 of call. On blue horizons, far at the world's end, strange fascinating lands beckon us. Bid us revel in their exotic splendors. Come with us as we head for ports of call. By the magic of imagination, we take you now to the American land of the midnight sun, up above 5440, where gargantuan mountains cast their austere shadows over the gently lapping waters of inlets and coves, which jealously vie with the beauty of Norway's beards, where giant icebergs are dwarfed to insignificance by the majesty of their mother glaciers, where the spell of the Yukon and the trail of gold transformed men into animals, where the tenderfoot fell by the wayside to watch his stronger brother plunge on to success and fortune. This is the land of paradoxes. This is our port of call. This is Alaska. It is the year 1741. Catherine, empress of all the rushes, sits upon the throne of her murdered husband. Before her stands a strange, hard-bissaged assortment of men, a grizzled Cossack, a Danish sea captain, a Russian navigator, a German naturalist. I know the sun or wonder lives. What matters that? Why has nothing been done about this exploration which he commanded? Well, Captain Bering? Your majesty, something has been done. Well? We have decided it is a useless and foolhardy expedition. And by whom were you empowered to make such a decision? Why have you made it? After all your majesty, we have nothing but the word of Guasteff, this Cossack and his companions. They tell us they sighted birds that strange driftwood appeared on the beach of northern Siberia. I command you, Captain Bering, to set sail immediately. As soon as the party can be fitted out on the boat prepared. No, two boats. And you, Captain Jericho, you shall command the second one. You, Dr. Stellar, are to accompany Captain Bering. Your services as a physician may be needed. Now, are my commands clear? Is there the slightest possibility that you will assume the right to make further decisions? No, your imperial majesty. We shall proceed to the coast of northeastern Siberia at once and set sail from there to the east. And may heaven help us. After prolonged raging storms, during which the two ships became hopelessly separated, a ravishing tragedy had struck Bering's crew, scurvy. On the 18th of July, 1741, with most of the crew dead or dying, the cry which sent thrills of hope racing to the tormented bodies rang out. Captain Vitos Bering, himself laid low by the disease, was carried on a cot to the deck. To few for the first time by any white man, the gorgeous and impelling glory of a craggy, jagged, snow-holy peak, 18,000 feet high. Raising himself weakly upon one elbow, he cried, Elias, Elias, now we know what courage thou had given when thou did seek refuge in the mountain and the Lord did appear unto you. Elias, this is thy mountain, Mount St. Elias. A few days after his discovery, Vitos Bering ship pounded. He, with the other stricken members of his ill-fated crew, was carried to the shore of this new land, placed in a makeshift hut. Dr. Wilhelm Teller, absent for some time in a reconnoitering expedition from medicinal herbs, returns to the crude shelter. I have discovered several valuable herbs, Captain Bill. Oh, it is no use, Doctor. No use. I am going to save the herbs for the other men. What is that you have in your hand? The skin of a sea otter, Captain. A sea otter. Russia loves furs. The Amplis loves furs. Take it back to her. Take it to her as my gift from her new empire. You see this little blue flower I hold in my hand, Doctor? Yes, Captain. Don't forget me now. I plucked it as they carried me ashore. Press it. Take it also back to our Amplis. Tell her it is a symbol of my love for her and for Russia. A few days later, Vitos Bering died, was laid to rest upon the desolature of the land which he had discovered. Alaska had been claimed for Catherine and for Russia. Thus was Alaska discovered. Thus, through the lowly token of that successful but tragic expedition, the crudely tanned skin of a sea otter, other Russians were enticed to this new country, and a rain of terror was begun. Under the heartless leadership of Berenoff, natives were scourged into submission, lashed into slavery to provide their white-bearded masters with furs. A capital was established on the coast called Sitka. The miraculous beauties of the Alaskan coast, the crags of mountains, the iridescent blue-green and malaspina glacier, the sublime majesty of tall timber, the jade green of the Pacific in each tiny cold. None of these held any lower for the Slavic conquerors. Their goal was fortune, and they found it in the intrinsic value of furs, sea otter, seal, fox, wolverine, mink. Bear. But the watchful eyes of Polaris, the North Star, saw a far different destiny for Alaska. During the Crimean War, Russia, fearful of this valuable virgin land that might fall into the hands of Great Britain, offered to sell to the United States. The one man in the entire United States whose vision was capable of evaluating the acquisition of the vast territory and whose office as secretary of state placed him in a position to promote the purchase, was William H. Seward. The rest of the country, for the most part, was bitterly opposed. Newspapers said 99-100 to the territory is absolutely worthless. What can the United States do with 370 million acres of icebergs? Worthless. Nothing but Seward's icebox. But Seward worked diligently and relentlessly. And finally in 1867, Congress approved the treaty with Russia, and President Johnson proclaimed it on June 20th. Ratifying the purchase of the territory for the price of $7,200,000, and it was named by Seward, Alaska, meaning Great Land. On October 18th of the same year, at 3 o'clock in the afternoon for the first time, the stars and stripes fluttered over Alaska, and Seward's icebox became an American territory. But in the great public mind, the word Alaska remained for 30 years, synonymous with polar bears, vast sweeps of racial waste, a bleak, snow-laden country, uninhabitable by white men until the summer of 1896, when George W. Carmack, prospecting along a small stream in the Klondike region, made the discovery which startled the civilized world, gold. Native villages became thriving, boisterous cities. Caribou trails were beaten into veritable highways under the heavy tread of thousands of men and women. The rippled laughter born of the spirit of adventure, and the lure of untold wealth rang through new garish dance halls. Tender feet, the fitiful chichacos fought side by side with the more robust, and the cry on every tongue was gold, gold, gold! Just one instance of the mob psychology which ruled the thrilling hazardous days of 1998 is found in the story of Skagway. An itinerant miner, bringing news to Daya of a far easier and shorter route over the mountains than the steep Chilkoot, impaled 15,000 persons to abandon the town, stampede Palmel for Skagway in the White Pass. Among them was the most famous woman of all of Alaska's hectic history, a young widow, Mrs. Harriet Pullen, the three small boys and $7. There now, boy. You go to sleep, all three of you. Muddy's got a lot of work to do yet tonight. Go to sleep. I didn't know anyone would have been here. Hello, Mr. Reid, how are you? Old fair to Midland, Mrs. Pullen. I came over to buy six more of those fine drinking glasses of yours. You folks must break a lot of them if you're a slave. Nope, we just seem to lose them. Well, here you are. Six of them. And that'll be $12, $2 a piece. Cheap it has the price. You know why I can't figure out where in heck you get these? I ain't seen glasses like these anywhere else. They look like beer bottles. Tell your secret, they are beer bottles. What? Yeah, I'm making myself out of old beer bottles. Sophie Smith gives them to me from his saloon. But how in the woods? Well, now, that'd be telling. Say, by the way, while you're here, I want to ask you something, Mr. Reid. Do you think the folks in Skagway would buy apple pies? Would buy them? Well, I should say they would. That's what I thought. Now here, you just take this. Apple pie? Well, I swore on. Oh, great cover this is good. It's made from fresh apples. Where'd you get them? Oh, no. They're dried apples, all right. I just found out last night how to fix them so they'd taste fresh. Say, Harriet Bullen, you found something here. Why, they're snappies up like hotcakes. Why don't you bake a lot of them tonight and I'll pass the word around that they'll be ready tomorrow morning. Well, Frank Reid, that's just what I'm going to do. So you get out of here now and leave me be. I've got to get to work. I don't suppose you could span them? I'll bake some more tonight and you can have them tomorrow morning. But I can go on over the pass tomorrow morning. Well, then I'll have one waiting for you when you get there. Oh, I didn't see you standing there, Sophie Sniff. Sorry if I startled you, Mother Pullum. Fact is, I have come over to talk business with you. Yeah? Well? You know, the more stuff you sell at your place here, the more business I lose at my establishment. You're a gambling house for me. I don't know. What do you expect I should do about it, Sophie? Well, I want you to keep on making your tires, but let me sell them for you at my place. On commission, of course. Well, I thought there'd be no harm in asking. Sorry, it won't take me up on my offer. Oh, I'll get along all right. I wonder what he's up to. What'd you say, Sophie? Would she do it? No, she's going to keep on selling them herself. Just like I thought. Well, me and Sonny and the kid will take care of her tonight. We'll fix her in her place. No, you won't, Yank. You won't touch her in her place. What do you mean? Just what I said. I don't mind roughing it up a bit with a gentleman who'll come into my information bureau. They'll leave them in their spare cash, but we'll leave women alone. Is that understood? Yeah, I guess so. And if anyone else finds Harriet Pullum or her pies, I'll hold you responsible. Well, here we are at the place. Come on in. I'll take you to dinner. Hello, Jim. Oh, you're so pretty. Hello, Jake. Hello, Sophie. Well, well, if it isn't Parson Hickey himself. Thanks to see you here in this den of iniquity, Parson, at this time of night. Yes, but I knew I'd be able to reach you here. Oh, you wanted to see me? Sophie, the Union church wants to buy an organ. Good idea. There's an organ in Juneau that we can get. We have the money to buy it. We need some more to ship it up here. How much do you need? $500. Oh, easy. Here, here's $1,000. $1,000? Sure, buy a fence and some himmels, too. Oh, by the way, how much have you got in your fund altogether, Parson? Well, with this we'll have $3,500. This is mighty generous of you, Sophie. The congregation will certainly hear of this. Oh, don't mention it, Parson. Don't mention it. Well, thank you very much, Sophie. Smith, you'll be rewarded for this. And thank you, Parson, and all your congregation. Thanks. Yeah? Come here. Can you get under the flaps of the tent over at the Union church? Sure, I can. There'll be $3,500 over there tonight. Go and get it. Infuriated by the theft of the money, the citizens of Skagway formed a vigilance committee to determine upon a course of action. They assembled in the shed at the end of the pier. Frank Reed, stalwart, courageous engineer was assigned the task of guarding the one entrance. While the meeting was in progress, one of Smith's henchmen ran breathlessly into the dance hall. Sophie. Listen, Sophie, they're holding a meeting down at the dock. Huh? What about? About you. Huh? Yeah, they're sure about that the money I took. They think you've done it. Oh, I think I did it, huh? And they're holding the meeting to talk about me, are they? I'll soon end that. Yeah, what are you going to do, Sophie? I'll show them who's running this town. Give them a gun. Sophie, don't go down there. Frank Reed stands in the door. He needs a dead shot. Oh, yes, you see. I'm not so bad myself. Get out of my way. I'm going to put a stop to that meeting right now. And this... Who's there? It's me, Frank. Sophie Smith. Don't come one step closer, Sophie. I'll shoot you down if you do. They'll see about that. Frank, what's happening? Frank Reed, what's the trouble with you? It's all right, Boston. You don't have to hold your meeting now. Uh, just shot Sophie Smith. Over the resting place of Sophie Smith, there stands the inscription, Jefferson R. Smith died July 18, 1898, aged 38 years, and over Reed's grave, Frank H. Reed died July 20, 1898. He gave his life for the honor of Skagway. Thus the black reign of gangster Sophie Smith ended. His henchmen fleeing to the hills like jack rabbits, some to escape, others to be recaptured and imprisoned. Now, as we come down the years to modern Skagway, we visit Harriet Pullen once more. This time, not in the dingy tent house of 98, but in her spacious and inviting hotel, Pullen House, the most noted hostelry in Alaska. Mrs. Pullen takes us into the wide room just off the lobby, and she says to us... Yes. In here, I've got all of Sophie Smith's gambling outfits. There's his roulette wheel, and there's his solid oak card table. That is, his victims thought it was solid. But it wasn't. Look here. He had a slip right here where he could take out an ace anytime he thought he needed it. And here's his gun. The same gun he used to shoot Frank Reed. Sophie never got my pies, but I got his gun. I should say you did. Well, Mrs. Pullen, many thanks for your hospitality and your thrilling story. You folks are going up over the White Pass and you come railroad, aren't you? Well, it's a beautiful trip. Enjoy yourselves, and don't forget to come back someday. We won't forget, Mother Pullen, mother of the North, and we'll never forget you and your wonderful pies. We go into the center of Skagway, climb aboard the ultra-modern railroad coach and we're off for the Yukon. Up, up, up we go across the Skagway River. The treetops drop below as we climb across yawning canyons, hugging grim walls of rock roaring across spidery steel cantilever bridges. Look, a way down below there, right in the bottom of that chasm, those view-tumbled-down shacks are all the remains of White Pass City, the first stopping off-place in the Gold Rush days. As we look down now from the comfort of our railroad coach, is it a far stretch of the imagination to see a party of prospectors trudging up over the snow-blanketed pass? I am making out, youngster. Not so good. Whether I can make it or not. Sure you can make it. Well, I'll get there if I have to carry the whole she-bang. No. No, it's no use, partner. I can't go on. Give me a hand with the kid. We'll get him up there at least a dead horse goes. No! No, you can't carry me! I won't let you! I won't let you carry me! I'll hold her! Such scenes were being enacted every day during the Gold Rush. I was on that day in 1900 when the plant wizard of Alaska, Dr. C. C. Georgison, was appearing before the House of Representatives Agricultural Committee. Dr. Georgison, I know why you're here, but it's useless. Your appropriation for the development of agriculture in Alaska is $12,000 a year and you can't get another penny. They won't ask you for another dollar. Only want now's the chance to tell you the truth about Alaska. We won't give you any time for that. What about Alaska? The gentleman from Kansas has the floor. You may know all about Alaska, but I don't. Perhaps there are others here who would also like to hear what Dr. Georgison has to say. Well, all right. Just five minutes, doctor. Thank you, Mr. Chairman, gentlemen. You believe that nothing will grow in Alaska? Well, I believed it too before I wound up there two years ago in 1998. Gentlemen, this is the country I found. I found vile raspberries ripening from the southern boundary to the Utah. I found vile strawberries sweetening in the shadows of glaciers beyond the Copper River. Vile currants ripening under the midnight sun 100 miles above the Arctic Circle. I found 22 different kinds of native grass. 16 varieties of vile berries, 276 different species of vile flowers. Gentlemen, I'm not asking you for one penny more. I'm not asking you for one penny more. I'm letting Alaska plead for herself. Need we add, the doctor Georgison obtained his increase in appropriation and largely due to his fine work, his unswerving faith and his beloved Alaska, the visitor today finds the amazing realities of both fields and sheep at Kodiak. Wheat fields at Fairbank. You're the most procuring barley in the world. Ruttebag is weighing 14.5 pound each. All berries grown within the Arctic Circle, eight of which fill a quart basket, luscious apples. Lettuce weighing 3.5 pound. Heads of cabbage weighing 15 to 30 pounds. And they told me nothing would grow in Alaska. But oh, there's so much to see, so much to do in Alaska. How can we possibly cover all of its wonders before our boat sails for home? We haven't seen Nome or Cordova. We haven't taken the motor trip from Fairbanks to Valdez. We haven't visited the Aleutian Islands, nor sailed roads a month's route through the Northwest Passage. The ship on Old Mount Katmai, whose terrific eruption in 1912 shook men from their horses 400 miles away, scattered volcanic dust 900 miles away, spewed ashes which buried an area as large as the state of Connecticut. No, we haven't seen one tenth of what we want to see, but time goes on and our ship awaits to take us to Juneau. Here, the deafening pounding roar of the world-famous Creadwell Goldor stamping mill greets us, as we sail up Gastonot Channel where French peat discovered gold across the channel on Douglas Island, later selling his claim to John Creadwell for $505 to pay a pressing bill. This is the mine which has produced more gold than any other in the world, save one, in Africa. $67 million in gold is Creadwell's contribution to the world's wealth, more than eight times as much as the United States paid for the entire territory. Working night and day in three eight-hour shifts, sending into its glory hole in underground tunnels thousands of men in the old days, the Douglas Island Creadwell today is deserted. Rusting machinery lines the beach. The old saloons and dance halls are boarded up. The city of Douglas, once housing 7,000 inhabitants, is a hamlet of 500. Why? Because one day, years ago, just as the whistle was blowing to change ships in the early evening... Oh, she blows, boys! Yep, about time. I thought old dad must have forgot us. Hey, look here, boys. Ain't that water seeping in there? Yeah, but that's been coming in for a long time now. I noticed it last week. You know this tunnel ain't any too well-braked, if you ask me. Well, nobody asked you. Well, just the same, I don't like the looks of it. Come on, Joe. We'll be the last up and out of the glory hole if you don't quit talking. Listen! It's coming from up there. Don't this tunnel run under the channel? Yeah, yeah, it does, but what of it? Boys! Boys, you're in for it! The chimney's breaking! One more tragedy added to the list by men's greed for gold. For this day, as though in silent, ominous mockery for the hasten carelessness with which that tunnel had been constructed, the tide rises and falls in the old Treadwell glory hole, a quarter of a mile inland from Gaston, O'Tennell. That's our warning. We must get aboard our ship, for as the Alaskans say, we're going outside. Southward along the beautyous inland passage, down past the fishing capital of Alaska, Ketchikan, on, on, on toward our home port, taking with us glorious memories of a happy, wholesome people, of such spectacular, awe-inspiring beauty as the far surpassed description. And we take with us the wish of every true Alaskan, the same little blue flower that Beatus Bering sent home to his empress. For now, it's Alaska's official floral emblem. But forget me not. Forget you, Alaska. Never. We say farewell to you now with mingled regret and gratitude in our hearts. For the spell of the North can never be forgotten. We invite you to join us again next week at this time for another of the world's fascinating Quartz of Call.