Last Letters from Attu. Mary Breu

familiar with this immense country a man was, the more gentle and understanding of the other man.

       Winter picnic, circa 1920s. Etta is in front without a hat; Foster is in the back wearing a fur hat.

      In the house, we dressed for summer weather with no extra warm underclothing, no wool dresses. But to go out in the cold, I prepared by taking off my housedress and slip. I donned wool tights that reached to the ankles, two pairs of home-knitted, four-ply, heavy wool stockings, corduroy trousers that had a cuff that buttoned below the knee, a wool jumper, insoles that were really ankle-high slippers of wolf skin with fur on the inside, and over those I put boots with moose-hide soles. Then I put on a fur parka, which is a short coat put on over the head with a fur hood attached. I wore a knitted woolen cap or a fur cap with earflaps and woolen gloves covered with fur-lined moose-hide mittens. These were attached to a cord about the neck, and were not used until after the dogs were hitched up.

       Etta in her Native fur parka and mukluks with snowshoes, circa 1920s.

      When driving the dogs, one did not sit comfortably in the basket sled; rather, one stood on the runners at the back of the sled where a foot brake was of some help in slowing the dogs and guiding them entirely by voice. The lead dog, if he was a good one, understood “gee” and “haw” and could swing the team his way. Once as I was being whirled out of my yard while standing on the runners and holding on for dear life, the brake fell off and I was left helpless to manage the dogs. The leader soon realized my plight and he paid no attention to my “gees” and “haws.” He had a grand time going his own way at top speed. His impish grin could almost be seen on his happy face. When someone finally came to my aid and stopped them, he should have been whipped. A good trainer would have done that, because he knew what he was doing, but I was a softie with dogs, not a good trainer, so they were not obedient.

      Many women had their own dog teams. I had three dogs that I hitched to a sled and took out. They were small dogs and very dear to me, but Foster would not have them on his team. He said they were absolutely no good, but we had many good times together. On a sunny day in midwinter, when the temperature was not too low, perhaps my neighbor would telephone: “Would you like to go for a ride today?” “Yes. Where shall we go?” A route would be settled on and a time for leaving. The sled was tied to a stake while the frantic dogs were being put into the harness. They were wild to get out, being kept tied all the time they were not being used. Then, as my friend sailed out of her yard with dogs yelping, not barking, for malamutes do not bark, we flew behind and raced away down the trail, hoping to goodness that we would not meet any other teams until the dogs had tired themselves somewhat and quieted down. This they did in time, and we were able to enjoy the fresh, keen air, the evergreens, and beautiful winter landscape. Usually we followed a well-broken trail, a trapper’s or woodcutter’s trail. Sometimes we brought cameras and took snapshots, and sometimes we just tied the dogs and wandered around in the woods.

      Another favorite ride was to the Episcopalian mission, Saint James, in a village about three miles from town, where there was a government school for Indians, and the mission church with housing for missionaries. Some of my fondest memories are connected with this grand place. On a sunny winter day, a ride behind the dogs to the village was not without some trepidation, for Indian dogs were fierce and always ready to fight our dogs. However, having safely arrived at our destination and the dogs safely tied, we were welcomed to a cheerful living room. Off came the parkas and outer wraps. Tea and cake were accepted gratefully, and after an hour or two of pleasant chatter, the dogs were hitched up again and we returned home. These missionaries were wonderful people. They also kept a little church running in Tanana, the bright spots being the visits of Bishop Rowe or the archdeacon.

      One time, Foster and a prospecting partner were getting ready for a long trip. Supplies were carefully considered for the time they expected to be away. Everything they needed had to be carried on their sleds—dog food, their own food, their clothing and equipment, even a lightweight Yukon stove. They had enormous loads. My dogs and I were to accompany them for about ten miles, and, of course, we had an empty sled. We begged a load for as far as we went to help balance the sled and slow up the dogs. A case of eggs was put on my sled. I brought up the rear, and my dogs were wild with excitement. I bore down hard on that brake with seemingly little effect. As we slid around curves, bumping stumps and trees and sliding off the trail, I thought about those eggs, wondering how many would be left whole. When it came time to turn over my precious freight, I expressed the hope that not too many eggs would be broken. I can still see those men laughing at the silly cheechako. “Why,” they said, “you could not break one of those eggs if you tried. They are frozen solid. Just try sometime to break a frozen egg.” After handling a few later, I realized how impossible it would have been for me to injure those eggs.

       Foster and his dog team, Tanana, circa 1920s.

      Another occasion stands out in my memory, typical of the Alaskan’s love of his country. It was winter, a sparkling, brilliant moonlit night. “Let’s take a ride,” we said. Foster’s dog team went first, and mine followed. We went miles out into the “silence that bludgeons you dumb” [Robert Service] along a good trail. Miles out on the trail, we picked up a load of firewood. There were two loads because my sled carried some, too. On the way back, jogging along in the moonlight, Foster was whistling contentedly, and the whole world was at peace. Cold fear found me that night because eventually we came to the top of a long, steep, winding hill. Trees had been cut on either side, leaving jagged stumps close to the trail. Down that hill went the team ahead, soon getting out of sight, and with yelps of joy my dogs raced after. We banged around curves, hitting the jagged stumps. However hard I stood on the brakes, there was no slowing those little brutes. I envisioned myself upset, and impaled on a stump with no help near. I had to do something. Suddenly I broke into song, of all things. “Oh say, can you see, by the dawn’s early light.” Somehow it brought courage. I never admitted how scared I had been.

      In February, when the land was locked in with ice and snow, I went for a bath in the bathhouse at the springs. Escaping steam formed huge stalactites around the door. I undressed in an inner room and then went into a shed enclosing the pool into which hot and cold water were piped from the spring. At the time of my visit, something had gone wrong with the cold water supply, and the pool was almost too hot to be borne. We came out scalded a bright pink, but our skin was soft and smooth from the effects of the minerals in the water.

      The hospitality of Alaskans was proverbial. When unexpected guests suddenly drove into the yard with their dog team, the greeting was always the same: “Come in! Come in! Glad to see you.” We brought in some moose or reindeer, got a roast in the oven, brought out some of our home-grown potatoes, opened a cabbage or turnips, opened cans of vegetables, brought in rolls and pies from the cache, opened jellies and jams, and a feast was soon in progress. Our Christmas and Thanksgiving and other holiday feasts were something to talk about. We wanted for nothing.

      Foster once filled a tooth cavity for a miner who was working with him. After first cleansing the cavity with painkiller, almost pure alcohol, Foster then used a filling made by filing a dime to fill the cavity. Another time some dry [prohibition] agents asked us if we could help a bootlegger whom they had arrested. When starting the uncovered engine of his open boat, the man’s sleeve had become caught in the belt and he had dislocated his shoulder. He was past seventy years old, they were 100 miles from a doctor, and if they brought the man to us, could we do something? At first, I said no, I was not strong enough for such a task, even if I had the strength. Foster, however, whose father had been a doctor, said, “Why, yes. Bring him. I remember seeing my father successfully treating such a case by laying the patient on the floor, putting his foot in the man’s armpit, while he worked the shoulder joint into place.” It was hours before they could get to us, and by that time the man’s muscles were stiff. We had nothing to relax him, he was almost fainting with pain, but Foster made a good job of it. I then applied a shoulder