Shadows on the Koyukuk

by Sidney Huntington

  “You’re pretty foxy, Sidney,” he said to me. “You use head. You slow big animal down so you can shoot. You pretty young to get big animal already. I was much older before I killed one. That’s when they said I could have a partner—a woman to live with.”

  Not once did he use the words “brown bear” or “grizzly bear.” He was a traditional Koyukon who followed the old ways. No respectful Koyukon ever spoke directly of a “grizzly” or “brown bear.” It was always “that big animal.”

  I didn’t know what Little Sammy was driving at, but I think Dad suspected. After much talk about the boat I had built, the salmon I had caught on the Yukon River, the furs I had trapped the previous winter, and, finally, the “big animal” I had snared and shot, Little Sammy came to the point:

  “You are young, but we have to say that you have earned the right to have a partner, a woman, anytime you want.”

  My jaw dropped, and Dad and Charlie grinned. Little Sammy had made his point and dropped the subject. For months afterward I was teased about Little Sammy’s comments.

  “Ya got your lady partner picked out yet, Sidney?” Charlie would ask, with a grin. Dad and Jimmy had their fun, too. Girls were still a mystery to me, and I didn’t appreciate their teasing.

  One cold winter day my uncle Weaselheart arrived with our mail from Hughes, and to pay a visit—so we thought. Actually, he had made the trip to inform Dad that he and other family members had selected a woman for me. Little Sammy had told him about the grizzly.

  Weaselheart, one of my mother’s brothers, was about four feet eight, heavy set, with bluish-colored lips. The name “Weaselheart” was a literal translation of his Koyukon name. He was originally known as “Little Peter from Hog River.” He was a man without fear.

  As soon as he arrived at our cabin, Weaselheart asked me to tell him about the grizzly. After I had modestly recounted the incident, he asked, “Have you ever caught a black one?” (meaning a black bear).

  I had killed two black bears—one in its den during the winter when I had stumbled onto it while setting marten traps, the other while blueberry picking. “Two,” I told him.

  “Good,” he said.

  Then he told Dad about the “woman” he and other family members had chosen for me. She was a twelve-year-old girl. “This is the Indian way, Jim,” Weaselheart explained to Dad.

  Dad exploded, “Indian way or not, he’s just out of diapers. How in hell is he going to support a woman, let alone himself? Let’s at least wait until he’s dry behind the ears. It’s up to Sidney to decide who and when.”

  “But Jim,” Weaselheart said patiently, “I’ve paid $5 to the girl’s parents for Sidney’s right to marry her, because he is qualified. He has proven himself to be a man.”

  The custom of granting the privilege of marriage to a young man when he killed a “big animal” was a carryover from the days when a Koyukon man killed a bear with bow and arrow or spear, thus proving that he was brave and capable—a far cry from what I had done.

  It wasn’t common for relatives to arrange a marriage without speaking to the father of the groom. That’s probably why Weaselheart talked to Dad the way he did—he knew Dad wasn’t intimately familiar with the custom and he thought that Dad might accept the arrangement if it were completed in advance.

  I knew the girl but had never thought of marrying her. I stuttered a bit, and finally said, “Thank you, Uncle, but I think Dad is right. I’m not ready to support a woman yet.” For some years after that, the girl would hardly speak to me. She was forced to marry an old man, and she blamed me because I hadn’t accepted her as my partner.

  Forced marriages generally occurred when young girls were given or sold to older men who had lost their wives. There was generally no shortage of women. Arranged marriages, such as the one Weaselheart organized for me, were also fairly common.

  Again I was subjected to much kidding from Dad, Charlie, and Jimmy, and now they had a name to throw at me. “Sidney, do you suppose Dorothy (not her real name) likes her eggs sunny-side up or over easy?” Charlie might ask at breakfast as I was dishing up his food. Or Jimmy would crack, “Your parka is torn, Sidney. Better get your wife busy with a needle.” I was glad when they tired of it.

  Trapping that winter was poor, and our furs brought only $2,800. Fur prices had plunged, due to the Depression. If the preceding winter was cold, that of 1928–29, if anything, was colder. There were weak chum salmon returns to the Koyukuk in 1932, and for a few years after that—probably due to the terrible winters of ’27–28 and ’28–29. Many of the creeks had frozen to the bottom, killing salmon eggs and fry that were in the gravel.

  The first sign we saw of the Depression came in the spring of 1929 when the value of muskrat skins suddenly dropped. Dominic Vernetti, who was having a hard time himself, offered a dollar for three muskrat skins in trade, or twenty-five cents each, cash. Trappers who had built up credit with him the previous year would get a dollar for a skin, the price for a muskrat then. Traders often acted as bankers for residents of the Yukon and Koyukuk. Folks could leave cash credit on the books and take it out later in either trade or cash for the amount they had sold him at the time.

  Hard economic times had little impact on our lives, for we depended largely upon the land for our food, shelter, and heat. We planted potatoes, cabbage, carrots, and other vegetables at Hog River. I convinced Dad that I knew how to make a fish trap like I had seen built and used at Anvik, so we built one under my supervision. We fished with it at the mouth of nearby Clear Creek, a tributary to Hog River, to catch our dog food as well as for our own food. There wasn’t sufficient current at Clear Creek for a fish wheel, and we were after whitefish, pike, and burbot—fish that a fish wheel seldom catches.

  At Koyukuk Station we paid Pop Russell what we owed him, and left about $1,000 on deposit for our fall outfit.

  “Order what you need—even more than a thousand dollars worth. I know you’ll pay. Don’t short yourself. I’ll send it all up with Wilfred Evans on his last freight trip in August,” Pop promised.

  Despite stories of traders who became rich off the Natives along the Yukon and Koyukuk, few actually left Alaska with any money. Those I have known—John Evans, Dominic Vernetti, Pop Russell, John Sommers, Andy Vachon, Tom Devaney—died in their stores, and most died poor.

  During the Depression, storekeepers had a lot invested in both Natives and whites, for “jawbone” (credit) was a way of life. Most trappers and rural residents paid their bills once a year, as we did. The traders often grubstaked prospectors, and more often than not they had no return on that money. Any profit storekeepers made commonly disappeared because they helped so many people by giving credit for which they were never paid.

  People in Koyukuk country often said that Dominic would steal the shirt off of one fellow, and give the shirt off his back to someone else. Perhaps so, but when the chips were down, he was there to help. Once Koyukon Bobby Vent was so sick he couldn’t walk, and was down to about ninety pounds. He had no money, and no one in the village of Huslia where he lived had any money to help. Several of us wrote to Dominic asking if he’d foot the bill to fly Bobby to the hospital at Tanana. “We’ll pay you back next spring, or this winter, with fur,” we all promised.

  I put Bobby on the Mudhen, the name we had given to the mail plane, which flew him to Koyukuk. On his arrival, Dominic paid his way to continue on to Tanana, and even gave him some spending money.

  Hard times or not, when someone needed help, Dominic, and most of the other traders I have known, could be counted on.

  13

  ON OUR OWN

  After freezeup in the fall of 1929, Charlie and I went upstream to Batza River where we spent several days looking for fur sign. Trapping had been poor the previous winter, and we were looking for better prospects.

  One day we split up—I searched the country in one direction, Charlie in another. In addition to fur sign, we looked for signs of mice, because when mice are plentiful, fur animals that
feed on them are usually abundant. I found enough fur and mouse sign to be encouraged, but that night I also had other news. “I found a fresh moose track today, Charlie,” I reported. That was an event to celebrate, for no moose then lived in the Koyukuk valley.

  “We’ll get that moose tomorrow,” Charlie promised. He loved to hunt, and often told stories of his market hunting days in Dawson country in ’97.

  “How do you know that?” I asked.

  “Did it run?”

  “No,” I answered.

  “Did you see only one track?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s a cow,” he said.

  Early the next morning Charlie led me up the Batza, not bothering to follow the moose tracks. We stayed high on the south slopes, watching the brushy north slope across the valley. By mid-morning we hadn’t seen the moose.

  “They’ll be lying down now,” Charlie said. We made lunch and rested until about 1:30. I was impatient, and wanted to continue with the moose hunt.

  “It’ll be 2:30 or later before they get up,” Charlie told me.

  “What do you mean ‘they’?” I asked. “I saw only one track.”

  “I’m sure it’s a cow with a calf,” he said, confidently.

  About 3:30 we spotted two moose—a cow and an almost grown calf. Amazed at Charlie’s intuition, I stared at him. We quietly worked our way out on a point closer to the moose, which were browsing on the opposite slope.

  The cow seemed to sense our presence, for she looked alertly in our direction.“About 600 yards,” Charlie muttered, as he raised the leaf sight on the .30-40. The distance looked to be about a mile to me—I couldn’t imagine anyone shooting anything at that distance. Nevertheless, Charlie stood with a forever-long aim, the rifle resting against a little cottonwood tree. When he finally pulled the trigger, that old cannon roared, and the cow dropped like a stone. The calf fled.

  “I got her right behind the ear,” Charlie said, straight-faced.

  “How do you know that?” I asked, awed by the shot.

  “That’s where I aimed.”

  Sure enough, the bullet had caught that cow right behind the ear, and for a time at least, I thought Charlie was the world’s greatest moose hunter and shooter.

  After I had a few years of hunting experience, I figured out his “miracle” shot. The front bead on that Winchester almost covered the entire moose at that distance, so there was no way he could have aimed behind the ear. When the moose fell like a log, it told him where the bullet had hit. As for predicting that it was a cow with a calf, Charlie knew moose habits. The infrequent moose that wandered into the Koyukuk in those years were mostly cows and cows are usually accompanied by a calf.

  It was to be years before I saw another moose in the Koyukuk. We feasted on that fine fat cow all that winter. Having such good fresh meat was a welcome change from the small game, fish, and black bear we usually depended upon. The moosehide, hair on, made a warm, comfortable mattress.

  That winter was milder than the previous two, but with the low prices for furs we made little money, although our catches were good. Dad’s health continued to deteriorate, and there wasn’t anything he could do about it. It was clear that he could not continue to live on the trapline because the work was too hard for him.

  The trapping year of 1930–31 was like the previous year; fur prices were low, because the Depression was in full swing. We subscribed to The Saturday Evening Post, which I remember cost five cents a copy and a year’s subscription of fifty-two issues was $2.50. We also subscribed to The Literary Digest. In these magazines we read about the many unemployed in the States, how men had to leave their families to bum their way around the country looking for work, and about lines of unemployed men at soup kitchens. I used to love Western story magazines, and I subscribed to three of these old pulps. When we picked up our mail each year, I always looked forward to reading the previous year’s magazines.

  During those lean years for others, we felt lucky, for we ate well, with most of our food coming from the land. We had our log cabin home and the equipment we needed to hunt, fish, and trap. While our furs brought little money, we certainly didn’t suffer.

  When we took the Vixen downriver with our furs in the spring of 1931, Dad announced that he’d decided to quit the trapline. “You’ve learned enough to take care of yourselves,” he told Jimmy and me. “You can go back to the trapline alone if you want. I won’t worry about you.” He got a job as a guard in the jail at Nulato, and old Charlie Swanson left for Canada and disappeared from our lives.

  Although this was quite a change for us and we would miss our Dad and Charlie, Jimmy and I loved the trapline life and we were excited at the prospect of being on our own. Trapping was an important and rewarding way of life; few other ways existed for making a living on the Koyukuk and Lower Yukon. And while I was only sixteen and Jimmy was fourteen, we knew we could manage.

  Although Jimmy’s health had improved, during that first year when we were alone, I always tried to do most of the heavy work. I ran the longer traplines, and broke trail when we traveled together and the going was tough. Jimmy hated it. “Why do you always baby me, Sidney?” he often asked. “I’m all right.”

  “I don’t want you to get sick on me out here in the woods,” I told him. We were many days from help by dog team or riverboat.

  Jimmy seemed to get stronger as the months went by. We always ate well, for Dad and Charlie had taught us how to cook and instilled in us good eating habits. We had plenty of game meat and fish, and in summer and fall we always had an abundance of fresh vegetables from our garden. Both of us had learned how to make bread during our first winter at Batza River.

  We shared work. One week I baked twelve loaves of bread at a time; the next week Jimmy did the honors. Whoever returned to the cabin first from the trapline or other work did the cooking. Neither of us ever waited for the other guy to do the work. And we kept tidy cabins. We acquired a lifelong habit of washing dishes immediately after eating. Our cabins were always comfortably warm, and usually we had plenty of rest. And with all the work we did daily that was necessary to stay alive, we got plenty of exercise.

  And we had fun.

  Spring was always a special time. In late April, snow still covers the ground in the Koyukuk valley. Then one day, suddenly, warm air arrives, and with it come the geese, ducks, cranes, robins, thrushes, and many other birds, and soon after that, breakup on the Koyukuk River occurs.

  One day after breakup, but while ice was still floating down the river, I was in an especially exuberant mood, delighted that spring had arrived. I undressed and jumped into the frigid Koyukuk in front of our cabin. Jimmy joined me, and we swam among floating ice cakes, laughing at our silliness and enjoying the feeling of the cold water.

  That spring we whipsawed lumber, hand-planed it, and built a thirty-four-foot cabin boat with a ten-foot beam which we called the Ark. It was a great improvement over the battered Vixen. We installed a twelve-horsepower Kermath marine engine, and built in bunks and a folding table. From that time on, when Jimmy and I traveled to various fishing or hunting spots on the Koyukuk River, we could live on the Ark instead of having to camp on the beach. With this big boat we could travel comfortably on the Yukon River as well. And we could push or pull a barge loaded with our sled dogs and freight. We used the Ark for more than a dozen years before losing her in the Yukon River flood of 1945.

  During that spring of 1932 we practiced canoe racing on the Koyukuk in front of our cabin. We had one good fast canoe and a second, slower, load-carrying canoe. Koyukuk and Yukon canoes like ours were locally made in all shapes and sizes, averaging about fifteen feet in length. Commonly framed up with birch or spruce ribs, the sides were quarter-inch thick lumber whipsawed from spruce and the bottoms were about five-eighths-inch thick. Canvas was stretched over the wood and painted.

  Jimmy and I took turns racing in the two canoes, but the one who paddled the fast one always won in a race. I didn’t realize the skill
we were acquiring as paddlers until that summer.

  Jimmy and I ran the Ark to Nulato to sell our furs, to buy groceries, and to see Dad. No matter how many times we made these trips we always enjoyed them, and for the hundreds of miles we cruised the Koyukuk, we looked forward to seeing what was around the next bend. Black bears frequented the riverbank; ducks and geese were always overhead; songbirds sang among the trees and flitted around us. Beaver, muskrat, and otter often appeared in the clear river water.

  We were at Nulato on July fourth, when the village celebrated with athletic contests, picnics and community dinners, and an all-night dance. Jimmy surprised everyone, including me, when he won the 100-yard dash. He was a bit shorter than I was, but he was wiry and quick. About twenty people entered the race, including adults. Jimmy got off to a fast start and stayed in the lead all the way.

  The highlight of the day was a canoe race over and back across the broad Yukon River. Joe Stickman practically owned the Fourth of July canoe race at Nulato. He had never lost.

  Our friend Toby Patsy asked my approval for him to loan his canoe to Jimmy for the race. I hesitated, still feeling responsible for my brother, and always trying to keep him from taking risks. “Look at my canoe,” Toby suggested.

  The slender, well-shaped craft had a seventeen-foot bottom, and was only about ten inches wide just aft of the center, with a nice long taper at both ends. I stepped in and paddled a short way. That canoe really moved when I leaned into the paddle.

  “I know you’d win the race in that canoe, but I found it first,” Jimmy piped up when I came ashore. That settled it.

  Everyone in town was on the bank of the Yukon to cheer the paddlers on as about fifteen canoes of various sizes and styles lined up for the contest. Dad and I grinned at each other when, at the crack of the starting gun, Jimmy’s canoe leaped ahead. He stayed in the lead all the way across, made a quick turnaround, and was half a dozen lengths ahead of the nearest canoe when he reached the shore at Nulato.