Part 18

Unlike the other mountains of the Pacific Northwest, the dozen or more peaks which make up the Olympic range are not isolated volcanic cones, but form a range of jagged peaks connected below. They are covered with snow the greater part of the year, and rise in the two highest peaks, Mts. Olympus and Constance, to a height of 8150 and 7770 feet respectively. It is an odd fact that until a few months ago the region enclosed by this range, though appearing within stone’s-throw of Seattle’s thirty thousand inhabitants, was almost as unknown as parts of Africa before Stanley. A few trappers and prospectors for minerals had made spasmodic efforts to cross the mountain barriers, and hence arose rumors of the existence in this wilderness of Indians who had never seen a white man, of beautiful lakes full of fish, fine valleys suited for grazing and agriculture, gold, silver, iron, and lead ores, and bears and elks enough to make this a sportsman’s paradise. But nothing definite was known until last June, when two parties that had gone out in the autumn returned in a deplorable condition, and reported on the correctness of the rumors. One of these parties consisted of Ex-Lieutenant-Governor Gilman of Minnesota and his son, and the other was sent out by the Seattle _Press_. Thus a new and valuable territory has been added to the new State.

In writing about Puget Sound it is difficult to get the mind away from the mountains, but I will only add that as the steamer enters Elliott Bay we get a most picturesque view of Seattle, framed in by Mt. Baker on the left, and Mt. Tacoma (here always called Mt. Rainier, of course) on the right; and that the view of the latter peak is quite as fine as at Tacoma. Like Tacoma, Seattle is built on the side of a hill sloping down to the water, and the harbor is excellent, affording room for several miles of wharfage. The business streets are again (as in almost all cities of the Pacific Coast) the only ones on level ground, while the residence streets run at right angles to them up hill. In one respect Seattle is perhaps the most modern of all American cities, as there is not a single horse-car line in the town, their place being taken by cable and electric lines, which do the work much better, quicker, and without cruelty to animals, of which all horse-car companies are inevitably guilty.

The first time I saw Seattle was a few weeks after the great fire in 1889 which consumed the entire business section of the city, with the wharves, and entailed a loss of eight to ten millions on its twenty thousand inhabitants. It was a most curious sight,—a city of tents built on the charred ruins of the former city, on the site of which it had literally grown up in a day, like a bed of mushrooms. Hotels consisted of large tents with the office in front, cots behind, and the kitchen and dining-room in other tents. Druggists, barbers, dry-goods dealers, grocers, etc., all had their business in tents; and as a sufficient number of these could not be obtained immediately, one could see here and there a “happy family,” consisting, say, of a jeweller, milliner, and real-estate dealer, all in one tent. But the oddest sight I came across was a large tent filled with miscellaneous goods, displayed on improvised benches, and outside the tent was this notice in large letters: “POSITIVELY NO GOODS AT RETAIL.”

It is possible that the reporters overdrew matters somewhat (contrary to their natural propensity) when they wrote of a theatrical manager who, when he saw his building on fire, forthwith rushed to an architect for plans for a new one; of a merchant who telegraphed for iron for a new store when he saw the flames had taken hold of his old one; and of wagons unloading stone for the foundations of a new building while the hose was still playing on the débris of the old one: but like an exaggerated perspective in a picture, such stories, after all, only show the situation in a true light, since the energy, pluck, and hopefulness shown by the Seattleites on this occasion have never been paralleled. When the anniversary of the fire was celebrated, on June 6, 1890, it was stated that during the year two hundred and sixty-five new buildings had been put up, together with sixty new wharves, with a frontage of over two miles—all of which, with other improvements, involved the expenditure of almost twelve million dollars. Sixty blocks, or one hundred and twenty acres, had been consumed, and in rebuilding this portion the streets have been made wider and straighter, and the buildings are of much better material and higher than formerly. The old ones would have been torn down anyway in a few years, so that, after all, the fire proved a blessing in disguise to the community as a whole. On re-visiting Seattle in June, I found that the new buildings were not in such an advanced stage as the newspaper accounts had led one to fancy; but there was no mistake about their being there, and their metropolitan dimensions, and their stone and iron constitution. The air was hideous with the noise of stone-cutters and carpenters, and the sidewalks were impassable for the piles of bricks and lumber. There were also a few direct traces of the fire in piles of charred timber, and in a few scattered tents where groceries, clothing, etc., were still being sold, the owners having probably lost too much to be able to rebuild at once.

Seattle enjoys almost exactly the same advantages as Tacoma regarding scenery, climate, shipping, coal, and lumber, and further details can therefore be dispensed with. Both these cities doubtless have a great future before them, and there is no ground for the fierce jealousy between them. But if the Seattleites do not wish to alienate the sympathies of tourists, they should cease naming the glorious Mt. Tacoma after an obscure English lord when we have such a beautiful American name for it.

Beyond Seattle the Sound widens out, and forty-seven miles to the north we come to the last of our cities this side of Alaska,—Port Townsend, the United States customs stations, at which all vessels that enter or leave the Sound have to report. It has most of the advantages of other Sound cities, and a population at present of five thousand. In the number of customs entries, Port Townsend claims to be next to New York. The climatic vagaries produced on the Pacific Coast by the “Chinook” wind, which comes from the Japan Current, are curiously illustrated by the rainfall at this city. As a general thing, the rainfall on the Pacific Coast may be said to increase steadily from San Diego’s ten inches to Sitka’s one hundred and eight. But, oddly enough, there is less rain in the Puget Sound region than in Oregon, the “web-foot” State. Tacoma has forty inches, and Port Townsend only sixteen. Similarly, it is observed that less rain falls in Vancouver’s Island than in British Columbia in general. But when he gets into Alaska, the tourist is fortunate if he comes upon a rainless week even in summer; and in rainy weather its scenic wonders can only be half appreciated. It seems, therefore, as if Puget Sound had been placed where it is as a sample of Alaskan scenery and inland coast navigation; and a most excellent sample it is, for it is only when we get up as far as Sitka that the Alaskan salt-water river boasts of snow-peaks comparable to Mts. Tacoma, Adams, Baker, St. Helens, and Hood, which adorn Puget Sound.

XV.

A WEEK IN ALASKA.

A GREAT SALT-WATER RIVER—THE GENUINE AMERICAN SWITZERLAND—HIGHEST SNOW-MOUNTAIN IN THE WORLD—THE EXCURSION SEASON—ISLANDS AND FORESTS—INDIAN TRAITS—ALASKAN VILLAGES—GLACIER BAY—AN ICEBERG FACTORY.

If Long Island Sound could be continued for about a thousand miles, past the coasts of Maine, Newfoundland, and Labrador, as far as the entrance to Hudson’s Bay, so that tourists might go all the way on fast river-steamers, with state-rooms on the main deck, and without the slightest risk of sea-sickness; and if this hypothetic “Long Island” could be broken up into several thousand, which, instead of being flat and sandy, were covered with forests of almost tropical luxuriance and with mountains of an infinite variety of shape, continually increasing in altitude until they culminated in two snow-peaks higher than Mt. Blanc, outrunners of the third highest mountain range in the world, and sending clear down and into the salt water numerous glaciers, compared with which those in Switzerland are mere pigmies,—if, in other words, the strip of coast which extends from Tacoma, Washington, to Glacier Bay in Alaska could be transferred to the Atlantic side, it is safe to say that at least a score of large steamers, crowded with passengers, would be going up and down this salt-water river all summer long. The Atlantic Coast people, however, even if they possessed this scenic bonanza, would hardly be able to enjoy it comfortably, on account of the icy ocean current which sweeps down Davis Strait and chills and befogs Labrador and Newfoundland even in summer. Most persons in the East seem to imagine that Alaska must be in a similar, if not a worse, predicament; but they reckon without the warm Japan Current which does for Southern Alaska what the Gulf Stream does for the British Islands. Northwestern Alaska, indeed, shares with Northern Siberia the honor of having the coldest climate in the world; but the southeastern portion of the coast, as far north as Sitka, has a climate much warmer than that of Maine, though Sitka is some fifteen degrees of latitude north of Portland, Maine. It must be borne in mind how vast a country Alaska is,—as large, one writer has calculated, as the original thirteen States. A still more graphic way of realizing its extent is by noting that from California it is as far to the western extremity of Alaska as it is to New York; so that the central city of the United States is not Omaha or St. Paul, but San Francisco!

Fifty years hence, in my humble opinion, San Francisco, or the then metropolis of the Pacific Coast, will be not only geographically but in many other ways the centre of American life. The agricultural, scenic, climatic, and hygienic superiority of the Western to the Eastern Coast is too great not to affect the question of population and civilization. But long before that era Alaska will have universally established its claim to that much abused-phrase “the American Switzerland,”—unless, indeed, the terms should be converted, and Switzerland come to be complimented as “the European Alaska.” Yearly the number increases of those who ask themselves whether, instead of going to Europe every summer, it would not be worth while to try a Western trip. Before the Yellowstone Park and Alaska were made conveniently accessible, this Western trip could hardly have been recommended as an equivalent for Europe; but now the scales are pretty evenly balanced, and as soon as the St. Elias range shall have been included in the regular round trip, and provided with guides, roads, and hotels, Switzerland will have to “take a back seat”; for St. Elias rises twenty thousand feet into the air, and can be seen from base to top, with a snow-and-ice mantle reaching down to the very level of the ocean, while the highest mountain in Switzerland is only 15,784 feet high (to the spectator only about twelve thousand, as he is already several thousand feet high when he sees it), and has a snow-mantle of only about seven thousand feet. Indeed, considering that in the Himalayas and the Andes, the only two ranges that tower above the St. Elias, the snow-line is as high as fifteen thousand to twenty thousand feet, it is clear that St. Elias must be the highest _snow_ mountain in the world.

Unfortunately, the present Alaskan round trip does not include St. Elias, although the majority of the tourists would gladly risk the chances of sea-sickness by making the additional two hundred miles from Sitka in the open sea. Two mountains of the St. Elias range, with their stupendous glaciers,—Fairweather and Crillon, both higher than Mt. Blanc,—are, however, visible to those who make the present tour; and although, like St. Elias, they are lamentably apt to hide themselves beneath and above clouds, even those who miss this wonderful sight find so much that is unique in the other attractions, that no one has ever been known to feel the slightest desire to “get his money back.” Were the scenery much less inspiring than it is, yet would the trip be worth making for its hygienic value. Here, for two or three weeks, one can breathe a delicious mixture of ocean and mountain air, the latter just sufficiently impregnated with the fragrance of pine forests to prevent that enervating languor which an exclusive lung diet of ocean air is apt to breed. As regards the appetite for solid food, its average size may be inferred from Captain Carroll’s favorite joke,—that, as the provisions are running short, he shall be compelled to take the turbulent outside passage back in order to curb the gastronomic propensities of the passengers.

The fare provided on these steamers is about as good as that on the average Atlantic steamers, but the daily salmon and a few other dishes become monotonous, and the passengers look in vain for “local color” in the bill of fare; _i. e._ for venison and bear steak, wild ducks and geese, salmon-berries, and some of the usual kinds of fish that haunt these waters. The fault for this omission is laid on the shoulders of the Indians, who are said to be too lazy to hunt and fish for more than they need for themselves daily. But as they willingly work in the mines for two dollars a day, it is probable they would gladly hunt and fish for the steamer stewards if enough were offered them. Yet, as just intimated, one needs no such special stimulants for the appetite, and one thing is certain, that the large number of invalids who cross the Atlantic yearly, chiefly to get the benefits of a sea-voyage, would do much better to go to Alaska, for there they would be _sure_ of gaining in weight daily, owing to the absence of sea-sickness. And another thing in favor of the Alaskan tour is, that one is certain to find pleasant companionship on the steamers. The passengers on Atlantic steamers represent all classes of society, and even of the tourists not all are pleasure-seekers in an æsthetic sense; but of the Alaskan passengers the majority are apt to be persons of refinement and taste, since the only magnet that can draw them there is the hope of enjoying fine scenery.

Most of the tourists, not feeling quite certain whether Alaska will come up to their expectations, go on the elegant new steamer which is provided with all modern comforts and makes the round trip in twelve days; but not a few regret afterwards that they did not take one of the old freight steamers, _Idaho_ or _Ancon_, which require about a week more for the trip, and, as they repeatedly stop a whole day at interesting places, allow the passengers more time to explore the neighborhood, and go fishing, observe the natives, hunt for curios, etc. The fast steamer makes only six or seven stops in twelve days, remaining from two to six hours at each place; and for almost three days after leaving Victoria she makes no stop at all, thus resembling an ocean steamer,—a resemblance made the more suggestive by a series of rocky islands near Victoria that look very much like the coast of Ireland when first approached on the voyage to Liverpool.

The regular tourist season extends from the middle of April to the middle of October. Early in the year passengers will see more of the “midnight sun,” but in July and August fogs and rain are less common, although even during those months the warm winds blowing inland from the Japanese Current are very apt to condense into clouds and rain,—a wise arrangement which prevents the scenery from becoming monotonous to the tourists; and if any interesting point is thereby missed, there is always a chance of seeing it on the return trip,—unless, indeed, the captain should choose a different channel. There is an endless variety to select from, and the marvel is that any captain or pilot should ever be able to find his way through this labyrinth. For what the Milky Way is among stars, this island-studded archipelago is among terrestrial water-ways. Captain Carroll, however, finds his way as unerringly as the salmon which at some seasons splash about the ship, bound for the rivers of the interior. There is not a single lighthouse—only here and there a rude post. Fortunately the nights never become entirely dark, and even a dense fog does not arrest the steamer’s progress; for the pilots have learned, by blowing the steam-whistle, to judge by the echo the distance from either shore; and the water is almost invariably so deep that danger is reduced to a minimum.

During our trip, which commenced on August 22, the fog was never dense enough to call for the steam-whistle; but the dense smoke, the result of forest fires and “clearings,” which had prevented us from enjoying the Columbia River scenery and Mts. Hood and Tacoma, also hid from us the charms of the far-famed Puget Sound region with its background of Olympian and other snow-mountains. Gradually, however, as we passed along British Columbia towards Alaska, the smoke grew less dense and finally disappeared entirely. Isolated columns of smoke were still to be seen frequently in the midst of the primitive forests, indicating Indian camps; but in Alaska, thanks to the frequent rains, forest fires cannot occur—a fact which will console the economically minded for the enormous wastes of timber in Washington Territory and Oregon. The visible wealth of Alaska, as Mr. Hallock remarks, lies in these forests: “There is a supply here of 5,700,000,000 feet at a low estimate, a very large part of which is at once accessible for shipment, as saw-mills and vessels can lie right alongside the timber at tide water all the way up the coast as far as it extends”; and Alaska with its islands is said to have a coast line of twenty-five thousand miles, equal to the circumference of the globe.

Not only has Alaska the third highest mountain range in the world, but if the greatest landscape artist had been consulted, its members could not have been arranged in a manner more continuously impressive to the tourist. Beginning near Victoria with a moderate altitude and mere patches of snow on the sides, they daily grow higher and whiter until the climax is reached in the St. Elias group. When we were northward bound, the smoky atmosphere hid the distant peaks and left the impression that snow was rather scarce for the first three days; but on the return trip a shower had preceded us, clearing away this smoke, revealing snow in abundance, including, about thirty-six hours from Victoria, an undulating range with immense snow-fields that would not be without honor even in Switzerland; and this was before Alaska proper had been reached.

The whole of the second and third days the passengers could imagine themselves sailing along the Hudson River Highlands or Loreley Rock on the Rhine; but after that all comparison with Eastern rivers ceased, and the Columbia alone, with its background of snow-mountains, afforded approximate terms of comparison. The hour for sleep was postponed as long as possible, from fear of losing some of the grand sights. As one of the passengers remarked, it would be possible to make hundreds of Lake Georges out of this Alaskan salt-water river. The word “lake” is very appropriate, as the channel widens and apparently comes to an end, as in a few places on the Hudson, so that tourists frequently amuse themselves by guessing which way the pilot is going to turn next. In some places the channel is so wide that land disappears on one side; at other times so narrow that a woman could throw a stone on either shore.

Of the abundance and variety of islands which adorn this water-way, only those can form a remote conception who have seen the Thousand Islands of the St. Lawrence. But in Alaska, as one writer has remarked, we see not a thousand islands only, but “a thousand miles of islands,” some as large as a State or a European kingdom, others just large enough for a house and garden; while many look as if future generations would inevitably call them “Picnic Islands,” so cosey and inviting are they. Like the mountains that line the shores, all these islands are densely wooded and very few of them are flat. Indeed, a strip of flat land in this part of Alaska is such a curiosity that the tourist’s attention is unconsciously attracted by it—reminding one of the young Tyrolean girl’s exclamation on entering for the first time the monotonous plain between Munich and Stuttgart: “Oh, mamma, look out of the window. How beautiful! there is not a mountain in sight!”

Bare hill-sides are almost equally rare in Alaska, till one reaches the glacier regions. Everywhere the forests extend down to the very edge of the water, and during high tide they actually seem to overlap or grow out of the water. Consequently there is no beach, its place being taken at low tide by ten feet or more of rocky wall adorned with mosses and other vegetable and animal growths, and sometimes almost as brilliantly colored as the walls of the Yellowstone Cañon. The forests above add to this an endless variety of green tints, indicating the different kinds of wood, the age of the trees; or, perchance, an isolated streak of fresher color betrays the path of an avalanche which carried away the old trees and made room for a new growth.

Some of the mountains are so rocky that they afford insufficient nourishment to the trees, which consequently die after a certain age, their gray, leafless skeletons suggesting the thought that after all forest fires have their use as a sort of scavengers. Still, these gray and green forests are less uninviting than those black and green charnel forests in which the fires have done their work incompletely; and they are the exception, not the rule, in Alaska.

For the first three days, as already intimated, these aspects of nature were the only new experiences and sights offered to the _Olympian’s_ passengers, no stops being made after Fort Townsend and Victoria till we reached Juneau (the largest town in Alaska), omitting Nanaimo, Tongas, and Wrangel. It is customary to stop at each place of any importance, either in going up or returning, the captain being guided in his decision chiefly by the necessity of passing certain dangerous places when the tide is favorable.

The most perilous of these places is Seymour Rapids, some hours north of Nanaimo. As we approached these narrows, the water presented a most turbulently fascinating appearance, twirling around furiously in hundreds of little whirlpools, while large portions of the surface appeared to be several feet higher than the adjoining parts, as if a submarine earthquake had raised some places and thus made the water run down hill. The spectacle was as exciting as the Niagara rapids, and more sublime, because the fact of being on the water, and the knowledge that there were hidden rocks all about, added just that slight suspicion of danger which stimulates the feeling of sublimity.