Great American Adventure Stories

by Tom McCarthy

  As there was now an ice-free channel along the coast, the Eskimo sea hunters deftly lashed together in pairs their kayaks (skin canoes), catamaran fashion, and piled thereon helter-skelter the various supplies. Jarvis and Bertholf watched this cargo stowing with great anxiety, not unmingled with doubt as to the outcome of the voyage. Following the progress of the kayaks and shouting advice and encouragement from the seashore, they were dismayed to see now and then a breaking wave threaten to overwhelm the boats and to find that the short sea trip had ruined much of the precious flour and indispensable hard bread.

  Overhauling his cumbersome, heavy sledges and inspecting his few unsuitable dogs, he knew that they could never do all the work required. Fortunately he found a half-breed trader, Alexis, who agreed to furnish dogs, sledges, and serve as a guide to the party as far as the army post at Saint Michael. As the half-breed knew the short shore route and was familiar with the location and supplies of the succession of native villages, this enabled them to drop much of their heavy baggage and travel light. Their outfit was carefully selected, consisting of sleeping bags, changes of clothing, camp stoves, rifles, ammunition, axes, and a small supply of food.

  Their three native sledges were open box frames, ten feet by two in size and eighteen inches high, resting on wooden runners a foot high. Tough, pliant lashings of walrus hide bound together with the utmost tightness the frame and the runners. This method of construction, in which not a bit of iron enters, avoids rigidity and thus gives a flexibility and life to the sledge, which enables it to withstand shocks and endure hard usage, which would soon break a solid frame into pieces. A cargo cover of light canvas not only closely fits the bottom and sides of the box frame but overlaps the top. When the cargo cover is neatly hauled taut and is properly lashed to the sides of the sledge the load, if it has been snugly packed, it is secure from accidents. Its compact mass is equally safe from thievish dogs, from the penetrating drift of the fierce blizzards, and from dangers of loss through jolts or capsizings.

  Of a single piece for each dog, the harness used by the natives is of sealskin; the half-breeds often make it of light canvas, not only as better suited to the work but especially for its quality of noneatableness, which is a vital factor during days of dog famine on long journeys. The harness is collar-shaped with three long bands; the collar slips over the dog’s head and one band extends to the rear over the animal’s back. The other bands pass downward between the dog’s legs and, triced up on each side, are fastened permanently to the back band, where there is also attached a drag thong or pulling trace about two feet long. In harnessing, the three loops described are slipped respectively over the head and legs of the dog.

  The animals are secured in pairs to the long draught rope of the sledge by the Alaskan pioneers, who much prefer this method to the old plan of the natives, whereby the dogs were strung out in single file. With the dogs in couples, the draught line is shorter, so that the better-controlled animals will haul a larger load.

  In the first day’s journey, they crossed a mountain range two thousand feet high, and in making the descent of the precipitous northern slope, Jarvis records a sledging expedient almost unique in sledge travel. The four Eskimo drivers detached the dogs from the sledge and, winding around the runners small chains so as to sink in the deep snow and impede their progress, prepared to coast down the mountain. Two men secured themselves firmly on each sledge, and when once started, the descent was so steep that the sledges attained a fearful speed, which brought them almost breathless to the bottom of the range in ten minutes.

  Jarvis describes in graphic language the trying task of feeding the always-famished, wolflike dogs:

  They are ever hungry, and when one appears with an armful of dried fish, in their eagerness to get a stray mouthful the dogs crowd around in a fighting, jumping mass, which makes it difficult to keep one’s balance. After throwing a fish to each dog, it takes all of us with clubs to keep off the larger fellows and to see that the weaker ones keep and eat their share. When being fed they are like wild animals—snarl, bite, and fight continually until everything is eaten.

  As the dogs, worn out by the hard journey, could not be replaced by fresh ones at the Eskimo colony of Ki-yi-lieng, Bertholf and Koltchoff waited there to bring them up later, while Jarvis and McCall pushed on, marching across the Yukon delta in temperatures below zero daily. They found the natives of this alluvial region wretchedly poor and illy protected against the bitter cold. To the eye they were a motley crowd, as they had levied tribute for clothing on the birds of the air, the beasts of the tundra, the fish of the river, and the game of the sea. There were trousers and heavy boots from the seal, inner jackets of the breasts of the wild geese, fur ornamentation of the arctic fox, and the poorer Eskimos even made boots, when seal were lacking, from the tanned skin of the Yukon salmon.

  With all their dire poverty, they were not unmindful of their duty to strangers and always offered the shelter of the khazeem (a hut built for general use by the unmarried men, from which women are rigidly excluded). His sense of fastidiousness had not yet left Jarvis, who surprised the Eskimos by tenting in the midwinter cold rather than endure the tortures of the stifling khazeem, which to the natives was a place of comfort and pleasure. Of this half-underground hut, Jarvis says in part,

  The sides are of driftwood filled in with brush. The roof is ingeniously made by laying logs along the sides and lashing them thereto with walrus thongs. Two logs notched on the ends to fit securely are then laid across the first logs on opposite sides but a little farther in toward the center. This method is repeated until a sort of arch is formed, which is filled in with earth-covered brush, leaving a small hole in the center of the roof. Other driftwood, split in rough slabs, forms the floor, leaving an entrance space about two feet square. From this hole in the floor, which is always several feet below the level of the surrounding ground, an entrance passage has been dug out large enough for a man to crawl through it into the main earth-floored room. Over the entrance opening is hung a skin to keep out the air, while the roof opening is covered with the thin, translucent, dried intestines of the seal or walrus, which gives faint light during the day.

  In the khazeem the animal heat from the bodies of the natives, with that from seal-oil lamps, raises the temperature so high that the men sit around with the upper part of the body entirely naked. The only ventilation is through a small hole in the roof, invariably closed at night in cold weather. The condition of the air can be better imagined than described, with fifteen or twenty natives sleeping inside the small room.

  The culmination of danger and suffering on the march in the delta journey was at Pikmiktellik, when they strayed from the trail and nearly perished in a violent storm. Almost as by miracle, they staggered by chance into the village long after dark, so exhausted that, without strength to put up their tent, they gladly occupied the dreaded khazeem.

  Twelve days brought them to Saint Michael, where they were given cordial and humane aid from Colonel (now General) George M. Randall, United States Army, and the agents of the Alaska Commercial and North American Trading Companies. Without such help Jarvis must have failed. The feet of his dogs were worn bare by rapid, rough travel of 375 miles, the rubber-covered, goatskin sleeping bags were cold and heavy, which in bitterer weather would be actually dangerous. Deerskin clothing and fresh dogs were necessary for rapid travel, with light loads on which final success depended.

  Leaving orders for Bertholf, yet far behind, to bring up relief supplies from Unalaklik to Cape Blossom by crossing the divide at the head of Norton Bay, Jarvis and McCall pushed ahead on January 1, 1898. The third day out, they met a native woman traveling south on snowshoes, who told them that she was with her husband and Mate Tilton of the Belvedere; the two parties had passed each other, unseen, on trails three hundred feet apart. Tilton brought news even worse than had been expected. Three ships had been crushed by the ice pack, two losing all their provisions,
while five other ships were frozen up in the ocean ice. As the worn-out mate went south, Jarvis pushed on with new energy, realizing the great need ahead.

  Severe storms and deep snow made travel very slow, and at times the runners sank so deep that the body of the sledge dragged, while the dogs were almost buried in their efforts to struggle on. They soon realized that actual arctic travel is far from being like the usual pictures of dog sledging. Instead of frisky dogs with tails curled over their backs, with drivers comfortably seated on the sledge, cracking a whip at the flying team, snarling dogs and worn-out men tramped slowly and silently through the unbroken snow.

  It very rarely occurs that there is either a beaten or a marked trail, so the lead is taken by a man who keeps in advance, picking out the best road, while his comrades are hard at work lifting the sledge over bad places or keeping it from capsizing. The king dogs, who lead the way and set the pace, never stray from the broken path, save in rare instances of sighting tempting game, but follow exactly the trail breaker. One day Jarvis came to fresh, deep snow, where it took all four men to break a way for the sledge, and when they themselves were worn out, they had the misery of seeing their utterly exhausted dogs lie down on the trail, indifferent equally to the urging voice or the cutting whip. That wretched night the party had to make its camp in the open instead of at one of the native huts, which were always in view.

  The dog teams were sent back from the Swedish mission, Golovin Bay, where reindeer were available. Of this new and unusual method of travel, Jarvis, who drove a single-deer sledge, says,

  All hands must be ready at the same time when starting a deer train. As soon as the other animals see the head team start, they are off with a jump, and for a short time, they keep up a very high rate of speed. If one is not quick in jumping and in holding onto his sledge, he is likely either to lose his team or be dragged bodily along.

  The deer is harnessed with a well-fitting collar of two flat pieces of wood, from which short traces go back to a breastplate or single-tree under the body. From this a single trace, protected by soft fur to prevent chafing, runs back to the sledge. A single line made fast to the halter is used for guiding and, kept slack, is only pulled to guide or stop the deer. A hard pull brings the weight of the sledge on the head of the deer and generally brings him to a stop. No whip is used, for the timid deer becomes easily frightened and then is hard to control and quiet down. The low, wide sledges with broad runners are hard to pack so as to secure and protect the load.

  As the dogs naturally attack the deer, it was henceforth necessary to stop outside the Eskimo villages, unharness the animals, and send them to pasture on the nearest beds of reindeer moss.

  Jarvis thus relates his straying during a violent blizzard:

  Soon after dark my deer wandered from the trail, became entangled in driftwood on the beach, and finally wound up by running the sledge full speed against a stump, breaking the harness, dragging the line from my hand, and disappearing in the darkness and flying snow. It was impossible to see ten yards ahead, and it would be reckless to start off alone, for the others were in advance, and I might wander about all night, become exhausted, and perhaps freeze. I had nothing to eat, but righting the sledge I got out my sleeping bag in its lee and made myself as comfortable as possible.

  His comrades were greatly alarmed as a reindeer dashed by them and, fearing disaster, hastened back on the trail, which, although followed with difficulty on account of the blinding snow, brought them to the lieutenant still unharmed.

  If the relief expedition was to be of use to the shipwrecked men, it was important that food should be carried north. As this was impossible by sledge, it was evident that the sole method was to carry meat on the hoof. The sole sources of supply consisted of two herds of reindeer, at Teller and at Cape Prince of Wales. If these herds could be purchased and if the services of skilled herders could be obtained and the herd could be driven such a long distance, then the whalers could be saved. To these three problems, Jarvis now bent his powers of persuasion and of administrative ability, feeling that lives depended on the outcome and that he must not fail.

  The reindeer belonged in part to an Eskimo, Artisarlook, and in part to the American Missionary Society, under the control and management of Mr. H. W. Lopp. Without the assent and active aid of these two men, the proposed action would be impossible. Would he be able to persuade these men to give him their entire plant and leave themselves destitute for men whom they had never seen and knew of only to hold them in fear? Would they consider the plan practicable, and would they leave their families and go on the arctic trail in the midst of an Alaskan winter? If they thought it a bounden duty, what was to happen to their families during their absence? Day after day these questions rose in the lieutenant’s mind to his great disquietude.

  With Jarvis and Bertholf, there was the stimulus of the esprit de corps, the honor of the service, always acting as a spur to their heroic labors, while in the case of Dr. McCall, there was also that sense of personal devotion to the relief of suffering that inspires the medical profession as a whole.

  On January 19 Jarvis reached the house of Artisarlook, when he “almost shrank from the task.” From this untaught, semicivilized native, wrestling for a bare subsistence with harsh, forbidding nature, what favor could be expected? The starving men were of an alien race and of that class from which too often his own people had reaped degradation, suffered outrage, and endured wrongs too grievous to be ignored or forgotten. To relieve these men, Artisarlook must voluntarily loan his entire herd of reindeer without certainty of replacement. He must leave behind him his wife, unprotected and subject to the vicissitudes of an arctic environment. He must also endure the hardships and sufferings incident to a midwinter drive, in the coldest month of the year, of reindeer across a country unknown to him—a desperate venture that might cost him his life. Altruistic souls of the civilized world might make such sacrifices, but would this Alaskan Eskimo?

  Of the crisis Jarvis writes,

  I almost shrank from the task. He and his wife were old friends, but how to induce them to give up their deer—their absolute property—and how to convince them that the government would return an equal number at some future time was quite another matter. Besides, he and the natives gathered about him were dependent on the herd for food and clothing. If I took the deer and Artisarlook away, these people were likely to starve unless some other arrangements were made for their living.

  I explained carefully what the deer were wanted for, that he must let me have the deer of his own free will and trust to the government for an ample reward and the return of an equal number of deer.

  Artisarlook and his wife, Mary, held a long and solemn consultation and finally explained their situation. They were sorry for the white men at Point Barrow, and they were glad to be able to help them. They would let me have their deer, 133 in number, which represented their all, if I would be directly responsible for them.

  I had dreaded this interview for fear that Artisarlook might refuse, but his nobility of character could have no better exposition than the fact that he was willing to give up his property, leave his family, and go eight hundred miles to help white men in distress, under a simple promise that his property should be returned to him.

  Has there ever been a finer instance of the full faith of man in brother man than is shown in this simple pact, by word of mouth, under the dark, gloomy sky of an Alaskan midwinter? Far from the business marts of crowded cities, in the free open of broad expanses of country, there are often similar instances of man’s trusting generosity and of personal self-sacrifice but more often between those of kindred race than between the civilized man and the aborigine.

  Giving written orders on the traders to tide over the winter for the natives, Jarvis pushed on, leaving Artisarlook and his herders to follow with the deer. Meantime the lieutenant had adopted the native garb, saying, “I had determined to do as the people
who lived in the country did—to dress, travel, and live as they did and if necessary to eat the same food. I found the only way to get along was to conform to the customs of those who had solved many of the problems of existence in the arctic climate.” His clothing consisted of close-fitting deerskin trousers and socks, with hair next to the skin; deerskin boots, hair out, with heavy sealskin soles; two deerskin shirts, one with hair out and the other with hair toward the skin; close hoods, with fringing wolfskin; and mittens, the whole weighing only about ten pounds. In stormy weather he wore an outer shirt and overalls of drilling, which kept the drifting snow from filling up and freezing in a mass the hair of the deerskins.

  The five days’ travel to the Teller reindeer station, near Cape Prince of Wales, were filled with most bitter experiences. The temperature fell to seventy-two degrees below freezing; the sea ice over which they traveled became of almost incredible roughness, while fearful blizzards sprang up. With increasing northing the days became shorter, and the exhausted reindeer had to be replaced by dogs. Much of the travel was in darkness, with resultant capsizings of sledges, frequent falls, and many bodily bruises. Of one critical situation, he reports,

  The heavy sledge was continually capsizing in the rough ice. About eight o’clock at night, I was completely played out and quite willing to camp. But Artisarlook said, “No!” that it was too cold to camp without wood (they depended on driftwood for their fires) and that the ice-foot along the land was in danger of breaking off the shore at any minute. In the darkness I stepped through an ice crack, and my leg to the knee was immediately one mass of ice. Urging the dogs, we dragged along till midnight to a hut that Artisarlook had before mentioned. A horrible place, no palace could have been more welcome. Fifteen people were already sleeping in the hut, the most filthy I saw in Alaska, only ten by twelve feet in size and five feet high. Too tired to care for the filth, too tired even to eat, I was satisfied to take off my wet clothing, crawl into my bag, and to sleep.