 CHAPTER XII. THE RETURN TO FORT RANGAIL. The day of our start for Rangail was bright and the hoon, the north wind, strong. We passed around the east side of the larger island which lies near the south extremity of the point of land between the Chilkat and the Chilkut channels, and thence held a direct course down the east shore of the canal. At sunset we encamped in a small bay at the head of a beautiful harbor three or four miles south of Burners Bay, and the next day, being Sunday, we remained in camp as usual, though the wind was fair and it is not a sin to go home. The Indians spent most of the day in washing, mending, eating, and singing hymns with Mr. Young, who also gave them a Bible lesson, while I wrote notes and sketched. Charlie made a sweat house and all the crew got good baths. This is one of the most delightful little bays we have thus far enjoyed, girdled with tall trees whose branches almost meet, and with views of pure white mountains across the broad river-like canal. Seeing smoke back in the dense woods, we went ashore to seek it and discovered a Hootsanu whiskey factory in full blast. The Indians said that an old man, a friend of theirs, was about to die and they were making whiskey for his funeral. Our Indians were already out of oily flesh, which they regard as a necessity and consume in enormous quantities. The bacon was nearly gone, and they eagerly inquired for flesh at every camp we passed. Here we found skinned carcasses of porcupines and a heap of wild mutton lying on the confused hut floor. Our cook boiled the porcupines in a big pot with a lot of potatoes we obtained at the same hut, and although the potatoes were protected by their skins, the awfully wild penetrating porcupine flavor found a way through the skins and flavored them to the very heart. Bread and beans and dried fruit we had in abundance, and none of these rank aboriginal dainties ever came nigh any meal of mine. The Indians eat the hips of wild roses entire like berries, and I was laughed at for eating only the outside of this fruit and rejecting the seeds. When we were approaching the village of the Auk tribe, venerable toyat seemed to be unusually pensive, as if weighed down by some melancholy thought. This was so unusual that I waited attentively to find out the cause of his trouble. When at last he broke silence it was to say, Mr. Young, Mr. Young, he usually repeated the name, I hope you will not stop at the Auk village. Why, Toyat, asked Mr. Young, because they are a bad lot, and preaching to them can do no good. Toyat, said Mr. Young, have you forgotten what Christ said to his disciples when he charged them to go forth, and preach the gospel to everybody, and that we should love our enemies and do good to those who use us badly? Well, replied Toyat, if you preach to them you must not call on me to pray, because I cannot pray for Auk's. But the Bible says we should pray for all men, however bad they may be. Oh yes, I know that, Mr. Young. I know it very well. But Auk's are not men, good or bad, they are dogs. It was now nearly dark, and quite so ere we found a harbor, not far from the fine Auk glacier which descends into the narrow channel that separates Douglas Island from the mainland. Two of the Auk's followed us to our camp after eight o'clock, and inquired into our object and visiting them, that they might carry the news to their chief. One of the chief's houses is opposite our camp, a mile or two distant, and we concluded to call on him next morning. I wanted to examine the Auk glacier in the morning, but tried to be satisfied with a general view and sketch as we sailed around its wide, fan-shaped front. It is one of the most beautiful of all the coast glaciers that are in the first stage of decadence. We called on the Auk chief at daylight, when he was yet in bed, but he arose good-naturedly, put on a calico shirt, drew a blanket around his legs, and comfortably seated himself beside a small fire that gave light enough to show his features, and those of his children and the three women that one by one came out of the shadows. All listened attentively to Mr. Young's message of goodwill. The chief was a serious, sharp-featured, dark complexion man, sensible-looking, and with good manners. He was very sorry, he said, that his people had been drinking in his absence, and had used us so ill. He would like to hear us talk, and would call his people together if we would return to the village. This offer we had to decline. We gave him good words and tobacco, and paid him good-bye. The scenery all through the channel is magnificent, something like Yosemite Valley and its lofty avalanche-swept wall cliffs, especially on the mainland side, which are so steep few trees can find footing. The lower island sidewalls are mostly forested. The trees are heavily draped with lichens, giving the woods a remarkably gray, ancient look. I noticed a good many two-leafed pines and boggy spots. The water was smooth, and the reflections of the lofty walls striped with cascades were charmingly distinct. It was not easy to keep my crew full of wild flesh. We called at an Indian summer camp on the mainland about noon, where there were three very squalid huts crowded and jammed full of flesh of many colors and smells, among which we discovered a lot of bright fresh trout, lovely creatures about fifteen inches long, their sides adorned with vivid red spots. We purchased five of them and a couple of salmon for a box of gun caps and a little tobacco. About the middle of the afternoon we passed through a fleet of icebergs, their number increasing as we neared the mouth of the Taku Fjord, where we camped, hoping to explore the Fjord and see the glaciers, where the bergs, the first we had seen since leaving Icy Bay, are derived. We left camp at six o'clock, nearly an hour before daybreak. My Indians were glad to find the Fjord barred by a violent wind, against which we failed to make any headway. And, as it was too late in the season to wait for better weather, I reluctantly gave up this promising work for another year and directed the crew to go straight ahead down the coast. We sailed across the mouth of the happy inlet at fine speed, keeping a man at the bow to look out for the smallest of the bergs, not easily seen in the dim light, and another bailing the canoe as the tops of some of the white caps broke over us. About two o'clock we passed a large bay or fjord out of which a violent wind was blowing, though the main Stephen's passage was calm. About dusk when we were all tired and anxious to get into camp we reached the mouth of some dumb bay, but nothing like a safe landing could we find. Our experienced captain was indignant, as well he might be, because we did not see fit to stop early in the afternoon at a good campground he had chosen. He seemed determined to give us enough of night sailing as a punishment to last us for the rest of the voyage. Accordingly, though the night was dark and rainy, and the bay full of icebergs, he pushed grimly on, saying that we must try to reach an Indian village on the other side of the bay or an old Indian fort on an island in the middle of it. We made slow, weary, anxious progress while toy out, who was well acquainted with every feature of this part of the coast, and could find his way in the dark, only laughed at our misery. After a mile or two of this dismal night work we struck across toward the island, now invisible, and came near being wrecked on a rock which showed a smooth round back cover which the waves were breaking. In the hurried shouts that followed, and while we were close against the rock, Mr. Young shouted, as he leaned over against me, It's a whale, a whale! evidently fearing its tail several specimens of these animals which were probably still on his mind, having been seen in the forenoon. While we were passing along the east shore of the island we saw a light on the opposite shore, a joyful sight which toy out took for a fire in the Indian village and steered for it. John stood in the vow as guide through the bergs. Suddenly we ran aground on a sandbar. Clearing this, and running back half a mile or so, we again stood for the light which now shone brightly. I thought it strange that Indians should have so large a fire. A broad white mass dimly visible back of the fire Mr. Young took for the glow of the fire on the clouds. This proved to be the front of a glacier. After we had affected a landing and stumbled up toward the fire over a ledge of slippery algae-covered rocks and through the ordinary tangle of shore-grass, we were astonished to find white men instead of Indians, the first we had seen for a month. They proved to be a party of seven gold-seekers from Fort Rangel. It was now about eight o'clock and they were in bed, but a jolly Irishman got up to make coffee for us and find out who we were, where we had come from, where going, and the objects of our travels. We unrolled our chart and asked for information as to the extent and features of the bay. But our benevolent friend took great pains to pull wool over our eyes and made haste to say that if ice and sceneries were what we were looking for, this was a very poor, dull place. There were big rocks, gulches, and sceneries of a far better quality down the coast on the way to Rangel. He and his party were prospecting, he said, but thus far they had found only a few colors and they proposed going over to Admiralty Island in the morning to try their luck. In the morning, however, when the prospectors were to have gone over to the island, we noticed a smoke half a mile back on a large stream, the outlet of the glacier we had seen the night before, and an Indian told us that the white men were building a big log house up there. It appeared that they had found a promising placer mine in the moraine and feared we might find it and spread the news. Daylight revealed a magnificent fjord that brought glacier bay to mind. Miles of bergs lay stranded on the shores, and the waters of the branch fjords, not on Vancouver's chart, were crowded with them as far as the eye could reach. After breakfast we set out to explore an arm of the bay that trends southeastward and managed to force away through the bergs about ten miles. Farther we could not go. The pack was so close no open water was in sight, and convinced at last that this part of my work would have to be left for another year we struggled across to the west side of the fjord and camped. I climbed a mountain next morning, hoping to gain a view of the great fruitful glaciers at the head of the fjord, or at least of their snowy fountains. But in this also I failed, for at a distance of about sixteen miles from the mouth of the fjord, a change to the northward in his general trend cut off all its upper course from sight. Returning to camp, baffled in weary, I ordered all hands to pack up and get out of the ice as soon as possible. And how gladly was that order obeyed? Toyat's grand countenance glowed like a sun-filled glacier, as he joyfully and teasingly remarked that the big some-dumb ice-mountain had hidden his face from me and refused to let me pay him a visit. All the crew worked hard, boring away down the west side of the fjord, and early in the afternoon we reached comparatively open water near the mouth of the bay, resting a few minutes among the drifting bergs, taking last lingering looks at the wonderful place I might never see again, and feeling sad over my weary failure to explore it. I was cheered by a friend I little expected to meet here. Suddenly I heard the familiar whir of an oosel's wings, and, looking up, saw my little comforter coming straight from the shore. In a second or two he was with me, and flew three times around my head with a happy salute, as if saying, Cheer up, old friend, you see I'm here and all's well. He then flew back to the shore, alighted on the topmost jag of a stranded iceberg, and began to nod and bow as though he were on one of his favorite rocks in the middle of a sunny California mountain cataract. Mr. Young regretted not meeting the Indians here, but mission work also had to be left until next season. Our happy crew hoisted sail to a fair wind, shouted, Goodbye, some dumb, and soon after dark reached a harbor a few miles north of Hobart Point. We made an early start the next day, a fine, calm morning, glided smoothly down the coast, admiring the magnificent mountains arrayed in their winter robes, and early in the afternoon reached a lovely harbor on an island five or six miles north of Cape Fenshaw. Toyot predicted a heavy winter storm, though only a mild rain was falling as yet. Everybody was tired and hungry, and as the voyage was nearing the end a consented to stop here. While the shelter tents were being set up and our blankets stowed under cover, John went out to hunt and killed a deer within two hundred yards of the camp. When we were at the campfire in some dumb bay, one of the prospectors, replying to Mr. Young's complaint that they were oftentimes out of meat, asked Toyot why he and his men did not shoot plenty of ducks for the minister. Because the duck's friend would not let us, said Toyot. When we want to shoot, Mr. Muir always shakes the canoe. Just as we were passing the south headland of Port Haughton Bay, we heard a shout, and a few minutes later saw four Indians in a canoe paddling rapidly after us. In about an hour they overtook us. They were an Indian, his son, and two women, with a load of fish oil and dried salmon to sell and trade at Fort Mangal. They camped within a dozen yards of us, with their sheets of cedar bark and poles they speedily made a hut, spread spruce boughs in it for a carpet, unloaded the canoe, and stored their goods under cover. The reward evening the old man came smiling with a gift for Toyot, a large, fresh salmon, which was promptly boiled and eaten by our captain and crew, as if it were only a light refreshment like a biscuit between meals. A few minutes after the big salmon had vanished our generous neighbor came to Toyot with a second gift, a dried salmon, which after being toasted a few minutes, tranquilly followed the fresh one as though it were a mere mouthful. Then from the same generous hands came a third gift, a large milk pan full of huckleberries and grease boiled together. And strange to say, this wonderful mess went smoothly down to rest on the broad and deep salmon foundation. Thus refreshed and appetite sharpened, my sturdy crew made haste to begin on the buck, beans, bread, etc., and boiling and roasting, managed to get comfortably full on but little more than half of it by sundown, making a good deal of sport of my pity for the deer, and refusing to eat any of it, and nicknaming me the Ice and Sioux, and the deer and ducks Tillicum. Sunday was a wild, driving, windy day, with but little rain but big promise of more. I took a walk back in the woods. The timber here is very fine, about as large as any I have seen in Alaska, much better than farther north. The Sitka spruce and the common hemlock, one hundred and fifty and two hundred feet high, are slender and handsome. The Sitka spruce makes good firewood, even when green. The hemlock very poor. Back a little way from the sea, there was a good deal of yellow cedar, the best I had yet seen. The largest specimen that I saw and measured on the trip was five feet three inches in diameter, and about one hundred and forty feet high. In the evening Mr. Young gave the Indians a lesson, calling in our Indian neighbors. He told them the story of Christ coming to save the world. The Indians wanted to know why the Jews had killed him. The lesson was listened to with very marked attention. Toyat's generous friend caught a devilfish about three feet in diameter to add to his stores of food. It would be very good, he said, when boiled in berry and colicon oil soup. Each arm of this savage animal with its double row of button-like suction discs closed upon any object brought within reach with a grip nothing could escape. The Indians tell me that devilfish live mostly on crabs, mussels, and clams, the shells of which they easily crunch with their strong, parrot-like beaks. That was a wild, stormy, rainy night. How the rain soaked us in our tents. Just feel that, said the minister in the night, as he took my hand and plunged it into a pool about three inches deep in which he was lying. Never mind, I said, it is only water. Everything is wet now. It will soon be morning and we will dry at the fire. Our Indian neighbors were, if possible, still wetter. Their hut had been blown down several times during the night. Our tent leaked badly and we were lying in a mossy bog, but around the big campfire we were soon warm and half dry. We had expected to reach Rangel by this time. Toyat said the storm might last several days longer. We were out of tea and coffee, much to Mr. Young's distress. On my return from a walk I brought in a good big bunch of glandular ledum and boiled it in the teapot. The result of this experiment was a bright, clear, amber-colored, rank-smelling liquor which I did not taste, but my suffering companion drank the whole potful and praised it. The rain was so heavy we decided not to attempt to leave camp until the storm somewhat abated, as we were assured by Toyat that we would not be able to round Cape Fanshawe, a sheer, out-judging headland—the nose, as he called it—past which the wind sweeps with great violence in these southeastern storms. With what grateful enthusiasm the trees welcomed the life-giving rain, strong, towering spruces, hemlocks and cedars tossed their arms, bowing, waving in every leap, quivering and rejoicing together in the gray, roaring storm. John and Charlie put on their gun-coats and went hunting for another deer, but returned later in the afternoon with clean hands, having fortunately failed to shed any more blood. The wind still held in the south, and Toyat, grimly trying to comfort us, told us that we might be held here a week or more, which we should not have minded much, for we had abundance of provisions. Mr. Young and I shifted our tent and tried to dry blankets. The wind moderated considerably, and at seven a.m. we started, but met a rough sea and so stiff a wind we barely succeeded in rounding the Cape by all hands pulling their vest. Thence we struggled down the coast, creeping close to the shore and taking advantage of the shelter of protecting rocks, making slow, hard-won progress until about the middle of the afternoon, when the sky opened and the blessed sun shone out over the beautiful waters and forests with rich amber light, and the high, glacier-laden mountains adorned with fresh snow slowly came to view in all their grandeur, the bluish-gray clouds crawling and lingering and dissolving until every vestige of them vanished. The sunlight made the upper snow-fields pale, creamy yellow, like that seen on the Chilkat Mountains the first day of our return trip. Shortly after the sky cleared the wind abated and changed around to the north so that we ventured to hoist our sail and then the weary Indians had rest. It was interesting to note how speedily the heavy swell that had been rolling for the last two or three days was subdued by the comparatively light breeze from the opposite direction. In a few minutes the sound was smooth and no trace of the storm was left, save the fresh snow and the discoloration of the water. All the water of the sound, as far as I noticed, was pale coffee color like that of the streams in boggy woods. How much of this color was due to the inflow of the flooded streams many times increased in size and number by the rain, and how much to the beating of the waves along the shore stirring up vegetable matter in shallow bays I cannot determine. The effect, however, was very marked. At four o'clock we saw smoke on the shore and ran in for news. We found a company of Taku Indians who were on their way to Fort Rangel. Some six men and about the same number of women. The men were sitting in a bark hut, handsomely reinforced and emboured with fresh spruce boughs. The women were out at the side of a stream, washing their many bits of calico. A little girl, six or seven years old, was sitting on the gravelly beach, building a playhouse of white quartz pebbles, scarcely caring to stop her work to gaze at us. Toyot found a friend among the men and wished to encamp beside them for the night, assuring us that this was the only safe harbor to be found within a good many miles. But we resolved to push on a little farther and make use of the smooth weather after being stormbound so long. Much to Toyot and his companions discussed. We rode about a couple of miles and ran into a cozy cove where wood and water were close at hand. How beautiful and home-like it was, plushy moss for mattresses decked with red cornelled berries, noble spruce standing guard about us and spreading kindly protecting arms. A few ferns, aspidiums, polypodiums with jubary vines, coptus, pyrola, leafless huckleberry bushes, and ledam grove beneath the trees. We retired at eight o'clock, and just then Toyot, who had been attentively studying the sky, presaged rain and another southeaster for the morrow. The sky was a little cloudy next morning, but the air was still and the water smooth. We all hoped that Toyot, the old weather prophet, had misread the sky signs. But before reaching point Vanderpute the rain began to fall and the dreaded southeast wind to blow, which soon increased to a stiff breeze, next thing to a gale, that lashed the sound into ragged whitecaps. Cape Vanderpute is part of the terminal of an ancient glacier that once extended six or eight miles out from the base of the mountains. Three large glaciers that once were tributaries still descend nearly to the sea level, though their fronts are back in narrow fjords, eight or 10 miles from the sound. A similar point juts out into the sound five or six miles to the south, while the missing portion is submerged and forms a shoal. All the cape is forested, save a narrow strip about a mile long, composed of large boulders against which the waves beat with loud roaring. A bar of foam, a mile or so farther out, showed where the waves were breaking on a submerged part of the moraine, and I suppose that we would be compelled to pass around it in deep water. But Toyat, usually so cautious, determined to cross it. And after giving particular directions, with an encouraging shout every oar and paddle was strained to shoot through a narrow gap. Just at the most critical point a big wave heaved us aloft and dropped us between two huge rounded boulders, where, had the canoe been a foot or two closer to either of them, it must have been smashed. Though I had offered no objection to our experienced pilot's plan, it looked dangerous, and I took the precaution to untie my shoes, so they could be quickly shaken off for swimming. But after crossing the bar we were not yet out of danger, for we had to struggle hard to keep from being driven ashore, while the waves were beating us broadside on. At length we discovered a little inlet into which we gladly escaped. A pure white iceberg, weathered to the form of a cross, stood amid drifts of kelp and the black rocks of the wave-beaten shore, in sign of safety and welcome. A good fire soon warmed and dried us into common comfort. Our narrow escape was the burden of conversation as we sat around the fire. Captain Toyot told us of two similar adventures while he was a strong young man. In both of them his canoe was smashed and he swam ashore out of the surge with a gun in his teeth. He says that if we had struck the rocks he and Mr. Young would have been drowned. All the rest of us probably would have been saved. Then, turning to me, he asked me if I could have made a fire in such a case without matches and found a way to wrangle without canoe or food. We started about daybreak from our blessed white cross-harbour, and after rounding a bluff, caped opposite the mouth of wrangle-narrows. A fleet of icebergs came in sight, and of course I was eager to trace them to their source. But naturally enough was greatly excited by the safety of his canoe and begged that we should not venture to force away through the bergs, risking the loss of the canoe and our lives now that we were so near the end of our long voyage. �O, never fear, Toyot!� I replied. �You know we are always lucky, the weather is good. I only want to see the thunder-glesher for a few minutes, and should the bergs be packed dangerously close, I promise to turn back and wait until next summer.� Thus assured, he pushed rapidly on until we entered the fjord, where we had to go cautiously slow. The bergs were close packed almost throughout the whole extent of the fjord, but we managed to reach a point about two miles from the head, commanding a good view of the down-plunging lower end of the glacier and blue-jagged ice wall. This was one of the most imposing of the first-class glaciers I had as yet seen, and with its magnificent fjord formed a fine triumphant close for our season's icework. I made a few notes and sketches and turned back in time to escape from the thickest packs of bergs before dark. Then Katachan was stationed in the bow to guide through the open portion of the mouth of the fjord and across Suchoi Strait. It was not until several hours after dark that we were finally free from ice. We occasionally encountered stranded packs on the delta, which in the starlight seemed to extend indefinitely in every direction. Our danger lay in breaking the canoe on small bergs hard to see and in getting too near the larger ones that might split or roll over. Oh, when will we escape from this ice, moaned much enduring old toyette. We ran aground in several places in crossing the Stakeen delta, but finally succeeded in groping our way over muddy shallows before the tide fell, and encamped on the boggy shore of a small island where we discovered a spot dry enough to sleep on, after tumbling about in a tangle of bushes and mossy logs. We left our last camp November 21 at Daybreak. The weather was calm and bright. Rangel Island came into view beneath a lovely rosy sky, all the forest down to the water's edge, silvery gray with a dusting of snow. John and Charlie seemed to be seriously distressed to find themselves at the end of their journey, while a portion of the stock of provisions remained uneaten. What is to be done about it, they asked, more than half an earnest. The fine, strong, and specious deliberation of Indians was well illustrated on this eventful trip. It was fresh every morning. They all behaved well. However, exerted themselves under tedious hardships without flinching for days or weeks at a time, never seemed in the least nonplussed, were prompt to act in every exegency, good as servants, fellow travelers, and even friends. We landed on an island in sight of Rangel and built a big smoky signal fire for friends in town. Then set sail, unfurled our flag, and about noon completed our long journey of seven or eight hundred miles. As we approached the town, a large canoeful of friendly Indians came flying out to meet us, cheering and handshaking in lusty Boston fashion. The friends of Mr. Young had intended to come out in a body to welcome back, but had not had time to complete their arrangements before we landed. Mr. Young was eager for news. I told him there could be no news of importance about a town. We only had real news drawn from the wilderness. The male steamer had left Rangel eight days before, and Mr. Vanderbilt and family had sailed on her to Portland. I had to wait a month for the next steamer, and though I would have liked to go again to nature, the mountains were locked for the winter and canoe excursions no longer safe. So I shut myself up in a good garret alone to wait and work. I was invited to live with Mr. Young, but concluded to prepare my own food and enjoy quiet work. Now grandly long the nights were and short the days. At noon the sun seemed to be about an hour high, the clouds colored like sunset. The weather was rather stormy. North winds prevailed for a week at a time, sending down the temperature to near zero and chilling the vapor of the bay into a white reek, presenting a curious appearance as it streamed forward on the wind, like coned wool. At Sitka the minimum was eight degrees plus, at Rangel, near the storm-throat of the Stakeen, zero. This is said to be the coldest weather ever experienced in Southeastern Looking back on my Alaska travels I have always been glad that good luck gave me Mr. Young as a companion, for he brought me into confiding contact with the flinket tribes, so that I learned their customs, what manner of men they were, how they lived and loved, fought and played, their morals, religion, hopes and fears and superstitions, how they resembled and differed in their characteristics from our own and other races. It was easy to see that they differed greatly from the typical American Indian of the interior of this continent. They were doubtless, derived from the Mongol stock, their down-slanting oval eyes, wide cheekbones, and rather thick, outstanding upper lips, at once suggested their connection with the Chinese or Japanese. I have not seen a single specimen that looks in the least like the best of the Sioux, or indeed of any of the tribes to the east of the Rocky Mountains. They also differ from other North American Indians in being willing to work, when free from the contamination of bad whites. They manage to feed themselves well, build good, substantial houses, bravely fight their enemies, love their wives and children and friends, and cherish a quick sense of honor. The best of them prefer death to dishonor, and sympathize with their neighbors in their misfortunes and sorrows. Thus, when a family loses a child by death, neighbors visit them to cheer and console. They gather around the fire and smoke, talk kindly and naturally, telling the sorrowing parents not to grieve too much, reminding them of the better lot of their child and another world, and of the troubles and trials the little ones escape by dying young. All this in a perfectly natural, straightforward way, wholly unlike the vacant, silent, hesitating behavior of most civilized friends, who oftentimes, in such cases, seem nonplussed, awkward, and afraid to speak, however sympathetic. The Thalinkans are fond and indulgent parents, and all my travels I never heard a cross-fault-finding word, or anything like scolding inflicted on an Indian child, or ever witnessed a single case of spanking so common in civilized communities. They consider the want of a son to bear their name and keep it alive the saddest and most deplorable, ill-fortune imaginable. The Thanglit tribes give a hearty welcome to Christian missionaries. In particular, they are quick to accept the doctrine of the atonement, because they themselves practice it, although to many of these civilized whites it is a stumbling block and rock of offense. As an example of their own doctrine of atonement, they told Mr. Young and me one evening, that twenty or thirty years ago there was a bitter war between their own and the Sitka tribe. Great fighters, and pretty evenly matched. After fighting all summer in a desultory, squabbling way, fighting now undercover, now in the open, watching for every chance for a shot, none of the women dared venture to the salmon-streams or berry-fields to procure their winter stock of food. At this crisis one of the sticking chiefs came out of his blockhouse fort into an open space midway between their fortified camps and shouted that he wished to speak to the leader of the Sitkas. When the Sitka chief appeared, he said, My people are hungry, they dare not go to the salmon-streams or berry-fields for winter supplies, and if this war goes on much longer most of my people will die of hunger. We have fought long enough, let us make peace. You brave Sitka warriors go home, and we will go home, and we will all set out to dry salmon and berries before it is too late. The Sitka chief replied, You may well say, let us stop fighting, when you have had the best of it. You have killed ten more of my tribe than we have killed of yours. Give us ten sticking men to balance our blood account. Then and not till then will we make peace and go home. Very well replied the sticking chief, You know my rank, you know that I am worth ten common men and more. Take me and make peace. This noble offer was promptly accepted. The sticking chief stepped forward and was shocked down in sight of the fighting bands. Peace was thus established, and all made haste to their homes and ordinary work. That chief literally gave himself a sacrifice for his people. He died that they may live. Therefore, when missionaries preached the doctrine of atonement, explaining that when all mankind has gone astray, had broken God's laws and deserved to die, God's son came forward and, like the sticking chief, offered himself as a sacrifice to heal the cause of God's wrath and set all the people of the world free. The doctrine was readily accepted. Yes, your words are good, they said. The Son of God, the chief of chiefs, the maker of all the world, must be worth more than all mankind put together. Therefore when his blood was shed, the salvation of the world was made sure. A telling illustration of the ready acceptance of this doctrine was displayed by Shakespeare, head chief of the stickings at Fort Rangel. A few years before my first visit to the territory, when the first missionary arrived, he requested Shakespeare to call his people together to hear the good word he had brought them. Shakespeare accordingly sent out messengers throughout the village, telling his people to wash their faces, put on their best clothing, and come to his blockhouse to hear what their visitor had to say. When all were assembled, the missionary preached a Christian sermon on the fall of man and the atonement whereby Christ, the Son of God, the chief of chiefs, had redeemed all mankind, provided that this redemption was voluntarily accepted with repentance of their sins and the keeping of his commandments. When the missionary had finished his sermon, chief shakes slowly arose, and after thanking the missionary for coming so far to bring them good tidings, and taking so much unselfish interest in the welfare of his tribe, he advised his people to accept the new religion, for he felt satisfied that because the white man knew so much more than the Indian, the white man's religion was likely to be better than theirs. The white man said he makes great ships. We, like children, can only make canoes. He makes his big ships go with the wind, and he also makes them go with fire. We chop down trees with stone axes. The Boston man with iron axes, which are far better. And everything the ways of the white man seem to be better than ours. Compared with the white man, we are only blind children, knowing not how best to live, either here or in the country we go to after we die. So I wish you to learn this new religion, and teach it to your children, that you may all go, when you die, into that good heaven country of the white man, and be happy. But I am too old to learn a new religion, and besides, many of my people, who have died, were bad and foolish people, and if this word the missionary has brought us is true, and I think it is, many of my people must be in that bad country the missionary calls hell, and I must go there also, for a sticking chief never deserts his people in time of trouble. To that bad country, therefore, I will go, and try to cheer my people, and help them as best I can do to endure their misery. Toyot was a famous orator. I was present at the meeting at Fort Rangel, at which he was examined and admitted as a member of the Presbyterian Church. When called upon to answer the questions as to his ideas of God, and the principal doctrines of Christianity, he slowly arose in the crowded audience, while the missionary said, Toyot, you do not need to rise, you can answer the questions seated. To this he paid no attention, but stood several minutes without speaking a word, never for a moment thinking of sitting down, like a tired woman, while making the most important of all the speeches of his life. He then explained in detail what his mother had taught him, as to the character of God, the great-maker of the world. Also what the shamans had taught him, the thoughts that often came to his mind when he was alone on hunting expeditions, and what he first thought of the religion which the missionaries had brought them. In all his justures, and in the language in which he expressed himself, there was a noble simplicity, an earnestness, and majestic bearing, which made the sermons and behavior of the three distinguished divinity doctors present seem commonplace in comparison. Soon after our return to Fort Rangel this grand old man was killed in a quarrel in which he had taken no other part than that of peacemaker. A number of the Taku tribe came to Fort Rangel, camped near the Stakeen village, and made merry, manufacturing, and drinking Huchinu, a vile liquor distilled from a mash made of flour, dried apples, sugar, and molasses, and drunk hot from the still. The manufacture of Huchinu became illegal, and several of Toyot's tribe, having been appointed deputy constables to prevent it, they went to the Taku camp, and destroyed as much of the liquor as they could find. The Takus resisted, and during the quarrel one of the Stakeen's struck a Taku in the face, an unpardonable offense. The next day messengers from the Taku camp gave notice to the Stakeen's that they must make atonement for that blow, or fight with guns. Mr. Young, of course, was eager to stop the quarrel, and so was Toyot. They advised the Stakeen who had struck the Taku to return to their camp, and submit to an equal blow in the face from the Taku. He did so, went to the camp, said he was ready to make atonement, and invited the person whom he had struck to strike him. This the Taku did with so much force that the balance of justice was again disturbed. The attention of the Takus was called to the fact that this atoning blow was far harder than the one to be atoned for, and immediately a sort of general free fist-fight began, and the quarrel was thus increased in bitterness rather than diminished. Next day the Takus sent word to the Stakeen's to get their guns ready, for to-morrow they would come up and fight them, thus boldly declaring war. The Stakeen's in great excitement assembled, and loaded their guns for the coming strife. Mr. Young ran hither and thither amongst the men of his congregation, forbidding them to fight, reminding them that Christ told them when they were struck to offer the other cheek instead of giving a blow in return, doing everything in his power to still the storm, but all in vain. Toyat stood outside one of the big blockhouses with his men about him, awaiting the onset of the Takus. Mr. Young tried hard to get him away to a place of safety, reminding him that he belonged to his church, and no longer had any right to fight. Toyat calmly replied, Mr. Young, Mr. Young, I am not going to fight. You see I have no gun in my hand, but I cannot go inside of the fort to a place of safety like women and children, while my young men are exposed to the bullets of their enemies. I must stay with them and share their dangers, but I will not fight. But you, Mr. Young, you must go away. You are a minister, and you are an important man. It would not do for you to be exposed to bullets. Go to your home in the fort. Pretty soon, ha you pull much shooting. At the first fire Toyat fell, shot through the breast, thus died for his people, the noblest old Roman of them all. On this first Alaska excursion I saw Toyat under all circumstances, in rain and snow, landing at night in dark storms, making fires, building shoulders, exposed to all kinds of discomfort, but never under any circumstances did I ever see him do anything or make a single gesture that was not dignified, or hear him say a word that might not be uttered anywhere. He often deplored the fact that he had no son to take his name at his death, and expressed himself as very grateful when I told him that his name would not be forgotten, that I had named one of the sticking glaciers for him. CHAPTER XIV I arrived early on the morning of the 8th of August on the steamer California to continue my explorations of the fjords to the northward which were closed by winter the previous November. The noise of our cannon and whistle was barely sufficient to awaken the sleepy town. The morning shout of one good rooster was the only evidence of life and health in all the place. Everything seemed kindly and familiar, the glassy water, evergreen islands, the Indians with their canoes and baskets and blankets and berries, the jet ravens prying and flying about the streets and spruce trees, and the bland, hushed atmosphere brooding tenderly overall. How delightful it is, and how it makes one's pulses bound to get back into this reviving Northland wilderness. How truly wild it is, and how joyously one's heart responds to the welcome it gives, its waters and mountains shining and glowing like enthusiastic human faces. Gliding along the shores of its network of channels, we may travel thousands of miles without seeing any mark of man, save at long intervals some little Indian village or the faint smoke of a campfire. Even these are confined to the shore. Back a few yards from the beach the forests are as trackless as the sky, while the mountains, wrapped in their snow and ice and clouds, seem never before to have been even looked at. For those who really care to get into hearty contact with the coast region, travel by canoe is by far the better way. The larger canoes carry from one to three tons, rise lightly over any waves likely to be met on the inland channels, go well under sail, and are easily paddled alongside in calm weather or against moderate winds. While snug harbors where they may ride at anchor or be pulled up on a smooth beach are to be found almost everywhere. With plenty of provisions packed in boxes and blankets and warm clothing and rubber or canvas bags, you may be truly independent and enter into partnership with nature, to be carried with the winds and currents, accept the noble invitations offered all along your way to enter the mountain fjords, the homes of the waterfalls and glaciers, and encamp almost every night beneath hospitable trees. I left Fort Rangel the 16th of August, accompanied by Mr. Young, in a canoe about twenty-five feet long and five wide, carrying two small square sails and manned by two sticking Indians, Captain Tyreen and Hunter Joe, and a half-breed named Smart Billy. The day was calm and bright, fleecy clouds hung about the lowest of the mountain brows, while far above the clouds the peaks were seen stretching grandly away to the northward, with their ice and snow shining in as calm a light as that which was falling on the glassy waters. Our Indians welcomed the work that lay before them, dipping their oars in exact time with hearty goodwill, as we glided past island after island across the delta of the stickine into Suchoy Channel. By noon we came inside of a fleet of icebergs from Hootley Bay. The Indian name of this icy fjord is Hootley, or Thunder Bay, from the sound made by the bergs in falling and rising from the front of the inflowing glacier. As we floated happily on over the shining waters, the beautiful islands and ever-changing pictures were an unfailing source of enjoyment, but chiefly our attention was turned upon the mountains. Bold-granted headlands with their feet in the Channel, or some broad-shouldered peak of surpassing grandeur, would fix the eye, or some one of the larger glaciers, with far-reaching tributaries clasping entire groups of peaks and its great crystal river pouring down through the forest between gray ridges and domes. In these grand picture lessons the day was spent, and we spread our blankets beneath a men's-y spruce on moss two feet deep. Next morning we sailed around an out-curving bank of boulders and sand ten miles long, the terminal moraine of a grand old glacier on which last November we met a perilous adventure. It is located just opposite three large converging glaciers which formerly united to form the vanished trunk of the glacier to which the submerged moraine belonged. A few centuries ago it must have been the grandest feature of this part of the coast, and so well-preserved are the monuments of its greatness the noble old ice-river may be seen again in imagination about as vividly as if present in the flesh, with snow-clouds crawling about its fountains, sunshine sparkling on its broad flood, and its ten mile ice-wall planted in the deep waters of the Channel and sending off its bergs with loud resounding thunder. About noon we rounded Cape Fanshawe, scutting swiftly before a fine breeze to the delight of our Indians who had now only to steer and chat. Here we overtook two Huna Indians and their families on their way home from Fort Rangel. They had exchanged five sea otter furs worth about a hundred dollars apiece and a considerable number of fur seal, land otter, martin, beaver, and other furs and skins some eight hundred dollars worth for a new canoe valued at eighty dollars, some flour, tobacco, blankets, and a few barrels of molasses for the manufacture of whisky. The blankets were not to wear but to keep as money, for the almighty dollar of these tribes is a Hudson's Bay blanket. The wind died away soon after we met, and as the two canoes glided slowly side by side the Hunas made minute inquiries as to who we were and what we were doing so far north. Mr. Young's object in meeting the Indians as a missionary they could in part understand, but mine in searching for rocks and glaciers seemed past comprehension, and they asked our Indians whether gold mines might not be the main object. They remembered, however, that I had visited their Glacier Bay Ice Mountains a year ago, and seemed to think there might be, after all, some mysterious interest about them of which they were ignorant. Toward the middle of the afternoon they engaged our crew in a race. We pushed a little way ahead for a time, but, though possessing a considerable advantage, as it would seem, in our long oars, they at length overtook us and kept up until after dark, when we camped together in the rain on the bank of a salmon stream, among dripping grass and bushes some twenty-five miles beyond Cape Fodshaway. These cold northern waters are at times about as brilliantly phosphorescent as those of the warm south, and so they were this evening in the rain and darkness, with the temperature of the water at forty-nine degrees, the air fifty-one. Every stroke of the oar made a vivid surge of white light, and the canoes left shining tracks. As we neared the mouth of the well-known salmon stream where we intended making our camp, we noticed jets and flashes of silvery light caused by the startled movement of the salmon that were on their way to their spawning grounds. These became more and more numerous and exciting, and our Indians shouted joyfully, Ha-yu salmon! Ha-yu makamak! While the water about the canoe and beneath the canoe was churned by thousands of fins into silver fire. After landing two of our men to commenced camp-work, Mr. Young and I went up the stream with Tyene to the foot of a rapid to see him catch a few salmon for supper. The streamways so filled with them there seemed to be more fish than water in it, and we appeared to be sailing and boiling, seething silver light marvelously relieved in the jet darkness. In the midst of the general auroral glow and the specially vivid flashes made by the frightened fish darting ahead and to right and left of the canoe, our attention was suddenly fixed by a long, steady, comet-like blaze that seemed to be made by some frightful monster that was pursuing us. But when the portentous object reached the canoe, it proved to be only our little dog, stickine. After getting the canoe into a side eddy at the foot of the rapids, Tyene caught half a dozen salmon in a few minutes by means of a large hook fastened to the end of a pole. They were so abundant that he simply groped for them in a random way, or aimed at them by the light they themselves furnished. That food to last a month or two may thus be procured in less than an hour is a striking illustration of the fruitfulness of these Alaskan waters. Our Huna neighbors were asleep in the morning at sunrise, lying in a row wet and limp like dead salmon. A little boy about six years old, with no other covering than a remnant of a shirt, was lying peacefully on his back, like Tamo Shanter, despising wind and rain and fire. He is up now, looking happy and fresh, with no clothes to dry and no need of washing while this weather lasts. The two babies are firmly strapped on boards, leaving only their heads and hands free. Their mothers are nursing them, holding the boards on end, while they sit on the ground with their breasts level with the little prisoner's mouths. This morning we found out how beautiful a nook we had got into. Besides the charming picturesqueness of its lines, the colors about it, brightened by the rain, made a fine study. Feud from the shore there was first a margin of dark brown algae, then a bar of yellowish-brown, next a dark bar on the rugged rocks marking the highest tides, then a bar of granite boulders with grasses in the seams, and above this a thick, bossy, over-leaning fringe of bushes, colored red and yellow and green. A wall of spruces and hemlocks, draped and tufted with gray and yellow lichens and mosses, embowered the camp-ground and over-arched the little river, while the campfire smoke, like a stranded cloud, lay motionless in their branches. Down on the beach, ducks and sandpipers in flocks of hundreds were getting their breakfasts. Bald eagles were seen perched on dead spars along the edge of the woods, heavy-looking and over-fed, gazing stupidly like gorged defaultures, and porpoises were blowing and plunging outside. As for the salmon, as seen this morning urging their way up the swift current, tens of thousands of them, side by side, with their backs out of the water in shallow places now that the tide was low, nothing that I could write might possibly give anything like a fair conception of the extravagance of their numbers. There was more salmon, apparently, bulk for bulk, than water in the stream. The struggling multitudes, crowding one against another, could not get out of our way when we waded into the midst of them. One of our men amused himself by seizing them above the tail, and swinging them over his head. Thousands could thus be taken by hand at low tide, while they were making their way over the shallows among the stones. Whatever may be said of other resources of the territory, it is hardly possible to exaggerate the importance of the fisheries. Not to mention cod, herring, halibut, et cetera. There are probably not less than a thousand salmon streams in southeastern Alaska, as large or larger than this one, about forty feet wide, crowded with salmon several times a year. The first run commenced that year in July, while the king's salmon, one of the five species recognized by the Indians, was in the Chilkat River about the middle of the November before. From this wonderful salmon camp we sailed joyfully up the coast to explore icy Sumdum Bay, beginning my studies where I left off the previous November. We started about six o'clock, and pulled merrily on through fog and rain, the beautiful wooded shore on our right, passing bergs here and there, the largest of which, though not over two hundred feet long, seemed many times larger as they loomed gray and indistinct through the fog. For the first five hours the sailing was open and easy, nor was there anything very exciting to be seen or heard, save now and then the thunder of a falling berg rolling and echoing from cliff to cliff, and the sustained roar of cataracts. About eleven o'clock we reached a point where the fjord was packed with ice all the way across, and we ran ashore to fit a block of wood on the cut water of our canoe to prevent it being battered or broken. While Captain Tyene, who had had considerable experience among berg ice, was at work on the canoe, Hunter Joe and Smart Billy prepared a warm lunch. The sheltered hollow where we landed seems to be a favorite camping ground for the Sumdum seal-hunters. The pole frames of tents, tied with cedar bark, stood on level spots strewn with seal bones, bits of salmon, and sprue spark. We found the work of pushing through the ice rather tiresome. An opening of twenty or thirty yards would be found here and there, then a close pack that had to be opened by pushing the smaller bergs aside with poles. I enjoyed the labour, however, for the fine lessons I got, and in an hour or two we found zigzag lanes of water through which we paddled with but little interruption, and had leisure to study the wonderful variety of forms the bergs presented as we glided past them. The largest we saw did not greatly exceed two hundred feet in length, or twenty-five or thirty feet in height above the water. Such bergs would draw from one hundred and fifty to two hundred feet of water. All those that have floated long undisturbed have a projecting base at the waterline, caused by the more rapid melting of the immersed portion. When a portion of the berg breaks off, another baseline is formed, and the old one, sharply cut, may be seen rising at all angles, giving it a marked character. Many of the oldest bergs are beautifully ridged by the melting out of narrow furrows strictly parallel throughout the mass, revealing the bedded structure of the ice, acquired perhaps centuries ago, on the mountain snow fountains. A berg suddenly going to pieces is a grand sight, especially when the water is calm and no motion is visible, safe perchance the slow drift of the tide current. The prolonged roar of its fall comes with startling effect, and heavy swells are raised that haste away in every direction to tell what has taken place, and tens of thousands of its neighbors rock and swash in sympathy, repeating the news over and over again. We were two near several large ones that fell apart as we passed them, and our canoe had narrow escapes. The seal-hunters, Tyene says, are frequently lost in these sudden berg accidents. In the afternoon, while we were admiring the scenery, which as we approached the head of the fjord became more and more sublime, one of our Indians called attention to a flock of wild goats on a mountain overhead, and soon afterwards we saw two other flocks, at a height of about fifteen hundred feet, relieved against the mountains as white spots. They are abundant here and throughout the Alaskan Alps in general, feeding on the grassy slopes above the timber line. Their long, yellowish hair is shed at this time of year, and they were snowy white. None of nature's cattle are better fed or better protected from the cold. Tyene told us that before the introduction of guns they used to hunt them with spears, chasing them with their wolf dogs and thus bringing them to bay among the rocks where they were easily approached and killed. The upper half of the fjord is about from a mile to a mile and a half wide, and shut in by sublime Yosemite cliffs, nobly sculptured, and adorned with waterfalls and fringes of trees, bushes, and patches of flowers. But amidst so crowded a display of novel beauty it was not easy to concentrate the attention long enough on any portion of it, without giving more days and years than our lives could afford. I was determined to see at least the grand fountain of all this ice. As we passed headland after headland, hoping as each was rounded we should obtain a view of it, it still remained hidden. Glacier's know how to hide extremely well, said Tyene, as he rested for a moment after rounding a huge granite shoulder of the wall, once we expected to gain a view of the extreme head of the fjord. The bergs, however, were less closely packed and we made good progress, and at half-past eight o'clock, fourteen and a half hours after setting out, the great glacier came in sight at the head of a branch of the fjord, and the fjord of the fjord that comes in from the northeast. The discharging front of this fertile, fast-flowing glacier is about three-quarters of a mile wide, and probably eight or nine hundred feet deep, about one hundred and fifty feet of its depth rising above the water as a grand blue barrier wall. It is much wider a few miles farther back, the front being jammed between sheer granite walls from thirty-five hundred to four thousand feet high. It shows grandly from where it's broke on our site, sweeping boldly forward and downward in its majestic channel, swaying from side to side in graceful, fluent lines around stern, unflinching rocks. While I stood in the canoe making a sketch of it, several bergs came off with a tremendous dashing and thunder, raising a cloud of ice dust and spray to a height of a hundred feet or more. The ice mountain is well-disposed toward you, said Tyene. He is firing his big guns to welcome you. After completing my sketch and entering a few notes, I directed the crew to pull around a lofty burnished rock on the west side of the channel, where, as I knew from the trend of the canyon, a large glacier once came in, and what was my delight to discover that the glacier was still there, and still pouring its ice into a branch of the fjord. Even the Indians shared my joy and shouted with me. I expected only one first-class glacier here, and found two. They are only about two miles apart. How glorious a mansion that precious pair dwell in. After sunset, we made haste to seek a campground. I would feign have shared these upper chambers with the two glaciers, but there was no landing place in sight, and we had to make our way back a few miles in the twilight to the mouth of a side canyon where we had seen timber on the way up. There seemed to be a good landing as we approached the shore, but, coming nearer, we found that the granite fell directly into deep water without leaving any level margin, though the slope a short distance back was not very steep. After narrowly scanning the various seams and steps that roughened the granite, we concluded to attempt a landing rather than grope our way further down the fjord through the ice, and what a time we had climbing on hands and knees up the slippery glacier, polished rocks to a shelf some two hundred feet above the water, and dragging provisions and blankets after us. But it proved to be a glorious place, the very best campground of all the trip. A perfect garden, ripe berries knotting from a fringe of bushes around its edges, charmingly displayed in the light of our big fire. Close alongside there was a lofty mountain capped with ice, and from the blue edge of that ice cap there were sixteen silvery cascades in a row, falling about four thousand feet, each one of the sixteen large enough to be heard at least two miles. How beautiful was the firelight on the nearest larkspurs and geraniums and daisies of our garden, how hardy the wave greeting on the rocks below brought to us from the two glaciers, and how glorious a song the sixteen cascades sang. The cascade's songs made us sleep all the sounder, and we were so happy as to find in the morning that the berg waves had spared our canoe. We set off in high spirits down the fjord and across to the right side to explore a remarkably deep and narrow branch of the main fjord that I had noted on the way up, and that from the magnitude of the glacial characters on the two colossal rocks that guard the entrance promised a rich reward for our pains. After we had sailed about three miles up this side fjord, we came to what seemed to be its head, for trees and rocks swept in a curve around from one side to the other without showing any opening, although the walls of the canyon were seen extending back indefinitely, one majestic brow after the other. When we were tracing this curve, however, in a leisurely way, in search of a good landing, we were startled by Captain Tyene shouting, Skukum chuk, skukum chuk, meaning strong water, strong water, and found our canoe was being swept sideways by a powerful current, the roar of which we had mistaken for a waterfall. We barely escaped being carried over a rocky bar on the boiling flood, which, as we afterwards learned, would have been only a happy shove on our way. After we had made a landing a little distance back from the brow of the bar, we climbed the highest rock near the shore to seek a view of the channel beyond the inflowing tide rapids, to find out whether or no we could safely venture in. Up over rolling, mossy, bushy, burnished rock waves, we scrambled for an hour or two, which resulted in a fair view of the deep blue waters of the fjord, stretching on and on along the feet of the most majestic Yosemite rocks we had yet seen. This determined our plan of shooting the rapids and exploring it to its farthest recesses. This novel interruption of the channel is a bar of exceedingly hard-resisting granite, over which the great glacier that once occupied it swept, without degrading it to the general level, and over which tide waters now rush in and out with the violence of a mountain torrent. Returning to the canoe, we pushed off, and in a few moments were racing over the bar with lightning speed, through harrowing waves and eddies and sheets of foam, our little shell of a boat tossing lightly as a bubble. Then, rowing across a belt of backflowing water, we found ourselves on a smooth, mirror-reach between granite walls of the very wildest and most exciting description, surpassing in some ways those of the far-famed Yosemite Valley. As we drifted silent and awe-stricken beneath the shadows of the mighty cliffs, which, in their tremendous height and abruptness, seemed to overhang at the top, the Indians gazing intently, as if they too were impressed with the strange awe- inspiring grandeur that shut them in, one of them at length broke the silence by saying, This must be a good place for woodchucks. I hear them calling. When I asked them, further on, how they thought this gorge was made, they gave up the question, but offered an opinion as to the formation of rain and soil. The rain, they said, was produced by the rapid whirling of the earth by a stout mythical being called Yek. The water of the ocean was thus thrown up to descend again in showers, just as it is thrown off a wet grindstone. They did not, however, understand why the ocean water should be salt, while the rain from it is fresh. The soil, they said, for the plants to grow on, is formed by the washing of the rain on the rocks and gradually accumulating. The grinding action of ice and this connection they had not recognized. Gliding on and on, the scenery seemed at every turn to become more lavishly fruitful in forms as well as more sublime in dimensions. Snowy falls, booming in splendid dress, colossal domes and battle-meats, and sculptured arches of a fine neutral-grey tint, their bases raved by the blue-fured water, green ferny dels, bits of flower-bloom on ledges, fringes of willow and birch, and glaciers above all. But when we approached the base of a majestic rock like the Yosemite Half-Dome at the head of the fjord, where two short branches put out, and came inside of another glacier of the first order sending off bergs, the heart-joy was complete. I had a most glorious view of it, sweeping in grand majesty from high mountain fountains, swaying around one mighty bastion after another, until it fell into the fjord and shattered overleaning fragments. When we had faced it a while on this unhoped-for treasure, I directed the Indians to pull to the head of the left fork of the fjord, where we found a large cascade with a volume of water great enough to be called a river, doubtless the outlet of a receding glacier not in sight from the fjord. This is in form and origin a typical Yosemite valley, though as yet its floor is covered with ice and water, ice above and beneath, a noble mansion in which to spend a winter and a summer. It is about ten miles long, and from three-quarters of a mile to one mile wide. It contains ten large falls and cascades, the finest one on the left side near the head. After coming in an admirable rush over a granite brow, where it is first seen at a height of nine hundred or a thousand feet, it leaps a sheer precipice of about two hundred and fifty feet, then divides and reaches the tide water in broken rapids over boulders. Another about a thousand feet high drops at once onto the margin of the glacier, two miles back from the front. Several of the others are upwards of three thousand feet high, descending through narrow gorges as richly feathered with ferns as any channel that water ever flowed in, though tremendously abrupt and deep. A grander array of rocks and waterfalls I have never yet beheld in Alaska. The amount of timber on the walls is about the same as that on the Yosemite walls, but owing to greater moisture there is more small vegetation, bushes, ferns, mosses, grasses, etc., though by far the greater portion of the area of the wall's surface is bare and shining with the polish it received when occupied by the glacier that formed the fjord. The deep green patches seen on the mountain's back of the walls, at the limits of vegetation, are grass, where the wild goats, or chamois rather, roam in feed. The still greener and more luxuriant patches further down in gullies and on slopes where the declivity is not excessive, are made up mostly of willows, birch, and huckleberry bushes, with a varying amount of prickly rives and rubus and achinopanax. This growth, when approached, especially on the lower slopes near the level of the sea, at the jaws of the great side canyons, is found to be the most impenetrable and tedious and toilsome combination of fighting bushes that the weary explorer ever fell into, incomparably more punishing than the buckthorn and manzanita tangles of the Sierra. The cliff gardens of this hidden Yosemite are exceedingly rich in color. On almost every rift and bench, however small, as well as on the wider table-rocks where a little soil is lodged, we found gay multitudes of flowers, far more brilliantly colored than would be looked for in so cool and be clouded of region. Larkspurs, geraniums, painted cups, bluebells, gentians, saxofrags, epilobiums, violets, parnassia, veratrum, sparanthes and other orchids, fritillaria, smilax, asters, daisies, brianthus, cassiope, linae, and a great variety of flowering rives and rubus and heath warts. Many of the above, though with soft stems and leaves, are yet as brightly painted as those of the warm sunlands of the south. The heath warts in particular are very abundant and beautiful, both in flower and fruit, making delicate greeging carpets for the rocks flushed with pink bells or dotted with red and blue berries. The tallest of the grasses have ribbon leaves well tempered and arched, and with no lack of bristly spikes and knotting purple pentacles. The alpine grasses of the Sierra, making close carpets on the glacier meadows, I have not yet seen in Alaska. The ferns are less numerous in species than in California, but about equal in the number of fronds. I have seen three asphidiums, two wood sayas, a lomeria, polypodium, chylanthes, and several species of terrace. In this eastern arm of Sum Dumb Bay and its Yosemite branch, I counted from my canoe, on my way up and down, thirty small glaciers back of the walls, and we saw three of the first order. Also, thirty-seven cascades and falls, counting only those large enough to make themselves heard several miles. The whole bay, with its rocks and woods and ice, reverberates with their roar. How many glaciers may be disclosed in the other great arm that I have not seen as yet, I cannot say. But, judging from the bergs it sends down, I guess not less than a hundred pour their turbid streams into the fjord, making about as many joyful bouncing cataracts. About noon we began to retrace our way back into the main fjord, and arrived at the Goldmine camp after dark, rich, and weary. On the morning of August 21 I set out with my three Indians to explore the right arm of this noble bay, Mr. Young having decided, on account of mission work, to remain at the Goldmine. So here is another fine lot of some dumb ice. Thirty-five are forty square miles of bergs, one great glacier of the first class descending into the fjord at the head. The fountain went all these bergs were derived, and thirty-one smaller glaciers that do not reach tide water. Also, nine cascades and falls, large size, and two rows of Yosemite rocks from three to four thousand feet high, each row about eighteen or twenty miles long, burnished and sculptured in the most telling glacier style, and well-trimmed with spruce groves and flower gardens, and that and more of a kind that cannot here be catalogued. For the first five or six miles there is nothing excepting the icebergs that is very striking in the scenery, as compared with that of the smooth, unencumbered outside channels, where all is so evenly beautiful. The mountain wall on the right, as you go up, is more precipitous than usual, and a series of small glaciers is seen along the top of it, extending their blue crevast fronts over the rims of pure white snow fountains, and from the end of each front a hearty stream coming in a succession of falls and rapids over the terminal moraines, through patches of dwarf willows, and then through the spruce woods into the bay, singing and dancing all the way down. On the opposite side of the bay from here there is a small side bay about three miles deep, with a showy group of glacier-bearing mountains back of it. Everywhere else the view is bounded by comparatively low mountains, densely forested to the very top. After sailing about six miles from the mine the experienced mountaineer could see some evidence of an opening from this wide lower portion, and on reaching it it proved to be the continuation of the main west-arm, contracted between stupendous walls of gray granite, and crowded with bergs from shore to shore, which seemed to bar the way against everything but wings. Headland after headland, in most imposing array, was seen plunging shear and bare from dizzy heights, and planting its feet in the ice-encumbered water without leaving a spot on which one could land from a boat, while no part of the great glacier that pours all these miles of ice into the fjord was visible. Pushing our way slowly through the packed bergs, and passing headland after headland, looking eagerly forward, the glacier and its fountain mountains were still beyond sight, cut off by other projecting headland capes toward which I urged my way, enjoying the extraordinary grandeur of the wild, unfinished Yosemite. Dome's swell against the sky and fine lines as lofty and as perfect in form as those of the California Valley, and rock fronts stand forward as shear and as nobly sculptured. No icework that I have ever seen surpasses this, either in the magnitude of the features or effectiveness of composition. On some of the narrow benches and tables of the walls, rows of spruce trees and two-leaved pines were growing, and patches of considerable size were found on the spreading bases of these mountains that stand back inside the canyons, where the continuity of the walls is broken. Some of these side canyons are cut down to the level of the water and reach far back, opening views into groups of glacier fountains that give rise to many a noble stream, while all along the tops of the walls on both sides, small glaciers are seen, still busily engaged in the work of completing their sculpture. I counted twenty-five from the canoe. Probably the drainage of fifty or more pours into this fjord. The average elevation at which they meld is about eighteen hundred feet above sea level, and all of them are residual branches of the grand trunk that filled the fjord and overflowed its walls when there was only one some-dumb glacier. The afternoon was wearing away as we pushed on and on through the drifting bergs without our having obtained a single glimpse of the great glacier. A some-dumb seal hunter whom we met groping his way deftly through the ice in a very small, unsplittable cut-and-wood canoe, told us that the ice mountain was yet fifteen miles away. This was toward the middle of the afternoon, and I gave up sketching and making notes and worked hard with the Indians to reach it before dark. About seven o'clock we approached what seemed to be the extreme head of the fjord, and still no great glacier in sight, only a small one, three or four miles long, melting a thousand feet above the sea. Presently, a narrow side opening appeared between tremendous cliffs, sheer to the height of four thousand feet or more, trending nearly at right angles to the general trend of the fjord, and apparently, terminated by a cliff, scarcely less abrupt or high, at a distance of a mile or two. Up this bend we toiled against wind and tide, creeping closely along the wall on the right side, which, as we looked upward, seemed to be leaning over, while the waves beating against the bergs and rocks made a discouraging kind of music. At length, toward nine o'clock, just before the gray darkness of evening fell, a long triumphant shout told that the glacier, so deeply and desperately hidden, was at last hutted back to its bem most bore. A short distance around a second bend in the canyon, I reached a point where I obtained a good view of it, as it pours its deep, broad flood into the fjord, in a majestic course from between the noble mountains, its tributaries, each of which will be regarded elsewhere as a grand glacier, converging from right and left from a fountain set far in the silent fastnesses of the mountains. There is your lost friend," said the Indians, laughing. He says, Saga ya, how do you do? And while berg after berg was being borne with a thundering uproar, Tyene said, your friend has cloched tum tum, which means good heart. Here, like the other big-hearted one, he is firing his guns in your honour. I stayed only long enough to make an outline sketch, and then urged the Indians to hasten back some six miles to the mouth of a side canyon I had noted on the way up, as a place where we might camp in case we should not find a better. After dark we had to move with great caution through the ice. One of the Indians was stationed in the bow with a pole to push aside the smaller fragments and look out for the most promising openings, through which he guided us, shouting, Friday, Tukte, meaning shoreward, seaward, about ten times a minute. We reached this landing place after ten o'clock, guided in the darkness by the roar of a glacier torrent. The ground was all boulders and it was hard to find a place among them, however small, to lie on. The Indians anchored the canoe well out from the shore and passed the night in it to guard against berg waves and drifting waves, after assisting me to set my tent in some sort of way among the stones, well back beyond the reach of the tide. I asked them as they were returning to the canoe if they were not going to eat something. They answered properly, We will sleep now if your ice-friend will let us. We will eat tomorrow, but we can find some bread for you if you want it. No, I said, Go to rest. I too will sleep now and eat tomorrow. Nothing was attempted in the way of light or fire. Camping that night was simply lying down. The boulders seemed to make a fair bed after finding the best place to take their pressure. During the night I was awakened by the beating of the spent ends of berg waves against the side of my tent, though I had fancied myself well beyond their reach. These special waves are not raised by wind or tide, but by the fall of large bergs from the snout of the glacier, or sometimes by the overturning or breaking of large bergs that may have long floated in perfect poise. The highest berg waves oftentimes travel half a dozen miles or farther before they are much spent, producing a singularly impressive uproar in the far recesses of the mountains on calm, dark nights when all beside is still. Far and near they tell the news that a berg is born, repeating their story again and again, compelling intention, and reminding us of earthquake waves that roll on for thousands of miles, taking their story from continent to continent. When the Indians came ashore in the morning and saw the condition of my tent, they laughed heartily and said, Your friend, meaning the big glacier, sent you a good word last night, and his servant knocked at your tent and said, Saigaya, are you sleeping well? I had fasted too long to be in very good order for hard work, but while the Indians were cooking, I made out to push my way up the canyon before breakfast to seek the glacier that once came into the fjord, knowing from the size and muddiness of the stream that drains it, that it must be quite large and not far off. I came inside of it after a hard scramble of two hours through thorny chaparral, and across steep avalanche tallices of rocks and snow. The front reaches across the canyon from wall to wall, covered with rocky detritus, and looked dark and forbidding in the shadow cast by the cliffs, while from a low cave-like hollow its draining stream breaks forth, a river in size, with a reverberating roar that stirs all the canyon. Beyond, in a cloudless blaze of sunshine, I saw many tributaries, pure and white as new fallen snow, drawing their sources from clusters of peaks and sweeping down waving slopes, to unite their crystal currents with the trunk glacier in the central canyon. This fine glacier reaches to within two hundred and fifty feet of the level of the sea, and would even yet reach the fjord and send off bergs but for the waste it suffers and flowing slowly through the trunk canyon, the declivity of which is very slight. Returning, I reached camp and breakfast at ten o'clock, then had everything packed into the canoe, and set off leisurely across the fjord to the mouth of another wide and low canyon, whose lofty outer cliffs facing the fjord are telling glacial advertisements. Gladly I should have explored it all, traced its streams of water and streams of ice, and entered its highest chambers, the homes and fountains of the snow. But I had to wait. I only stopped an hour or two, and climbed to the top of a rock through the common underbrush, once I had a good general view. The front of the main glacier is not far distant from the fjord, and sends off small bergs into a lake. The walls of its tributary canyons are remarkably jagged and high, cut in a red variegated rock, probably slate. On the way back to the canoe I gathered ripe salmon berries an inch and a half in diameter, ripe huckleberries too, in great abundance, and several interesting plants I had not before met in the territory. About noon, when the tide was in our favor, we set out on the return trip to the goldmine camp. The sun shone free and warm, no wind stirred. The water spaces between the bergs were as smooth as glass, reflecting the unclouded sky, and doubling the ravishing beauty of the bergs as the sunlight streamed through their innumerable angles in rainbow colors. Soon a light breeze sprang up, and dancing lily-spangles on the water mingled their glory of light with that burning on the angles of the ice. On days like this, true sun-days, some of the bergs show a purplish tinge, though most are white from the disintegrating of their weathered surfaces. Now and then a newborn one is met that is pure blue crystal throughout, freshly broken from the fountain, or recently exposed to the air by turning over. But in all of them, old and new, there are azure caves and rifts of ineffable beauty in which the purest tones of light pulse and shimmer, lovely and untainted as anything on earth or in the sky. As we were passing the Indian village, I presented a little tobacco to the headman as an expression of regard, while they gave us a few smoked salmon, after putting many questions concerning my exploration of their bay and bluntly declaring their disbelief in the ice business. About nine o'clock we arrived at the gold camp where we found Mr. Young ready to go on with us the next morning, and thus ended two of the brightest and best of all my Alaska days.