be an ancient moraine, deposited at a time when the ice-stream advanced farther than at present. My surprise therefore was great when, after forcing my way through the dense thickets, I reached the top of the hill, and found a large kettle-shaped depression, the sides of which were solid walls of ice fifty feet high. This showed at once that the supposed hill was really the extremity of a glacier, long dead and deeply buried beneath forest-covered débris. In the bottom of the kettle-like depression lay a pond of muddy water, and, as the ice-cliffs about the lakelet melted in the warm sunlight, miniature avalanches of ice and stones, mingled with sticks and bushes that had been undermined, frequently rattled down its sides and splashed into the waters below. Further examination revealed the fact that scores of such kettles are scattered over the surface of the buried glacier. This ice-stream is that designated the Galiano glacier on the accompanying map.
Continuing on my way toward the mouth of the gorge in the mountains above, I forced my way for nearly a mile through dense thickets, frequently making wide detours to avoid the kettle holes. At length the vegetation became less dense, and gave place to broad open fields of rocks and dirt, covering the glacier from side to side. This débris was clearly of the nature of a moraine, as the ice could be seen beneath it in numerous crevasses; but no division into marginal or medial moraines could be distinguished. It is really a thin, irregular sheet of comminuted rock, together with angular masses of sandstone and shale, the largest of which are ten or fifteen feet in diameter. When seen from a little distance the débris completely conceals the ice and forms a barren, rugged surface, the picture of desolation.
After traversing this naked area the clear ice in the center of the gorge was reached. All about were wild cliffs, stretching up toward the snow-covered peaks above; several cataracts of ice, formed by tributary glaciers descending through rugged, highly inclined channels, were in sight; while the snow-fields far above gleamed brilliantly in the sunlight, and now and then sent down small avalanches to awaken the echoes of the cliffs and fill the still air with a Babel of tongues.