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
Toyatte.
We ran aground in several places in crossing the Stickeen 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. Wrangell 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 Charley 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 in earnest.
