I Counted Some Forty-Five Altogether, Big And Little, In
Sight From The Canoe In Sailing Up The Middle Of The Fiord.
Three
of them, drawing their sources from magnificent groups of snowy
mountains, came down to the level of the sea and formed a glorious
spectacle.
The middle one of the three belongs to the first class,
pouring its majestic flood, shattered and crevassed, directly into
the fiord, and crowding about twenty-five square miles of it with
bergs. The next below it also sends off bergs occasionally, though
a narrow strip of glacial detritus separates it from the tidewater.
That forenoon a large mass fell from it, damming its draining stream,
which at length broke the dam, and the resulting flood swept forward
thousands of small bergs across the mud-flat into the fiord. In a
short time all was quiet again; the flood-waters receded, leaving
only a large blue scar on the front of the glacier and stranded bergs
on the moraine flat to tell the tale.
These two glaciers are about equal in size - two miles wide - and their
fronts are only about a mile and a half apart. While I sat sketching
them from a point among the drifting icebergs where I could see far
back into the heart of their distant fountains, two Taku
seal-hunters, father and son, came gliding toward us in an extremely
small canoe. Coming alongside with a goodnatured "Sagh-a-ya," they
inquired who we were, our objects, etc., and gave us information
about the river, their village, and two other large glaciers that
descend nearly to the sea-level a few miles up the river canyon.
Crouching in their little shell of a boat among the great bergs, with
paddle and barbed spear, they formed a picture as arctic and remote
from anything to be found in civilization as ever was sketched for us
by the explorers of the Far North.
Making our way through the crowded bergs to the extreme head of the
fiord, we entered the mouth of the river, but were soon compelled to
turn back on account of the strength of the current. The Taku River
is a large stream, nearly a mile wide at the mouth, and, like the
Stickeen, Chilcat, and Chilcoot, draws its sources from far inland,
crossing the mountain-chain from the interior through a majestic
canyon, and draining a multitude of glaciers on its way.
The Taku Indians, like the Chilcats, with a keen appreciation of the
advantages of their position for trade, hold possession of the river
and compel the Indians of the interior to accept their services as
middle-men, instead of allowing them to trade directly with the
whites.
When we were baffled in our attempt to ascend the river, the day was
nearly done, and we began to seek a camp-ground. After sailing two or
three miles along the left side of the fiord, we were so fortunate as
to find a small nook described by the two Indians, where firewood was
abundant, and where we could drag our canoe up the bank beyond reach
of the berg-waves. Here we were safe, with a fine outlook across the
fiord to the great glaciers and near enough to see the birth of the
icebergs and the wonderful commotion they make, and hear their wild,
roaring rejoicing. The sunset sky seemed to have been painted for
this one mountain mansion, fitting it like a ceiling. After the fiord
was in shadow the level sunbeams continued to pour through the miles
of bergs with ravishing beauty, reflecting and refracting the purple
light like cut crystal. Then all save the tips of the highest became
dead white. These, too, were speedily quenched, the glowing points
vanishing like stars sinking beneath the horizon. And after the
shadows had crept higher, submerging the glaciers and the ridges
between them, the divine alpenglow still lingered on their highest
fountain peaks as they stood transfigured in glorious array. Now the
last of the twilight purple has vanished, the stars begin to shine,
and all trace of the day is gone. Looking across the fiord the water
seems perfectly black, and the two great glaciers are seen stretching
dim and ghostly into the shadowy mountains now darkly massed against
the starry sky.
Next morning it was raining hard, everything looked dismal, and on
the way down the fiord a growling head wind battered the rain in our
faces, but we held doggedly on and by 10 A.M. got out of the fiord
into Stephens Passage. A breeze sprung up in our favor that swept
us bravely on across the passage and around the end of Admiralty
Island by dark. We camped in a boggy hollow on a bluff among scraggy,
usnea-bearded spruces. The rain, bitterly cold and driven by a stormy
wind, thrashed us well while we floundered in the stumpy bog trying
to make a fire and supper.
When daylight came we found our camp-ground a very savage place. How
we reached it and established ourselves in the thick darkness it
would be difficult to tell. We crept along the shore a few miles
against strong head winds, then hoisted sail and steered straight
across Lynn Canal to the mainland, which we followed without great
difficulty, the wind having moderated toward evening. Near the
entrance to Icy Strait we met a Hoona who had seen us last year and
who seemed glad to see us. He gave us two salmon, and we made him
happy with tobacco and then pushed on and camped near Sitka Jack's
deserted village.
Though the wind was still ahead next morning, we made about twenty
miles before sundown and camped on the west end of Farewell Island.
We bumped against a hidden rock and sprung a small leak that was
easily stopped with resin. The salmon-berries were ripe. While
climbing a bluff for a view of our course, I discovered moneses, one
of my favorites, and saw many well-traveled deer-trails, though the
island is cut off from the mainland and other islands by at least
five or six miles of icy, berg-encumbered water.
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