USA > Alaska > Alaska, its neglected past, its brilliant future > Part 5
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It seems to be a village of low wooden houses built in the midst of a clump of trees, a few of which, by some means or other, have been blighted, leaving only the upright trunks. Farther along we see an- other larger village situated in exactly the same man- ner. There is a weirdly dismal look about this place as though some magic art had laid these trees bare by fire, each trunk being preserved intact, and the houses being left entirely untouched by the flames. The effect is indescribable as we gaze upon the vil- lages, not realizing that we are looking upon objects that we have tried to picture in our imagination many times since we proposed to come on this tour.
This is Fort Tongas and those dismal shafts are the totem poles. Yes, on approaching we can see the great carved figures of animals, such as birds, beasts, fishes and men! Some with large staring eyes, which we can distinctly note. Some of the figures are very large and the poles fifty or sixty feet high, others being less pretentious both in height and size of the figures. They are variously painted in black, red and white, except where the weather has removed the colors, and they are carved from bottom to top in the most incongruous fashion, bearing upon them such characters as a screaming eagle, a croaking raven, or a crouching bear or wolf, an immense whale, or, perhaps, a solemn old owl. Each animal or bird is represented in some characteristic attitude.
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PECULIAR SIGHTS IN INDIAN VILLAGES.
Upon some of the poles the carving may be said to be quite well executed, and on others it is rather primitive and rough, no doubt showing the different grades of talent possessed by the carvers. But no shaft is there without its emblem, and no emblem is present without its full right to hold the position.
Among the animals often occur human shapes and faces, probably those of some great chiefs or of medi- cine men of more than usual renown. Here, too, are often repeated the masks, hideously ugly, that have been used by some great shaman of his tribe.
These totem poles are erected beside or in front of the doors of the houses, and they are often used in burial places in the same manner that we do our marble monuments. It has ever been an unan- swerable question as to what has been the origin of these totem poles. The natives either do not know or they will not tell. There are several theories ad- vanced and conjectures indulged in, but about all that we have ascertained in reality is the presence of the "sticks" or poles or totems in nearly all of the Indian villages of Alaska, and the knowledge that they are somewhat like family crests, each family having its own crest or ensign, to which is added, time after time, those of families connected by mar- riage, and that the queer arrangement of the figures is caused by each additional sign being placed or carved next to the one previous, irrespective of shape
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or size, or the agreement of forms. So we find a bear holding upon his head a man, the man in turn upholding a wolf, the wolf supporting an eagle or a raven, and perhaps all overtopped by a huge figure of a whale, whose formidable teeth and prominent eyes haunt the memory of the visitor after other pic- tures have faded. People of the same totems are considered more nearly connected than even family ties can make them; and under no consideration are members of the same totem permitted to marry, while they cling to each other more closely than brothers.
Their signs are carved upon spoons, dishes, and in- struments used in their different callings, and they are also woven in their blankets. In fact it is almost im- possible to see one of the native Alaskans without finding his totem on his clothing, spear or fish hook.
But we are leaving the fort without taking a look at the long, lonely, forsaken Government Buildings that were once active with official life, but have now fallen into disuse. Fort Tongas threatens once more to become a wild, unnoticed tract, in which the Indian may again turn without interruption to his strange and godless practices.
Sailing into Dixon's Entrance, again we look far to the west over the great open sea, and feel the surging waves in the rolling vessel, then turn into Clarence Strait and through it into Alexander Archipelago. Here are islands, large and small, straits, passages and in-
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lets, rocks and danger points. These we think of but for a moment; then we devote our energies in trying to count and view the eleven hundred or more islands that are included in this great Archipelago.
There a large island, densely wooded to its very verge, throws a protecting shadow over two or three inlets having shrubs and trees in miniature upon their breasts, with a rock or two peeping above the water, as though viewing the prospect before asserting themselves as islets, and rising still further above their watery bed. Hills rise abruptly, clothed in ver- dure, from the base to the rounded summit. Moun- tains hold their feet in the rushing tide while they rear their heads upwards till the clouds crown them with wreaths of tinted vapor, or snow caps them with perpetual purity.
To the left we have the land of the Hydah Indians, Prince of Wales Island. If these Indians have a love for home, and a due appreciation of the beauties around them, it will be sufficient to account for their wonderful talent for beautiful carving without our trying to prove that there are unmistakable signs of their being descended from some great Asiatic pro- genitors.
The mountains do not frown upon us here. They rear their noble heads toward the sky and peer at us through soft purple hazes, here tipped with black from the densely wooded ravines and there touched
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with gold where the sun shines brightest. Some- times the purple veil lifts and waves aside to let us view the great rifts that ages ago the grinding glaciers made in their slow movements towards the ocean. Again it falls, hiding the scars as though loth to ex- pose them to human eyes.
On the right, Gravina Islands hold towards the tinted sky mountains covered with lofty pines, while beyond is a range crested with patches of snow. Re- villagigedo has her pine-shaded hills, and her mou11- tains in the distance standing like the ghosts of what they are, so still and white and lofty.
White, green and gray, purple, blue and gold, and all around the rippling, caressing waters which bear us on to new beauties, to new curiosities and forward to Fort Wrangel.
CHAPTER X.
VOYAGING ON THE LOVELY WATERS.
O N we glide through the beautiful waters of Clarence Strait, which here and there widens into lovely crystal bays studded with islets that seem to rise timidly from the water, covering their heads with a veil of tender, fragile beauty. Narrowing again, by reason of islands that loom up before us bold and silent and covered with a thick growth of foliage rising from tangled masses of trees, shrubs, vines and mosses. To our gaze the luxuriant mosses appear velvet colored with dark or light green tints, as they cluster beside streamlets, cling to trees and rocks, or as they extend along the rich earth as if anxious to soften all ruggedness that might mar the face of nature.
In the distance the mountains seem to frown upon us, so gloomy are the pines that clothe their slopes. Farther away a range looks spotless as sculptured marble, while peering between great crevices in the rugged peaks are purple hills almost lost in a bewil- dering haze. Up on a lofty precipice, that almost threatens to fall upon our steamer, we see tiny white spots, they are mountain goats feeding where no foot of man can reach them. That speck upon the water
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in the distance is a native canoe. The occupant is fishing, and were it possible, we might see him catch and land a weighty salmon almost as coolly and easily as one of our Eastern anglers would lift out a brook trout. Look at that dismal bluff closely, and from a fissure in its side we will see purest water rush- ing, gurgling and finally plunging in a smooth, trans- lucent stream over a wall a hundred feet or more in height, breaking into a million atoms before it loses itself in the current beneath.
From Clarence into Stikine Strait we glide with no unusual or special object to note, except pos- sibly to the practical eye of captain or seaman. On- ward and upward toward the east, and what is this we behold? A town? A sign of civilization in these wild forests? Aye, it is Fort Wrangel! This town was named for Baron Wrangel, who established a trading post there over one hundred years ago. The United States built a stockade for the protection of its peo- ple against the aggressive tribes soon after the pur- chase, but it was afterwards sold to private parties. The town nestles at the foot of great cone-like hills, and rests upon a shadow-ridden harbor dotted with isles and islets, some but single rocks forever washed by the waters, which with a sort of slow, calm dignity, scorn the bustle of our steamer and the ringing of voices that exclaim at their loneliness. Great frowning cliffs and sharply defined crags surround the place and multiply
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TOTEM POLES, FORT WRANGEL.
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VOYAGING ON THE LOVELY WATERS.
themselves in the waters that our vessel gently ruffles. High promontories stand as sentinels around it, at the rear range after range of volcanic peaks separate the dark little town from the lofty lines of mountains cov- ered with everlasting snow.
The dark green foliage of the pines, that are to be seen on every side, gives the place a sadly weird ap- pearance, which is intensified by numbers of fallen trees, some dead, some dying, others clinging tena- ciously to life, sending out their tender shoots upward from the prostrate trunks, and in the effort producing a more sombre effect. But the power of the moun- tains, the silence of the waters, the sadness of the pines, are only the gloomy background for the spec- tres that stand in front of some of the low wooden houses close to the water's edge, while the light canoes, which just now are skimming along with scarce a ripple in their wake, seem to be floating over and among these ghostly totem poles, for such they are-sacred signs of family station, dearer to the heart of the Alaskan Siwash than royal crown.
Here we find two or three graves in particular that artists have so perfectly presented, that we know them at once, and we cannot repress a smile which greets a massive whale that boasts a head at each end of its body, two sets of even, white teeth and widely staring eyes, resting upon the head of a human figure, which is sitting and clasping its knees as if to steady the burden.
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Here is another totem surmounted by a huge bear who has evidently left his foot-prints as he climbed the lofty pole. And here a grave built like a small log cabin, overtopped by a snarling wolf. The size demonstrates that considerable strength and ingenu- ity must have been required to mount these figures to their high positions.
The fort is forsaken, as is the one at Tongas, and with it seems to have gone all interest in improving the town, except what the natives choose to do in their own peculiar manner. But our own people from the steamer are hurrying from house to house and hut to hut, trying to purchase some of the odd and fantastic carvings, or they are securing one or more of the soft, well worked and valuable blankets for which the tribes that inhabit this locality, as well as the ones at Chilkat Inlet, further to the North, are noted. It will give an insight into human nature that evidently be- longs to the entire human race if we watch the dark- faced T'linkets striking bargains, which undoubtedly, so far as their limited knowledge goes, will make them more wealthy after our visit. But the purchaser need not be sorry, for the really fine carvings and the more perfectly woven blankets are becoming things of the past, as the natives seeing the demand grow- ing greater forthwith proceed to supply it at the sacri- fice of beauty and finish.
But look, the sun is disappearing in a mist, and its particles gleam like tiny prisms. Now we hie away
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to the vessel, and then look back. The pines grow downy, their tops seem to meet closer as the mist falls upon them lightly; the houses become smooth and gray; the great poles lose their sharpness and take about them drapery that makes thein more ghost- like, but less hideous; the water is almost black as the diaphanous skirts of the fog float across it, here and there dipping to its surface and then drifting off in waving curves toward the distant hills.
Good-bye Fort Wrangel. With all your gloom, your frowning mountain surroundings and your ghosts. We will never forget you, but will long once more to see you when we are sitting at our cozy Eastern fireside. We must leave, not even lingering at the mission house, which is struggling to accom- plish a great work of reform and education among the gifted T'linkets. We must be gone, or our kind- hearted captain will become impatient, for he has al- ready given us the best part of the day for our wan- derings in and about the town and native village along the shore, and abundant time to see these strange people in their equally peculiar homes, and also to purchase to our hearts' content the "curios" that they hold for sale.
CHAPTER XI.
A TRIP FROM FORT WRANGEL TO JUNEAU.
U P through the Wrangel Straits we steam, watch- ing the purple mists fall in curling waves all the way along on either shore; now hiding the lines of stunted but richly verdant trees and bushes, which are bound together in impenetrable jungles by grasp- ing stems of brier, or long floating bands of living moss ; then, lifting, giving us clear, but only momentary views of rolling hills and distant mountain peaks, whose snowy crowns gleam like burnished silver against the deep, cloudless blue.
Here, as everywhere in this part of the country, the shores are precipitous. There are no gentle slopes nor silvery beaches. The land seems to have taken a headlong leap into the black waters, leaving a portion exposed to light and air, while the other is washed forever by the restless waves, whose ebbs give glimpses of the steep and rocky sides of the sub- merged portion.
And now we enter Dry Strait. A curious name for a body of water much wider than the one through which we have just passed. There are rocks, deso- lately bare, tiny islets, upon which the water-birds sit, warming their beautiful eggs into soft, downy life;
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shoals, which our helmsman's knitted brows and earn- est eyes tell us are to be guarded against for our ves- sel's safety, and larger islands overrun with herbage that reaches down to the water's edge, dipping its slender leaves as the waves ride in and waving a gay good-bye as they recede. But look, there are great cakes of ice dancing towards us! We would call them bergs, but we must reserve that name for those that we will meet in Icy Bay.
We are approaching that which we have never seen, but of which we have dreamed and thought many times. The floes of ice grow thicker. The air is chill, telling of their presence, even if we had not seen them. And now behold Patterson Glacier! A great wall of ice towering above us, making our ship seem as nothing, ourselves as atoms before its gleaming majesty.
In some places where the ice is decaying it looks like dirty, porous snow; in others it is deeply blue, while here and there great turrets reach heavenward in gleaming crystal points. Hills and valleys, all of ice, throw out exquisite prismatic colors where the sunlight touches, and even above the wash of the waves against the sides of our ship we can hear the music of many trickling streams that have worn chan- nels for themselves in the solid ice, and are now rejoicing in their freedom. How they ripple and glide and plunge, making mimic cascades as they
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throw themselves into the eager waters of the Strait. We fain would linger and drink in the delightful view a longer time. The moments have flown so swiftly. But the captain's quiet command turns us away from this glacier, to continue our Alaskan tour.ยบ We look back as long as we can see a vestige of the cold, sil- ent monarch of the Strait, and perhaps in our inmost hearts doubt the possibility of anything being more sublimely beautiful.
By making a detour of several miles, as we have done, we get this fine view of Patterson Glacier, the first one to be met on our trip northward, but in a short time we will behold a whole series of glaciers in Glacier Bay.
Out into the broader, wind-rippled waves of Fred- erick Sound we glide, where each sharp-edged wavelet is crested with a cap of foam, not snowy white, but formed of tiny bubbles, glistening and flashing as our vessel sends them far to either side of her saucy prow. With no change that we can note, and while we still are exclaiming at the beauty of the Sound, our captain informs us that we are in Stevens' Passage. As it grows narrower the mountains and towering hills seem near or far as the clouds pass between us and them.
The glinting white of the snow patches against the green, which is darkened with pine and cedar, the gray and yellow of the sphagnum and the rosy flecks
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of lichen, make us long for some magic power that would enable us to hold the picture in substance for- ever. There is none of our party who are at all anxious to visit Admiralty Island, whose shores we gaze upon with as much curiosity as admiration, for it is said that the Island swarms with bears, and while we liave no objection to seeing five hundred of them roaming about, we feel safe knowing that they are not in the habit of attacking steamers, and especially at re- spectful distances from their territory. They evidently do not swarm to the water's edge, for we did not get a glimpse of a single one of this prowling tribe of ani- mals. Northward still we go, passing Stockade Point, an old trading post of the Hudson Bay Com- pany, which built the block-house and stockade, now crumbling quietly into decay, making a striking con- trast with the everlasting snow-capped mountains which rise from the rather low peninsula, seeming to draw the land toward them as they tower above the shore.
Nearly opposite is Grave Point, a native burial ground, weird, silent and lonely beyond all descrip- tion-a dismal spot among the landscape pictures as a black cloud upon a fair, sunset sky. The grass grows rank and tall. Last year's seed-stalks, still overtopping the young growth, rustle a sad warning to the joyous blossom buds that are bursting into life. The small evergreens look darker and more solemn
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than their companions of the neighboring slopes, be- cause of their nearness to the odd grave-boxes that are standing here and there on their stilt-like posts; some marked only on their sides, others overtopped with totem poles varying in height and design, ac- cording to the honor of the family to which the quiet sleeper belongs, and all turning their startling fea- tures toward the lapping waters, whose swish and murmur in the solemn stillness, sound as mournful as any dirge that ever sighed its minor notes above an honored grave.
Our captain has at our request, let us pause awhile to gaze upon the scene, but a sigh emanates from more than one heart as we leave the place.
We look with longing eyes at Taku Inlet as we pass, wishing to take a boat and sail over its lovely waters, visit its glacier, or roam about its many beau- tiful islets and watch the silvery fish leaping through its limpid water currents. The head of this Inlet is destined to be the starting point of a route to the Klondyke gold field region and the Yukon, in the com- ing season. But we must leave it as we turn to the right and enter Gastineau Channel.
Beautiful, picturesque Gastineau Channel, narrow in some places, only navigable for small boats, but so lovely! So rich and fair its valleys, so pure its waters, so lofty the mountains, with snowy seams down their rugged sides, and vivid green in strong relief against
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the moss-covered rocks. Turn which way you will, in the evening light, there is nothing but beauty in the little city that nestles between the mountains. This is Juneau! We will leave it now, for night is falling, and we cannot see clearly its special features until morn- ing dawns.
CHAPTER XII.
AMONG THE GOLD MINES- JUNEAU AND DOUGLAS ISLANDS.
W E have risen betimes this fair, clear morning to get a glimpse of the city of Juneau in the glow of sunrise. It is a small town, and indeed at home we should call it a village, but in this sparsely settled country, it deserves the dignity settled upon it.
The sun is tinting the snow-draped mountains at the base of which it nestles with rose and yellow, mingling the colors in streaks and dashes and making their rugged sides rival the glowing sky. Juneau still lies in shadow, but we can see that it is built upon a slight slope that seems to have slipped from the mountain which towers above so protectingly. The houses look cool and cozy in the pallid light that falls upon them.
And now the sun looms suddenly above the moun- tain tops and pours a flood of dazzling glory over the small white houses, and the skeletons of those being erected, as well as upon the few native huts of the Alaskans near by. There is nothing remarkably beautiful about the town in the plain day light except its location between two lofty mountains on the shore of a lovely channel. But it is destined to be a great city ere many years have rolled by, because it holds an important position in the rich gold and silver mining districts, and is already the nucleus of a commercial
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centre. It was the discovery of gold by two prospec- tors, after one of whom the settlement was named, that led to its rise, and it will be this search for the precious metals that will lead to its future great success.
It is now a thriving town, having stores, a post- office, and a port at which all the steamers stop. More than this, it is the place from which issues forth weekly papers, with their budget of home news, notes from distant sister cities, special gossip, and comments upon the present value and future prospects, not only of its own, but of neighboring places.
There is gold in the valley of the Yukon river, gold in the mountains, gold in the islands. Gold Creek carries gold dust in the sediment which it brings and deposits in the channels. Across the channel is Douglas Island, said to contain enough of the pre- cious metals in its bosom to pay off the whole of the United States debt.
Think of a small island in our far away and too often despised Territory having the largest gold stamping mill in the world. The Treadwell Mining Company runs the mill which contains over two hun- dred stamps, and is gradually completing an additional power that will eventually double the present capacity. The company has refused fifteen million dollars for the mines, because they believe that even such an im- mense power as it employs cannot exhaust the supply of gold in a lifetime or even in a century. Doubting
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persons might call this "moonshine," but positive proof is there for those who choose to visit the mine from which the out-put in one year was nearly $800,- 000 worth of metal. We find accommodating mana- gers who are perfectly willing that any one should see the whole process, from the hard rocks that must be blasted in order to work them, to the pure metal from the dross. The stamps are running with a deafening roar day and night the entire year. The large hoppers are kept full on the upper floor by tramway cars, that are loaded in the mine, in the hillside, from the quartz vein, by means of stoping platforms, and they are run back and forth, as ore is needed in the mill, at the foot of the hill. Much water is needed to clear the pow- dered quartz of the soil, but the company owns the water supply of the entire island for their own use.
And we can explore the island at our pleasure, losing sight of the scenery around us in our eager quest for the signs that miners know so well. Think of a gold- bearing quartz vein four hundred feet wide, as this one is, the Bear's Nest vein, which is probably one hundred feet wider; or one 600 feet wide, as the Lorena mine ledge on Admiralty Island! There is a feeling akin to the pride of proprietorship in the hearts of all true-born Americans when we are told that there is sufficient gold in sight to pay the price of the Territory two or three times over. As we traverse the Island or look across at
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Juneau, and know of the valleys beyond its abrupt hills which are teeming with a golden harvest, await- ing only hardy hands to come and gather, we are convinced that at some not very distant day there must be a great centre for the vast business interests that are necessary to carry on the work of development.
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