CRUISING THE FJORDS OF NORTH PACIFIC 
silvered in the sunlight, were leaping high 
out of the water, a happy suggestion for the 
evening meal near-to-hand. So we tried a 
troll at our stern, with good success, and 
soon rich red salmon steaks were frying. 
As darkness came on we made a little bay 
on Hanson Island, off Baronet Passage, and 
anchored safely for the night in about four 
fathoms of water. As we dropped sail 
several deer, alarmed by our intrusion upon 
the quiet of the scene, disappeared in the 
bush. We had no fresh meat aboard, so 
our appetites, already whetted by the pure 
Northland ozone, prompted us to im- 
mediate effort. We put off in the dingey 
and, skirting the shore line with muffled 
oars, came soon upon a fine young buck, 
but dimly outlined in the falling night as he 
stood upon a moss-covered cliff. A single 
shot brought him down, and we returned to 
the sloop with his carcass—quick work, 
indeed, for the whole operation had con- 
sumed little more than fifteen minutes. We 
might elaborate the incident and thus make 
it more interesting and less like fiction of 
the Robinson Crusoe sort, but we went for 
meat and it happened just so. 
The next morning we were up with six 
o’clock and weighed anchor. There being 
no wind at all we pulled through the beauti- 
ful canal-like waters of Baronet Passage, 
calling in near its mouth at a fishing village 
of Klowich Indians on Harbledown Island. 
Some fifteen families of them reside here 
during the salmon-fishing season, inhabiting 
small, ill-fashioned shacks. In appearance 
and habits they resemble their Fort Rupert 
brothers. It wasa busy scene that morning, 
the men in dugout canoes making the round 
of their nets, collecting the catch, and 
bringing it in to the women, who squatted 
on the beach over their task of beheading, 
gutting and cleaning the fish, the old hags 
crooning over their gory work. We tarried 
with them to fill our water casks from their 
spring, and then pulled along down the 
Passage into Clio Channel, a huge amphi- 
theater of the sea hemmed in by the high 
rock walls of Turner and Cracroft islands. 
Here in the early afternoon a stiff gale filled 
our sail, and we bore swiftly down upon 
Minstrel Island, which apparently blocked 
the channel ahead. It was glorious sport! 
Here and there whales spouted or rent the 

SAM HUNT’S COMELY SISTER 
air with their huge flukes as they “turned 
tail” and disappeared. Some more bom- 
bastic than the rest leaped clear of the water 
and fell full length into it again with a 
report like the roar of cannon that echoed 
and reechoed. 
As we neared Minstrel Island two narrow 
channels around it were disclosed. We took 
the starboard course and, losing our wind 
by reason of the narrowness of the 
pass, were compelled to pull through 
it into the;, waters of Knight’s Inlet just 
beyond. 
As we came into the broad expanse of the 
Inlet a splendid picture of natural grandeur 
greeted us. Before us for a hundred miles 
the mighty Fjord of fjords stretched away, 
cutting in twain the majestic, snow-capped 
mountains of the Coast Range, its two- 
mile breadth of water walled by bold 
basaltic cliffs that rose sheer from the 
sea. 
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