266 
FOREST AND STREAM 
May, 1918 
Andy came down Kenai Lake in his canoe and we took his outfit aboard 
we turned into the mouth of Russian River 
and tied up to the bank out of the current, 
preparing to spend the night in a cabin 
built by Louis Bell, a fire guard, on the 
site of an ancient Russian settlement, the 
mounds of which could be plainly traced in 
many places around the cabin. While Tom 
and Walter prepared supper, Mackay and 
Andy started off to look for bear and Ben 
and I went fishing up Russian River. The 
great red salmon were so thick, crowding 
up stream to spawn, that there seemed 
hardly any room for the big trout for 
which this stream is famous. Flies were 
very bothersome—great hordes of vicious 
brutes, stinging and biting any exposed 
place. I unfortunately had forgotten to 
bring along my fly net, I was so anxious 
to get after the trout, and I was an easy 
mark for them. After an hour of vexa¬ 
tious experiences during which I hooked 
a number of trout and lost them, I was 
ready to call quits and seek the sanctity of 
the cabin, away from the torturing fly pest. 
Mackay and Andy returned shortly, hav¬ 
ing seen signs but no game. We ate supper 
and turned in early. 
A clear, cool morning greeted us, all 
signs of storm had fled with the night and 
we were off down the river at six o’clock 
—around Schooner bend and through a 
narrow can3^on on the top of the flying 
spray. A porky nestling in a tree top and 
a few ducks traveling up stream added a 
touch of wild life to the backward flying 
landscape as we sped on our way. Sud¬ 
denly we heard a harsh, scraping sound and 
the boat swung violently to the right—Ben 
stopped the engine and grabbing an oar, 
brought us back on our course as suddenly 
as we had diverged — “Steering gear 
broken!” he shouted above the roar of the 
waves, but we soon slid into quiet water 
at the mouth of the river and landed on a 
bar to investigate the extent of our dam¬ 
ages. Necessity again proved the mother of 
invention and Ben rose to the occasion by 
cutting two wedges of wood and wedging 
the rudder stationary, so we could use the 
engine and steer with an oar in crossing 
Skilak Lake, which stretched out ahead of 
us, shimmering in the morning sunshine. 
In this manner we safely crossed the bar at 
the entrance to the lake and bore away 
toward Old Bill’s fox-ranch, about six 
miles down and across the lake. Mackay 
rigged up a sail with a tent and an oar and 
we made good time running before the 
wind—sailing along through the glorious 
sunshine surrounded by delectable moun¬ 
tains, snow crowned and splendid, rising, 
range upon range—the silent home of our 
noble quest, the white sheep of the north. 
We spent a few minutes at the ranch, 
gave Bill his mail, viewed his garden— a 
real achievement in vegetable raising, and 
were off again skirting the shore about four 
miles further. Entering a little bay we 
landed near the mouth of a brook and 
made our base camp—erecting a cache for 
our supplies and setting up a tent. After 
lunch Mackay and Andy started off to view 
the country. Ben and I took the boat and 
cruised along the shore a few miles, land¬ 
ing on a sheltered beach among the spruce 
and birch, and pushed back into the country 
for about six miles. We climbed upward 
through wide pastures of low-bush cran¬ 
berries, moss-berries, squaw berries, patches 
of wild desolate windfalls and through a 
fire stricken country of burned timber—just 
the place for bear, but Ben said they were 
feeding high up on the mountains at this 
time of year. We sat down on the top of 
a ridge, commanding a wide view of the 
lake and swamp land to the south and west 
and studied the country through our 
glasses. Presently we saw a cow moose 
feeding among the lily pads far below us. 
She was up to her neck in the water—push- 
in her way through the grass and weeds. 
Then another one came into view about 
two hundred yards farther south. We 
watched them for a long time feeding 
quietly out from shore, appearing and dis¬ 
appearing among the lily pads and grasses. 
A little farther along the ridge we entered 
a bear trail worn deep and clear cut in the 
rocky soil—noticing a great deal of bear and 
moose sign. Ben said that a little later in 
the year this was a great hunting ground, 
with numerous moose licks in the neighbor¬ 
hood—a wilderness land just suited to the 
habits of the moose. Returning to our boat 
we started back for camp. The quiet lake 
of the morning had become a wild tossing 
body of water as we headed up into a 
strong northeast wind. The boat was so 
large and light I had to crouch in the bow 
to keep the wind from swinging it around 
in circles. The big waves bounded against 
it and splashed the spray high over me as I 
lay, taking the punishment of resounding 
smacks, until we rounded the last point of 
land and reached the haven of camp. 
Mackay had seen no game on his tramp 
through the woods. 
That evening, around the camp fire, we 
made up our packs for the morrow’s hike, 
choosing only the things that were most 
necessary and storing the rest in the cache. 
August twentieth dawned bright and clear 
and at six forty-five we were away on our 
long tramp into the sheep country—filing 
upward through the crisp morning air. The 1 
men all carried packs weighing eighty; 
pounds or more, and Mackay and I much 
lighter ones. We climbed a very steep trail 
for two or three miles, resting every ten 
minutes or so until we reached the summit 
of the first ridge—then through some 
swamp land—around a small lake all silver 
in the morning mist and at noon we had 
reached timber line where we camped for 
lunch. Walt built a fire among the dwarfed! 
hemlocks and junipers and we were soon!] 
enjoying a well earned repast. We lav 
We spent the night in the fire warden’s cabin at the mouth of Russian River 
