Vol. XCI 
MAY. 1921 
No. 5 
NORTH OF FIFTY -SEVEN IN MAY 
IN WHICH THE REAL ENCHANTMENT IS FOUND NOT SO MUCH JIN THE SLAY- 
ING OF BEARS AS IN THE MANY CHARMS THAT NATURE REVEALS IN SPRINGTIME 
{ 4 1 jALLABOTE !” was the exclama- 
r“ I tion of a Tahltan Indian, some 
years ago, when we came to the 
end of a particularly bad trail through 
a muskeg in the far north. “What is 
the meaning of ‘hallabote’?” I asked. 
“Hallabote? That means never come 
back here again; no mo’, forever,” was 
the Indian’s expressive definition. But 
the Indian does come back. During nu- 
merous wanderings into the haunts of 
big game, often, like the Indian, have I 
voiced the same thought ; yet, I have al- 
ways come back. And early May found 
me north of latitude fifty-seven. I had 
come to see a northern winter pass into 
summer; to hear the spring songs of 
the birds ; to peer into the secluded spots 
that the wild fowl choose for their 
nests; to watch the landscape change 
from white to green; to stalk into the 
haunts of bears, late from their winter 
dens; to hear the drumming of grouse; 
to observe the habits of mountain goats 
on the lower levels of the mountain 
sides; to take a few trout from icy 
waters; to revel in the hundreds of 
fascinations that lure the hunter. 
I left Wrangell by the first boat up 
the Stikine, on May thirteenth. The ice 
had almost disappeared from the river, 
and its waters were very low. With the 
coming of night, we tied up near Big 
Glacier. The winter snows had settled, 
though they were still over knee-deep. 
Big Glacier, and the mountains that sur- 
round it, were dazzling white in the sun ; 
in the afterglow, the peaks fairly glit- 
tered ; and at night, the whiteness above 
the timber line became intense. Here 
was an impression of winter, never to be 
forgotten. 
The following day we passed Flood 
Glacier, Eagle Crag Mountain, and the 
mouth of the Scud River. As one mar- 
velous winter scene succeeded another, it 
was impossible to select the one possess- 
ing the most charm and beauty. The 
whiteness of it all was so unnatural, to 
By HENRY BANNON 
a mind unfamiliar with a northern win- 
ter, that it seemed oppressive. 
We saw beaver, and the many trees 
felled by them; we saw a mink running 
at the water’s edge; we saw wild geese 
in pairs on the bars and on the logs ; but 
only the pussy willows told of the com- 
ing of spring. After we passed through 
Little Canyon (about one hundred and 
twenty miles from Wrangell) the scene 
changed. The snow had disappeared 
Mr. Bannon at a temporary camp 
from the lower levels; the air was 
warmer; swallows flew over the waters; 
the willows were bright yellow and 
the poplars showed the hue of life in 
their trunks and branches. 
I N due time, we reached the mouth of 
the Clearwater River, and I landed 
at Captain Conover’s cabin. I had 
arranged to hunt on the Clearwater 
with him, and we were to penetrate into 
fastnesses, where but few white men 
have hunted. Two prospectors, of more 
than seventy years of age, were at Con- 
over’s. One had lived, from boyhood, 
upon the outposts of civilization, along 
the route from Red River, Fort Garry, 
and Edmonton to Alaska. The other 
had followed the western plains ; he was 
in Denver in the early sixties, and then 
passed on to California, Oregon and 
Alaska. Both had spent their lives in 
the quest of gold. In this they did not 
succeed. But success, after all, is that 
which produces contentment of mind and 
these men were content. I had brought 
a sack of hickory nuts from Ohio, and 
the prospectors soon fell to cracking 
them. Neither had seen a hickory nut 
for more than fifty years. They had 
iven forgotten how, as boys, they 
cracked them to produce the halves. I 
doubt if any other sack of hickory nuts 
had ever been more welcome. A chip- 
munk was running about the yard and 
we, curious to learn whether a chip- 
munk that had never fed upon hickory 
nuts would eat them, set out a handful 
of nuts and some porridge for it to 
choose. In its eagerness to get the por- 
ridge, it fairly scrambled over the nuts. 
Captain Conover has a convenient 
rifle range one hundred and thirty-five 
yards from his cabin door. The target 
is a triangular rock about the size of a 
bear’s shoulder. On this range we test- 
ed our rifles. We found them correctly 
sighted and also learned that our eyes 
and nerves had not lost their cunning. 
The homestead of Captain Conover is 
in a little clearing. Here he has built 
two log cabins, a supply house, and a 
fur house. On the cleared ground, he 
raises hardy vegetables, also raspberries 
and strawberries. Possession of one of 
the cabins was given to me. In the open 
fireplace burned a cheery fire. There 
were bookshelves that contained Rid- 
path’s History of the World, the works 
of Mark Twain, Thackeray, and Dick 
