Читать книгу Last Letters from Attu - Mary Breu - Страница 11

3

Tanana

1923–1930

The weather was pleasant on Easter Sunday, April 1, 1923. Deep snow made walking difficult and the wind had blown snowdrifts several feet high, but on this particular day, the mild temperature matched the light spirits of a happy group of four people. This was the day that Charles Foster Jones married Etta Eugenie Schureman in a ceremony performed by justice of the peace Frank E. Howard. Frank Lundin remembered it this way: “On April 1, 1923, Foster married Etta Schureman. Etta’s sister, Marie, and I were the witnesses. After leaving the judge’s office, we went to the restaurant where I bought the wedding breakfast. Back to Etta’s home we went and hooked up the dog team for their honeymoon. They went over the mail trail to Koyukuk.” This was the first marriage for the bride and groom, both forty-three years old. After leaving Tanana, they had lunch at a woodcutter friend’s cabin, fifteen miles away, then continued for another thirty miles until they reached their final destination, which was a cabin they jokingly nicknamed the Honeymoon Hilton.

Etta and Foster’s marriage license, April 1, 1923.

Marie had been the most eager of the two sisters to go to Alaska the previous year. Once there, however, she encountered a lifestyle that overwhelmed her. Tanana was a tiny village with a population that was mainly Athabascan. She saw the same few white people over and over again. There was no opportunity to widen her small circle of friends. She had a problem adapting to the strange regional food. The scenery consisted of hills, trees, and rivers, and the weather was intolerable to her. Marie had left her family and friends in New Jersey with a pioneer’s spirit, but the tranquility of this expansive land was not what she had in mind.

Top: Etta and Foster’s wedding photo, Tanana, Alaska, April 1, 1923‥ Above: Etta and Foster’s wedding party, Tanana, April 1, 1923: (left to right) Frank Lundin, Marie Schureman, Etta Jones, Foster Jones.

Left: Etta and Foster on their dogsled, departing on their honeymoon, April 1, 1923. Below: Woodcutter Wingy Crane’s cabin, where Etta and Foster stopped for lunch on their honeymoon, April 1923. Bottom: Photo inscribed by Etta (April 1923): “45 miles from Tanana, Honeymoon Hilton, end of trip.”

SHE SOON DISCOVERED that she did not like Alaska; the rough life did not appeal to her. Wonderful scenery and Northern lights and the romance of the North meant nothing to her. She longed for the bright lights, theaters, “swell” dances, parties, etc.

At the end of one year, Marie returned home. Etta, on the other hand, had found more excitement and fulfillment than she ever could have expected in this peaceful place. In the fall of 1923, Etta replaced Marie at the school, thus beginning a teaching career that would span nineteen years in Alaska.

TIME PASSED PLEASANTLY. There were always things to do, both summer and winter, with congenial people as companions. Who were our neighbors and friends? Just like the friends we had left at home. People from Pennsylvania, Ohio, Michigan, New York, from the South, the North, East, and West, from Canada and England and Scotland. Just people, like ourselves.

Around June 21, the sun hardly left the sky. We used to go to Bridge parties about nine or ten in the evening when the sun was still shining, and we went home soon after midnight. There was always much laughter and joking. Happy memories! Early in June, we planted our flowerbeds. Soon we had huge pansies, mignonette, sweet william, mallows, hollyhocks, nasturtiums, daisies, asters, marigolds, almost any flower that grew in the States, and the wildflowers—lupines and wild roses. One vivid memory of these early days remains with me—of the gorgeous fragrant wild roses that grew in great profusion in the yard of an abandoned cabin across the street from our first little home after marriage. These brilliant beautiful things covered old fences, they surrounded doorways, they almost covered the old ruins. I looked for them every spring. They were like old friends who came back to tell of the warm weather coming. They are associated in my mind with spectacularly inspiring cloud effects, brilliant sunshine, and soft breezes.

The gardens grew incredibly fast. With the hot sun above for almost twenty-four hours and with frozen ground a few feet underground supplying moisture to be drawn up by the sun, they raced along. One could almost see them grow, and vegetables grown under these conditions were unusually sweet and tender. Gardens were started early in June as soon as the ice was well out of the river, and in a few weeks harvesting began. Some things, like string beans, were risky because they would not stand frost, and often there were frosts in July or August. Tomatoes and cucumbers were grown under glass. Highbush and lowbush cranberries, strawberries, raspberries, blueberries, currants, and gooseberries all grew wild and in profusion. There were jelly and jam-making times. The Alaskan cranberries were especially good—much sweeter than those in the States. They also kept beautifully fresh. There was always plenty of cranberry sauce to be served later with wild duck or goose, ptarmigan, grouse, moose, or caribou.

Blueberries were put up in a way that was a forerunner of the modern deep-freeze method. As they were picked fresh, gallons and gallons of them, they were put into a wooden keg. A layer of berries, a layer of sugar, and the keg was put into a hold in a deep thicket where the sun did not penetrate. The hold was covered with moss, and the berries kept perfectly until we wanted them. Also like the deep freeze was the method of keeping cakes, cookies, pies, rolls, and bread. Late in the fall, after the cold weather was a settled thing, there would be a grand baking day, perhaps pies one day. I have made as many as eighteen—apple, mince, or berry—taking them directly from the oven to a forty-below temperature out of doors. They froze so quickly the steam inside seemed to be frozen right there. When wanted, they only needed to be allowed to stand in a warm room. Parker House rolls were made in quantities, put into a clean sugar bag, and hung up in the cache. When eaten, they were just like fresh rolls. While frozen, all these things could hardly be broken with an axe. They kept as long as the weather remained cold, until March or April.

Ice cream was also made by mixing the ingredients, putting them into a tin lard pail, hanging the pail on a line, and beating it a little from time to time. This was only in subzero weather, however. Along the same line was the way travelers prepared beans for a trip into the wilderness. White navy beans were parboiled in salt water, drained into a sugar sack, and hung on the line to freeze, rubbing them from time to time to prevent them from freezing in a mass. They froze as individual little pellets, harder than in their natural state. These were kept frozen, being hung outside a cabin. When needed, a cup or two were brought in and dumped into a skillet in which bacon had been fried. In the deep, hot fat they fried like doughnuts, a delicious, crisp brown, soft on the inside. I have also made huge quantities of soup, freezing it, and bringing a small hunk into the house as needed.

In June, along with wild roses and other beauties, came the pests of the North—mosquitoes. No part of Alaska is free from them. One would think that a region lying under ice and snow, mostly with subzero temperatures for six months, would be free from such things, yet they thrived. As snow melted from one side of a road, mosquitoes appeared while there was still snow on the other side. No one went out without protection from them—head nets, gloves, high-laced walking shoes, even citronella.

In the summer, there were berrying and fishing parties.

We had a houseboat and so did our friends, the Cooks. Loading the boat with people and good things to eat, leaving early in the morning, we went up the Yukon River for picnics. At a convenient spot there was a beach fire, dinner around it, bathing in the river, exploring trips into the wild hills, and home late at night. Or if it happened to be too windy, or a little rain should come up, we ate in the dining room of the boat. It was a little crowded but everybody was happy.

Drifting slowly with the current on the broad Yukon one sunny summer day with the engine quiet, Foster brought forth from his remarkable memory some of his favorite poetry by Robert Browning and Robert Service. Hour after hour, the beautiful words synchronized with the lovely hills and woods along the banks, the mighty river about which Service wrote so much, and the man himself, Foster, typifying the best of the early settlers. The water was calm and deep, leaping fish once in awhile made a faint splash, but there was no other sign of life. While drifting on the quiet river, a deserted cabin occasionally came into view. There were beautiful clouds floating lazily in the blue sky. There was no sense of hurry, no pressing worries or immediate demands. This was the true Alaskans’ life at its best. For this, they shunned cities.

Etta, Foster, their houseboat Esther, and friends, 1926. Foster is second from right; Etta has her arm around a child.

One summer day we had gone up the river in our houseboat, the Esther [named after Etta’s mother], and while tied to the bank, Foster was cleaning salmon for our dinner. A man in a poling boat passed close to the shore. “Hi, Charlie,” said one. “Hi, Jim,” said the other. No other greeting. After the friend had passed, Foster remarked, “Knew that man in the Klondike. Haven’t seen him for twenty years.” I wondered why they didn’t stop for a chat. He said, “It isn’t considered polite in this country to inquire into another man’s business.”

We had many good trips on the Esther. One fall, Foster suggested that we go on a caribou hunt. At that time of year, caribou often crossed the Yukon on their migration to other feeding grounds. It was beautiful weather in early October. We took our time, tying the Esther to the banks when something attracted us on shore, perhaps good fishing places, or likely caribou country, or special fall flowers. Slowly, the wind began to rise, and it became apparent that we would have to seek a better anchorage because this bank was rocky. Foster turned back and started for home. The wind increased in fury, whipping the water into high spray that froze as it hit the boat. Soon, we were ice-covered and listing. Steering became increasingly difficult, and darkness descended upon us.

Foster knew what I did not realize at the time—the river was full of sand bars that the waves and spray hid from sight, and the shore was too rocky to anchor. He knew this part of the river pretty well, and there was only one sandy beach that he remembered where old Abe Royal had his trapping cabin. It grew pitch-dark, and we had no other light except a flashlight. When he thought he was at about the right place, I threw the feeble light of this flashlight on as much of the beach as it would reach. We gritted our teeth, hoping it would be sand and not rocks we were going to strike, and then it was all over. We were safe and high on a sandy beach. The wind howled with ever increasing vigor. It was patently not safe to remain in the boat, and as we jumped to the beach, I was bowled right over by the wind. It was all I could do to stand against it. Foster felt around until he found some big boulders, then brought fur robes, and we crouched behind the rocks, trying to get a little shelter.

In spite of the fact that I wore corduroy trousers, a fur coat, fur cap, fur boots, and was covered by a fur robe, I believe I was never so cold in my life. We shivered in misery until it began to get daylight. Foster then scouted around until he found Abe’s deserted cabin. It was high on a hillside, some distance from where we were, but how gratefully we carried everything to it and took possession. Abe had been dead for some years, and no one else had used the cabin. We found the roof partially fallen in, but in a corner was a big pile of clean, dry hay and, best of all, we were out of that terrific wind. It was quiet and peaceful, and, gratefully, we dropped to the clean hay and slept for hours.

In some neighboring woods, Foster found some wood for a fire, and we feasted on bacon and eggs, hot coffee, and biscuits. By this time, the wind had brought a drizzling rain, but we were comfortable, warm, and dry. We stayed there for three days. On the third day, a Native, who was paddling down the river, saw the Esther on the riverbank and no sign of us. He took the news to Tanana. “I think the Jones lost like hell. Their boat there. I no see them.”

We had quite a time getting that boat floated again. It had been driven onto the sand with such force, and the wind had helped keep it there.

Our friends were glad to see us again because in that same storm, on Fish Lake, where Foster had lost an oar and had difficulty getting across the lake, two young men drowned when their boat capsized. Although the lake was dragged, their bodies were not recovered until the following spring. They had remained under the ice all winter.

Because of the rugged terrain, transportation in the summer was limited to boats, and Etta didn’t take trips on the Esther by herself. At one point, she wanted to visit a friend, but reaching her destination posed a problem. In typical Alaska fashion, the problem was solved.

I wanted to visit my good friend at Rampart, which was about twenty-five miles upriver. The regular steamer was not convenient, so how could I get there? I made arrangements to go with an Indian family who were members of the congregation of a missionary friend. It was midsummer, hardly any darkness, and the Indian seemed to prefer traveling at night, so it was early evening before we got started. He had a large flat-bottomed boat with a gas engine. Quilts and blankets were provided so his wife, children, and I could lie down. It was pleasant looking up at the stars, listening to the chug of the engine. At about 2 A.M., we stopped for tea. It was chilly on the water, and as we climbed out on the bank, the fire he had built felt good as we sipped our tea. I can still get the feeling of that early morning meal on the bank, not as one would imagine a chilly 2 A.M. morning would be outside with the sun already high in the sky.

Arriving about noon, I sat down to a good hearty meal, because my friend kept a roadhouse. It became very hot during my visit, and I went with her to her icebox to get provisions. Her frozen meat was delivered by the river steamer, and was put immediately into the icebox, and such an icebox! It was a cave hollowed out under a hill with supporting timbers, and there were convenient tables and shelves. One reached the innermost room through a series of outer rooms. Entering from the glaring, blazing summer heat of the outside into a cool entry, one went through a door into a much cooler room, and finally into a real icebox. I did not see the temperature, but it was too cold to stay in comfortably, and things remained frozen until they were removed—meat, fish, berries, etc. There was nothing to induce freezing except the natural temperature of the earth.

As pleasant as summer was, winter was the most enjoyable. I think without exception our friends said, “We like winter best.” We still went out on trips, taking dinners and suppers, but traveling by dogsled or walking instead. Woodcutters’ camps were our objectives. There, usually in a tent, we warmed up the stew or potpie, made coffee on the woodcutter’s tiny stove, brought out the sandwiches, salads, cakes, and pies, and amidst jovial, gay talk, ate good things while sitting on boxes or on the man’s bed. As always when a few old-timers, the Sourdoughs, were gathered together, there were fascinating tales of adventure, of daring and sometimes rash, hazardous experiences that they or their friends had experienced and about which they could tell so well.

A gold miner who operated a nearby placer mine used to come to see us and visit. It was a great relief to him to be able to talk to someone.

He said he had been alone all winter and was so lonely that he had tamed a weasel, spending hours talking to it. These old-timers seemed to have imbibed the bigness and freedom of the country; there was no place or time for petty remembrances. The more alone and familiar with this immense country a man was, the more gentle and understanding of the other man.

Winter picnic, circa 1920s. Etta is in front without a hat; Foster is in the back wearing a fur hat.

In the house, we dressed for summer weather with no extra warm underclothing, no wool dresses. But to go out in the cold, I prepared by taking off my housedress and slip. I donned wool tights that reached to the ankles, two pairs of home-knitted, four-ply, heavy wool stockings, corduroy trousers that had a cuff that buttoned below the knee, a wool jumper, insoles that were really ankle-high slippers of wolf skin with fur on the inside, and over those I put boots with moose-hide soles. Then I put on a fur parka, which is a short coat put on over the head with a fur hood attached. I wore a knitted woolen cap or a fur cap with earflaps and woolen gloves covered with fur-lined moose-hide mittens. These were attached to a cord about the neck, and were not used until after the dogs were hitched up.

Etta in her Native fur parka and mukluks with snowshoes, circa 1920s.

When driving the dogs, one did not sit comfortably in the basket sled; rather, one stood on the runners at the back of the sled where a foot brake was of some help in slowing the dogs and guiding them entirely by voice. The lead dog, if he was a good one, understood “gee” and “haw” and could swing the team his way. Once as I was being whirled out of my yard while standing on the runners and holding on for dear life, the brake fell off and I was left helpless to manage the dogs. The leader soon realized my plight and he paid no attention to my “gees” and “haws.” He had a grand time going his own way at top speed. His impish grin could almost be seen on his happy face. When someone finally came to my aid and stopped them, he should have been whipped. A good trainer would have done that, because he knew what he was doing, but I was a softie with dogs, not a good trainer, so they were not obedient.

Many women had their own dog teams. I had three dogs that I hitched to a sled and took out. They were small dogs and very dear to me, but Foster would not have them on his team. He said they were absolutely no good, but we had many good times together. On a sunny day in midwinter, when the temperature was not too low, perhaps my neighbor would telephone: “Would you like to go for a ride today?” “Yes. Where shall we go?” A route would be settled on and a time for leaving. The sled was tied to a stake while the frantic dogs were being put into the harness. They were wild to get out, being kept tied all the time they were not being used. Then, as my friend sailed out of her yard with dogs yelping, not barking, for malamutes do not bark, we flew behind and raced away down the trail, hoping to goodness that we would not meet any other teams until the dogs had tired themselves somewhat and quieted down. This they did in time, and we were able to enjoy the fresh, keen air, the evergreens, and beautiful winter landscape. Usually we followed a well-broken trail, a trapper’s or woodcutter’s trail. Sometimes we brought cameras and took snapshots, and sometimes we just tied the dogs and wandered around in the woods.

Another favorite ride was to the Episcopalian mission, Saint James, in a village about three miles from town, where there was a government school for Indians, and the mission church with housing for missionaries. Some of my fondest memories are connected with this grand place. On a sunny winter day, a ride behind the dogs to the village was not without some trepidation, for Indian dogs were fierce and always ready to fight our dogs. However, having safely arrived at our destination and the dogs safely tied, we were welcomed to a cheerful living room. Off came the parkas and outer wraps. Tea and cake were accepted gratefully, and after an hour or two of pleasant chatter, the dogs were hitched up again and we returned home. These missionaries were wonderful people. They also kept a little church running in Tanana, the bright spots being the visits of Bishop Rowe or the archdeacon.

One time, Foster and a prospecting partner were getting ready for a long trip. Supplies were carefully considered for the time they expected to be away. Everything they needed had to be carried on their sleds—dog food, their own food, their clothing and equipment, even a lightweight Yukon stove. They had enormous loads. My dogs and I were to accompany them for about ten miles, and, of course, we had an empty sled. We begged a load for as far as we went to help balance the sled and slow up the dogs. A case of eggs was put on my sled. I brought up the rear, and my dogs were wild with excitement. I bore down hard on that brake with seemingly little effect. As we slid around curves, bumping stumps and trees and sliding off the trail, I thought about those eggs, wondering how many would be left whole. When it came time to turn over my precious freight, I expressed the hope that not too many eggs would be broken. I can still see those men laughing at the silly cheechako. “Why,” they said, “you could not break one of those eggs if you tried. They are frozen solid. Just try sometime to break a frozen egg.” After handling a few later, I realized how impossible it would have been for me to injure those eggs.

Foster and his dog team, Tanana, circa 1920s.

Another occasion stands out in my memory, typical of the Alaskan’s love of his country. It was winter, a sparkling, brilliant moonlit night. “Let’s take a ride,” we said. Foster’s dog team went first, and mine followed. We went miles out into the “silence that bludgeons you dumb” [Robert Service] along a good trail. Miles out on the trail, we picked up a load of firewood. There were two loads because my sled carried some, too. On the way back, jogging along in the moonlight, Foster was whistling contentedly, and the whole world was at peace. Cold fear found me that night because eventually we came to the top of a long, steep, winding hill. Trees had been cut on either side, leaving jagged stumps close to the trail. Down that hill went the team ahead, soon getting out of sight, and with yelps of joy my dogs raced after. We banged around curves, hitting the jagged stumps. However hard I stood on the brakes, there was no slowing those little brutes. I envisioned myself upset, and impaled on a stump with no help near. I had to do something. Suddenly I broke into song, of all things. “Oh say, can you see, by the dawn’s early light.” Somehow it brought courage. I never admitted how scared I had been.

In February, when the land was locked in with ice and snow, I went for a bath in the bathhouse at the springs. Escaping steam formed huge stalactites around the door. I undressed in an inner room and then went into a shed enclosing the pool into which hot and cold water were piped from the spring. At the time of my visit, something had gone wrong with the cold water supply, and the pool was almost too hot to be borne. We came out scalded a bright pink, but our skin was soft and smooth from the effects of the minerals in the water.

The hospitality of Alaskans was proverbial. When unexpected guests suddenly drove into the yard with their dog team, the greeting was always the same: “Come in! Come in! Glad to see you.” We brought in some moose or reindeer, got a roast in the oven, brought out some of our home-grown potatoes, opened a cabbage or turnips, opened cans of vegetables, brought in rolls and pies from the cache, opened jellies and jams, and a feast was soon in progress. Our Christmas and Thanksgiving and other holiday feasts were something to talk about. We wanted for nothing.

Foster once filled a tooth cavity for a miner who was working with him. After first cleansing the cavity with painkiller, almost pure alcohol, Foster then used a filling made by filing a dime to fill the cavity. Another time some dry [prohibition] agents asked us if we could help a bootlegger whom they had arrested. When starting the uncovered engine of his open boat, the man’s sleeve had become caught in the belt and he had dislocated his shoulder. He was past seventy years old, they were 100 miles from a doctor, and if they brought the man to us, could we do something? At first, I said no, I was not strong enough for such a task, even if I had the strength. Foster, however, whose father had been a doctor, said, “Why, yes. Bring him. I remember seeing my father successfully treating such a case by laying the patient on the floor, putting his foot in the man’s armpit, while he worked the shoulder joint into place.” It was hours before they could get to us, and by that time the man’s muscles were stiff. We had nothing to relax him, he was almost fainting with pain, but Foster made a good job of it. I then applied a shoulder pad and bandage, and we sent him off, making him promise to go to the hospital in Fairbanks at once. Several years later, we saw this old man and, raising his arm above his head, he said, “See? Good as ever. Never had any trouble and never did go to Fairbanks.”

The village of Nome, located on the shores of the Bering Sea, was threatened in January 1925 with a deadly diphtheria epidemic. The village needed one million units of antitoxin and, due to weather conditions, the only way possible to have it delivered was by dogsled. A relay team of twenty mushers and 150 sled dogs was organized, and the mail route from Nenana to Nome, a distance of 674 miles, was chosen as the fastest route to transport the serum. Also known as the “Great Race of Mercy,” the serum run was successfully completed in a record-breaking five and a half days.

In his book Eskimo Medicine Man, Dr. Otto George wrote about Foster’s role in the historic run. “[Foster] told me details of a diphtheria epidemic in Nome, to which he carried serum along with the mail. With the thermometer at 60 degrees below, or colder (the alcohol in the thermometer froze, and that should not occur until 72 below), Jones’s problem was to keep the serum from freezing. He modestly explained that he was only one of many who relayed the serum—thirty-five miles in his case—to Nome, and the man who was supposed to have the next-to-last leg of the journey passed his relief carrier (who was waiting his turn) and also made the last leg with the serum into Nome, to be acclaimed a hero.” Foster had a certificate designating him as a carrier of the serum to Nome.

Etta and Foster’s house on the Yukon River, purchased for $40 in the late 1920s.

REAL ESTATE WAS CHEAP. Our first little home was a four-roomed log cabin, warm in winter, cool in summer, very cozy, and attractive inside. The initial cost was $100. Later we bought a charming summer home just out of town on the banks of the Yukon, where we could have a garden and we could fish for salmon. Its cost was all of $40. A few years later someone wanted to buy it. The selling price was $40. Later we bought a larger house, a more pretentious place that boasted six rooms and bath on two floors. The price was $600. We lived there one summer and sold it for $1,000.

In March 1922, Foster petitioned for membership in Tanana’s Masonic Lodge, listing his occupation as “miner and prospector.” On July 16 of that same year, he was raised to Master Mason. The fraternity of Masons is one of community and charity service activities. Membership is sometimes composed of those living or working in a given town and/or sharing a particular interest or profession. Wives of Masons are eligible for membership in the auxiliary organization, Order of the Eastern Star, and on September 14, 1925, Etta became an active member in Tanana’s Midnight Sun Chapter Six.