Last Letters from Attu. Mary Breu

a controversial move, Jackson used government funds to contract with already established Presbyterian mission schools and to encourage other Protestant denominations to open schools. The territory schools used mission school buildings, and the teachers were paid with federal subsidies, and by 1887, a school system of sorts was in place. Reflecting the population, these schools were mainly attended by Native children. However, in 1894, separation of church and state was enforced, and government contracts with church-sponsored schools were withdrawn.

      The Civil Act of 1900 stated that proper provisions would be made for compulsory attendance of school-age children, regardless of race, until a permanent law was in place.

      In 1903, Senator Knute Nelson of Minnesota visited the territory of Alaska and observed what he felt was a need to separate Native students from the whites. A law, bearing his name, was passed by Congress in 1905, stipulating: “Schools … shall be devoted to the education of white children and the children of mixed blood who lead a civilized life. The education of Eskimos and Indians shall remain under the direction and control of the Secretary of the Interior … and shall be provided for by an annual appropriation.” Segregated schools for Natives in Alaska, and elsewhere in the United States, became law.

      Curriculum in the white schools was standard: in the primary grades, students received schooling in reading, spelling, addition, subtraction, multiplication, geography, and codes of conduct, while in the fourth and fifth grades, they learned history, nature studies, and more challenging language arts and higher-level math.

      IN THE OFFICE OF THE COMMISSIONER of Education for white children of Alaska, we found a very charming young lady who told us a telegram had just come in asking for a teacher at Tanana, and she showed us on the map the spot where the Tanana River joined the Yukon just south of the Arctic Circle. We decided that Tanana would be our new home.

      In a few days, we boarded another ship for Seward. On this boat, we met a group of Shriners on one of their annual trips from Seattle to Alaska, bound for lodge work and fun in the northern cities. There was also on that boat a little bride, Mrs. Morgan, who was going to join her young sergeant husband at Fort Gibbon, in Tanana.

      At Seward, we transferred to a train with a sleeper. At that time, the train went right through to Fairbanks, a distance of several hundred miles, traveling through the night. Old Alaskans said if people knew the dangers of the railroad they would not sleep on the trip. In our case, ignorance was bliss because we slept soundly.

       Train at Curry Hotel, Curry, Alaska, located halfway between Anchorage and Fairbanks. Both the train and hotel were owned and operated by the Alaska Railroad. Etta and Marie rode this train from Seward to Nenana, 1922.

       ALASKA’S DIGITAL ARCHIVES, ASL-P44-06-080.

      We were glad to leave the train at Nenana, where we were to take a boat on the Tanana River to Tanana. Making diligent inquiries we found there was no regular passenger boat, but a trading company was sending a boat with supplies in a few days. The boatman said, “Sure we’ll take you. Don’t know when we’ll leave, whenever we get loaded. Just keep in touch with us and be ready when we are.” Of course, we haunted the riverfront and the vicinity of this boat in particular. People laughed when we tried to find out the hour and minute of departure. “Oh, you will get used to Alaska ways. It isn’t a question of hour and minute; it isn’t even a question of what day. Just take it easy.”

      Eventually things were ready, and we found ourselves in a flat-bottomed riverboat propelled by a gasoline motor. Six army cots were arranged neatly in the open space of the boat, while crates and boxes of foodstuffs and sacks of mail and freight were stacked around the edges, a small cook stove near the center. The six cots were for the women passengers because we were to spend at least one night on board. The other women were three missionaries and the little bride, Mrs. Morgan. The boat also carried six or eight male passengers who slept on the mail sacks.

      The weather was ideal—beautiful, calm, warm, lazy days—and as we basked luxuriously on the tiny deck in the brilliant, soothing sunshine, we learned more about Alaskans, because besides ourselves, the young bride was the only “cheechako,” or newcomer, on board. Old sourdoughs take pleasure in telling their tales to such as we. Everything was so new, so thrilling, we gulped it down and asked for more.

      One man had been an undertaker in Juneau following the Princess Sophia disaster [October 25, 1918], the Canadian liner that had been wrecked on the rocks near Juneau with a total loss of all on board. This man had taken care of most of the recovered bodies, and had been so sickened with his calling that he had given it up and was then on his way to Nome to take up some other business. There were miners aboard from the Chandalar [mining] district who needed a cook, and they offered me the job. The scenery was not so stupendous as the coastal area, but it was wild, and at the same time peaceful. Occasionally a woodcutter’s cabin was passed or a fish camp of tents, salmon drying in the sun and noisy malamute dogs tied to stakes for the summer. One of the missionaries was elected cook on the boat, and from the plentiful stores provided, she prepared us a meal fit for a king. I don’t remember just what we ate then, but I do remember the next morning breaking eggs into a bowl for the omelet, passing the thirty mark, and feeling stumped at frying enough bacon for so many on the tiny stove. Then the pilot came along and solved the difficulty by filling a dripping pan with sliced bacon and popping the whole thing in the oven with a scornful toss of the head in our direction and a curt, “That’s the best way to cook bacon.” It came out beautifully crisp and brown, and right then and there I learned a cooking lesson that I put to good use many times afterward. It was my first experience with Sourdoughs as cooks, and I can say with conviction, they are all good cooks.

      The gas boat Tanana, which Etta and Marie took from Nenana to Tanana, down the Tanana River, August 1922, on the final leg of their journey.

       Athabascan fish camp on the Tanana River, 1922.

       ALASKA’S DIGITAL ARCHIVES, UAF-1985-72-142.

      Although there had been a significant white population when mines were operating in the Tanana Valley during and after the gold rush of 1902, by 1922 most of the whites were gone, and the valley and the village of Tanana were once again predominantly Athabascan. Elected tribal chiefs established and enforced policies for the Natives. Traditional laws had been passed down for generations. Their spiritual beliefs, community customs, and verbal repetitions of legends, ceremonies, and survival skills were largely centered on the use of land and water resources that provided food, clothing, shelter, even transportation—boats and dogsleds. They only took what they would use. There was no waste. The resources were shared among all the villagers.

       Athabascan woman in winter parka, Tanana, 1922.

      Potlatches were an important part of Athabascan social life. These were held for various occasions—weddings, naming of children, payment of debt, funerals. Outlying villagers would stay in the host villagers’ homes for several days, feasting, dancing, and exchanging gifts.

      Etta and Marie were accustomed to a cash-based economy and easy access to grocery stores, department stores, banks, restaurants, and motorized transportation. The sisters had experienced cold winters and warm summers, and felt sure they were prepared for Alaska’s weather. In spite of the differences between Native Alaska culture and the life they had known on the East Coast, Etta and Marie wanted to experience all that Tanana had to offer, including the extreme temperatures that were said to go from forty to sixty degrees below zero in the winter and up to three digits in the summer.