A CASSIAR HUNT IN NINETEEN - SIX 
UP THE STIKINE INTO A LAND UNSPOILED WHERE CARIBOU RANGE THROUGH 
LONELY VALLEYS AND SHEEP MOVE SLOWLY ALONG SNOW SWEPT MOUNTAIN LEDGES 
By HARRY L. FERGUSON 
A BOUT twelve years ago, by a piece 
of good fortune, I happened to get 
in touch with a man I had never 
met, but who I had heard about, whose 
shooting companion had disappointed 
him. I had been very anxious to go to 
the same place but could find no one to 
go with, so when I heard of “W” it did 
not take long to get in touch with him 
and make the necessary arrangements for 
a trip up the Stikine River to the Cas- 
siar country. 
The trip across the continent need not 
be told of for every one knows of the 
doubtful joys of a car trip of several 
days through quite uninteresting coun- 
try. This applies only to the eastern 
states and the prairies, for the ride 
through the mountains never gets tire- 
some. We dropped olf the train at Banff 
for a day or two as we were ahead of 
boat leaving time, and had a good time 
looking around, swimming in the pool, 
and visiting the Park, well stocked with 
buffalo and other big game animals. After 
a day or two we moved on to Vancouver 
and soon sailed north for Wrangel and 
a great trip. 
The Princess Beatrice was quite com- 
fortable and we found on board several 
other parties who were also going up to 
hunt on the head waters of the Stikine, 
so we soon got to know them and the 
time passed very pleasantly. We had a 
chance to go ashore at Ketchikan and 
walked about, seeing what was to be 
seen. As the town is built entirely of 
wood and a good part of it on piles over 
the water, it can soon be seen. A dam 
had been built across a small stream 
back of town and we there saw a most 
remarkable sight. For centuries prob- 
ably, the salmon had gone up this stream 
to spawn and now were blocked by the 
dam, and at its base a solid mass of sal- 
mon were wedged. They were packed 
so closely that when we put our hands in 
the water, they would slip down between 
fish and we were able to catch a number 
of them. I suppose by now, the fish have 
given up using this stream and it is, 
like so many others, spoiled, in order to 
help some one make money. The scenery 
was continually changing as the route 
lay through the islands practically all 
the way and as a good many black fish, 
a small species „f whale and an occa- 
sional dug-out filled to overflowing with 
Indian children and dogs were seen, the 
time passed swiftly and late one night 
we reached Wrangel and went ashore at 
once, glad to be able to stretch our legs 
again on land. 
As the Mount Royal, the Hudson’s Bay 
Osborne Caribou with malformed horns 
Co., steamer could not leave for a couple 
of days, we put in the time buying a few 
extra things and in visiting and photo- 
graphing the Indian totem poles that are 
scattered through the town and neigh- 
borhood. The one quite often seen, of 
the bear sitting on top of a pole with his 
foot prints carved all the way up, be- 
longing to old Chief Shakes, was really 
the best though one over at old Chiefs 
grave was very well done, a huge flying 
bird of some kind. The ubiquitous slot 
machine where nickle followed nickle into 
its gaping maw, seldom returning to us 
multiplied, were played with the custom- 
ary luck, but it was a time killer at any 
rate so we did not regret our losses very 
much. 
Word at last came to go on board the 
Mount Royal, and every one hastened to 
her with their outfits and we soon were 
off. The mouth of the Stikine, where 
Wrangel is located, is broad and shallow 
with sand bars showing up here and 
there, and old tree stumps lodged on 
them and has rather a poor appearance. 
Captain Johnson steered without a 
chart but felt his way along depending on 
the color of the water entirely and only 
once or twice landed us on a sand bar, 
but backed off each time without much 
trouble. The water all looked the same to 
us, but the captain noted the different 
shades of color in the muddy river and 
steered accordingly. We stopped several 
times a day to take on a load of fire 
wood at the stations they have located 
along the run to Telegraph Creek. 
The great Orloff glacier, nearly six 
miles across at its base, is on the north 
side of the river, and was a beautiful 
sight as the lower hills had gradually 
given way to great mountains covered 
with snow, and the sunlight shining on 
the ice was a sight to long be remem- 
bered. An old Indian legend says that 
the glacier ran over the river and up the 
opposite valley, but if this was true it 
was long, long ago. There appeared to be 
a small glacier in this valley, so pos- 
sibly there is something in the story. 
A party of Russians were sent up to ex- 
plore the glacier, when Russia owned 
Alaska, but were lost in the ice and I be- 
lieve no trace of them has ever been 
found. 
The current was swift, and several 
times the crew were obliged to run a 
cable ahead and then with the winch 
going and the ship’s engine puffing its 
heart out, we were able to get over a 
stretch of rough water. To get through 
the Big Canyon where the water rushed 
