VIII THE LAST OF THE BERING SEA 151 



as the fiction-writers are pleased to call it, " mountains high." 

 I do not think that the sensation of placing my feet once 

 more on terra finna was ever so welcome to me as it was 

 when we made the friendly shelter of a long sandspit and 

 safely put the dory ashore, after running before the wind for 

 a distance of some twelve miles. Here we bade farewell to 

 Andrew, our skilful pilot, whose little wooden hut we could 

 see some two miles away from the spot where we landed, and 

 where also we decided to camp. A more desolate, dreary 

 spot than this it would have been hard to find. It took all 

 hands some time searching to find enough driftwood to 

 kindle a fire. Whilst engaged in this search I came upon 

 several fresh bear-tracks, all following the sandy shore. One 

 lot of tracks, which were only about twenty-four hours old, 

 were those of an old she-bear and two tiny cubs, the tracks 

 left by the latter being not much larger than those of a big 

 St. Bernard dog. I believe it is very unusual to see an old 

 she-bear with small cubs at so great a distance as this from 

 the mountains. The natives and all old hunters whom I have 

 met declare positively that the old mother remains for a 

 while in the hills near the spot where she has holed-up for the 

 winter, and stays there with her cubs often during the whole 

 season after they are born. 



Towards evening the wind died away, the sea calmed 

 down very rapidly, and we were off again at daylight. Twice 

 during the day we remained for a long while almost stationary 

 in the dory, although there was a fair breeze for sailing. But 

 whilst crossing the entrance to a big bay we were caught 

 by the tide and remained floundering about doing what is 

 locally termed " bucking a tide rip," and a more unpleasant 

 sensation than this, in a heavily loaded dory, cannot be 

 imagined. 



