The Journal of a Sporting Nomad 



loff. There is a River Kusiloff also, thirty-five 

 miles long, that rises from a lake of the same 

 name at the foot of the mountains. The place 

 was some twenty miles from Tyonak on the 

 Kenai Peninsula. A large salmon-canning factory 

 had been built at the mouth of the river, the 

 manager of which was an American named 

 Wetherbee. My reason for waiting a week at 

 Tyonak was that I had no means of getting to 

 Kusiloff. A small, wheezy steam tug of about 

 eighty tons did the trip down the coast once a 

 week, and I was obliged to wait for this old box. 

 At last Dawson and I arrived at the cannery. 

 I was tremendously keen to get into the country 

 after sport, my expectations being wound up 

 to concert pitch by the yarns spun to me by 

 Dawson and many others. Wetherbee was not 

 very gracious to me at first. I wanted to buy a 

 boat from him, or, better still, to hire one, but 

 he took up a most uncompromising attitude, 

 probably owing to the fact that he had been 

 bothered to death by various people with a 

 similar request. I did not press the point, but 

 took up my abode under an old shed that was 

 not used, close to the beach, in which he said I 

 might pitch my tent. I got Wetherbee to show 

 me the cannery and explain the whole business 

 to me, which he kindly did. 



Until we became friends I did not again 

 broach the question of the boat, which was 



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