Coming into the Country (38 page)
Read Coming into the Country Online
Authors: John McPhee
Nothing much was going to turn us over, though. Only at one or two points in a hundred and sixty miles did we see anything that remotely suggested rapids, and these were mere drapefolds of white in the otherwise broad, flat river. Sleepers were in the waterâbig logs flushing down out of Canada and floating beneath the surfaceâbut they were going in our direction and were much less dangerous than they would have been had we been heading upstream. The great power of the Yukon âsix and more fathoms of water, sometimes half a mile wide,
moving at seven knotsâwas unostentatiously displayed. The surface was deceptively calmâit was only when you looked to the side that you saw how fast you were flying.
moving at seven knotsâwas unostentatiously displayed. The surface was deceptively calmâit was only when you looked to the side that you saw how fast you were flying.
From the hull, meanwhile, came the steady sound of sandpaper, of sliding stones, of rain on a metal roofâthe sound of the rock in the river, put there by alpine glaciers. Dip a cupful of water and the powdered rock settled quickly to the bottom. At the height of the melting season, something near two hundred tons of solid material will flow past a given point on the riverbank in one minute. Bubbling boils, like the tops of high fountains, bloomed everywhere on the surface but did not rough it up enough to make any sort of threat to the canoe. They stemmed from the crash of fast water on boulders and ledges far below. Bend to bend, the river presented itself in large segmentsâtwo, three, six miles at a stretch, now smooth, now capped white under the nervously changeable sky. We picked our way through flights of wooded islands. We shivered in the deep shadows of bluffs a thousand feet highâCalico Bluff, Montauk Bluff, Biederman Bluff, Takoma Bluffâwhich day after day intermittently walled the river. Between themâin downpourings of sunshine, as often as notâlong vistas reached back across spruce-forested hills to the rough gray faces and freshly whitened summits of mountains. Some of the walls of the bluffs were of dark igneous rock that had cracked into bricks and appeared to have been set there by masons. Calico Bluffâa sedimentary fudge, folded, convoluted in whorls and ampersandsâwas black and white and yellow-tan. Up close it smelled of oil. It was sombre as we passed it, standing in its own shadow. Peregrine falcons nest there, andâfantastic fliersâwill come over the Yukon at ballistic speeds, clench their talons, tuck them in, and strike a flying duck hard enough (in the neck) to kill it in midair. End over end the duck falls, and the falcon catches it before it hits the river. As we passed the mouth of the Tatonduk, fifteen ducks flew directly over us. Brad Snow reached for his shotgun, and quickly fired twice.
Fifteen ducks went up the Tatonduk. Above the Nation, steep burgundy mountainsides reached up from the bright-green edges of the river, then fell away before tiers of higher mountains, dark with spruce and pale with aspen, quilted with sunlight and shadow. Ahead, long points of land and descending ridgelines reached toward one another into the immensity of the river, roughed now under a stiff wind. Filmy downspouts dropped from the clouds. Behind the next bend, five miles away, a mountain was partly covered with sliding mist. The scene resembled Lake Maggiore and might have been the Hardanger Fjord, but it was just a fragment of this river, an emphatic implication of all the two thousand miles, and of the dozens of tributaries that in themselves were major riversâproof and reminder that with its rampart bluffs and circumvallate mountains it was not only a great river of the far northwestern continent but a river of preëminence among the rivers of the world. The ring of its name gave nothing away to the name of any river. Sunlight was bright on the mountains to both sides, and a driving summer rain came up the middle. The wind tore up the waves and flung pieces of them through the air. It was not the wind, though, but the river itself that took the breath away.
Fifteen ducks went up the Tatonduk. Above the Nation, steep burgundy mountainsides reached up from the bright-green edges of the river, then fell away before tiers of higher mountains, dark with spruce and pale with aspen, quilted with sunlight and shadow. Ahead, long points of land and descending ridgelines reached toward one another into the immensity of the river, roughed now under a stiff wind. Filmy downspouts dropped from the clouds. Behind the next bend, five miles away, a mountain was partly covered with sliding mist. The scene resembled Lake Maggiore and might have been the Hardanger Fjord, but it was just a fragment of this river, an emphatic implication of all the two thousand miles, and of the dozens of tributaries that in themselves were major riversâproof and reminder that with its rampart bluffs and circumvallate mountains it was not only a great river of the far northwestern continent but a river of preëminence among the rivers of the world. The ring of its name gave nothing away to the name of any river. Sunlight was bright on the mountains to both sides, and a driving summer rain came up the middle. The wind tore up the waves and flung pieces of them through the air. It was not the wind, though, but the river itself that took the breath away.
Mon Oct 27. Good morning, Sara! 6° ⦠The water froze in the water buckets and I slept good ⦠The river is really flowin' a lot of ice, but it is still movingâripping and tearing at the shelf ice on the banks.
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Wed Oct 29.â20° this morning, clear as a church bell and feels good. Got a ruffed grouse and a squirrel yesterday, also set some rabbit snares.
Rain gone, and in sun again we could hear the consumption of an island. Large pieces of the bank fell thunderously into the water, because the Yukon had decided to yaw. We
passed a deep fresh indentation in the shore where a dozen tall spruce had plopped at once. They were sixty-foot trees, and so much of the ground that held them had fallen with them that they now stood almost vertically in thirty feet of river. Ordinarily, as a river works its way into cut-bank soil the trees of the bank gradually lose their balance and become “sweepers”âtheir trunks slanting downward, their branches spread into the water. The islands of the Yukon have so many sweepers that from a distance they look like triremes. The river roars through the crowns of the trees with a sound of heavy rapids.
passed a deep fresh indentation in the shore where a dozen tall spruce had plopped at once. They were sixty-foot trees, and so much of the ground that held them had fallen with them that they now stood almost vertically in thirty feet of river. Ordinarily, as a river works its way into cut-bank soil the trees of the bank gradually lose their balance and become “sweepers”âtheir trunks slanting downward, their branches spread into the water. The islands of the Yukon have so many sweepers that from a distance they look like triremes. The river roars through the crowns of the trees with a sound of heavy rapids.
Fri Oct 31.â32° & clear. Thank God for wood!
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Sat Nov 1.â33°. It sure got to cracking and buckin' last night. She is really still out this morning. It took 8 days to freeze since the ice started flowing. The Yukon is froze solid.
Often, after the general freeze-up, there is a lead in the left-bank bend beside Eagleâthe current keeping open a patch of river long after the rest is ice. It can stay open for more than two months. A cold snapâreaching, say, seventy below zeroâwill finally close it.
Barney Hansen, who came into the country fifty years ago to mine gold, says he once watched a file of thirteen caribou pick their way down Eagle Bluff to drown in the river lead. The bluff approaches sheer, and its face is rough with crags and ledges and plunging tight ravines. Slowly, surely, the thirteen creatures descended, almost every move a feat of balance and decision. Poised there, each avoiding a fall to destruction, they gave Hansen and whoever else may have been watching plenty of time to wonder why they had chosen that route. They could readily have swung wide of both the town and the bluff. Finally, they reached the ice and started across the river. Everywhere around the lead, the ice was solid to the farther shore. Yet the thirteen caribou one after another jumped into the
open water. The current drew them to the downstream end, where it sucked them under the ice.
open water. The current drew them to the downstream end, where it sucked them under the ice.
In May, when big floes begin to move downriver like ships, caribou have been observed upon them. Caught crossing the river when the ice moved, they now stand in huddled helplessness, riding to certain death as the support beneath them crashes, cracks, diminishes in size, and ultimately rolls over.
Sun Nov. 2.â35° ⦠Beautiful, clear day. Still no moose sign. Lots of overflow on the Yukon. I set out some traps and snares tonight, feels good to be runnin through the woods lookin for them little critters.
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Mon Nov 3.â38° Still and clear.
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Wed Nov 5.â31°, still clear and I still love Sara a bunch. Today is woodchoppin day, so I et 3 lbs. of taters, a pound of spam, and a gallon of coffee. I'm not full, but it'll have to do.
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Thur Nov 6.â30 ⦠Seen a fresh cat track today where the lynx had bedded down right beside a rabbit run. Twice he had picked himself a good spot to lay in readiness for a meal.
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Sun Nov 9.â24°. Reset some traps. Got a lynx comin to one of 'em. Put some squirrels in a couple for marten bait. Did a lot of snowshoeing & breakin trail and am tuckered out.
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Mon Nov 10.â12° cloudy and may snow. Today is the anniversary of being in Alaska for exactly one year now. Quite a lot has happened and if I had Sara now it would be the end of a near perfect year. Still, it was the best decision I ever did make, and am very glad things worked out. If I was religious, I might say, “Thank you, Lord.” Amen.
Approaching the mouth of the Kandik, Snow and I maneuvered among shoals and heavy driftwood in an attempt to get
to shore, going in for an assessive look at our friend Sarge Waller's cabin. We went up the bank. Snow gave the cabin a long, professional sniffâa construction worker's frank inspection. “This,” he said finallyâand paused a moment to mortise the wordsâ“this is the most poorly built cabin you ever will see.” The walls were convex. The foundation was not banked. The roof was virtually without insulation. The corners were mail slots for the wind. The loose sheets of Corazza's journal were held by a metal clip hanging on a wall. I took them down and riffled through them.
to shore, going in for an assessive look at our friend Sarge Waller's cabin. We went up the bank. Snow gave the cabin a long, professional sniffâa construction worker's frank inspection. “This,” he said finallyâand paused a moment to mortise the wordsâ“this is the most poorly built cabin you ever will see.” The walls were convex. The foundation was not banked. The roof was virtually without insulation. The corners were mail slots for the wind. The loose sheets of Corazza's journal were held by a metal clip hanging on a wall. I took them down and riffled through them.
The journal was roughly four thousand words. (Only fragments are here.) The author's name was nowhere on it so far as I could see. It had been left in an empty cabin, in nearabsolute wilderness, on land that belonged to the people of the United States, of whom I was one. If ever a piece of writing was born in the public domain, surely this was it. Yesâbut it seemed private. It wasn't like food in a cache, to take and later replace. I returned it to the wall.
A few weeks later, I was sitting in the roadhouse in Central talking with a man who was down from the mining claims on Porcupine Creek. He was young, dark-haired, strongly built. Like most bush Alaskans, however new to the bush they might be, he had greeting in his face. In the course of a second beer, he mentioned that he had spent the winter in a cabin near the mouth of the Kandik.
I surprised him by telling him I had glanced at his journal, and had wished I could someday read it. He said he had a little time off and had been thinking of going up there anyway; he would see me again in a few days. He went eighty miles up the river and brought back the journal.
Wed Nov 12.â3° cloudy & snowing. Molly of the North, great Alaskan cat hound, says she likes this turn in the weather. She has put on considerable weight and looks real strong.
Saw a gyrfalcon today. Flew right over my head clippin along at a pace so fast it sounded like a jet. Almost white bird. Could have been a female, it was pretty good size. Also saw a bird killed hare yesterday near the cabin. Bet it's that gyr's meal. This country is neat
We carried mail with us downriver, and now and again Brad would, in effect, toss it into the woods. There were people in there who would read it. The names on the packages and envelopes were not familiar to me. Snow said, “There are those on the river who are discreet and those who are not. People like Dick Cook and Charlie Edwards need to talk and be chatty in Eagle. Others come into town rarely, say nothing much, and leave.”
We stopped one morning in a hidden slough with letters for Jan Waldron. She was slender, lankily built, with long blond hair, a quick and friendly smile. She ran down the bank and fairly jumped into the canoe. “Gosh, it's so good to see you.” Her husband, Seymour Abel, had been away many days. Their home was a wall tent on supporting courses of logs, with a door that was more like a window. We crawled in. She and Seymour were just camping in this tent, she explained, and opened some beer she had brewed there. She pointed proudly to a cavity in the earth at her feet. To surprise and please Seymour, she had passed the time removing a stump. I remembered meeting Seymour, briefly, in Eagle, where we had talked about bears, and the pros and cons of carrying a protective gun. “If you're going to get et, you're going to get et,” he had said, conclusively, and, repeating himself, “If you're going to get et, you're going to get et, whether you have a rifle or not.” Seymour came into the country from Tennessee. Jan is a born Alaskan. “I'm so glad to see you,” she said again, and opened another beer. The top of the tent was lined with Styrofoam. In the gable was a shelf of books. There was a plank table, a Singer sewing
machine, a banjo, a guitar, a violin. There was a barrel stove. The chimney, where it poked through the tent, was flashed with a two-gallon can. Dark-haired sled dogs were staked outside. A day or so before, they had raised a great clamor. To Jan, it signalled the nearness of a bear. Carrying clothes for washing to a small clear stream, she took along a gun because of the bear. “Are you sure you have to go?” she said as we stood up. “It's so good to see you. Why go?”
machine, a banjo, a guitar, a violin. There was a barrel stove. The chimney, where it poked through the tent, was flashed with a two-gallon can. Dark-haired sled dogs were staked outside. A day or so before, they had raised a great clamor. To Jan, it signalled the nearness of a bear. Carrying clothes for washing to a small clear stream, she took along a gun because of the bear. “Are you sure you have to go?” she said as we stood up. “It's so good to see you. Why go?”
Around the turn of the century, when dog teams travelled more frequently on the river, there was an isolated roadhouse not far from where Jan lives now. The woman who ran it would shoot at people who tried to go by without stopping.
Fri Nov 14.â28°. Clear. I have become pretty well used to the cold now and can get a roarin fire going awful quick these days. Caught a hare and one beautiful red fox today. The fox had been caught in a trail set about a mile from where I crossed his tracks. She had broken the wire I had tied to the trap chain. I followed her to the river and then ran up to within shooting distance. She was moving pretty good with a # 3 double spring on her front paw. I shot her right below the eye at 100 ft. with the pistol (Ruger). She sure is pretty and would make Sara a nice hat.
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Sun Nov 16.
Full moon,
and the Yukon is in party dress. Everything is lit up just prettiful ⦠. I jumped a bunch of grouse (ruffed) roosting. Got 5 with the pistol and about 18 shots. Could have got more but I run plumb out of shells. I sure do love that grouse meat.
Full moon,
and the Yukon is in party dress. Everything is lit up just prettiful ⦠. I jumped a bunch of grouse (ruffed) roosting. Got 5 with the pistol and about 18 shots. Could have got more but I run plumb out of shells. I sure do love that grouse meat.
The moon cycle is funny up here. It starts waxing in a small arc through the southern sky, then day by day it gets brighter and the arc gets higher and longer till it's full moon almost overhead and stay light all night. Just magnificent!
2 of them grouse I got at 40 yds with that little Ruger (makes a guy proud). Wish Sara would fix em up for us.
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