Last Letters from Attu. Mary Breu

side. No one went out without protection from them—head nets, gloves, high-laced walking shoes, even citronella.

      In the summer, there were berrying and fishing parties.

      We had a houseboat and so did our friends, the Cooks. Loading the boat with people and good things to eat, leaving early in the morning, we went up the Yukon River for picnics. At a convenient spot there was a beach fire, dinner around it, bathing in the river, exploring trips into the wild hills, and home late at night. Or if it happened to be too windy, or a little rain should come up, we ate in the dining room of the boat. It was a little crowded but everybody was happy.

      Drifting slowly with the current on the broad Yukon one sunny summer day with the engine quiet, Foster brought forth from his remarkable memory some of his favorite poetry by Robert Browning and Robert Service. Hour after hour, the beautiful words synchronized with the lovely hills and woods along the banks, the mighty river about which Service wrote so much, and the man himself, Foster, typifying the best of the early settlers. The water was calm and deep, leaping fish once in awhile made a faint splash, but there was no other sign of life. While drifting on the quiet river, a deserted cabin occasionally came into view. There were beautiful clouds floating lazily in the blue sky. There was no sense of hurry, no pressing worries or immediate demands. This was the true Alaskans’ life at its best. For this, they shunned cities.

      Etta, Foster, their houseboat Esther, and friends, 1926. Foster is second from right; Etta has her arm around a child.

      One summer day we had gone up the river in our houseboat, the Esther [named after Etta’s mother], and while tied to the bank, Foster was cleaning salmon for our dinner. A man in a poling boat passed close to the shore. “Hi, Charlie,” said one. “Hi, Jim,” said the other. No other greeting. After the friend had passed, Foster remarked, “Knew that man in the Klondike. Haven’t seen him for twenty years.” I wondered why they didn’t stop for a chat. He said, “It isn’t considered polite in this country to inquire into another man’s business.”

      We had many good trips on the Esther. One fall, Foster suggested that we go on a caribou hunt. At that time of year, caribou often crossed the Yukon on their migration to other feeding grounds. It was beautiful weather in early October. We took our time, tying the Esther to the banks when something attracted us on shore, perhaps good fishing places, or likely caribou country, or special fall flowers. Slowly, the wind began to rise, and it became apparent that we would have to seek a better anchorage because this bank was rocky. Foster turned back and started for home. The wind increased in fury, whipping the water into high spray that froze as it hit the boat. Soon, we were ice-covered and listing. Steering became increasingly difficult, and darkness descended upon us.

      Foster knew what I did not realize at the time—the river was full of sand bars that the waves and spray hid from sight, and the shore was too rocky to anchor. He knew this part of the river pretty well, and there was only one sandy beach that he remembered where old Abe Royal had his trapping cabin. It grew pitch-dark, and we had no other light except a flashlight. When he thought he was at about the right place, I threw the feeble light of this flashlight on as much of the beach as it would reach. We gritted our teeth, hoping it would be sand and not rocks we were going to strike, and then it was all over. We were safe and high on a sandy beach. The wind howled with ever increasing vigor. It was patently not safe to remain in the boat, and as we jumped to the beach, I was bowled right over by the wind. It was all I could do to stand against it. Foster felt around until he found some big boulders, then brought fur robes, and we crouched behind the rocks, trying to get a little shelter.

      In spite of the fact that I wore corduroy trousers, a fur coat, fur cap, fur boots, and was covered by a fur robe, I believe I was never so cold in my life. We shivered in misery until it began to get daylight. Foster then scouted around until he found Abe’s deserted cabin. It was high on a hillside, some distance from where we were, but how gratefully we carried everything to it and took possession. Abe had been dead for some years, and no one else had used the cabin. We found the roof partially fallen in, but in a corner was a big pile of clean, dry hay and, best of all, we were out of that terrific wind. It was quiet and peaceful, and, gratefully, we dropped to the clean hay and slept for hours.

      In some neighboring woods, Foster found some wood for a fire, and we feasted on bacon and eggs, hot coffee, and biscuits. By this time, the wind had brought a drizzling rain, but we were comfortable, warm, and dry. We stayed there for three days. On the third day, a Native, who was paddling down the river, saw the Esther on the riverbank and no sign of us. He took the news to Tanana. “I think the Jones lost like hell. Their boat there. I no see them.”

      We had quite a time getting that boat floated again. It had been driven onto the sand with such force, and the wind had helped keep it there.

       Our friends were glad to see us again because in that same storm, on Fish Lake, where Foster had lost an oar and had difficulty getting across the lake, two young men drowned when their boat capsized. Although the lake was dragged, their bodies were not recovered until the following spring. They had remained under the ice all winter.

      Because of the rugged terrain, transportation in the summer was limited to boats, and Etta didn’t take trips on the Esther by herself. At one point, she wanted to visit a friend, but reaching her destination posed a problem. In typical Alaska fashion, the problem was solved.

      I wanted to visit my good friend at Rampart, which was about twenty-five miles upriver. The regular steamer was not convenient, so how could I get there? I made arrangements to go with an Indian family who were members of the congregation of a missionary friend. It was midsummer, hardly any darkness, and the Indian seemed to prefer traveling at night, so it was early evening before we got started. He had a large flat-bottomed boat with a gas engine. Quilts and blankets were provided so his wife, children, and I could lie down. It was pleasant looking up at the stars, listening to the chug of the engine. At about 2 A.M., we stopped for tea. It was chilly on the water, and as we climbed out on the bank, the fire he had built felt good as we sipped our tea. I can still get the feeling of that early morning meal on the bank, not as one would imagine a chilly 2 A.M. morning would be outside with the sun already high in the sky.

      Arriving about noon, I sat down to a good hearty meal, because my friend kept a roadhouse. It became very hot during my visit, and I went with her to her icebox to get provisions. Her frozen meat was delivered by the river steamer, and was put immediately into the icebox, and such an icebox! It was a cave hollowed out under a hill with supporting timbers, and there were convenient tables and shelves. One reached the innermost room through a series of outer rooms. Entering from the glaring, blazing summer heat of the outside into a cool entry, one went through a door into a much cooler room, and finally into a real icebox. I did not see the temperature, but it was too cold to stay in comfortably, and things remained frozen until they were removed—meat, fish, berries, etc. There was nothing to induce freezing except the natural temperature of the earth.

      As pleasant as summer was, winter was the most enjoyable. I think without exception our friends said, “We like winter best.” We still went out on trips, taking dinners and suppers, but traveling by dogsled or walking instead. Woodcutters’ camps were our objectives. There, usually in a tent, we warmed up the stew or potpie, made coffee on the woodcutter’s tiny stove, brought out the sandwiches, salads, cakes, and pies, and amidst jovial, gay talk, ate good things while sitting on boxes or on the man’s bed. As always when a few old-timers, the Sourdoughs, were gathered together, there were fascinating tales of adventure, of daring and sometimes rash, hazardous experiences that they or their friends had experienced and about which they could tell so well.

       A gold miner who operated a nearby placer mine used to come to see us and visit. It was a great relief to him to be able to talk to someone.

      He said he had been alone all winter and was so lonely that he had tamed a weasel, spending hours talking to it. These old-timers seemed to have imbibed the bigness and freedom of the country;