Читать книгу Last Letters from Attu - Mary Breu - Страница 13

5

From Kodiak to Kipnuk

1932

In their six-week journey to Kipnuk, Etta and Foster would have interesting experiences, but they had a schedule and were anxious to reach their destination. Their house and school were not completed, and with winter fast approaching, it was urgent that both structures were built and furnished before snowfall. Etta and Foster looked forward to helping with the projects.

Kodiak

August 5, 1932

Dear Everybody:

We are still waiting for the Starr. It may leave Seward today, as we were informed in a telegram that it would, or it may not leave until the 8th, its regular day. Whenever it gets here, it will find us waiting. We have been here about a week now, and it is getting pretty tiresome.

We pine for the Starr, because we want to get settled. It will be much colder where we are going, but not as cold as the Yukon. However, we are going back to the land of the dog teams, and I think we are both glad. If the mail is more regular, we can stand a lot.

Well, I will keep you informed as to our adventures.

Lots of love to all,

Tetts

Nushagak, Alaska

August 30, 1932

Dear Everybody:

There will be an airplane here in a few days which will take this, and if I get a chance to write from Bethel, I will. Otherwise, don’t look for letters too often. I hope to goodness we find letters from you at Bethel. We left orders at Kodiak to have them forwarded. They will go by way of Anchorage and should have reached there long before we do. You can imagine how hungry I am for letters.

Lots of love to all,

Tetts

Bethel, Alaska

September 5, 1932

Dear Mother and Dump:

We are still a week from our journey’s end. The mail leaves tomorrow and I must get this in because it will be the last letter you will get from me for many months. The question of mail service is rather discouraging. They tell us it will be perhaps twice in the winter when the dog teams travel, and less in the summer, only when an occasional boat happens by. Incidentally, we haven’t had any letters since leaving Old Harbor, and unless a plane comes before we leave in three or four days, we won’t have any until after Christmas. It is a lesson in patience, isn’t it?

Bethel reminds me of Tanana—similar river, similar surroundings, and similar houses and people. There is a Moravian mission here, and as the Moravians originate in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, they seem rather familiar. We went to church last night and might have been in any little church in any little town in the States. I counted twenty-five white people there and twice as many Eskimos. They are the one strange note, entirely different from the Indians of the Yukon and the Aleuts of Kodiak.

The Eskimos of Kipnuk are among the most primitive Natives of Alaska. They live in igloos that are little better than dugouts, just holes in the ground, and are extremely destitute and squalid. We are not expected to have school the first year, just get acquainted and do what we can in the homes. In fact, there could not be school because the building is not yet finished, hardly more than the walls and roof so far. It will be a wonderful building when finished, a duplicate of the one here in Bethel, and that is the finest school building in Alaska that I have seen so far, and I have seen a great many of them. We have met many who envy us the opportunity of going into a new community and building it up. Certainly there is the opportunity of making it what we will. There are no religious organizations working there now, but the Moravians are reaching out that way from this side, and the Roman Catholics from the other.

SS Tupper, 1930s. From Jeremy S. Snapp, Northwest Legacy: Sail, Steam and Motorships, page 202.

Our nearest neighbors, eighty to one hundred miles away, are a Moravian missionary and his wife at Kwigillingok. We met him last night, and he is a splendid fellow. They say his wife is just as fine. She is the government teacher. We may stop at their place on the way to Kipnuk. It will take us at least six days in a small boat.

Most of the teachers in this section have shortwave radio sets, have learned Morse code, and talk to each other over the radio. The superintendent broadcasts each day, by voice and by code. We are being fixed up with something suitable and will learn the code. Also, the army radio operator here broadcasts each day. Therefore, we are not really out of touch with the world. I suppose if you want to get a message to me, you could wire to the operator at Bethel to be relayed to me. He is very accommodating.

We have met some lovely people here. Many teachers are in from surrounding communities to meet the Tupper and get their freight [annual supplies]. We have been entertained at dinners, luncheons, and suppers. Last night after church we had a wild goose buffet supper. Such a jolly crowd. Tonight there is to be a Bridge party. The Tupper is still here, and this noon the captain invited all the white people of the town to lunch on board. It will be three or four days yet before we get away, and already the nights are frosty.

Don’t try to send any packages for Christmas. They will be held up in the Seattle post office, but do write as often as you can, and I will do the same.

Lots of love to all,

Tetts

THROUGH A TRADER, transportation was arranged to use a Columbia River boat. It was an open, wide-bottomed boat that had a gasoline engine. It also had a sail just in case anything happened to the engine. The freight was loaded onto the front of the palatial carrier, freight that included our clothing and personal belongings, school freight and supplies, and food supplies for a year.

When leaving Bethel, our friends had said, “You are going by water. Dress for it, just as you would in the winter.” We had plenty of fur clothing for the cold—fur boots, coats, caps, and mittens. I thought it was foolish to start in these outlandish getups from the hot town where everyone wore thin summer clothes. However, as soon as we were well started, I realized the wisdom of our good advisors.

The scenery was flat and uninteresting, there was nothing for me to do but sleep most of the time. Starting early in the morning when the tide was right, we ran smoothly down the winding, muddy Kuskokwim, sometimes passing Eskimo villages, fish camps, and tent villages. At the mouth of the river, the boat anchored to “wait for tide.” Everyone slept. I woke once to find that everything was dark, there was a pale moon, there was nothing to be seen but water, and no sound except the gentle lap, lap of waves against the sides of the boat. Later, I woke again because I seemed to be standing on my head. Sure enough, the boat was tilted over on its side to what seemed to me a very dangerous angle. I looked out to find no water around us. We were on a dry riverbed. I could have climbed out and walked all around the boat with dry feet. That was what was meant by “waiting for tide.” Soon the gentle lap, lap of the water began again, the boat righted itself, the anchor was lifted, and we were once again on our way. This process was repeated again and again at every turn of the tide for the six days it took us to reach our destination.

It took Eskimos who were familiar with the locality and its peculiarities to successfully steer a boat through the shallows of the Kuskokwim Delta. We were never very far from shore. Many times we grated over sandbars, and when the boat stuck, they just threw the anchor out and “waited for tide.” We would float as long as the tide lasted, and then had another stop. I wondered how these Eskimos knew anything was there, but they felt around with poles until they found the river current. We would twist and turn down a narrow, muddy stream that had low mud banks. There were no trees or bushes or anything to relieve the monotony for hours and miles.

When we reached Kwigillingok, it happened to be low tide, so they turned in there to anchor. That suited us because we had a fine visit with Mrs. Martin, the teacher.

We left Kwigillingok that afternoon “on the tide,” and followed the same dreary pattern of landscape for eighty to one hundred miles. We came to the mouth of another muddy stream, the Kipnuk River, where we again “waited for the tide.” As we followed its twisting course, I strained my eyes for the first view of our new home. It was a very desolate area. The riverbanks were not a foot or more above the high tide, there were no trees, not even a bush. Sedges around the numerous small lakes were the highest form of vegetation. The ground was covered with a deep moss, which was disastrous to try to walk on without rubber boots. Overshoes would be inadequate because one’s ankles were covered with the water.

Aerial view of the Kuskokwim Delta, 1930s.

As our boat felt its way up the muddy stream that day, we could see for miles around because there was nothing to obstruct our view. In the distance, we saw our future home, or part of it because it was in the process of being built. The village consisted of a few sod huts near the riverbank. Kwigillingok was a modern town by comparison.

The few people there met us at the bank. The first question asked by the one white man present, the builder, was, “Did you bring our tobacco and matches?” A gangplank was put out from the boat because the boat could not get close enough to tie up. Unloading proceeded rapidly, because when the tide went out, any chance of working from the boat was gone until the next tide.

Only the shell of the house was finished. There was no place for us to live. The builder and his Native assistant were living in the coal house. On one of the fairly dry raised spots, a tent was put up for us, and this is where we slept and kept our personal belongings. We ate in the coal house with the other two people. I did the cooking. There were cases of eggs, sacks of potatoes, hams and bacon, canned vegetables and fruits—plenty of food. Every morning I made “sourdough hotcakes” which are much better than any other kind. They are made from a soured sponge of eggs, milk, shortening, a little sugar, and enough soda to make it foamy and light. When eaten with plenty of butter and syrup, they are hard to resist. As hard as I tried, I could never make them as good as any of the real Sourdoughs.

In the tent, the ladies of the village made social calls on me. They were very friendly and curious. They came before I was out of bed in the morning, smiling and jabbering happily as they handled me and all my things that they could reach. Once, an elderly lady sat on the floor and ate what was left in the cat’s food dish. Most of them had never seen a white woman before, and while many things amused them and there were many shrieks of laughter, they were never overwhelmed or awed by my material possessions.

In the following letter, Etta describes Foster’s introduction to, and fascination with, a transmitter radio—a skill that would become significant.

Kipnuk, Via Bethel, Alaska

September 12, 1932

Dear Everybody:

Again I must write to you all at once to save time and paper. This is the last piece I have until millions of boxes are unpacked, and the boat which brought us returns soon, so I must get off a few words to you. We were six days on the trip, an open boat about forty-five feet long and twelve feet wide. A canvas top was put over the engine in the stern under which we lived and slept. The rest of the boat was filled with freight, about six tons. A canvas tent was stretched over that, and somewhere in the bow the three Eskimo boatmen slept. One night we struck a bar about 9 P.M. They cast anchor and everyone went to bed. Our bed was made of blankets spread over life preservers. We towed three Eskimo sailboats, one after the other. It must have made quite a picture. When we stopped, there was visiting back and forth between the boats, then everyone went to his own bed. It was a queer feeling, anchored in mud and no sign of life anywhere.

The only social call we made on that long trip—indeed, the only village we saw—was Kwigillingok. It could not be seen from the shore. The tiny village had wood houses, a schoolhouse, and a small wood church. I wondered how anyone could be content in such a place. We tied up in front of the teacher’s residence, and pounded on the door to wake her up.

A charming and pretty young girl appeared and welcomed us in. She not only wholeheartedly extended full hospitality to us, she put all the accommodations of the house at our disposal. She prepared her spare bedroom, taking it for granted, as people of the North do, that we were there for an extended stay. The house was cheerful and homey. We had arrived at seven in the morning, and she prepared breakfast, one that I will never forget. After the dirty boat and living for days in the same clothing, the dainty table appointments and marvelous food were wonderful.

It was in this remote village that we first came in contact with the shortwave radio set. Bess Martin, our hostess, talked while we were there with her husband, Gus, who was 200 miles away in Bethel. They have a shortwave sending set, and while we were there she held her daily conversations with the missionaries at Quinhagak, across Kuskokwim Bay, and at Bethel. She talked into a mike and when ready to listen to them, switched the thing over to a receiving set and their answers came through the loud speaker. It was like a wireless telephone. She told them about the Joneses, and we made arrangements to buy some canned reindeer meat from them. I thought how nice it would be to talk to you that way. Later, she ticked off messages to the army operator in Bethel in code. He talks with a number of stations in the district that way, and then broadcasts all the local news he gathers. We listened to the news about ourselves and others. Incidentally, the news that we were coming here was known to everyone in these parts a full month before we knew it ourselves.

Foster became interested in this radio and soon built his own set. It worked so well, better than many expensive sets, that other people wanted his help with their own sets. He was flooded with orders for the “Jones Special,” as it was jokingly called. Foster realized he had better call a halt to the requests because he did not have a license to manufacture and sell radios.

I will tell you about Kipnuk later. I am quite sure all of you would be filled with horror at the thought of a winter here. It is bleak, desolate country, worse than Nome, everyone says. Not a tree, not a hill except a low one about ten miles away. There is nothing but monotonous tundra, but we like it. I am sure the winter will be an interesting one. Just now there are thousands of geese and ducks everywhere, big fat ones, making the tundra look like a chicken ranch. One of the Eskimos said there are reindeer tracks on a creek not far away, so we may have some reindeer meat.

The building isn’t finished enough for us to live in yet, so we are in a tent, and so happy to be there after our six weeks of traveling. We left Old Harbor July 29 and landed here September 11. Just before we left Bethel, a plane came with mail and there was a letter from Nan enclosing one of Dump’s. I devoured them over and over. I suppose the rest of your letters are on the way from Kodiak. I’ll get them about Christmas. I am sorry to hear of Uncle Tom’s passing. Mother will feel very much alone now.

I will write occasionally and keep a letter handy in case I have a chance to send it, but I don’t see any hope of sending until Christmas anyway. Very soon now the Bering Sea freezes, and the tundra freezes, and traveling will be by dog team.

Please send me a package or two of stamped envelopes. The first boat to bring packages from Seattle leaves early in May. If I send for things, try to get it on that boat.

I might as well say Merry Christmas now.

Lots of love to all,

Tetts