276 BIG GAME FIELDS 



a-shimmer in the soft rays of the westerning sun. 

 There it was, all silver and blue, and boundless; 

 with the tiny white sails of fishing boats dancing 

 over it, winking and flashing like bits of blown 

 feathers. Then the sun reddened and crawled to 

 a smoldering setting, while its gold and purple 

 banners hung softly over the bay, whose rippled 

 surface flushed crimson, and the naked sand bars 

 flung back a ruddy glow. The shores were 

 washed in a flood of purple glory that climbed 

 the rugged heights and lay in splendor on the 

 lofty snow-topped peaks. 



The town of Wrangell, situated on Wrangell 

 Island, boasts of eight hundred inhabitants, in- 

 cluding the Indian population. The visitor's eye 

 is at once caught by the weird carvings of the 

 many Totem poles, which both in color and design 

 display striking grotesque ornaments. It is a 

 fishing town and the salmon cannery there is a 

 very profitable one. 



Two days later, on board the little gas boat 

 Winiford we left Wrangell for the long struggle 

 up the swift-flowing Stikine River. Our destina- 

 tion was Telegraph Creek, which is situated 160 

 miles up the Stikine River, and is the ultimate 

 outfitting point. Some idea of the swiftness of 

 the current may be had from the fact that it took 



