Trails and Tramps in Alaska and Newfoundland Part 6

On the following morning we divided the parties and left camp in different directions. After tramping many miles alone I came to a swamp country. Crossing over one arm of the swamp, wading up to my knees in water, I came upon a path worn almost a foot deep by moose traveling from one place to another. I was unable to figure out why they traveled backward and forward along this particular route. After returning home I learned from Mr. Shiras that not far from this point was a salt lick and the path was the regular route to and from the lick.

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 gra.s.s, an ideal home for moose. Taking my field-gla.s.s, 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 s.e.x. 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.

[Ill.u.s.tration: 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 gla.s.s 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 pa.s.sengers 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 b.u.t.ton 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 p.o.o.p 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 p.o.o.p 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 pa.s.sed 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.

I mustered up enough courage to crawl to the ladder, climbed up, looked out,--and what a night! The stars seemed large and brilliant enough for planets, the moon almost large and bright enough for the sun. How it danced on the foamy crests of the tide-rifts when the whitecaps broke, throwing the silvery spray all around the heaving, plunging, tossing boat. Iliamna and Redoubt stood in their majesty, silent onlookers at the battle that was waging between the little boat and the powerful elements,--wondering who was going to be the victor. I dropped bade into the hold half believing it was all a dream, when I heard the captain shouting to the pilot, "Keep her head on, head on!" For fear of drifting upon the rocks they were obliged to run many miles out to sea before they dared make the turn for the harbor. I heard him shout to the man at the wheel, "Head her into the harbor as quickly as possible when she is in the next trough!" We had now reached the critical moment,--would they select the right time to make the turn? When the boat was turned halfway to leeward and on the crest, the turbine without resistance spun around at a fearful rate, then the engine stopped for a moment and the breakers struck the side a terrific blow, causing the hull to creak and groan as though it were human and about ready to collapse. The water in the cabin overhead swished back and forth and the pots and kettles, as they beat against the walls, kept time with the rolling and plunging of the boat. The old tub righted herself, we had crossed the danger line, and were heading straight for the harbor.

When we reached quiet water the old-timers shook their heads and vowed that was their last trip in the _Bydarky_. What happened in the bunks no one would tell, though at least one of the party said that during the night he had offered many a silent prayer for the safety of the craft.

There was a foot of water on the cabin floor, the pots and pans were drifting about amid a flotsam and jetsam of pork and beans, vegetables, and what not.

Thus we reached Seldovia and learned that the steamer _Portland_ was about due on her last trip for the season. Coming home by way of the inside pa.s.sage, we had a pleasant trip, full of interest in a hundred ways. On one occasion, while many miles from land, a curious little bird came fluttering from mast to mast. Evidently on its way south it had become exhausted in the long flight from some northern point and had taken a short cut across the water. Finally one of the pa.s.sengers caught the little fellow and it proved to be a crossbill. The mandibles of this species are considerably crossed to a.s.sist in picking seeds from the pine cones of the northern land. It stayed with us all day and seemed to be perfectly contented and satisfied to be caressed in the open hand, but just as soon as the boat neared land it took to wing and with a graceful flight reached the timber safely. So the days pa.s.sed until in due time we arrived at Seattle, where we took the train for the East.

CHAPTER IV

A TRIP TO NEWFOUNDLAND

In the spring I had made all preparations for a trip to Newfoundland, and arrived at North Sidney to take the steamer _Bruce_ for Port aux Basques. Walking into the offices of the company upon the dock to make arrangements for my pa.s.sage, my attention was attracted to a little group of men. I learned that the Government doctor was vaccinating every pa.s.senger before allowing him to enter Newfoundland, because at this time Sidney had an epidemic of smallpox. One of the officers shouted to me: "Here you, going over? Bare your arm." I answered, "Not for me,"

knowing it would be useless to go into the woods with a punctured arm.

Just a little while before the boat cleared I slipped aboard, heard the officer shout "Cast away!" and we were off for Port aux Basques.

The sea was rough and in the morning all the "landlubbers" were "pale behind the gills." On landing, every person called upon the customs officer to have his baggage cleared, and I was required to leave a deposit of fifty dollars for the return of my Auto Graflex camera. The train was scheduled to start in a few minutes, and all the pa.s.sengers were aboard waiting for more than an hour, wondering what was delaying the start. Inquiry developed the fact that the trainmen were waiting for the wind to subside before they would venture across the viaduct over a swamp a few miles out. It seems that the train had been blown off the track several times by a strong wind. We finally crossed in safety.

Among the pa.s.sengers were several fishing parties, and they were bubbling over with good fellowship in antic.i.p.ation of the excellent sport they were going to have in pursuit of their favorite pastime. I believe every person should have a hobby of some kind to divert his mind from his burdens and petty cares. A chance to do something that we like fills us with pleasant thoughts, both in antic.i.p.ation and realization.

Several of the fishermen returned on the same train with me; they looked much better and were quite talkative about "whipping the stream," their "wonderful casts," and the "big fellows" they didn't get. Their hearty appearance confirmed my theory.

Pa.s.sing through the country, as far as the eye could reach we looked out over barrens covered with moss. Here and there a small body of blue water, like a jewel, broke the monotony. Perhaps a solitary duck floated peacefully on its glossy surface, waiting for the little brood soon to appear. Away over yonder on the opposite sh.o.r.e of one of the lakes stood a sentinel, the sandhill crane (_Grus mexicana_), knee-deep in the water, sedate and motionless, waiting an opportunity to catch some unsuspecting fish that might fortunately pa.s.s his way. The countless herds of caribou had returned to the north and were scattered all through the woodland hills, attending to their domestic duties. Towards evening the fishing parties began to drop off, one by one, at Middle Brook, Fischel's Brook, and Harry's River, all ideal streams for salmon and trout. They seemed scarcely able to restrain themselves until the morrow, when they could joint their rods, wade the crystal water, and cast the Jock Scott or Silver Doctor into the riffles again and again in antic.i.p.ation of a strike.

Arriving at Bay of Islands in due time, we found it a very interesting place, sloping gently up from the water's edge, with here and there a two-story frame house on its few acres of clearing. The inhabitants live almost wholly by fishing. Each had his own salmon net stretched out at some little projection of rocks in the bay, for the salmon were just beginning to run.

A guide employed, we made a trip up a long valley by the old "Twitchen"

road, used years ago and grown up with alder, fir, and balsam so as to be almost closed; up the old caribou path, worn at some places three feet deep in the moss and soft black mire by countless herds of caribou that had pa.s.sed beyond. To one looking backward before crossing over the divide, as far as the eye could see extended the blue waters of the bay, with the snow-capped mountains in the distance, and in the foreground the park-like lowlands where the stately caribou roamed at will.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Bay of Islands]

[Ill.u.s.tration: Constructing a Raft]

[Ill.u.s.tration: One Took to the Woods]

Our objective point was a small lake nestled somewhere in the direction we were going, among the pine, birch, and spruce, but on the way we missed the location and got lost in the undertaking. My guide climbed a tree in order to get a peep of the lake, but without success. While wandering about we heard from afar the doleful "who, who, hum, hee" of the loon. We had considerable difficulty determining the direction of the sound, but finally made a bee-line for the lake. No sooner had we put in an appearance than from a small gra.s.sy island in the middle of the lake a dozen or more herring gulls (_Larus argentatus smithsonia.n.u.s_) rose into the air, uttering their distressed, plaintive cries as they soared round and round. After getting a cup of tea and a bite to eat, we cut down four or five old tree stubs, bone dry from years and years of exposure to the elements. Lashing them together with redwood twisted into a "gad" and propelling the impromptu raft with a pole, we landed safely on the island. Our appearance startled from their island home three little birds, whose whitish down was covered with irregular dusky spots. In their excitement one took to the woods, and when requested to pose for its picture displayed all the resentment and fierceness charged to the American herring gulls. The others took to the water. I am almost sure this was their first experience in the water, and how the little flesh-covered palmated feet churned it in their desperate efforts to lend the enchantment of distance to the view of their unwelcome visitors. The colony had almost deserted its annual nesting-ground, but here and there a tardy mother bird had not completed incubation, and the little chicks were about due and calling to be released from their prison. At the point of the island, just at the water-line, we found a loon's nest (_Urinator imber_). Its two big olive-brown eggs (size 3.50"

2.25"), marked with dark brown spots, were lying on the bare, wet ground, with a few rootlets scattered here and there. The old pair floated gracefully on the surface of the water some three hundred yards in the distance, without uttering a sound. What a contrast between the gull and the loon in this respect,--the gulls soaring in the air above us with great excitement and noise, the loons quiet and apparently resting peacefully in the blue distance! The water in the lake was higher than usual. A family of beaver (_Castor canadensis Kuhl_) had dammed the entrance and had taken possession by building their home close at hand. Occasionally from the fortifications came across the lake a report almost as loud as a gun, the smack of the beaver's flat tail on the water as he disappeared when alarmed by the intruders.

[Ill.u.s.tration: One of the Others]

After taking several photographs we boarded our raft, crossed over to mainland, and returned homeward in the dead stillness of the evening.

Softly we make our way through the forest, our feet sinking deep into the moss, turning over with our toes the evergreen oval-shaped leaves of the trailing arbutus (_Epigaea repens_), exposing to the light of day the beautiful delicate flower that loves sylvan seclusion. Again and again I plucked a cl.u.s.ter which filled the air with a fragrant perfume that mingled with the odor of the pine; then I thought of the lines,

"Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air."

[Ill.u.s.tration: Trailing Arbutus]

On the following day we took the train for the head of Deer Lake, some thirty miles away. After leaving the train we pulled our boat across the lake and pitched our tent on an island at the mouth of the Upper Humber River. The day was beautiful, and the sun hot enough that the eggs of the mosquito, deposited at dawn, were wigglers by noon. All day long the black flies made our lives miserable, and as night approached the "nippers" took their place. Our tent was brand-new and erected with the most painstaking care, but we were unable to keep them out. We made ourselves busy before retiring for the evening by killing everything in sight, black flies, mosquitoes, and spiders, and then we tucked ourselves away on the balsam fir bed for a night's rest. But no sooner were we fixed nicely than the music began, and they seemed to come from every direction, so the fight was renewed again and again until we had exhausted ourselves and our "dope," and fell asleep from sheer weariness. Their favorite point of attack seemed to be behind the ears, and the singing still continued, adding considerably to the torment. In the morning our brand-new tent looked like a slaughter house, all blotched over with red, each mark indicating the death of one of the vicious little pests.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Spotted Sandpiper's Nest]

The weather turned cold,--and how glad we were to find relief! After breakfast we started out in search of anything of interest, and while walking down the beach we noticed many little fine tracks on the sand; three toes in front cleft to the base indicated immediately that the maker belonged to the order of waders (_Limicolae_), and was about the size of the little spotted sandpiper (_Act.i.tis macularia_), which builds its nest just along the edge of spa.r.s.ely-cl.u.s.tered bushes. Taking the trail, we followed, scanning carefully every likely place, and when we were within a few feet of her the little hen bird left in great excitement, twittering and flapping her wings as she fluttered along the ground, evidently trying to feign a crippled condition to draw our attention from the nest. This was built on the sand; just a very shallow hole and a few small sticks and pieces of bark; the four little cream-colored eggs with their liver-colored spots rested in the center of the nest, with a bunch of green leaves for the background.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Merganser's Nest]

Going a little farther down the beach we found the footprints of another bird on the sands. The trail was scarcely deeper, but quite different.

At first sight we recognized the track as made by a member of the order of swimmers (_Lamellirostres_), for the full palmated feet left their plain imprint, with the three toes pressed a little deeper in the sand than was the web, and with the lobate toe leaving its delicate touch. We followed the trail to a large white birch which was partly undermined by the spring freshet, leaving its ma.s.s of roots hanging down to the sand.

Getting down on my knees and looking closely I saw a few feathers, and by a long and careful straining of the eye could make out the mother bird on the nest. She was so well concealed it was absolutely impossible to get a photograph of her in occupation of the nest, so we proceeded to pull some of the roots away and even touched her in doing so; still she did not move from her position; but before we got the picture she left the nest with a "quack, quack," her neck extended and wings beating the sand. The nest belonged to a family of red-breasted mergansers (_Merganser serrator_), and contained seven plain cream-colored eggs (size 2.50" 1.70"); it was built of a few small sticks and lined with down from the breast of the duck. We visited the nest several times afterwards, but believe it was abandoned. At the upper end of the island we pitched our tent, possibly half a mile from the nest, intending to make a midnight visit for the purpose of getting a flash-light picture if possible. Before evening the birds could be seen a long way off taking in the situation from the distance, but as the evening approached they drew nearer and nearer and then darkness enshrouded the landscape.

Although we could not see their flight over our tent, we could frequently hear the whirr of their wings long into the night as they pa.s.sed up and down, frightened and unable to settle peacefully under the roots of the old birch. The instinct for the protection of her young is very strongly developed in the merganser, and she will resort to every possible ruse to conceal them, coaxing them into good cover, and, when once they are concealed, leading you away in another direction.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Nest of Wilson's Thrush]

In the early dawn, when the dew was glistening on the vegetation and wild life was full of activity, from underfoot glided a Wilson's thrush (_Hylocichla fuscescens_). As I looked carefully in the direction whence it came, a small opening in a clump of sticks and gra.s.s disclosed a beautifully constructed nest of moss lined with rootlets and coa.r.s.er gra.s.s, embedded in a small hillock. In the nest were three delicate greenish-blue eggs (0.90" 0.65"). We spent a great deal of time making the acquaintance of the mother bird, while the old man perched on a distant limb, and at our approach seemed to give warning by calling "chip, chip," so that, no matter how stealthily we drew near, the female was aware of our approach and had left the nest before we were in sight.

That she had only just gone was apparent from the warmth of the eggs. We visited the nest many times until finally she became very tame.

What a contrast to the nervous, excited t.i.tlark which had built its nest on the ground near a stump! The more we visited the nest of the latter the wilder she became, and after many attempts to photograph her we had to give up in despair. By the time evening came we were quite well acquainted, and when night set in we tried to take a flash-light picture of the thrush, using an electric lamp to attract attention until the flash went off. The instant of the flash she would glide gently out of the nest, to return again in a few minutes after we left. We made the attempt many times, and finally she became so accustomed to it that she would not leave the nest when the flash went off.

The following day we heard a whistling noise overhead,--a female American golden-eye (_Glaucionetta clangula americana_) was in full flight, disturbing the air with her laboring short wings. Away over yonder in a burned clearing stood an old birch tree stump, gaunt and white with the constant beating of the weather against it. Some thirty feet from the ground was a large hole in the stump, and as the duck pa.s.sed by we noticed that she hesitated as though about to enter, but at the same instant she must have seen us, for she continued her vigorous flight up the river as far as we could see. We decided she had her nest in the old tree-top, and by concealing ourselves, gave her to believe we had gone. In a short time we saw the duck return and pitch into the hole. When she was once in her protected home it was impossible to get her out. We hammered the tree with stones and logs and threw many stones into the opening; in fact, we did everything we could to make her come out, but to no avail. We then cut two long trees and leaned them against the top of the stump, and my guide proceeded to make rungs by binding rope around them until he had a fairly good ladder to the top. Then he climbed up and looked into the hole, but could not see the duck; she had built her nest in the hollow branch and not in the main trunk. The old stump began to sway from a breeze that sprang up, so the guide became nervous and hastened down for fear it would fall. Taking his ax he decided to cut the tree down, but when he was half way through I persuaded him that the mother and young would be killed by the fall, and at my suggestion he let the old stump stand.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Learning to Swim]

Several days later the young were transported to the water by the old ducks, and about the time the last duckling was placed on the water, we arrived on the scene.[2] It was very interesting to see them trying to dive; they were only able to stick their heads under the water, exposing their white under tail-coverts. As our little boat advanced quietly over the water, the mother bird, in her excited efforts to get them concealed, swam now this way, now that way, and made many attempts at turning into an apparent shelter, only to come out again. After many such zig-zag efforts she decided to take to the open water with her brood. In the meantime we were approaching nearer and nearer and when we separated them the mother disappeared in the direction of the open lake and the ducklings were forced towards the sandy beach. Thus separated we were able to guide them up and down the sh.o.r.e according to our liking, being careful to keep them along the sandy beach where they could not find any cover to conceal themselves. We followed them for several hours.

[Footnote 2: Some authorities say that the mother duck carries the young to the water in her bill. Whether this or some other means is adopted, seems to be as yet a mooted question.]

[Ill.u.s.tration: Out for Themselves]