Home may be where the heart is, but the lonely mist-shrouded rock known as King Island, that thrusts itself abruptly up from the Bering Sea about 30 miles off the Alaskan coast, is one place to which I shouldn’t permit my heart to grow unduly attached. But home it is to about 150 of the hardiest, keenest, most seagoing Eskimos to be found in the entire arctic. The island, discovered and named by Captain Cook, is in approximately 65 degrees north latitude and 168 degrees west longitude and about 60 miles south-southeast from Bering Strait. It is no more than 3 miles in circumference and rises 400 or 500 feet almost straight up from the sea. The sole village perches on the less vertical southern side in imminent danger of being precipitated into the sea by land slides or by huge bowlders resting in what appears to be extremely unstable equilibrium high up on the side of the island.
The houses of the village nestle against the slope on one side and are supported on the down-hill side by stilts or piles. Not all the inhabitants live in houses, however; quite a few live in dugouts underground. There is a very fine school- house on the island and a Catholic mission chapel, for the natives are all Catholics. The Bureau of Indian Affairs provides a school teacher and the Jesuits maintain a missionary at the chapel most of the time.
A vessel anchors off the village in 18 to 20 fathoms, so close in that it seems you can almost touch the rocks ashore. There is no beach and no shelter except from northerly weather. If the wind is southerly you do not anchor off the village—you seek a lee on the other side or stand out to sea.
The islanders land and launch their skin boats on and off the rocks at the base of the cliffs in such favorable spots as there may be. There must be practically a smooth sea with no swell to do any boating. As soon as a sea works up, boating operations cease and the boats are hauled out and placed high up on racks out of reach of the ravenous dogs that are found in all Eskimo villages. These boats, “oomiaks,” large 40-footers, and “kyaks,” small covered over single or double seaters, are of skin construction over wooden frames, and the dogs would tear them to pieces for what sustenance could be derived from the skins could the dogs but reach them. Nothing edible grows on the island except a shrub that the natives chew for some tonic effect or other, and except for the dogs and myriads of sea fowl there is no animal life. Other than at the summit there is hardly a level spot to be found on the whole island. It is windswept or draped in fog most of the time and snow, which providentially lasts all through the summer, is the only water supply.
Why do these people live on this desolate spot? The answer, an economic one, is that they get their living there. Their living is the walrus, which toward the end of winter comes down in vast herds into Bering Sea from the Arctic Ocean, passing King Island close aboard. Here at the islanders’ front door for the taking are: meat for food; blubber for making oil with which to keep warm; ivory for implements, for adornment, and for carving for sale; and skins for making boats. The
walrus, with an occasional whale, some of those gigantic Bering Sea crabs, and some birds and eggs, was enough to keep the villagers well fed and prosperous before the white man came and taught them his ways. And as a matter of fact it still does, because they sell a tremendous quantity of carved ivory for cash, with which is obtained new necessities, one of these being gasoline for their outboard motors, and new luxuries such as tobacco, coffee, sugar, etc., for themselves.
They sell their ivory in Nome, which metropolis” is about 90 miles from King Island. Every summer around the Fourth of July the whole tribe, from the chief own to the last baby, descends on Nome with household gear and a few dogs. The village is abandoned for the summer, though quite a number of the dogs are left behind to exist as best they can on birds and eggs. The villagers make the 90-mile voyage in their 40-foot skin boats under power, oars, and sail if the wind is favorable. The power is provided by outboard motors. The sails are sometimes made of skins. The mast steps are walrus jaws—one more use made of this utilitarian animal.
The natives pick a good day, make a dash for the mainland (about 30 miles distant), and then coast along, close in to the beach (in case of bad weather) until they get to Nome. They “better had” choose a good time to make the trip, for the manner in which the oomiaks are loaded would give Samuel Plimsoll plenty of cause for worry. When they finish piling in all hands on top of their household gear, summer stores, and sealskins full of oil, the boats have about 2 inches of freeboard left. They would swamp in any but practically a smooth sea. The sides are extended about 18 inches with additional skins and battens, but these are but spray cloths and afford no protection against “green water” coming over. These spray cloths have sleeves in them for oars and are rigged in and out very handily.
One of these skin boats, loaded down to the gun whales, came alongside the Northland, anchored off Nome a summer or so ago. There was no wind and the sea was smooth but on account of some disturbance to the southward a fairly heavy swell was running from that direction and breaking on the beach, causing such surf that the “captain” of the oomiak deemed it unwise to land. This particular boat had been delayed up the coast somewhere, having been overtaken by the stork and hauled up on the beach to accommodate the mother, otherwise it would have been in with the rest a few days sooner and could have landed with ease as they had. The villagers on the beach saw the plight their fellow islanders were in and sent out an empty boat through the surf to give them a hand. Enough stores and gear were taken by the second boat from the first to give the latter sufficient freeboard to negotiate the surf. Empty “pokes,” i.e., the skins in which the Eskimos store and carry oil, were inflated and lashed along the sides for additional buoyancy, the boat was trimmed properly, and off they went with no more concern than if they were to go alongside a wharf in a sheltered basin, instead of having to land through the surf. There were at least 30 persons in the boat and every man a coxswain, but with that instinct the sea breeds in those who are nurtured on her bosom, they seemed to know exactly what to do and when to do it. Furthermore not one of them could swim a stroke. We watched them, with glasses, make the shore. The surf, as I said, was fairly heavy but with one line of breakers. The captain jockeyed the oomiak into position, watched his chance, and when the favorable moment came he put the boat broadside to the breakers, parallel to the shore, and rode the sea right up the beach. Before the receding sea caught her all the men and boys in the oomiak hopped out, those on shore dashed down into the water, and they all grabbed the boat and dragged her up high and dry on the beach. The extra buoyancy provided by the inflated skins no doubt kept the oomiak from capsizing in the surf when broadside to.
Once in Nome they devote their time to selling the ivory they have carved the previous winter, carving more as the demand arises (as it generally does), and to stevedoring. They make all sorts of useful and ornamental trinkets from the walrus ivory, such as salt shakers, penholders, cigarette holders, beads, cribbage boards —some of them most elaborately carved and bringing as much as $30—statuettes, and many other objects. We saw one King Islander working on a model of the old cutter Bear. It was all of ivory, even down to the sails. It was at least 3 feet over-all, made to scale, and correct in all details. He was using a picture of the Bear in the rotogravure section of the Times as a model, that plus what he remembered of her. He expected to get at least $200 for it. It was about four-fifths finished when we saw it—he had been working on it two years—and it was a handsome and skillfully done work.
They sell their ivory, some to the local citizenry, to the occasional tourist that wanders up that way, to the crews of the few merchant vessels that make Nome, and last but not least, to the Coast Guardsmen of the cutter Northland. This latter group buys great quantities, some to keep as souvenirs and some for resale (at a profit) at Unalaska to the officers and men of the Navy, Coast & Geodetic Survey, Lighthouse Service, Fishery, and other Coast Guard vessels which have not had the opportunity to get up to the “Ivory Country.” None of this ivory changes hands without considerable dickering, and although the natives can’t speak English very well they fully understand the values of the various coins and bills. What is more, they understand the distinct difference between “trade” and “cash.” The whole tribe get together and set the prices for their various items of ivory and you won’t find one member underselling another.
All the time the King Islanders spend in Nome is not dedicated to carving ivory and stevedoring. There being practically 24 hours of daylight every day, ample opportunity occurs to lay in stores for the coming winter and to accumulate a tremendous quantity of junk—just plain junk—picked up in and around Nome, for which only an Eskimo could find use. When Nome burned down three years ago twice as much junk as ever was made available for them and they failed not in acquiring it.
Now the question naturally arises: how do they get all this load of winter stores and junk back to King Island? They came to the mainland loaded down to the gunwales. They must get back with what they brought with them plus their winter’s stores and the junk. The answer is—the U. S. Coast Guard. Around the latter part of September or the first week in October the chief of the tribe and Father La Fortune, the Jesuit missionary who acts as interpreter, contact the captain of the Northland. Arrangements are made to transport the entire population of the village with their impedimenta back to King Island on that vessel. The first day that the weather will be favorable is chosen. To be favorable there must, on that day, be a calm or the wind must be in the north, for boats may work both off the beach at Nome and off the village on the island in northerly weather. Early in the morning of the propitious day the villagers start breaking camp and bringing their possessions out to the Northland. An awning is spread over the quarter-deck. Stages are rigged over the sides at the quarter, and up from the skin boats to be piled high on the quarter-deck under the awning comes the most varied assortment of miscellaneous items one ever saw. Pots and pans, stoves, washtubs, pokes of oil, bedding, trunks, clothes of all descriptions, washboards, lanterns, provisions of many kinds including flour, canned goods, and even cornflakes. Then what must not be forgotten, the junk they Prize so highly: pieces of corrugated iron, odds and ends of lumber, driftwood of sizable proportions (these last two items are fairly valuable because they are the only source of wood for boat frames and piles for their houses, since no trees grow anywhere in this vicinity), empty gasoline tins, scrap iron, old motor parts, pieces of canvas, gunny sacking, rope ends. Anything that some ingenious Eskimo might find use for in the course of the long winter is picked up and brought along. After everything is aboard the families are brought out and come aboard. Then two of the large oomiaks are hoisted, one each to the surf boat and motor-launch davits. The rest of the boats are stowed on the forecastle. All is snugged down, the various heads of families select cozy spots for their households and compose themselves or a nice comfortable trip home, with the Prospect of being fed very nobly en route by a fond and doting government.
Every effort is made to have the loading accomplished by dark—the days are setting short now—so that the vessel may get under way and the voyage to the island be made during the night. The village is raised at dawn; by sunup the ship is anchored and unloading can be started. The natives have had a good night’s rest and turn to handsomely at disembarking themselves and their cargo. This unloading must be expedited because the wind, if any, may shift, or come up from the southward if it be calm. If it should, plenty of complications will arise, such as having to up anchor and run with half the village aboard and the other half ashore, or with the people ashore and their gear aboard The day that the Northland was to take the villagers back to King Island, the year Nome burned down, when there was twice as much cargo as ever before, they were late in starting and slow in working. It was well into the forenoon of the following day before all hands and their gear were aboard, the vessel under way, and course set for the island. We had been on our way but for a short period of time when the visibility which had been none too good all day began to decrease. The wind, what there was of it, shifted from the north to northeast, and with the change came scattered flurries of light snow, giving promise of more to come. Darkness came early and before the island was raised, although we were close enough to have picked it up. Just before the weather closed in completely and it started to snow in earnest with those great big wet flakes, a light on the island was picked up, close aboard. An advance party had gone out to the island a few days before. They were looking for us and had set the light to guide us when the weather had begun to grow thick, in fact we had been sighted from the village. Ten minutes later we should have completely missed spotting the light, and a hundred and fifty Eskimos of assorted ages and sizes would have been on our hands for an indefinite period. But we didn’t miss it, and in a short time we were anchored in our usual anchorage, only a little closer in. The villagers had no appetite for commencing work and were all for “holing-up” for the night. They had been up all day, all the previous night, and here they had the prospect of being up another night getting their stuff off the ship. The captain was firm, however, and insisted that they get themselves and their gear ashore, even if the situation was further complicated by a blinding snowstorm. The wind had increased in force a little but it had swung no further to the eastward, so there was still a lee where we were anchored and the skin boats could be worked if necessary. With the assistance of our cargo lights and searchlights the task was begun. The women and the small fry were disembarked first and then the pile of cargo was tackled. There was positively no use in trying to organize their efforts; they had done this job many times before and no white man could tell them how to do it any better than the way it was being done. When a suggestion was offered it was politely ignored; when an order was given, it was a case of “no understand white man’s talk.” All night long the villagers worked and by dawn we were completely free of Eskimos for another year.
It was well indeed that the captain had been firm on the discharging proposition, for shortly after we left the anchorage that day the wind came up from the south and for two weeks there was no landing at King Island.