Green Heron’s Nest
Trails and Tramps in Alaska and Newfoundland
CHAPTER I
CRUISING AND HUNTING IN SOUTHEASTERN ALASKA
In the midst of the rustling and bustling on the pier, the creaking of the block and tackle, and the hoisting of the duffel, could be heard the loud, clear voice of the mate resounding in the evening twilight, “Heave to!” “That’s well,” and similar expressions, all preparatory to our departure for the far-away North, the land of glaciers, gold, and fish. In the crowd were many sorts and conditions of men—and not the least in evidence were the sturdy Norseman and the Scottish clansman,—some on pleasure bent, some in search of the mighty beasts of the forest, still others seeking their fortune in the vast gold-fields stretching on and on into the great unknown beyond the Arctic Circle.
Among the ever-changing groups of humanity, my attention was attracted to one, the center of which was a young man about one and twenty. As the time drew near for our departure, around him gathered four or five young ladies, who to all appearances were in sore distress. An only brother, perhaps, was about to leave home and friends to seek his fortune in the Land of the Midnight Sun. The old father, grizzled and gray, stood by with dejected countenance and folded hands, the very picture of despair. Presently one of the girls—the boy’s sweetheart, as I afterwards learned,—unable longer to stand the strain, threw her arms about her lover and wept bitterly. What expressions of sadness upon the faces of those left behind as the lamplight casts its pallid rays over them! And now one staggers and falls into the arms of a friend. Then what a look of grief upon the face of the young man peering over the ship’s rail! Such is the pathos of life at every turn, could we but see it.
On board the steamer was the Hon. Walter L. Fisher, Secretary of the Interior, and his party, consisting of his son Walter, Alfred H. Brooks, of the Geological Surveys Committee, Governor W. E. Clark of Alaska, and reporters of various newspapers. Their mission was to investigate the condition and wants of the people of Alaska. The genial and pleasant old sea-dog, Captain Michael Jansen, was at the helm as the steamer wedged her way towards the north.
For some two hundred miles we skirted the eastern shore of Vancouver Island, lined to the water’s edge with hemlock, spruce, and cedar, through which occasionally bluish-white streaks of water came tumbling down the mountain-side, each adding its own particular charm to the scenery. The English Government has erected along the coast many lighthouses for the protection of navigation, but after we passed through Dixon’s Entrance into Uncle Sam’s domain, very few of these were to be seen. Our Government seems to have given too little attention to this matter.
The first stop on the way north was Ketchikan, a little village nestled snugly at the foothills, with its hospital, saloons, and all the usual adjuncts of a mining town.
