USA > Alaska > Alaska, the great country > Part 26
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In the natural method of spawning, the female salmon seeks the upper waters of the stream, and works out a trough in the gravelly bed by vigorous movements of her body as she lies on one side. In this trough her eggs are deposited and are then fertilized by the male.
The eggs are then covered with gravel to a depth of several feet, such gravel heaps being known as "redds."
To one who has studied the marvellously beautiful instincts of this most human of fishes, their desperate struggles in the ripening ponds are pathetic in the ex- treme ; and I was glad to observe that even the gentle- men of our party frequently turned away with faces full of the pity of it.
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A salmon will struggle until it is but a purple, shape- less mass ; it will fling itself upon the rocks; the over- pouring waters will bear it back for many yards; then it will gradually recover itself and come plunging and fight- ing back to fling itself once more upon the same rocks. Each time that it is washed away it is weaker, more bruised and discolored. Battered, bleeding, with fins broken off and eyes beaten out, it still returns again and again, leaping and flinging itself frenziedly upon the stone walls.
Its very rush through the water is pathetic, as one re- members it; it is accompanied by a loud swish and the waters fly out in foam ; but its movements are so swift that only a line of silver-or, alas ! frequently one of purple - is visible through the beaded foam.
Some discoloration takes place naturally when the fish has been in fresh water for some time; but much of it is due to bruising. A salmon newly arrived from the sea is called a "clean " salmon, because of its bright and sparkling appearance and excellent condition.
There is a tramway two or three hundred yards in length, along which one may walk and view the various ponds. It is used chiefly to convey stock-fish from the corrals to the upper ripening-ponds.
When ripe fish are to be taken from a pond, the water is lowered to a depth of about a foot and a half ; a kind of slatting is then put into the water at one end and slid- den gently under the fish, which are examined -the " ripe " ones being placed in a floating car and the " green " ones freed in the pond. A stripping platform attends every pond, and upon this the spawning takes place.
The young fish, from one to two years old, before it has gone to sea, is called by a dozen different names, chief of which are parr and salmon-fry. At the end of ten weeks after hatching, the fry are fed tinned salmon flesh, -
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" do-overs " furnished by the canneries, - which is thor- oughly desiccated and put through a sausage-machine.
When the fry are three or four months old, they are "planted." After being freed they work their way gradually down to salt-water, which pushes up into the lagoon, and finally out into the bay. They return fre- quently to fresh water and for at least a year work in and out with the tides.
The majority of fry cling to the fresh-water vicinity for two years after hatching, at which time they are about eight inches long. The second spring after hatching they sprout out suddenly in bright and glistening scales, which conceal the dark markings along their sides which are known as parr-marks. They are then called " smolt," and are as adult salmon in all respects save size.
In all rivers smolts pass down to the sea between March and June, weighing only a few ounces. The same fall they return as " grilse," weighing from three to five pounds.
After their first spawning, they return during the win- ter to the sea ; and in the following year reascend the river as adult salmon. Males mature sexually earlier than females.
The time of year when salmon ascend from the sea varies greatly in different rivers, and salmon rivers are denominated as "early " or " late."
The hatchery at Karluk is a model one, and is highly commended by government experts. It was established in the spring of 1896, and stripping was done in August of the same year. The cost of the present plant has been about forty thousand dollars, and its annual expen- diture for maintenance, labor, and improvements, from ten to twenty thousand. There is a superintendent and a permanent force of six or eight men, including a cook, with additional help from the canneries when it is re- quired.
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There are many buildings connected with the hatchery, and all are kept in perfect order. The first season, it is estimated that two millions of salmon-fry were liberated, with a gradual increase until the present time, when forty millions are turned out in a single season.
The superintendent was taken completely by surprise by our visit, but received us very hospitably and conducted us through all departments with courteous explanations. The shining, white cleanliness and order everywhere manifest would make a German housewife green of envy.
At this point Karluk River widens into a lagoon, in which the corrals are wired and netted off somewhat after the fashion of fish-traps, covering an area of about three acres.
Fish for the hatcheries are called "stock-fish." They are secured by seiners in the lagoon opposite the hatcheries, and are then transferred to the corrals. As soon as a sal- mon has the appearance of ripening, it is removed by the use of seines to the ripening-ponds.
In the hatching-house are more than sixty troughs, four- teen feet in length, sixteen inches in width, and seven inches in depth. The wood of which they are composed is surfaced redwood. The joints are coated with asphal- tum tar, with cotton wadding used as calking material. When the trough is completed, it is given one coat of refined tar and two of asphaltum varnish.
In the Karluk hatchery the troughs never leak, owing to this superior construction ; and it is said that the im- portance of this advantage cannot be overestimated.
Leaks make it impossible for the employees to estimate the amount of water in the troughs; repairs startle the young fry and damage the eggs; and the damp floors cause illness among the employees. The Karluk hatchery is noted for its dryness and cleanliness.
The setting of the hatchery is charming. The hills,
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treeless, pale green, and velvety, slope gently to the river and the lagoon. Now and then a slight ravine is filled with a shrubby growth of a lighter green. Flowers flame everywhere, and tiny rivulets come singing down to the larger stream.
The greenness of the hills continues around the bay, broken off abruptly on Karluk Head, where the soft, veined gray of the stone cliff blends with the green.
The bay opens out into the wide, bold, purple sweep of Shelikoff Strait.
Every body of water has its character - some feature that is peculiarly its own, which impresses itself upon the beholder. The chief characteristic of Shelikoff Strait is its boldness. There is something dauntless, daring, and impassioned in its wide and splendid sweep to the chaste line of snow peaks of the Aleutian Range on the Aliaska Peninsula. It seems to hold a challenge.
I should like to live alone, or almost alone, high on storm-swept Karluk Head, fronting that magnificent scene that can never be twice quite the same. What work one might do there-away from little irritating cares ! No neighbors to "drop in" with bits of deli- cious gossip ; no theatres in which to waste the splendid nights ; no bridge-luncheons to tempt, -nothing but sunlight glittering down on the pale green hills; the golden atmosphere above the little bay filled with tremu- lous, winged snow ; and miles and miles and miles of purple sea.
CHAPTER XXXIV
" WHAT kind of place is Uyak ?" I asked a deck-hand who was a native of Sweden, as we stood out in the bow of the Dora one day.
He turned and looked at me and grinned.
"It ees a hal of a blace," he replied, promptly and frankly. " It ees yoost dat t'ing. You vill see."
And I did see. I should, in fact, like to take this frank- spoken gentleman along with me wherever I go, solely to answer people who ask me what kind of place Uyak is - his opinion so perfectly coincides with my own.
There were canneries at Uyak, and mosquitoes, and things to be smelled ; but if there be anything there worth seeing, they must first kill the mosquitoes, else it will never be seen.
The air was black with these pests, and the instant we stepped upon the wharf we were black with them, too. Every passenger resembled a windmill in action, as he raced down the wharf toward the cannery, hoping to find relief there ; and as he went his nostrils were assailed by an odor that is surpassed in only one place on earth - Belkoffski! - and it comes later.
The hope of relief in the canneries proved to be a vain one. The unfortunate Chinamen and natives were covered with mosquitoes as they worked ; their faces and arms were swollen ; their eyes were fierce with suffering. They did not laugh at our frantic attempts to rid ourselves of the winged pests - as we laughed at one another. There was nothing funny in the situation to those poor wretches.
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It was a tragedy. They stared at us with desperate eyes which asked: -
" Why don't you go away if you are suffering ? You are free to leave. What have you to complain of ? We must stay."
We went out and tried to walk a little way along the hill ; but the mosquitoes mounted in clouds from the wild-rose thickets. At the end of fifteen minutes we fled back to the steamer and locked ourselves in our state- rooms. There we sat down and nursed our grievances with camphor and alcohol.
We sailed up Uyak Bay to the mine of the Kodiak Gold Mining Company. This is a free milling mine and had been a developing property for four years. It was then installing a ten-stamp mill, and had twenty thousand tons of ore blocked out, the ore averaging from fifteen to twenty dollars a ton.
This mine is located on the northern side of Kadiak Island, and has good water power and excellent shipping facilities. Fifty thousand dollars were taken out of the beaches in the vicinity in 1904 by placer mining.
Here, in this lovely, lonely bay, one of the most charm- ing women I ever met spends her summers. She is the wife of one of the owners of the mine, and her home is in San Francisco. She finds the summers ideal, and longs for the novelty of a winter at the mine. She has a canoe and spends most of her time on the water. There are no mosquitoes at the mine ; the summers are never uncom- fortably hot, and it is seldom, indeed, that the mercury falls to zero in the winter.
From Kadiak Island we crossed Shelikoff Straits to Cold Bay, on the Aliaska Peninsula, which we reached at midnight, and which is the only port that could not tempt us ashore. When our dear, dark-eyed Japanese, " Charlie," played a gentle air upon our cabin door with
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his fingers and murmured apologetically, "Cold Bay," we heard the rain pouring down our windows in sheets, and we ungratefully replied, "Go away, Charlie, and leave us alone."
No rope-ladders and dory landings for us on such a night, at a place with such a name.
The following day was clear, however, and we sailed all day along the peninsula. To the south of us lay the Tugidak, Trinity, Chirikoff, and Semidi islands.
At six in the evening we landed at Chignik, another uninteresting cannery place. From Chignik on " to West- ward " the resemblance of the natives to the Japanese be- came more remarkable. As they stood side by side on the wharves, it was almost impossible to distinguish one from the other. The slight figures, brown skin, softly bright, dark eyes, narrowing at the corners, and amiable expression made the resemblance almost startling.
At Chignik we had an amusing illustration, however, of the ease with which even a white man may grow to resemble a native.
The mail agent on the Dora was a great admirer of his knowledge of natives and native customs and language. Cham-mi is a favorite salutation with them. Approach- ing a man who was sitting on a barrel, and who certainly resembled a native in color and dress, the agent pleasantly exclaimed, "Cham-mi."
There was no response; the man did not lift his head ; a slouch hat partially concealed his face.
"Cham-mi !" repeated the agent, advancing a step nearer. There was still no response, no movement of recognition.
The mail agent grew red.
" He must be deaf as a post," said he. He slapped the man on the shoulder and, stooping, fairly shouted in his ear, "Cham-mi, old man !"
Then the man lifted his head and brought to view the unmistakable features of a Norwegian.
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"T'hal with you," said he, briefly. "I'm no tamn Eskimo."
The mail agent looked as though the wharf had gone out from under his feet ; and never again did we hear him give the native salutation to any one. The Norwe- gian had been living for a year among the natives ; and by the twinkle in his eye as he again lowered his head it was apparent that he appreciated the joke.
At the entrance to Chignik Bay stands Castle Cape, or Tuliiumnit Point. From the southeastern side it really resembles a castle, with turrets, towers, and domes. It is an immense, stony pile jutting boldly out into the sea, whose sparkling blue waves, pearled with foam, break loudly upon its base. In color it is soft gray, richly and evenly streaked with rose. Sea birds circled, screaming, over it and around it. Castle Cape might be the twin sister of "Calico Bluff " on the Yukon.
Popoff and Unga are the principal islands of the Shumagin group, on one of which Behring landed and buried a sailor named Shumagin. They are the centre of famous cod-fishing grounds which extend westward and northward to the Arctic Ocean, eastward to Cook Inlet, and southeastward to the Straits of Juan de Fuca.
There are several settlements on the Island of Unga - Coal Harbor, Sandy Point, Apollo, and Unga. The latter is a pretty village situated on a curving agate beach. It is of some importance as a trading post.
Finding no one to admit us to the Russo-Greek church, we admitted ourselves easily with our state-room key; but the tawdry cheapness of the interior scarcely repaid us for the visit. The graveyard surrounding the church was more interesting.
There is no wharf at Unga, but there is one at Apollo, about three miles farther up the bay. We were taken up to Apollo in a sail-boat, and it proved to be an exciting
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sail. It is not sailing unless the rail is awash; but it seemed as though the entire boat were awash that June afternoon in the Bay of Unga. Scarcely had we left the ship when we were struck by a succession of squalls which lasted until our boat reeled, hissing, up to the wharf at Apollo.
Water poured over us in sheets, drenching us. We could not stay on the seats, as the bottom of the boat stood up in the air almost perpendicularly. We there- fore stood up with it, our feet on the lower rail with the sea flowing over them, and our shoulders pressed against the gunwale. Had it not been for the broad shoulders of two Englishmen, our boat would surely have gone over.
It all came upon us so suddenly that we had no time to be frightened, and, with all the danger, it was glorious. No whale- no " right " whale, even - could be prouder than we were of the wild splashing and spouting that attended our tipsy race up Unga Bay.
The wharf floated dizzily above us, and we were com- pelled to climb a high perpendicular ladder to reach it. No woman who minds climbing should go to Alaska. She is called upon at a moment's notice to climb everything, from rope-ladders and perpendicular ladders to volcanoes. A mile's walk up a tramway brought us to the Apollo.
This is a well-known mine, which has been what is called a " paying proposition " for many years. At the time of our visit it was worked out in its main lode, and the owners had been seeking desperately for a new one. It was discovered the following year, and the Apollo is once more a rich producer.
In a large and commodious house two of the owners of the mine lived, their wives being with them for the summer. They were gay and charming women, fond of society, and pining for the fleshpots of San Francisco. The white women living between Kodiak and Dutch Harbor are so
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few that they may be counted on one hand, and the luxurious furnishings of their homes in these out-of-the- way places are almost startling in their unexpectedness. We spent the afternoon at the mine, and the ladies re- turned to the Dora with us for dinner. The squalls had taken themselves off, and we had a prosaic return in the mine's launch.
"What do we do?" said one of the ladies, in reply to my question. "Oh, we read, walk, write letters, go out on the water, play cards, sew, and do so much fancy work that when we get back to San Francisco we have nothing to do but enjoy ourselves and brag about the good time we have in Alaska. We are all packed now to go camping -" "Camping !" I repeated, too astonished to be polite.
" Yes, camping," replied she, coloring, and speaking somewhat coldly. "We go in the launch to the most beautiful beach about ten miles from Unga. We stay a month. It is a sheltered beach of white sand. The waves lap on it all day long, blue, sparkling, and warm, and we almost live in them. The hills above the beach are simply covered with the big blueberries that grow only in Alaska. They are somewhat like the black mountain huckleberry, only more delicious. We can them, pre- serve them, and dry them, and take them back to San Francisco with us. They are the best things I ever ate - with thick cream on them. I had some in the house ; I wish I had thought to offer you some."
She wished she had thought to offer me some !
On the Dora we were rapidly getting down to bacon and fish, - being about two thousand miles from Seattle, with no ice aboard in this land of ice, - and I am not enthusiastic about either.
And she wished that she had thought to offer me some Alaskan blueberries that are more delicious than moun- tain huckleberries, and thick cream !
2 B
CHAPTER XXXV
I HAVE heard of steamers that have been built and sent out by missionary or church societies to do good in far and lonely places.
The little Dora is not one of these, nor is religion her cargo; her hold is filled with other things. Yet blessings be on her for the good she does! Her mission is to carry mail, food, freight, and good cheer to the people of these green islands that go drifting out to Siberia, one by one. She is the one link that connects them with the great world outside; through her they obtain their sole touch of society, of which their appreciation is pitiful.
Our captain was a big, violet-eyed Norwegian, about forty years old. He showed a kindness, a courtesy, and a patience to those lonely people that endeared him to us.
He knew them all by name and greeted them cordially as they stood, smiling and eager, on the wharves. All kinds of commissions had been intrusted to him on his last monthly trip. To one he brought a hat ; to another a phonograph ; to another a box of fruit; dogs, cats, chairs, flowers, books - there seemed to be nothing that he had not personally selected for the people at the various ports. Even a little seven-year-old half-breed girl had travelled in his care from Valdez to join her father on one of the islands.
Wherever there was a woman, native or half-breed, he took us ashore to make her acquaintance.
" Come along now," he would say, in a tone of command,
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" and be nice. They don't get a chance to talk to many women. Haven't you got some little womanly thing along with you that you can give them ? It'll make them happy for months."
We were eager enough to talk to them, heaven knows, and to give them what we could ; but the " little womanly things " that we could spare on a two months' voyage in Alaska were distressingly few. When we had nothing more that we could give, the stern disapproval in the cap- tain's eyes went to our hearts. Box after box of bonbons, figs, salted almonds, preserved ginger, oranges, apples, ribbons, belts, pretty bags- one after one they went, until, like Olive Schreiner's woman, I felt that I had given up everything save the one green leaf in my bosom; and that the time would come when the captain would com- mand me to give that up, too.
There seems to be something in those great lonely spaces that moves the people to kindness, to patience and consideration - to tenderness, even. I never before came close to such humanness. It shone out of people in whom one would least expect to find it.
Several times while we were at dinner the chief stew- ard, a gay and handsome youth not more than twenty- one years old, rushed through the dining room, crying: --
" Give me your old magazines - quick ! There's a whaler's boat alongside."
A stampede to our cabins would follow, and a hasty upgathering of such literature as we could lay our hands upon.
The whaling and cod-fishing schooners cruise these waters for months without a word from the outside until they come close enough to a steamer to send out a boat. The crew of the steamer, discovering the approach of this boat, gather up everything they can throw into it as it flashes for a moment alongside. Frequently
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the occupants of the boat throw fresh cod aboard, and then there are smiling faces at dinner. It is my opinion, however, that any one who would smile at cod would smile at anything.
The most marvellous voyage ever made in the beautiful and not always peaceful Pacific Ocean was the one upon which the Dora started at an instant's notice, and by no will of her master's, on the first day of January, 1906. Blown from the coast down into the Pacific in a freezing storm, she became disabled and drifted helplessly for more than two months.
During that time the weather was the worst ever known by seafaring men on the coast. The steamship Santa Ana and the United States steamship Rush were sent in search of the Dora, and when both had returned without tidings, hope for her safety was abandoned.
Eighty-one days from the time she had sailed from Valdez, she crawled into the harbor of Seattle, two thou- sand miles off her course. She carried a crew of seven men and three or four passengers, one of whom was a young Aleutian lad of Unalaska. As the Dora was on her outward trip when blown to sea, she was well stocked with provisions which she was carrying to the islanders ; but there was no fuel and but a scant supply of water aboard.
The physical and mental sufferings of all were ferocious; and it was but a feeble cheer that arose from the little ship- wrecked band when the Dora at last crept up beside the Seattle pier. For two months they had expected each day to be their last, and their joy was now too deep for expression.
The welcome they received when they returned to their regular run among the Aleutian Islands is still described by the settlers.
The Dora reached Kodiak late on a boisterous night; but her whistle was heard, and the whole town was on the
Copyright by E. A. Hogg, Junenu
Courtesy of Webster & Stevens, Seattle
CLOUD EFFECT ON THE YUKON
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wharf when she docked, to welcome the crew and to con- gratulate them on their safety. Some greeted their old friends hilariously, and others simply pressed their hands in emotion too deep for expression.
So completely are the people of the smaller places on the route cut off from the world, save for the monthly visits of the Dora, that they had not heard of her safety. When, after supposing her to be lost for two months, they beheld her steaming into their harbors, the super- stitious believed her to be a spectre-ship.
The greatest demonstration was at Unalaska. A schooner had brought the news of her safety to Dutch Harbor; from there a messenger was despatched to Un- alaska, two miles away, to carry the glad tidings to the father of the little lad aboard the Dora.
The news flashed wildly through the town. People in bed, or sitting by their firesides, were startled by the fling- ing open of their door and the shouting of a voice from the darkness outside : --
" The Dora's safe! " - but before they could reach the door, messenger and voice would be gone - fleeing on through the town.
At last he reached the Jessie Lee Missionary Home, at the end of the street, where a prayer-meeting was in progress. Undaunted, he flung wide the door, burst into the room, shouting, "The Dora's safe!" - and was gone. Instantly the meeting broke up, people sprang to their feet, and prayer gave place to a glad thanksgiving service.
When the Dora finally reached Unalaska once more, the whole town was in holiday garb. Flags were flying, and every one that could walk was on the wharf. Children, native and white, carried flags which they joyfully waved. Their welcome was enthusiastic and sincere, and the men on the boat were deeply affected.
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