May, 1905 | 
IN ALASKA’S RAIN BELT 
69 
a little too late to get much assistance from the ebbing tide, we pulled out from the 
protected harbor into the narrow forest-girt fiord, hoping for a fair wind on the long 
stretch ahead of us. But the wind was not fair — it never is, it seems, except for 
the fellow going the other way — and there was nothing for it but to sail with the 
old reliable ‘ash breeze.’ So we bent to it for nearly four hours, hugging the shore, 
taking every lee and eddy, and buffeting the combined wind and tide only when it 
could not be avoided. It was raining as was to be expected, but we were prepared 
for it; ourselves incased in oilskins, our blankets and provisions in waterproof 
canvas bags, and our guns well smeared with grease and lying within reach under 
a tarpaulin. Along the Arm we saw a few common water birds. Now and then a 
black-throated loon bobbed up, and as it dove on our approach we amused our- 
selves in the usual way speculating as to where it would reappear. Small parties 
of the chunky little marbled murrelets floated unconcernedly over the choppy 
water, until we came within the danger limit, and then quickly disappeared be- 
neath the surface. Clumsy scoters, both the American and the white-winged, 
were seen here and there. Once a flock of a dozen or more scaup ducks flew over, 
and now and then an American merganser streaked by. Spotted sandpipers flitted 
along the shore from one point to another and mingled their musical little whistles 
with the harsh cries of the abundant and insistent ravens. From the depths of the 
forest occasionally came the cries of crested jays or perhaps from afar off the high- 
pitched trill of the varied thrush. 
A stream enters the head of the Arm and winds through open grassy flats for 
the last mile of its course. A few straggling trees thrive on elevated knolls about 
the border of the flats and at high tide become insular. Most of the year these 
flats are beautiful open meadows, being entirely inundated only by the extreme 
high tides of spring. Bird life is usually somewhat concentrated at the head of 
such a long inlet, and this case was no exception. As we approached, a large 
flock of crows ( Corvus centrums') started from a clump of detached trees and wheeled 
slowly over the meadow cawing vociferously. Their alarm was soon communicat- 
ed to hundreds of geese which we could now plainly see scattered over the flats 
and along the muddy banks of the tidal sloughs. In another moment, with min- 
gled cawing and cackling and now and then an added cry from a gull, the place 
was a pandemonium. A few flocks of the geese, which were all of the white- 
cheeked variety ( Bran/a c. occidenialis ) , took flight but many remained on the flat 
walking about, craning their necks, and cackling in much concern. 
It was nearly night and still raining, so on discovering a deserted cabin near 
the beach, we quickly put ashore and camped in its shelter. Dry wood had evi- 
dently been at a premium here, for the interior of the cabin was stripped of nearly 
everything burnable that would not sacrifice shelter. Even the floor, which was 
several feet above the ground, had been burned piecemeal by successive camp- 
ing parties until only a few boards remained. We also levied a small tribute and 
managed to keep enough blaze to cook our meal and furnish light. By careful ad- 
justment our blankets were so spread on the remnants of the floor that it was 
possible to roll in without dropping through to the ground. Soon the tide rose 
and we lay and listened to the lap of the water as it came nearer and nearer the 
house, shivering to think of the catastrophe that might occur should we roll over 
too far while asleep. However sleep soon came, followed without conscious inter- 
mission by waking at daylight. 
It was muggy in the morning but not raining and we were soon exploring 
the flats. The geese were again scattered about feeding and in such large num- 
bers that they appeared like the flocks one sees in the fall of the year. Still I 
