Travels in Alaska | Page 7

takes in and revels in
their beauty with ever fresh delight. In their relations to each other the
individual members of a group have evidently been derived from the
same general rock-mass, yet they never seem broken or abridged in any
way as to their contour lines, however abruptly they may dip their sides.
Viewed one by one, they seem detached beauties, like extracts from a
poem, while, from the completeness of their lines and the way that their
trees are arranged, each seems a finished stanza in itself. Contemplating
the arrangement of the trees on these small islands, a distinct
impression is produced of their having been sorted and harmonized as
to size like a well-balanced bouquet. On some of the smaller tufted
islets a group of tapering spruces is planted in the middle, and two
smaller groups that evidently correspond with each other are planted on
the ends at about equal distances from the central group; or the whole
appears as one group with marked fringing trees that match each other
spreading around the sides, like flowers leaning outward against the
rim of a vase. These harmonious tree relations are so constant that they
evidently are the result of design, as much so as the arrangement of the
feathers of birds or the scales of fishes.
Thus perfectly beautiful are these blessed evergreen islands, and their
beauty is the beauty of youth, for though the freshness of their verdure

must be ascribed to the bland moisture with which they are bathed from
warm ocean-currents, the very existence of the islands, their features,
finish, and peculiar distribution, are all immediately referable to
ice-action during the great glacial winter just now drawing to a close.
We arrived at Wrangell July 14, and after a short stop of a few hours
went on to Sitka and returned on the 20th to Wrangell, the most
inhospitable place at first sight I had ever seen. The little steamer that
had been my home in the wonderful trip through the archipelago, after
taking the mail, departed on her return to Portland, and as I watched her
gliding out of sight in the dismal blurring rain, I felt strangely lonesome.
The friend that had accompanied me thus far now left for his home in
San Francisco, with two other interesting travelers who had made the
trip for health and scenery, while my fellow passengers, the
missionaries, went direct to the Presbyterian home in the old fort. There
was nothing like a tavern or lodging-house in the village, nor could I
find any place in the stumpy, rocky, boggy ground about it that looked
dry enough to camp on until I could find a way into the wilderness to
begin my studies. Every place within a mile or two of the town seemed
strangely shelterless and inhospitable, for all the trees had long ago
been felled for building-timber and firewood. At the worst, I thought, I
could build a bark hut on a hill back of the village, where something
like a forest loomed dimly through the draggled clouds.
I had already seen some of the high glacier-bearing mountains in
distant views from the steamer, and was anxious to reach them. A few
whites of the village, with whom I entered into conversation, warned
me that the Indians were a bad lot, not to be trusted, that the woods
were well-nigh impenetrable, and that I could go nowhere without a
canoe. On the other hand, these natural difficulties made the grand wild
country all the more attractive, and I determined to get into the heart of
it somehow or other with a bag of hardtack, trusting to my usual good
luck. My present difficulty was in finding a first base camp. My only
hope was on the hill. When I was strolling past the old fort I happened
to meet one of the missionaries, who kindly asked me where I was
going to take up my quarters.

"I don't know," I replied. "I have not been able to find quarters of any
sort. The top of that little hill over there seems the only possible place."
He then explained that every room in the mission house was full, but he
thought I might obtain leave to spread my blanket in a carpenter-shop
belonging to the mission. Thanking him, I ran down to the sloppy
wharf for my little bundle of baggage, laid it on the shop floor, and felt
glad and snug among the dry, sweet-smelling shavings.
The carpenter was at work on a new Presbyterian mission building, and
when he came in I explained that Dr. Jackson [Dr. Sheldon Jackson,
1834-1909, became Superintendent of Presbyterian Missions in Alaska
in 1877, and United States General Agent of Education in 1885. [W. F.
B.]] had suggested that I might