Читать книгу Gold Hunting in Alaska - Grinnell Joseph - Страница 9

Table of Contents

O

OCT. 15. 1898.—In looking over my diary I find that I have recorded no "bad weather." This comes of my having inherited a tendency to look on the bright side of things. I hear such complaints as "bad weather," "disagreeable day." "awfully cold." etc. Days when some are grumbling about its being "too hot" or "too cold," "too wet" or "too windy," I find some special reason for thinking it very pleasant. It is no virtue of mine, as I said. It is natural. Up till to-day there has been warm weather mostly. Now there is a sudden drop in the temperature. Seven degrees above zero this morning. The north wind is blowing and makes one's ears tingle. All standing water is frozen and the Kowak has begun to show patches of ice floating down with the current. The great river is choking. It is being filled with ice which can move but slowly, grinding and crunching and piling up into ridges where opposing fields meet. Suddenly it is at a standstill. In a day or two the ice will support us, as it does now on the margin.

The Wreck of the "John Riley'"

So quickly does the cold of winter close its grip. All these achievements of nature are new and interesting to me. I ran down to the river bank a dozen times to-day to note how the process is going on. It is very low now on account of the dry weather of the past weeks, but, as the choking goes on, a flow of water comes down from above over the ice, making a double fastness. The only fish that can survive will be those that seek the deeper places. There will be no more passing of boats. We hear that the steamer "John Riley" has been left high and dry on a sand-bar, and has broken in two in the middle by her own weight. Two other boats are aground on sand-bars, and must be taken to pieces if ever rescued.

Since the Hunt River trip I have been at home mostly. I have been cook, of course, a part of the time. There is no special work to be done outside.

I have collected some birds, but they are growing very scarce. I went into the woods to-day for a couple of hours, and saw only two redpolls.

Redpolls look and act very much like our goldfinches in the States. Rivers made me a bird-table. It is strange, but everybody declared they would "fire" me bodily if I continued to skin birds on the dining-table; that is why Rivers took pity on me and made me the finest table I could wish for, and a chair to match.

We have the saw-mill. Dr. Coffin and Harry Cox, with the aid of others, ran that for several days, and enough boards were ripped out to cover the cabin floor, besides library and cupboard shelves. They declare "whipping" is hard work. I didn't try it myself, as I was cooking at the time. I prefer to run a cross-cut saw. The saw-mill worked "relays," working five minutes, talking fifteen minutes, resting a half hour before the next took its place. Whip-sawing is an interesting process, especially to the man who stands below and looks up into the shower of sawdust. The doctor advised the plan of wearing snow-glasses, so that the sawdust difficulty was obviated, but the hard work was still there. The doctor tried his best to get me into the business, for he said it would surely tend to straighten my back, which stoops from constant skinning of birds at the table. He got such a "crick" in his back from whip-sawing that he could scarcely sleep for several nights.

Besides the saw-mill, there was the furniture factory. C. C. and Harry Reynolds and Dr. Coffin were engaged in that enterprise. As a result the cabin is supplied with double bedsteads, with spring-pole slats and mattresses. And there are lines of wooden pegs in the wall for hanging clothing, and carpets for the bed-rooms made of gunny-sacking stuffed with dry moss.

A partial partition runs lengthwise of the cabin. At the kitchen end this partition is composed of a tier of wood, then an entrance space, and then a series of shelves from top to bottom for pantry, medical department and library, which latter is extensive. At the farther end is another open space communicating with the "bed-rooms." The whole inside of the cabin is lined with white canvas tenting, which brightens us up ten times better than dark logs. On the south side of the partition is the "living-room," "dining-room" and "kitchen;" all in one apartment to be sure, but yet with their recognized limits. On the north side of the partition is the bed-room. There are three double beds and three single ones, according to the wishes of the occupants. A pole runs crosswise of the apartment, and on each side of this is a line of pegs hung full of clothes. This forms a wall dividing the apartment into "bed-rooms." Carpeted alleys run between the beds, and the walls are hung with clothing. What we are to do with all this clothing I do not know.

Our Sitting-room.

Oct. 21.—Just through supper and everyone has settled down to read, excepting several who have gone out to "call at the neighbors'." C. C. Reynolds, our president, undertaker, preacher, all-around-man, has taken to cooking. He started in well. For supper he gave us some fine tarts. I am glad to be relieved from the cooking, and do not intend to engage in the business again. We shall see.

I am skinning mice now, little red-backed fellows which swarm in the woods and around the houses. I set my traps every night. This morning I had a dozen. Wolverines and foxes are common about here, but they are too cute for me and decline to be caught in the steel traps which I keep constantly set for them. An Indian shot two deer in the mountains and brought them to the village. The doctor traded for some venison, which is better than the bear meat, though I have no craving for either. The boys think me a baby because I prefer "mush" to meat.

Last Sunday the temperature fell to even zero. The trees were heavily covered with hoar frost, and the scene, as the sun rose upon it, was magnificent.

Our Kitchen.

Everything is frozen solid. The river has nearly a foot of ice already. The natives are fishing through the ice and their methods are very novel to me. They select a narrow place in the river, and through holes cut in the Ice they stick spruce poles with the branches left on, so that a fence is formed across the river between the surface and the bed. At intervals openings are left, and across these openings nets are stretched. The fish are coming down the river at this time in the year, and when they reach one of these fences they swim along until they come to one of the openings, when they are caught in the net. An Indian woman lies on the ice face down, all covered over tight above with brush and tent cloth, so she can watch when the fish get into the net. Besides netting them this way, the natives have baited lines laid for the larger fish. Hooks are not used, but the bait, a small fish for instance, is tied to the end of a string, and with it a short, slender stick. A large fish swallows the bait and the stick with it. When the fish starts away the line is jerked taut, and the stick turns crosswise in his stomach, and holds the game secure until drawn up through the hole in the ice. Several of us were over watching the Indians fishing yesterday and were examining Some of the fish. I picked one up in my innocence, but was commanded to put it down. The women were very much vexed with me, and were careful to place the fish exactly the way it was. Clyde came with his camera to take some photographs, but the natives considered it "bad luck," and he was remonstrated with vehemently, and finally went away, dallying until he had taken a shot or two. These women will have their hands full with us boys before the winter is over, I fear.

The natives will not dress any deer skins until the snow comes, "so that game will be plenty" this winter. I am at work upon a small vocabulary of the Eskimo language, and already have two hundred words. The language has many guttural sounds, and is hard to express with letters, but I am learning it rapidly, and getting the words written as accurately as possible under difficulties.

One of the Indian boys, Lyabukh, is very bright, and understands what I want. He is learning English very fast.

Come to Church.

Our preacher holds services regularly every Sunday, and we go out to gather in all the Indians of the village and the white men in the vicinity. Four parties of three white men each, have put up winter quarters within a mile of us, so we have quite a community. Besides these, there are some twenty prospectors six miles below us and five above us. All have built snug winter cabins. About a mile above us, back in the woods, twenty Eskimos have established their village for the winter, and built their dug-outs, or igloos. There is seldom an hour in the day when two or more natives are not in our cabin, and, with a little encouragement, such as C. C, with his missionary instincts, gives them, they have become very persistent visitors.

Last Sunday services were largely attended, there being fifteen natives, and ten of our white neighbors. It was proposed, and unanimously carried, that a church be constructed by this community. So Monday. Tuesday and Wednesday over a dozen men were at work on the new chapel, which is located back in a sheltered place in the woods. It is now finished except the fireplace, and will serve as a church, school-room, and lecture-room or town hall.

Several of us are going to start a school for the Eskimo children in the neighborhood. We have seven months before us to occupy in some manner, and why not this? It would be monotonous to be continuously biting off northern zephyrs, and pulling the threads out of a tangled beard, and rubbing one's ears, and eating baking-powder biscuit; biscuit that are none of your light, fluffy things that have no backbone to them, but something that will stay with you on a hunt or a tramp with the temperature below the counting mark. Then there are the nice fat sides of bacon carefully preserved—"the white man's buffalo meat," as the Sioux Indians used to call it. We have ordinary fried bacon, and hashed bacon, and pork chops. When it is dreadfully cold and it doesn't slice readily, we chop it up with the axe—and then it is we have pork chops!

For variety's sake, if for nothing else, we would all vote the "school." Our life on the Kowak will not be a sealed book never to be read again when once the springtime lays it away on the shelf. We shall take it down and peruse it and possibly make marginal entries in it when we are too old to do anything else. Sitting in the chimney corner toothless, and feeble of gait, it will give us pleasure to remember the "school" in the woods, on the banks of the mighty Kowak.