Trails and Tramps in Alaska and Newfoundland

by William S. Thomas

The path led through a little depression in a ridge that projected into the swamp. Mounting an elevation in the center of the ridge, I could see on every side little lakes and ponds, surrounded with alders and acres of yellow swamp grass, an ideal home for moose. Taking my field-glass, I looked in every direction for game, and finally my eye rested on a yellowish-brown object, then another and another, which proved to be cow moose feeding among the birches. While resting, there came to my ears from another direction the snapping of bushes. I knew it was a moose feeding, a cow, to be sure. I at once started in the direction whence the sound came, and happened upon three cows feeding and resting. They did not seem to be wild, for on seeing me they threw their ears back and hair forward, just like mules, then walked off a short distance and stopped. In fact, they appeared to be very tame and evidently knew that the law protected their sex. While looking in the finder of my camera I noticed that their curiosity seemed to be aroused and that they were advancing towards me a little too closely for safety. I hurriedly set down my kodak and raised my gun for fear the foremost would take a notion to charge. Just at this moment she wheeled straight around and with a trotting motion, took to the closest cover. Before I returned to camp my intention had been to come back the next day, but I found the entire party had decided to turn homeward the next morning. What an opportunity I missed to get some photographs of big bull moose! The party saw at least ten cow moose that day. Without a doubt, when the rutting season arrived in about ten days, the large bulls, now in the high timber, would be scouring the forests in search of their mates, bellowing in answer to the call of their lady-loves.

As soon as he reached the camp that evening Cheechalker began to inquire about his bath, and his equilibrium was greatly disturbed when the Indians refused to erect a tepee for a sweat box and give him a bath. The guide, pointing to the crystal water of the lake, said, “Him good water, make good wash.” Now Cheechalker took as kindly to the crystal water as fish take to the land. Finally the party went for a bath, each performing his ablution in installments, and while they were sunning themselves, Old Sourdough took a header into the lake as an example that they might follow. This was too strenuous for the balance of the party and they were satisfied to look on.

A Bath in Lake Skilak

Doc took a stroll along the beach with his shotgun and returned with a brace of snipe. The white crescent over the eye was very conspicuous between the black bill and slaty-black feathers of the crown.

Pulling stakes after our breakfast was over next morning, we were soon on our way homeward. We were just one day going down the river. The current was very swift and save for a few stops we made excellent time. At two of the worst rapids we all got out and the Indians ran the rapids. Before we pulled into Kenai we were told the Bydarky had left for Seldovia and would not make another trip for three days, which, if true, would be too late for us to catch the last boat of the season from Seldovia to Seattle. After arriving at Kenai we had about completed arrangements for a little schooner to take us up the inlet to Sunrise, on Turnagain Bay, where we expected to get a train for Seward, in time for the steamer, when, much to our pleasant surprise, the belated Bydarky came into port on her way to Seldovia. We had been misinformed. We quickly transferred our outfit, much relieved that we would not have to miss the last boat of the season.

At two o’clock in the afternoon the boat left Kenai under full steam for the westward. The waters of the inlet were as smooth as glass and we were making good headway. Not even a gentle breeze was blowing as the sun disappeared behind the snow-covered peaks of Iliamna and Redoubt. The afterglow, reflected from the snowy cap, and the steam bursting from the side of old Redoubt gave it a weird appearance.

All the passengers had retired except Doc and myself, who had been left without a bunk. We first thought we would throw our blankets on the floor of the combination cabin, kitchen, and dining-room. A strong breeze began to blow and we decided to go into the hold for the night, coil ourselves up in our duffel, and go to sleep. The wind increased to a hurricane. What a night we spent down in the hold of that old tub! She was carrying little freight, had no ballast, and could make no time. The tide caught us, and between the outgoing and the incoming tide-rifts the boat was tossed about at the mercy of the elements. When she pitched forward the propeller was out of the water and spun like a button on a barn door. The engine throbbed and beat, stopped and started, with jerks and bounds, and the climax came when it broke.

We were in the most treacherous water of the Pacific, rolling and tumbling in the trough and on the ridge of the high seas. The boat was drifting out of the charted course and toward a coast bristling with unknown rocks, upon which we were sure of being lost. The instant the engine broke, the engineer came down the hatchway like a meteor. The boat made a plunge and he landed in a heap on top of the doctor, who was so sick that in his misery he did not care whether the craft went down or floated. Righting himself, the engineer made a dash for the engine-room to repair the damage. In the storm the poop deck went to windward over the stern. The repair-men were at work; above the din of the hammer and chisel could be heard the cargo shifting from side to side with the billows. Oh! how I longed to hear again the vibrating of the engine and smell the stench of the fuel oil, which before the storm had made our condition almost unbearable. The doctor lying on the broad of his back lifted his head and stared through the now open poop deck and asked, “Where are those sparks coming from?” I looked up and thought the stack was belching sparks from its fiery bowels. A second look, however, sufficed to show that what seemed to be sparks were the stars as they passed back and forth over the hatch with the rocking of the boat. The illusion was much more realistic than the narration of it would indicate.