It took Eskimos who were familiar with the locality and its peculiarities to successfully steer a boat through the shallows of the Kuskokwim Delta. We were never very far from shore. Many times we grated over sandbars, and when the boat stuck, they just threw the anchor out and “waited for tide.” We would float as long as the tide lasted, and then had another stop. I wondered how these Eskimos knew anything was there, but they felt around with poles until they found the river current. We would twist and turn down a narrow, muddy stream that had low mud banks. There were no trees or bushes or anything to relieve the monotony for hours and miles.
When we reached Kwigillingok, it happened to be low tide, so they turned in there to anchor. That suited us because we had a fine visit with Mrs. Martin, the teacher.
We left Kwigillingok that afternoon “on the tide,” and followed the same dreary pattern of landscape for eighty to one hundred miles. We came to the mouth of another muddy stream, the Kipnuk River, where we again “waited for the tide.” As we followed its twisting course, I strained my eyes for the first view of our new home. It was a very desolate area. The riverbanks were not a foot or more above the high tide, there were no trees, not even a bush. Sedges around the numerous small lakes were the highest form of vegetation. The ground was covered with a deep moss, which was disastrous to try to walk on without rubber boots. Overshoes would be inadequate because one’s ankles were covered with the water.
Aerial view of the Kuskokwim Delta, 1930s.
As our boat felt its way up the muddy stream that day, we could see for miles around because there was nothing to obstruct our view. In the distance, we saw our future home, or part of it because it was in the process of being built. The village consisted of a few sod huts near the riverbank. Kwigillingok was a modern town by comparison.
The few people there met us at the bank. The first question asked by the one white man present, the builder, was, “Did you bring our tobacco and matches?” A gangplank was put out from the boat because the boat could not get close enough to tie up. Unloading proceeded rapidly, because when the tide went out, any chance of working from the boat was gone until the next tide.
Only the shell of the house was finished. There was no place for us to live. The builder and his Native assistant were living in the coal house. On one of the fairly dry raised spots, a tent was put up for us, and this is where we slept and kept our personal belongings. We ate in the coal house with the other two people. I did the cooking. There were cases of eggs, sacks of potatoes, hams and bacon, canned vegetables and fruits—plenty of food. Every morning I made “sourdough hotcakes” which are much better than any other kind. They are made from a soured sponge of eggs, milk, shortening, a little sugar, and enough soda to make it foamy and light. When eaten with plenty of butter and syrup, they are hard to resist. As hard as I tried, I could never make them as good as any of the real Sourdoughs.
In the tent, the ladies of the village made social calls on me. They were very friendly and curious. They came before I was out of bed in the morning, smiling and jabbering happily as they handled me and all my things that they could reach. Once, an elderly lady sat on the floor and ate what was left in the cat’s food dish. Most of them had never seen a white woman before, and while many things amused them and there were many shrieks of laughter, they were never overwhelmed or awed by my material possessions.
In the following letter, Etta describes Foster’s introduction to, and fascination with, a transmitter radio—a skill that would become significant.
Kipnuk, Via Bethel, Alaska
September 12, 1932
Dear Everybody:
Again I must write to you all at once to save time and paper. This is the last piece I have until millions of boxes are unpacked, and the boat which brought us returns soon, so I must get off a few words to you. We were six days on the trip, an open boat about forty-five feet long and twelve feet wide. A canvas top was put over the engine in the stern under which we lived and slept. The rest of the boat was filled with freight, about six tons. A canvas tent was stretched over that, and somewhere in the bow the three Eskimo boatmen slept. One night we struck a bar about 9 P.M. They cast anchor and everyone went to bed. Our bed was made of blankets spread over life preservers. We towed three Eskimo sailboats, one after the other. It must have made quite a picture. When we stopped, there was visiting back and forth between the boats, then everyone went to his own bed. It was a queer feeling, anchored in mud and no sign of life anywhere.
The only social call we made on that long trip—indeed, the only village we saw—was Kwigillingok. It could not be seen from the shore. The tiny village had wood houses, a schoolhouse, and a small wood church. I wondered how anyone could be content in such a place. We tied up in front of the teacher’s residence, and pounded on the door to wake her up.
A charming and pretty young girl appeared and welcomed us in. She not only wholeheartedly extended full hospitality to us, she put all the accommodations of the house at our disposal. She prepared her spare bedroom, taking it for granted, as people of the North do, that we were there for an extended stay. The house was cheerful and homey. We had arrived at seven in the morning, and she prepared breakfast, one that I will never forget. After the dirty boat and living for days in the same clothing, the dainty table appointments and marvelous food were wonderful.
It was in this remote village that we first came in contact with the shortwave radio set. Bess Martin, our hostess, talked while we were there with her husband, Gus, who was 200 miles away in Bethel. They have a shortwave sending set, and while we were there she held her daily conversations with the missionaries at Quinhagak, across Kuskokwim Bay, and at Bethel. She talked into a mike and when ready to listen to them, switched the thing over to a receiving set and their answers came through the loud speaker. It was like a wireless telephone. She told them about the Joneses, and we made arrangements to buy some canned reindeer meat from them. I thought how nice it would be to talk to you that way. Later, she ticked off messages to the army operator in Bethel in code. He talks with a number of stations in the district that way, and then broadcasts all the local news he gathers. We listened to the news about ourselves and others. Incidentally, the news that we were coming here was known to everyone in these parts a full month before we knew it ourselves.
Foster became interested in this radio and soon built his own set. It worked so well, better than many expensive sets, that other people wanted his help with their own sets. He was flooded with orders for the “Jones Special,” as it was jokingly called. Foster realized he had better call a halt to the requests because he did not have a license to manufacture and sell radios.
I will tell you about Kipnuk later. I am quite sure all of you would be filled with horror at the thought of a winter here. It is bleak, desolate country, worse than Nome, everyone says. Not a tree, not a hill except a low one about ten miles away. There is nothing but monotonous tundra, but we like it. I am sure the winter will be an interesting one. Just now there are thousands of geese and ducks everywhere, big fat ones, making the tundra look like a chicken ranch. One of the Eskimos said there are reindeer tracks on a creek not far away, so we may have some reindeer meat.
The building isn’t finished enough for us to live in yet, so we are in a tent, and so happy to be there after our six weeks of traveling. We left Old Harbor July 29 and landed here September 11. Just before we left Bethel, a plane came with mail and there was a letter from Nan enclosing one of Dump’s. I devoured them over and over. I suppose the rest of your letters are on the way from Kodiak. I’ll get them about Christmas. I am sorry to hear of Uncle Tom’s passing. Mother will feel very much alone now.
I will write occasionally and keep a letter handy in case I have a chance to send it, but I don’t see any hope of sending until Christmas anyway. Very soon now the Bering