Читать книгу Anthropological Survey in Alaska - Aleš Hrdlička - Страница 13

Table of Contents

June 22-23. Our approach to Ruby was very modest. With Mr. Peake paid off, we just sided against and tied to the bank, on which are the lowest houses of the village, and carried out my boxes and bedding on the bank. There two or three men were idly watching our arrival. I asked about the local marshal, to whom I had a note, and had my things carried to the combined post office and hotel. In almost no time I meet Mr. Thomas H. Long, the marshal, become acquainted with the people about, tell my mission, and begin to collect. It does not take long for one properly introduced to be thoroughly and warmly at home in Alaska. The first specimen I get is a fine fossilized mammoth molar. It is brought to me by Albert Verkinik, who was about to depart for some mines, but went back to get the tooth. And he asks no compensation.

The parts of two days spent at Ruby were quite profitable. Visiting, and in the jail, were several Indians who could be noted and photographed. At the old jail there were two skulls of Indians that were donated. The teacher had two of the characteristic Yukon two-grooved axes. The postmaster, Mr. H. E. Clarke, gave a collection of fresh animal skulls. Mr. Louis Pilback donated two mammoth molars, found 2 miles up the Yukon on Little Melozey Creek, about 8 feet deep, in the muck right over the gravel. Mrs. Monica Silas brought me a good old stone knife. Several of the men took me down to the beach to see a damaged fossil elephant skull, also to see some fossiliferous workings above the town. Another party took me a few miles up and across the river to see an Indian camp and near by some old burials. The collections were sent through parcel post; and the evening before departure I gave a lecture to an attentive and respectful audience.

The town itself, however, is now a mere damaged and crumbling shell of what it was in the heyday of its glory, during the gold rush. Many of the frame dwellings and stores are empty; the board sidewalks are rickety and with big holes; and in the air is a general lack of impetus.

June 23. Failing to find another suitable boat, I once more made an arrangement to go farther down the river with Mr. Peake and his friend. Peake's boat and scow were not much to look at, and the troubles with the engine, and with its owner's raw swearing at times, were somewhat trying; but for my purpose the outfit did well enough, and I was treated very well and given all needed opportunity to examine what was of importance on the banks. I was quite sorry when eventually we had to part company, and I know Mr. Peake has not forgotten my quest, for I heard of his talking about it to parties, with whom I was very glad to come in contact, on the Kuskokwim.

June 23. The sunny evening of my second busy day at Ruby, near 10 p. m., Peake unexpectedly comes to the hotel to tell me he will be ready to start to-night, on account of quiet water. His wash "is being ironed" and will be ready soon. The marshal comes in, calls the prisoners to take down my baggage, and at 10.15, after true, hearty good-byes, I am once more in the old scow. Then Peake goes for his wash, with an Indian woman, and does not come until near 11. River peaceful, sun shortly set, sky somewhat cloudy, forest fire on opposite shore below still smoking a great deal. Leaving good people at Ruby, who promise to help in the future. It is getting much cooler after a pretty warm day. Will lie on the hard boxes and try to get a little sleep.

Thursday, June 24. We went long into the night, then stopped at a lone cabin. Up timely, but slow start—it is 10.10 a. m. before we go. The time gained at night lost now—bad habits. Breeze up the river, occasionally strong, but not severe.

The cabin was the "Dutchman's," or Meyer's. He came out at 1 a. m. to meet us, at the bark of his big dogs, a good-hearted, weather-seared prospector, fisherman, and trapper of about 40, alone with his huskies. Asked me into his little log hut, prepared a place for my bedding on a frame, burned powder against the mosquitoes, brought out from cool "cellar" a bottle of root beer he brews, and then we went to sleep. But dogs kept waking us and Meyer went out several times to quiet them. Fall asleep at 3.20 and oblivious until near 7. Meyer forces on me six bottles of root beer, I leave him some prescriptions, and taking my bed roll we go down to the boat. My men still sleeping, as I expected. And then slow awakening, breakfast, and late starting.

Meyer never saw any Indian bones or stones, but promises cheerfully to watch for them hereafter and to make inquiries. Of course, he also, like so many in these lands, tells of a "prospect" of a gold find, and is quite confident he'll "make good." As usual, also, it is a "lead" that was "lost" and he believes he has found it. And all the time the gold is inside, not outside, of these hunters of the yellow star.

Hills on the right again; flat islands, banks, etc., on the left. Meyer's is 18 miles down from Ruby, right bank. About 5 miles farther down on the slopes of the right bank is a pretty little Indian graveyard (pl. 1, b), and a little lower down there are three now empty Indian huts.

Hills and mountains seen also now beyond the wide flats of the left bank. The hills on right, along which we pass, are more or less forested, but often just bushy and grassy. They rise to about 600 to 700 feet and the slopes are seldom steep. Along their base there are many elevated platforms, low swells, and nooks, that could have served of old—as they serve here and there now—for native habitation, though only few could have accommodated larger villages.

Pass an Indian camp—the inevitable staked dogs; a swimming boy—first being seen bathing in the open.

Whiskey Creek next. Sixty-two dogs, all along the bank, and each one-half or more in his own cooling hole; holes they dig down to near the frozen ground. A settler, and two Indians—a photograph. No relics or bones now, but will watch; promise also to save some animal skulls, etc.

Twelve o'clock. Off again. Day better now, less squally, warm.

Hills above and below lower and earthy—loess, at least much of it. The right shore is all along sunnier, higher, more beautiful, and more open to wind (less mosquitoes). These are the reasons, doubtless, why it was of old and is still the favored side for habitations by natives as well as whites.

Just before reaching "Old Lowden," overtaken by a rather crazily driven small motor boat with four young Indians, who hand us a crude message for the storekeeper at Galena, telling him that a baby in the camp is to die to-night. I offer to see the baby. Find a boy infant about one year or a little over, ill evidently with bronchitis. Father and mother, each about 30, sit over it brooding in dumb grief, each on one side. Respond not to my presence, and barely so to my questions. And when I begin to tell to the fellow who interprets and is some relative that the baby need not die, and what to do—I note that he is somewhat under the influence of liquor and a little flushed—to my dismay he begins to rant against me as a doctor and against the Government, and wants me perforce, seemingly, to say that the child is going to die and die to-night. There are two guns around and I almost anticipate his catching hold of one. The gist of the piecemeal talk is that they believe I am a Government doctor, who ought to stay four or five days with them and take over the child's treatment, and yet the fellow insists that the child will die before next morning. I do not know what they would say or do to the doctor if he undertook to stay and the child died—or if it recovered. It is dismal. They have the idea that the "Government" is obliged to do all sorts of things for them, without being clear just what, and that it does not do them. They believe, and try to say so, that I am sent and paid by the Government to treat them. Probably they have heard about the Government medical party that is to examine conditions along the river this summer, and think that I do not want to do or give what is necessary. I give all the possible advice, but there is plainly no inclination to follow it. I offer some medicine; they sneer at medicine. Even the father says he does not understand it or want it. They are all surly and in a dangerous, stupid mood. So there is nothing left but to go away as well as one may.

On way down the bank a woman is seen cleaning and cutting fish—knife steel, with wood or ivory handle, of the Chinese and Eskimo type. A porcupine, bloated, and with flies and maggots on it already about the nose, mouth, and eyes, lies next to the woman, and its turn will probably come next after the fish.

Have modest lunch—canned pears, a bit of cold bacon left from morning, a bit of cheese, and coffee; and start once more onward. So much beauty here, and such human discord.

3.30 p. m. Passing on right bank a line of bluffs, wholly of loess, about 200 feet high and approximately 4 miles long, and as if shaven with knife from top to water's edge. After that flats only on both sides, with but one hill far ahead of us.

Motor trouble again—same old pump; but not for long; in half an hour on again. A steamer upward passes us—like a stranger, and power.