106 
FOREST AND STREAM 
Maech, 1919 
Ben, one of Nature’s noblemen Clearing away the driftwood No barrier was insurmountable 
THE RETURN FROM THE HUNT 
THE SECOND PART OF A TALE OF AN ALASKAN JOURNEY THROUGH STORM AND 
FLOOD WHERE THE HAZARD OF ADVENTURE LURES WITH ITS MAGIC SPELL 
By JOHN P. HOLMAN 
A ndy had lately added a wing to 
his Cabin — a big, bare room in 
which were strewn a half dozen 
immense brown bear skins and many 
odds and ends of an Alaskan guide’s 
outfit, and we amused ourselves with 
these for an hour or two until Walter 
had cooked a mess of potatoes he had 
dug from a patch in front of the Cabin. 
“Bill planted them on my ground so 
I guess I can claim half of the crop,’’ 
said Andy, as he helped us to a gener- 
ous share. 
“As long as the patch holds out we 
won’t starve anyway,” said Walter as 
he put the old bean pot on the table 
and filled our cups with coffee. We had 
left a good part of our remaining sup- 
plies with Bill Kaiser at the fox ranch 
in order to lighten our boat for the river 
trip and had brought along just enough 
to last us for the few days we thought 
would have taken us to reach Seward, 
so any unexpected delay would neces- 
sitate considerable shortening of our ra- 
tions. We figured that the rain would 
soon be over and we looked for a train 
to come along at any time which would 
take us to town, so we ate, drank and 
were merry until the gloomy, wet after- 
noon blended into a dismal night. 
We drew lots for the two bunks in 
the cabin which fell to Andy and Mackay 
and the rest of us distributed ourselves 
over the floor on the bear skins. I slept 
on a giant Brownie with fur at least 
six inches deep and so wonderful a bed 
he made that I soon forgot all about 
the storm and when I opened my eyes 
again a thin, wan dawn was break- 
ing over a wet and sodden world. 
R ain was stlll pattering on the roof 
and beating against the windows. 
Walt was already up and busy at 
the stove. The door opened and Tom 
came in with his arms full of' wood 
which he flung down by the stove to 
dry and remarked that “it sure was 
raining.” “You’re damn right,” said 
Andy, as he gazed out of the window 
by his bunk, “and the lake is rising, 
too — see that old stump down there al- 
most under water? That was ten feet 
from the edge of the lake when we 
came in yesterday.” Sure enough, the 
i 
ETURNING from a success- 
ful hunt for bighorn sheep in 
the mountains of the Kenai Pen- 
insula, Alaska, Mr. Holman’s 
party is delayed by engine trouble 
and a had storm, as told in the last 
I issue. After great danger and I 
I many hardships they arrived at 
I Andy’s cabin, on Kenai Lake, near 
\ the new Government Railroad. 
water was rapidly creeping toward the 
cabin. Inch by inch the flood was ad- 
vancing while the roar of Victor Creek 
could be heard above the din of the rain 
— belching a great body of muddy water 
far out into the lake. Huge trunks of 
trees, broken branches and all manner 
of drift-wood swung outward on the 
strong current while huge boulders went 
grinding over and over in the shallow 
parts of the stream near the shore with 
the rumble of thunder. “No train to- 
day,” said Tom, “if this rain keeps up 
God help the Government Railroad.” 
After breakfast Mackay and I ven- 
tured out into the storm and walked 
up the track to Mile Twenty where a 
section gang was quartered and learned 
that there had been several washouts 
along the line, but that a train was 
expected about noon, so we went back 
to the cabin, packed all our outfit into 
the boat and took it around to the sta- 
tion-tent just as the long screech of a 
locomotive echoed among the fog-wrap- 
ped hills. A train pulled in but the 
conductor told us he was going to take 
it on to Mile Fifty-four and would not 
be back until three o’clock the next 
morning, so we went back to the cabin 
with our boat-load and settled do'wn to 
another long afternoon of waiting, while 
the rain came down harder than ever 
and the lake crept closer and closer to 
the cabin. Late in the afternoon we 
tramped to the station again and learned 
that the train would not be back until 
sometime the next day as another wash- 
out had occurred and they didn’t know 
when they would have it fi^ed. Tom 
got too restless to wait any longer and 
got a ride on a hand-car or speeder 
with a section hand who was going over 
the track to Seward while the rest of 
us went back to the bean pot, the spuds 
and our Brownie skins for another night. 
Andy drove a stake at the water’s edge, 
twenty feet or more from the cabin, 
and when we turned in about nine o’clock 
the water had crept up eight inches 
more — and was still going strong. 
I N the morning the rain seemed to be 
coming down harder than ever. All 
restraint had been cast to the winds 
and it settled down, earnestly, conscienti- 
ously, and stubbornly, to pour. An- 
other trip to the station elicited the 
information that the wires were do'wn 
and they didn’t know where the train 
was or when she would arrive, but 
thought probably she would come along 
sometime during the evening, so we de- 
cided to move all our belongings over 
to the station and wait there so as to 
be on hand when she did arrive. Ac- 
cordingly, we packed our trophies, sleep- 
ing bags and other duffle to the tent by 
the track during the afternoon and com- 
posed ourselves in patience to wait. Aft- 
ernoon drifted into night and nothing 
happened but the rain — that happened 
with relentless consistency. The tent 
began to leak and pools of water formed 
on the floor. “Why wasn’t I born a 
duck!” said Andy, as he moved about 
in search of a dry place to sit. In the 
middle of the tent stood a big drum 
stove which Ben said might as* well be 
working. 
A chill had begun to creep into us 
from the black and sodden night. When 
we had burned the few pieces of dry 
wood that were lying about, Ben, with- 
out a moment’s hesitation, began to tear 
up the railroad ties that formed the 
floor. “As long as the floor lasts we 
will keep warm,” he said, as he opened 
the stove door and thrust in a tie. We 
began to dry out a little and Walt 
found a candle some place which added 
to our complacency; then he fashioned 
a lantern out of a tin can with which 
to signal the train if it ever should 
appear. Every hour or so we would 
look outside and strain our eyes through 
the darkness toward a little light at 
Roosevelt, about three miles up the track. 
