Across the Tundra.
On June 22 we crossed the high pass leading into the valley of the Paran River. My aneroid showed an elevation of six thousand feet. That afternoon we were greeted with a storm of sleet and snow, which drove us to the shelter of a high precipice, where we stayed close till the following day. The descent once fairly begun, we soon came into a more genial atmosphere. Below us in the valley we could see the heavily wooded banks of the Paran where Chrisoffsky and his two sons were to leave me with my two Koreans and Fronyo, the Tunguse guide. That night we camped on the bank of the river.
We were now in the primeval wilderness and had to subsist off the land. There were fish to catch and there was game to shoot, so there was little danger of our coming to grief. We had with us some fish-nets. These were made of horsehair obtained by barter from Central Siberia. These nets are large enough to hold a good-sized salmon. By placing them at the mouths of little creeks, and then scaring the fish down into them, it was not difficult to secure plenty to eat.
The Paran, even on its upper reaches, was a formidable stream two hundred yards wide, at this season swollen by melting snows. It was imperative that we cross this river, for the Uchingay flowed into it from the other side. Old Chrisoffsky had averred that I would never get across alive, but I had assured him that I could if there was timber near by. I had already guaranteed to pay for any horses that I might lose during the trip. When we came down to the bank of the river and saw the swift, sullen tide, the old man laughed and said, "I told you so." I knew that he would be an impediment to me, and that he would do all he could to prevent my taking the horses across, so I answered that as it was impossible to cross I would go into camp and wait for the water to go down. The old gentleman hit the trail for home the next day, carrying the tale that for once the American was beaten, and must await the pleasure of the Paran River. He would have been surprised had he seen us that very night safely on the other side with our baggage and horses intact. I confess the crossing was no easy feat, but it had to be done. As the river narrowed to a gorge with dangerous rapids less than a half mile below where we stood, I went three miles up the stream, where I found a lot of dead trees, averaging some ten inches in thickness. These we felled and cut into twelve-foot lengths, and bound them together with walrus rope, and thus were provided with a good raft. The Tunguse with his ax fashioned four rough sweeps, and we rigged up rowlocks by mortising uprights into the side logs of the raft.
We first tried, unsuccessfully, to cross by swimming the horses behind the raft; the animals kept trying to climb upon the raft. So we put back to shore. Then, making long whips, we drove the horses into the water at a point where the current set across toward the other bank. By vigorous whipping we showed the horses that they were not to be allowed to come back to the shore. They were swept off their feet, and after one or two attempts to return they seemed to understand the situation, and set out for the farther shore, which they reached after being swept about a third of a mile down-stream. Then we shoved off and arrived without mishap on the other bank at almost the very spot where the horses had landed, and we found them quietly eating.
It was now late in June, and the mosquitos had arrived in full force, though the flies as yet held off. The former pests were so thick that the air seemed literally filled with them as with flakes of snow in a heavy storm. The air was resonant with the deep humming sound from their wings. We all had to wear heavy gauntlet gloves tied tightly about the arm, and mosquito-hats made after a plan of my own. The summer before, I had made use of a broad felt hat with mosquito-net sewed around the rim, and with a draw-string at the bottom to fasten it at the throat; but this had proved perfectly useless because the least breath of wind would blow it against my face, and instantly a hundred mosquitos were at their deadly work. Besides this the net was continually getting torn in the underbrush; consequently, I was driven by desperation to invent some better way. I had with me a small roll of fine wire screen for screening gold ore. It was "thirty-mesh" (thirty strands to the inch). The night after we crossed the river I got out this roll of screen and cut out pieces six inches wide and twelve inches long and sewed them around the front rims of our hats. I cut up a couple of flour-sacks and sewed the strong cloth all around below the wire screen and behind the hat, gathering it with a string at the bottom. Finally I punched a small hole through the wire for my pipe-stem, and with this piece of armor on my head I could laugh at the mosquitos, and even succeeded in drinking tea through the screen.
When we ate we were obliged to make a big smudge and sit in the smoke, and we slept in our hats and gloves. The special value of the wire screen became evident a few days later when the flies began to appear. There was one species of fly so small that it could easily penetrate the ordinary mosquito-netting, but could not possibly negotiate this wire screen. The bite of this fly feels like the prick of a red-hot needle, and two days later each bite becomes a running sore. The flies are far more to be dreaded than the mosquitos.
