BY SNOW-CLAD VOLCANOES 171 



All the caribou here were still in velvet, and that beauti- 

 ful fine fur covering of their horns deluded us as to the 

 size of the antlers. The best animal which I shot there 

 proved but a small head. 



Elting and Mike made a wide sweep of the country; 

 I packed the caribou home, steering through the baffling 

 swamps by the bearing of a mountain across the bay and 

 felt footsore after a first day's walk of about twenty-two 

 miles. The other men came in after sundown, having 

 done at least thirty miles. They had covered the ter- 

 ritory we had laid out for the next day's hunting and 

 found nothing worth while. It was therefore decided to 

 go at once to the camp near the mountains, where Mike 

 said the caribou were likely to be better. 



The two Aleuts living next to Mike (and largely 

 supported by him) were to help Kleinschmidt pack up to 

 our camp, and Mike had their solemn promises to be 

 sober. Nevertheless they were both drunk on their 

 hooch, made of fermented sugar and flour, and it took 

 Mike's wife to get them started. She treated us to 

 fresh eggs from her two chickens, dogs having killed the 

 other fourteen, and set before us a haunch of caribou, 

 which she had herself shot, dressed and carried home. 

 This, besides looking after a baby and three little girls 

 and doing the usual housework, had taken up a good deal 

 of her day. 



It was a beautiful, clear, cold night. The moon 

 swam brilliantly over a bank of black clouds across the 

 bay and cast a broad pathway of light on the ripphng 

 surface. 



