The Return Voyage.—Prince of Wales Island.—Peculiar Effects.—Island and Ocean Voyages contrasted.—Labyrinth of Verdant Islands.—Flora of the North.—Political Condition of Alaska.—Return to Victoria.—What Clothing to wear on the Journey North.—City of Vancouver.—Scenes in British Columbia.—Through the Mountain Ranges.

The return voyage from Sitka by the inland course takes us first through Peril Straits, so named on account of its many submerged rocks and reefs. It is, however, a wonderfully picturesque passage between the two lofty islands of Chichagoff and Baranoff, strewn as it is with impediments to navigation. We pass the Indian village of Kootznahoo, occupied by a tribe of the same name, people who have always proved to be restless and aggressive, requiring a strong hand to control them. They are peaceable enough now, having been taught some severe lessons by way of discipline. This tribe as a body still adheres to many of the revolting practices of their ancestors, which other Alaskans, who are brought into more intimate relations with the whites, have discarded. They are also said to be more under the influence of their medicine-men, who foster all sorts of vile rites and superstitions, without the prevalence of which their occupation and importance would vanish.

We make our way through the winding channels of the Alexander Archipelago, of which the Prince of Wales Island is one of the largest and most mountainous. It is about a hundred and seventy-five miles long by fifty miles in width; that is to say, it is as large as the State of New Jersey, and in fact contains more square miles. It is mostly covered with dense forests of Alaska cedar, the best of ship-timber. The shores are indented on all sides by fjords extending a considerable distance into the land. Salmon abound in and about this island, which has led to the establishment of several large fish-canning factories, two new ones being added during the past season. The principal native tribe upon the island is known as the Haidas, whose villages are scattered along the coast. The interior of the island is not only uninhabited, but it is unexplored. The shore hamlets are called “rancheries.” Each sub-tribe has a special one representing its capital, where the head chiefs live. Their laws seem to be simply a series of conventionalities. The houses of these Haidas are better structures than those of most natives of the Territory, and they surround themselves, as a rule, with more domestic comforts. Woolen blankets appear to be the investment in which all the spare means of the members of this, as well as most other tribes, are placed, and by the number they possess they estimate their wealth. Woolen blankets, in fact, averaging in value from two dollars and a half to three and a half, are the native currency or circulating medium, being received as such when in good condition; and also given out at the trading stations as payment to natives for furs or for any service, unless specie is preferred.

The meandering course of the steamer brings us now before one Indian hamlet and island, and now another; but these villages are very few in number, hours, and even a whole day, being sometimes passed, while on our course, without meeting a solitary canoe or seeing a human being outside the vessel’s bulwarks. These islands, as a rule, have no gravelly or sandy beach, but spring abruptly from out the almost bottomless sea, in their proportions ranging from an acre to the size of a European principality.

Now and again we come upon a reach of the shore where it is shelving, and for a mile or more it is bastioned by a course of stones, of such uniform height and even surface as to seem like the work of clever stone-masons. Skilled workers with plummet and line could produce nothing more regular.

In some places, as we quietly glide close in to the shadow of the land, shut in by the morning fog and mist wreaths, the effects are very curious and even startling. It not being possible to see very far up the shrouded cliffs, down whose sides there rush narrow, silvery cascades, with a merry, laughing sound, they often have the appearance of coming directly out of the sky. It seems as though some peak had punctured one of the over-charged clouds, and it was pouring out its liquid contents through the big aperture.

The contrast between a voyage across the open ocean and a sail of two weeks in this inland sea is notable. In the former instance the voyagers find fruitful themes in the vast expanse and fabulous depth of the ocean, the huge monsters and tiny creatures occupying it, the record of the ship’s progress, her exact tonnage, and the trade in which she has been engaged since she was launched. Few persons have in themselves sufficient intellectual resources not to become oppressed with ennui under the circumstances. Between Puget Sound and Glacier Bay how different is the experience! There is no monotony here; every moment is replete with curious sights, every succeeding hour full of fresh discoveries. The panoramic view is crowded all day long with sky-reaching mountains, scarred by wild convulsions; verdant islands embowered in giant trees; rocky peaks rising from the bottom of the sea to a thousand feet and more above our topmast head; cascades tumbling down precipitous cliffs; Indian hamlets dotted by totem-poles; canoes gliding over the silent surface of the deep channels; inlets crowded with schools of salmon; mammoth glaciers emptying themselves into the sea and forming opaline icebergs sharply reflecting the sun’s dazzling rays. There is no time for ennui among such scenes as these; the eyes are captivated by the beauty and the variety, while the imagination is constantly stimulated to its utmost capacity.

The flora of this far northern country does not exhibit the wonderful luxuriance and productiveness which captivates us in the tropics, though one gathers some extremely attractive specimens. Neither the flowers, the insects, nor the birds are marked with the brilliancy of color which distinguish those bathed continually in waves of equatorial sunlight. Here, grandeur prevails over beauty; the trees, if not so verdant, excel in size and majesty; the mountains, in height; the rivers, in volume and length; while the glaciers are without comparison in magnitude and power. Here, is simplicity, vastness, magnificence; there, fertility, fragrance, loveliness. Neither in the north nor in the south is there the least infringement upon the great harmonies of Nature; admirable consistency and order exist everywhere, typifying a great, overruling, supreme Intelligence.

We pause for a moment amid the silent tranquillity to sum up our experience while gliding along this beautiful and peaceful inland sea on the return voyage. The author does not hesitate to pronounce Alaska to be one of the most attractive regions in the world for summer tourists. From early June to September the temperature prevailing upon the entire route is equable, the thermometer ranging all the while between sixty and seventy degrees Fah. The progress of the steamer always creates a gentle and agreeable breeze, which renders warm clothing desirable, especially at early morning and in the evening, though these are periods not so distinctly defined as with us in New England. An overcoat is rarely rendered necessary or desirable. If the mosquitoes are troublesome at certain places on shore, in marshy regions, they are never so on the water, as the breeze inevitably drives such insects away. Let us say especially there is no other such inviting resort for pleasure yachts as this inland, island-dotted sea of Alaska. If the fogs put in an appearance sometimes in the morning, they are after a while burned away by the warmth of the sun. Local rains on shore are to be occasionally endured, but they are no great drawback to observation and brief excursions. At Sitka, Wrangel, and Juneau several showers may occur during the day, with intervals of bright and cloudless skies between. We have witnessed seven copious, well-sustained showers of rain on a May forenoon in Chicago, the intervals sandwiched with sunshine of gorgeous clearness and warmth. Why pretend that Alaska is exceptional in this respect? The weather is not perfect, according to our estimate, anywhere. Finally the extended trip upon the boat was found to cover a little over two thousand miles in all, and was with us one of continuous pleasure, enlivened by as bright and cheerful weather as one experiences on an average elsewhere, winding among an immense archipelago of mountains, emerald islands, and land-locked bays, through narrow channels dominated by precipitous cliffs, and crossing broad, lake-like expanses as placid as the serene blue overhanging all.

No other government on the globe, in this nineteenth century, would permit so large and important a portion of its territory to remain unexplored. Congress should send at once a thoroughly equipped scientific expedition, competent to report minutely upon the geology, fauna, flora, and geography of this immense division of the country. It is more than an oversight, it is a gross blunder, not to do this without further delay. If our own pen-pictures of this neglected Territory shall incite to the fulfillment of such an act of official duty, these pages will have served at least one important purpose.

“With a comparatively mild climate,” says C. E. S. Wood, in an account of a visit to Alaska, printed in the “Century Magazine,” “with most valuable shipbuilding timber covering the islands, with splendid harbors, with inexhaustible fisheries, with an abundance of coal, with copper, lead, silver, and gold awaiting the prospector, it is surprising that an industrious, shipbuilding, fishing colony from New England or other States has not established itself in Alaska.”

The political condition of Alaska is anything but creditable to our country. It has little more than the shadow of a civil government, and is entirely without any land laws by which a resident can secure a title to the soil upon which he builds his house. The act of Congress dated May 7, 1884, providing an apology for a civil government, was not passed until twenty years after the Territory had been acquired. As a consequence the material progress of the country and its inviting possibilities remain undeveloped. With the extension of the United States local laws to this section, immigration would be at once promoted and various industries established. “Why we are so neglected is incomprehensible,” said a resident of Sitka. “All we ask is the same advantages enjoyed by the citizens of the other Territories of the United States.” It is certainly to be hoped that Congress will give early attention to this important matter, for Alaska is destined to become one of our most valuable possessions. We shall be excused for making use of so strong an expression, but it is only too true that her interests have been persistently and shamefully neglected by the law-makers at Washington.

“Like the dog in the manger,” says Miss Kate Field, “Congress will do nothing for Alaska, nor will it permit Alaska to do anything for herself locally, or at Washington through a delegate. Yet, in 1890, two islands of this despised and neglected province will have paid into the United States Treasury $6,340,000,—within one million of Alaska’s entire purchase!”

The present comparative isolation of Alaska will not be of long duration; not only are the facilities for reaching the Territory being annually increased from the east, but it is being also rapidly approached in this respect from the west. The Russian government is building a railroad in almost a straight line from Moscow to Behring Sea, which it is confidently believed will be completed within five years. Direct communication will thus be established between St. Petersburg and the Russian Pacific ports, through Siberia, whose most easterly point is less than forty miles from the soil of Alaska.

After sailing four or five days southward, bearing always slightly to the east, through a wilderness of islands and along the mountain-fringed coast of the mainland, the ship comes upon the open sea, and the passengers realize for a short time the effect of the Pacific Ocean swell. The sensitiveness of some people to its influence is as remarkable as the stolid indifference of others. Here, where the Japanese Current meets the cold air from off the coast, fogs are very liable to prevail, though it was not so in the writer’s case. We are now in comparatively open navigation and can lay our course without fear. Soon Queen Charlotte’s Sound is entered, and for a day and a half the steamer again skirts the picturesque shore of Vancouver, whose features are reproduced in the deep, quiet waters with marvelous distinctness, until finally we are once more landed at Victoria, the capital of British Columbia.

We are frequently asked since our return what clothing and other articles one should take, with which to make the inland voyage through Alaskan waters. This is easily answered.

As the rainfall is frequent be sure to have a good stout umbrella. Ladies would do well to take a gossamer waterproof and gentlemen a mackintosh. Heavy shoes, that is with double soles, and a light overcoat should be provided. There is no occasion for full dress,—court dress, on this route, swallow-tails are so much needless baggage. Ladies’ skirts should be short so they will not draggle on the wet deck of the steamer, or in walking through the damp grass, or over the surface of a glacier. In the latter instance gentlemen generally carry portable spikes that can be screwed on to the bottom of the shoes, and a staff cane with a stout ferule. When a party is formed to ascend a glacier a small hatchet and small rope should always be taken by some one of their number. In case of an accident these often become of great importance. There need not be any accident, however, if ordinary prudence is observed.

A large and well-appointed steamer named the Islander, which plies regularly on this route, takes one across the island-sprinkled Gulf of Georgia in six or seven hours from Victoria to Vancouver on the mainland. This is the terminus of the Canadian Pacific Railway, situated a short distance from the mouth of the Fraser River. From here the homeward course is almost due east through British Columbia, Alberta, Assiniboia, Manitoba, Ontario, and Quebec to Montreal, thence southeast to Boston.

So late as 1886 the present site of Vancouver was covered with a dense forest of Douglass pines, cedar and spruce trees. The Canadian Pacific Railway was completed to Vancouver in May, 1887, when the first through train arrived from Montreal. The youthful city is well situated for commercial purposes on what is called Burrard Inlet. It has extensive wharves, substantial warehouses, and very good hotel accommodations. Well-arranged public water-works bring the needful domestic supply in pure and healthful condition from the neighboring hills. The surrounding scenery is strikingly bold, embracing the Cascade Range in the north, the mountains of Vancouver Island across the water in the west, and the Olympian Range in the south, while the great snowy head of Mount Baker rears itself skyward as the main feature in the southeast. The steamer which brings us here from Victoria passes through a beautiful archipelago of peaceful islands, verdant and wooded to the very brink. The busy population of this infant city number between thirteen and fourteen thousand, and the place is growing rapidly. It is lighted by both gas and electricity. Forty substantial edifices for business and dwelling purposes are in course of erection at this writing. There are steamers which sail regularly from here for Japan, China, and San Francisco. As it is in the midst of what may be called a wild country, there is excellent hunting near at hand and large game is abundant. Many sportsmen, especially from England, make their headquarters here while devoting themselves to hunting for a large part of the summer season. Four large English sloops of war were observed in the harbor at the time of the writer’s visit, together with a couple of torpedo boats bearing the same flag, destined for Behring Sea, to “emphasize” the British side of the Alaska fishery question as between our government and that of Great Britain.

As one stands on the shore the harbor presents a picture of great variety and interest, comprising men-of-war boats pulled by disciplined crews; canoes, paddled by Indian squaws wrapped in high-colored blankets; boats loaded with valuable furs and propelled by aboriginal hunters; here a raft of timber, and there a steam ferry-boat. Just in shore there is passing as we watch the scene a native canoe carrying a sail made of bark-matting, brown and dingy, steered with a paddle by an aged, withered, white-haired Indian, while in the prow is a four or five year old native boy, trailing his hands idly in the water over the side of the tiny craft. A striking picture of the voyage of life: thoughtless, happy, vigorous youth at the prow, with weary age and experience awaiting the end at the stern. A couple of large steamers close at hand are getting under way loaded with preserved fish, put up at the canneries near by; one is bound for Australia, the other for England, by way of Cape Horn.

Vancouver has many edifices of brick and stone, with good churches and several schools; some of the private residences being remarkable for their complete architectural character in so new a city as this which forms the terminus of the Canadian Pacific Railway.

The principal part of the city occupies a peninsula, bounded north by the waters of Burrard Inlet, south by a small indentation called False Creek, and west by English Bay. The city is fast extending beyond these limits, both east and south. The peninsula rises gradually to an altitude of two hundred feet, more or less, affording the means of perfect drainage for the new city, which is laid out on a grand scale. A tramway, embracing the several suburbs, is in course of construction, the motor for which will be electricity.

We take the cars at Vancouver for our long journey homeward over the Canadian Pacific Railway, through the British Dominion to the Atlantic coast, indulging in a last admiring view of the grand elevation known as Mount Baker, which in these closing days of July is a mass of snow two thousand feet from its summit. Upon starting our attention is first drawn to the gigantic trees, big sawmills, immense piles of lumber, and extensive brick-yards in the environs of the city. Small villages are passed, straggling farms, Indian camps, mining lodges, and Chinese “hives,” where these people congregate after working all day at placer mining, and gamble half the night, sacrificing their laboriously acquired means. The grand winding valley of the Fraser River—a watercourse as large as the Ohio—is followed for over two hundred miles in a northeasterly direction, affording glimpses of most charming and vivid scenery, leading through caÑons fully equaling in grandeur of form and beauty of detail anything of the sort in Colorado.

Now and again groups of Indians are seen preparing the salmon they have caught for winter use. The fish are split and stretched flat by wooden braces, then hung in long pink lines upon low frames of wood. They use no salt in this curing process, but simply dry the fish by atmospheric exposure, and succeed very well in thus preserving it. Dried salmon forms the principal staple of food for this people in the long Canadian winters. These natives, as in our own instance, are subsidized by the Dominion; that is, they are placed upon reservations and receive a certain amount of money and rations annually from the government. Light green patches of raspberries are passed here and there, where children are gathering the ripe fruit in abundance, the bright color about their mouths betraying how abundantly they have feasted while thus engaged. It was a pleasant picture to gaze upon under the pearly blue sky, where we were surrounded with the fragrant odor of pine and spruce, and the ceaseless music of hurrying waters.

At times the river rushes through deep rocky ravines, and at others expands into broad shallows with glittering sand bars, on which eager groups of miners are seen washing for gold. We cross a deep, cavernous gorge of the river on a graceful steel bridge, which, though doubtless of ample strength, yet seems of spider-web proportions, then plunge into a dark tunnel to emerge directly amid scenery of the wildest nature, set with huge bowlders and noisy with boiling flumes and roaring cascades, where color, splendor, and inspiration greet us at each turn, while every object is softened by the pale afternoon sunlight.

By and by we pass up the valley of the Thomson River, a tributary of the Fraser, finding ourselves presently in what is called the Gold, or Columbian, range of mountains, a grand snow-clad series of hills. Our route through them for nearly fifty miles is in the form of a deep, narrow pass between vertical cliffs, forming land channels similar to the water-ways which we have lately left behind us in the Alexander Archipelago.

At the small stations boys and girls board the cars with tiny baskets of luscious blackberries and ripe raspberries for sale, soon disposing of them to the passengers. These are picked within a dozen rods of the railway track, where they are seen in great abundance. Wild flowers beautify the roadway, among which the most attractive are the golden-rod, the bright pink fire-weed, the towering and graceful spirea, the wild musk with its large bell-shaped scarlet flower, the fragrant tansy, with snow-ball clusters of white, and big patches of the tiny wild sunflower, its petals in deepest yellow, while among the lily-pads dotting the pools of water, orange-hued lilies are in full and gorgeous bloom.

The scenery is strictly Alpine, but constantly varies as our point of view changes, and we thread miles upon miles of snow-sheds. Heavy veils of mist fringe the mountain-tops, and the tall peaks are wrapped in winding-sheets of perpetual snow. The rugged scenery is fine, but finer is yet to come. Still climbing upwards, we are presently in the Selkirks, threading tunnels, dark gorges, sombre caÑons, and narrow passes to the summit of this remarkable range, forced onward by two powerful engines, one in the rear the other in front of the train.

At a point known as Albert CaÑon the railway runs along the brink of several dark fissures in the solid rock, three hundred feet deep, through which rushes the turbulent waters of the Illicilliwaet River (“Raging Waters”). Here the cars are stopped for a few moments that the passengers may the better observe the boiling flumes of angry waters, flecked with patches of foam, and compressed within granite walls scarcely twenty feet apart.

In approaching Glacier House station, at a certain point the train ascends six hundred feet in a distance of two miles. This is accomplished by a zigzag course, utilizing two ravines which are favorably situated for the purpose; the consummation is a grand triumph of engineering skill. While passing through this winding course we are serenaded by a chorus of dancing rapids, foaming cataracts, and rushing cascades. Here the torrents and waterfalls are innumerable, first on one side then on the other of our slowly-climbing train, and finally on both the right and the left, gleaming with bright prismatic rays while moving with tremendous impetus. Sir Donald, the highest peak of the Selkirk Range, shaped like an acute pyramid, now comes into view, rising to eleven thousand feet above the level of the sea, and piercing the blue zenith with its inaccessible summit. It is named after one of the most active promoters of this transcontinental railway. Sir Donald sends down from its immense snowfields a ponderous glacier half a mile wide and eight miles long, presenting most of the characteristics of such frozen rivers, though lacking the grand effect of those so lately seen in Alaska, where they join the ocean in partially congealed form, thus producing thousands of icebergs. This Donald glacier is nevertheless equal to the average of European ones. The mountain has never yet been ascended. We were told that a thousand dollars and a free pass over the railway for life await the successful mountain-climber who reaches the summit.

In making our way through Beaver CaÑon and Stony Creek CaÑon, the highest timber railway bridge ever constructed is passed, three hundred feet high and four hundred and fifty long, supported by direct uprights. Safe enough, perhaps, but one breathes freer and deeper when it is passed.

It would seem as though mosquitoes could hardly thrive at such an altitude, but their number here is myriad, and their vicious activity at Glacier House station beggars description.