In Chatham Straits, Alaska, only a stone's throw from the mainland, there is a little island called Kilasnoo. It boasts of a tiny Indian village named after the island, and a factory where they turn out fish-oil. At a little wharf belonging to the factory, in the summer of 1895, lay the United States survey steamer Patterson, on board which Charles Henderson, a native of Gefle, Sweden, and myself were able seamen. We were fast friends, and had agreed to be sporting companions whenever we got the opportunity. Up to the present time we had never done any hunting, although we owned two guns. The only things we had shot at so far were condensed milk cans, which we threw into the water and fired at from behind a bush, at a distance of about fifty feet. I regret to add that we never hit one. It was our first year up there, and so far we had had no chance of showing what we could do against big game, but the chance came along rather sooner than we expected.
One Saturday afternoon, seated in a canoe, Henderson and I paddled off to the opposite shore. Landing just above a large inlet called Hood's Bay, we hauled our canoe up into the edge of the wood, and then, taking our fishing-tackle and guns, we started off along a trail which brought us, after a three-mile tramp through the wood, to the shores of a lake where we intended to fish for trout. Although we had brought our guns, we knew that no game had been seen around there for years—at least, so the Indians told us. We carried our guns, therefore, but there was no likelihood of them being required, and I believe in our hearts we were both glad of it—I know I was, at any rate.
Presently, tramping steadily through the woods, we arrived at a clearing or flat at the head of the lake, where, for a space of about twenty yards, from the edge of the forest to the water, the ground was bare, save for a solitary dead tree in the middle. We were crossing this barren stretch when, all of a sudden, a sight met our gaze which brought us to a standstill. There, coming round the corner of the clearing, was a bear! I had seen one before at a zoo, and knew at once what it was, only this bear looked about three times as big as the beast at the zoo.
MR. A. WRIGHT, ONE OF THE "GREENHORNS" WHO HERE RELATES HIS AMUSING ENCOUNTER WITH A BEAR.
From a Photograph.
I will not speak for Henderson, but if I could have moved just then I should have taken a header into the lake. When we got our breath after the first shock of surprise, my companion shouted excitedly, "Shoot! Shoot!" He yelled so loud that the bear stopped in surprise, had a good, comfortable look at us, gave what sounded like a grunt of disgust, and then turned tail and quietly trotted off along the trail in the direction we had come from. Directly he had disappeared we unslung our guns and consoled each other by declaring that the reason we had not fired at the bear was not because we were scared, but because we were fascinated by our first sight of a real wild bear. Nevertheless, it was remarkable how quickly and with what touching unanimity we climbed up that dead tree in the middle of the flat, in case Bruin should take it into his head to return. Seated in its branches we at least felt more comfortable, until Henderson suddenly remembered that bears could also climb. To make matters worse for us, it was now getting late in the afternoon, and the sun had already dipped behind the mountains. The thought of sitting up in that tree all night was no joke; but, still, we considered it better than going back through the woods, with thick undergrowth on both sides of the trail, in which countless bears could lie in wait for us.
Presently Henderson suggested lighting a fire.
"All right," I replied. "You get down and collect the sticks; I'll keep watch up here."
But this brilliant suggestion found no favour with my companion.
"No," he said; "let's toss for it." So we did, and I won. Henderson got down—not so quickly as he got up, however—and began to look round for sticks, circling warily round and round the tree at arm's length. He did this two or three times, and then suddenly he shouted out loudly, "There are no sticks down here." The yell so scared me that I lost my balance and toppled down off my perch, landing with a crash on the ground. When I picked myself up, fortunately unhurt, Henderson was half-way up the tree, and I soon followed suit. Neither of us had the pluck to descend again, so all night we sat perched up in the tree, afraid to sleep lest we should fall, and shaking with cold, fear, and hunger. The night was terribly dark, and the stillness all around us was something that could almost be felt. The man who says he never knew fear when spending his first night in the primeval forest can have no respect for the truth. It is not excitement or nervousness, but absolute fear of the unknown, and I know it from experience, for Henderson and myself killed many a bear and spent many a night in the forest after that first one. But we never experienced the same sensation again.