The town was founded in 1799 by Governor Baranoff, a Russian explorer, and is beautifully situated on Baranoff Island. The old Russian Greek church stood there just as it did a hundred years before, with the exception of a new coat of paint, and the priests were in their church garb as of yore. Tourists always visit the old church to see the magnificent Madonna and other paintings brought over from Russia in the last century. On the main street stands the old log-cabin erected many years ago by the Hudson Bay Company and used as a trading post. The Government has set aside a reservation for a public park, and many totem-poles have been set up all along the roadway. Indian squaws were squatted on the dock selling their little trinkets, such as miniature totem-poles, sealskin moccasins, and vases carved in many forms.
While leaving Sitka the picturesque snow-crowned Mount Edgecumbe serrated the horizon on the left, and on the right the sky-line was much the same. Both shores were advancing nearer and nearer, and it looked as though we were in a cul-de-sac. Presently we passed through Icy Straits, so named because of the many icebergs which, broken from a neighboring glacier, find their way hither.
As we reached the open ocean, “Gony,” as the sailors call the black-footed albatross (Diomedea nigripes), followed in the wake of the steamer, porpoise raced with us, rushing and dodging alongside the boat, occasionally turning their silver bellies skyward and flaunting their tails to show how easy it was for them to keep up with us. The race continued at intervals for more than an hour before they disappeared, and by that time the long swells of the water rocking the steamer had taken effect and many of the passengers disappeared from the decks. Many miles to the right the purple foothills of the Fairweather range could be seen. Muir Glacier glittering in the distance added to the fascination of the scenery. Along the coast wild strawberries, with their delicate flowers, their fruit sought alike by man, beast, and fowl, grew very abundantly. The weather was just fine and the conditions right (something unusual in this neighborhood) to see the great Mount St. Elias, at least a hundred and fifty miles due north, and her English cousin, Mount St. Logan, farther off across the border line. The Fairweather range extends for many miles along the coast. The white ice fields glitter in the sunshine and at sunset a halo of many colors hangs over the mountains.
Alaska seems to be a chosen land for glaciers. The warm Japan stream washes the coast line, the topography of which is well adapted to fashion glaciers out of the heavy snowfall precipitated by the cooling of the humid air as it strikes the mountains. When the lofty summits and surrounding fields have accumulated more snow than they are able to retain, it gradually advances toward the valleys. When it leaves the summit it is soft and flaky, but alternate thawing and freezing gradually change its condition into a granulated form of ice. The pressure of the great body of snow above, the change of the atmospheric conditions, assisted by gravity, are the causes which enter into the formation of the solid glacier ice. These conditions may be increased or diminished by earthquakes and mild winters. Like a great river it advances toward the mouth of the valley, and as the immense body of ice moves downward, it brings with it by erosion huge pieces of rock, earth, and trees. This debris thrown upon the ice is called moraine, and where the moraine gathers the thickest it protects the ice. When the hot summer sun thaws the unprotected ice, tiny streamlets flow from here and there. These gradually increase in number and size, and as they grow larger and larger cut their way down into the ice, forming deep crevasses, and finally reach bedrock. The interior color of the crevasses is a deep blue and this changes to a light blue at the outer edge where exposed to light. Standing on the brink one can throw a huge boulder into the opening and hear it rumbling for some time before it reaches the bottom. A glacier that is receding slowly is known locally as a dead glacier, and one advancing as a live glacier. However, a live glacier may become a dead one, and vice versa. A dead glacier has frequently readvanced after years of inactivity, carrying with it trees which had grown up in its course. Columbia glacier in Prince William Sound is an example of this type.
A tiny snowflake falls on the mountain-top, is covered in turn by many others, and disappears for many years. Gradually the whole mass, by its own weight, is pushed down into the valley and solidified. Not a ray of light can penetrate through the thick glacier ice; the little snowflake has been completely immured. After years, perhaps centuries, it finally reappears at sea level, with myriads of others of its kind congealed into one solid mass, which breaks off and floats seaward, clothed in beautiful blue. But it is such a cold, heartless beauty, for until melted away the little snowflake is part of a tremendous mass, whose weight and silent progress are a constant and dreaded menace to human life; many a steamer has been sunk by striking an iceberg.
At the head of Yakutat Bay is situated the Indian village of Yakutat. It has its cannery and saw-mill and village church, in which last is a large and very interesting totem carved out of the butt of a tree. I have heard it said that these poles are not found north of Sitka. This one is several hundred miles farther north. There is only the one, and it may have been a trophy or a gift. I was unable to get any account of its past or any interpretation of its symbolic carvings.
Before we landed we noticed the natives coming from every possible direction; some in their canoes, others walking, but all loaded down with their trinkets to sell to the passengers on the steamer. When we landed on the dock the women were squatting on the floor, all in a row, displaying their goods. When a kodak was pointed at them they concealed their faces and demanded “two bits” as the price of a shot. There was among them a young mother with her babe whom I was anxious to photograph, but her price was higher and I was required to raise the amount to “eight bits” before she would step out into the sun for a snap-shot. I was afraid to take a time picture for fear she would “shy” before I got it.
The old village, up the shore about a mile, was reached by a narrow walk along the coast line. The walk through the sparsely-growing spruce and cottonwood was delightful. Ravens flew about here and there, hoarsely calling as we passed by. The undergrowth consisted principally of berry bushes—salmon-berries, blueberries, and red raspberries—and as we walked along we gathered handfuls of the luscious fruit from each in turn as our taste inclined. When we reached the village with its wide beach—for the tide was out—our attention was attracted toward a couple of the native belles, who were sitting tracing on the sand with their fingers images of fish, birds, and animals. We approached suddenly, cutting off their retreat. Being naturally shy and timid they ceased writing, and when they saw us point the camera toward them, turned their backs. I suggested to my friend that he walk around to the opposite side, take out his kodak as though to photograph them, and when they turned around I would take a snap, which ruse worked admirably.