Kenai River
Esau carefully selected a prospector’s pick, gold pan, and shovel to do a little prospecting on the side. In his telescope he had his toothbrush, comb, hair-brush, manicure set, etc., which he considered absolutely necessary for his personal comfort. He also carried his own knife and fork, tin cup, and tin plate, each artistically marked with his own symbol.
Old Sourdough watched these arrangements with an expression of disgust. He carried a red bandanna handkerchief dangling from his belt, containing his change of socks, some smoking tobacco, and matches. Later he improvised a very serviceable pipe by fitting a shot cartridge shell with a split willow stem, artistically wrapped with thread.
After the packing was completed we embarked upon the Kenai River in two twenty-foot dories, with the tide in our favor. The river meandered like a wriggling snake for about a mile through the marshy flats; beyond, the shore was lined to the water’s edge with cottonwood, birch, and spruce. On our way, ducks, geese, and many other water-fowl were flushed by the noise of the oars in the locks and the splash of the blades as they dipped into the water. The guides were making all haste, being anxious to get as far up the river as possible, knowing it was no mean task to pull, line, and pole the mile or more to the head of tide water without the aid of full tide.
When we reached our first camp the flies and mosquitoes were very plentiful. The boys were loud in their forceful expressions against the songsters and their near cousins, the black flies. All hands were busy, some erecting the tents, others cutting spruce boughs for a good bed, and the rest getting something to eat for the hungry party.
Pitching camp very quickly developed the inexperience of Cheechalker. Always willing to lend a helping hand, he started the fire on the windward side, filling our eyes with smoke. The site he selected for the tent showed plenty of roots, well calculated to furnish an uneasy experience for the night. When he pointed it out to us, we soon overruled him. The duffel was hardly unloaded until Doc was ransacking the outfit for his .22 rifle to shoot some Canada grouse (Dendragapus canadensis). They are very plentiful in the spruce timber and when flushed will fly to a limb, where they sit and crane their necks at the hunter, who, if he is wise enough to pick off the lowest bird at each shot, may, if he so desires, clean out the entire covey. In the meantime one of the party had shot a red squirrel, and at the suggestion of Old Sourdough it was nailed to the limb of a tree in anticipation of a little fun at Doc’s expense. On his return the old Indian said in his guttural voice (pointing at the squirrel), “Look! look! him big squirrel, shoot!!” Old Sourdough, meanwhile helping the fun along by craning his neck in every direction, said, “Where? where?” In the meantime Doc was making a mad rush for his .35 Winchester; crack went the gun, off went the ears of Mr. Squirrel, and he gently swayed on the nail; once more the gun cracked, and this time the body fell to the ground in fragments. Then the woods rang again and again with the shouts of the party, while Doc threatened dire vengeance on those who perpetrated the joke.
After dinner, a smoke, and a few stories, the Indians departed to their tent and we all stretched out in a row for our night’s sleep. But too soon, for one fellow pulled the blanket from his neighbor. Then there was a “rough house,” and after that duels to the death with mosquitoes, all punctuated with such a variety of exclamations that the vocabulary of each was exhausted before quiet was restored.
