In 1943, with the Koyukuk, Jimmy started towing rafts of floating gasoline barrels from Nenana to the Air Force base at Galena where the fuel was needed for Russia-bound warplanes. The barrels were held together with two-by-four frames, and some of the rafts held as many as 2,000 fifty-five-gallon drums. Jimmy towed these rafts down the Tanana River to the Yukon River, then down the Yukon to Galena.
At Galena, the army picked four drums at a time out of the water with a dragline. Thousands of those barrels, empty and full, were eventually scattered around Galena, along back trails and in the woods. Alaskans nicknamed gasoline drums “tundra daisies,” for they seemed to sprout everywhere in the Territory.
In the spring of 1943, after sticking to my wartime jobs at Anchorage and Galena for seventeen months almost without a break, I applied for a month of leave and mushed a dog team from Galena to the headwaters of the Huslia River, a tributary to the Koyukuk. I wanted to make a lone hunt for beaver. After the stress of wartime work, the hunt and the solitude were more important to me than any money I would make. But on the way, at Cutoff, I encountered Louis Golchik, a Koyukon elder, who was dying of tuberculosis, and he asked me to take him with me.
“Sidney, it will be my last hunt, for I don’t have long to live,” he said. “I promise I won’t be in your way.”
“Sure, Louie,” I agreed, for he was a wonderful old man. “If you’ll take care of camp, I’ll do the rest.”
We traveled by dogsled, pulled by two of my poorest dogs and three dogs given to me by Steven Attla. Attla was leaving for military service, and he had to get rid of his dogs before he left. Upon reaching our destination we killed the dogs, and, after breakup, drifted back downriver in canoes we made with spruce frames carved with axe and knife, and covered with canvas I had hauled in the sled.
During our hunt we lingered over many evening campfires when I should have been hunting, because the failing Louis wanted to share his memories. During that time he told me of the last Koyukon winter spear hunt for grizzly bear. He had been one of the hunters.
I have hunted with several older Koyukon men who sometimes talked about the old ways and the old days, including Johnny Oldman, Little Sammy, Edwin Simon, and Louis Golchik. Many aspects of old Athapaskan culture are almost unknown because of a taboo against talking about them. In modern times, many elders have been reluctant to talk because they don’t want to be considered superstitious, for some of their beliefs would be so labeled today. Another compelling reason for silence was humility. Because he was dying, Louis Golchik was willing to talk about forbidden subjects.
For many years, out of respect for the elders, I have not discussed many of the old beliefs or repeated stories I heard. But most of the elders I once knew are gone, and many young Koyukon people are unaware of the old beliefs. I am in my last years and I would like to see preserved a few of the old beliefs and stories.
Early Koyukon hunters never talked about big game animals in the presence of a woman. This was a cultural taboo, and was particularly true for the brown or grizzly bear. Their respect for “the big animal,” as the grizzly was always obliquely referred to, was close to fear. This is not surprising, considering that the early hunters had to face this, the largest and fiercest North American land carnivore, with nothing more than a spear or bow and arrow.
That some Koyukon people deliberately sought the grizzly bear with a spear has always amazed me. Hunting a grizzly with a spear required detailed planning and preparation. The spear handle, upon which the hunter’s life depended, was the most critical part of the preparation. Before venturing after a bear, spear in hand, the hunter had to know if the spear could withstand the powerful blows of a grizzly bear’s paws.
The handle, helve, or length of the spear, always cut in July, was made from a birch tree growing on level ground. The best birch for a handle grows near a river where large spruce trees provide shade from the hot summer sun. Slow-growing trees not more than two and a half inches in diameter were sought. The bark had to be pinkish brown, with no loose bark. Very small, clean, horizontal lines on the growing birch were a sign of its strength. A suitable birch tree was cut, leaving about a foot-long stump.
To test the grain and the quality of the wood, a piece was cut from above the section to be used as a handle. An axe was placed dead center across the end of the sample and hammered in a short way with a block of wood. If the birch didn’t split, the axe was removed and wedges of hard dry spruce were driven into the cut. If the birch still didn’t split, it was considered suitable.
The birch handle was then burned with the bark on. Heat was driven from the outside into the center of the wood, tempering it. After the bark was burned off, the pole was hung from the butt end to dry in the shade in an out-of-the-way spot where no woman could see it.
After many weeks of drying, it was again tempered by fire, with the shine being slowly burned off. The end on which the point was to be fastened was narrowed. The handgrip was left full size.
The handle was then tested by beating it on a large tree that had the bark peeled from it. After beating it in every way possible that might break it, the pole was placed over a fire to see if expansion of the wood revealed any cracks. Even a hairline crack was sufficient evidence of weakness to discard a handle. Only a handle that passed all of these tests was considered suitable for a spear.
Both the point, often made from a sharpened bone from a grizzly, and a crossbar were attached with wet rawhide. As rawhide dries, it shrinks. This tightened both the crosspiece and the point so that both were rigidly attached. The crosspiece, fastened about nine inches from the tip, acted as a stop, preventing the spear from entering the bear too far.
When the grizzly was hunted during summer or fall, the hunter most often went alone, for more than one hunter could distract a bear, making him more unpredictable. The hunt was ruined if a woman learned about it—for that put a curse on the hunt that could cost the hunter his life. Sometimes a woman, learning of a hunt, warned the man. “Don’t go. We’ve heard of your plans.” When that happened, the hunter canceled the hunt.
If, after many days of a summer hunt, a hunter failed to locate a bear, the bear was telling him that he (the bear) had the advantage. Perhaps, the hunter would believe, someone had talked or bragged about the hunt. If all went well and a lone hunter sought the big animal in summer or fall, he tried to find it on hard ground atop an open ridge. In spring or fall, frozen ground was acceptable, although it is sometimes slippery. The hunter had to select a place with ground on which the end of the pole would not slip after the spear had entered the bear’s chest.
The grizzly bear fears no other animal. In encounters with man, he normally goes on his way in peace. But when challenged, surprised, or angered, he may attack. His great strength and size, his huge teeth, and his five- to seven-inch-long claws make the grizzly a formidable killer. A grizzly can break the neck of a moose with one swat, and a big grizzly can carry a 1,000-pound moose in his jaws.
In snow-free months, early Koyukon hunters seeking an encounter with a grizzly approached the bear and taunted it by shooting it with blunt arrows. This angered the animal, and usually it charged. The hunter held his ground. From a full charge the bear habitually reared on hind legs within reach of the spear tip. The hunter quickly plunged the point into the animal’s chest. Instantly, the hunter jammed the end of the spear handle against the ground and held it there, literally for dear life. The bear pushed forward—it never retreated. Both front paws beat upon the spear handle. The bear sometimes pivoted on the cross bar, and circled as he tried to reach the hunter. The harder he tried, the more damage the spear point did to his lungs and/or heart, and soon the grizzly toppled to the ground, dead or dying.
Early in this century a photographer arranged to take movies of a Koyukon hunter killing a grizzly in this manner. All went well until the bear charged. The photographer lost his nerve and fled while the Indian killed the bear, so he failed to get pictures of the actual killing. He did re
turn shortly to take still photographs of the bear and the small Indian with a spear. The spear, tipped with sharpened bone made from the forearm of a bear, was only five to five and a half feet long—shorter than the Koyukon hunter who used it. I once saw one of these pictures hanging on a wall in an old building at Tanana.
Austin Joe and Chief Paul, two Koyukon hunters from Koyukuk Station, decided to make a winter hunt for grizzly with a spear. Both had helped take bears from a den about ten years earlier. This was to be their last great test, the end of an era, for they realized that no Koyukuk Indian was likely to make such a hunt ever again. The knowledge of how to make such a hunt, and the tradition of making them, had nearly died out.
To the old Koyukon people, killing a grizzly with a spear was the supreme test of a man as an individual, and as a hunter. A winter hunt for a grizzly in its den was more complex than a summer hunt, for it required cooperation of at least three skilled, strong, and agile hunters. To kill one or more grizzlies at a den tested a hunter for speed, quickness, and character. His actions determined whether he could control fear, if he were a liar, whether he could keep his mouth shut, and whether he was a braggart.
The hunt the failing Louis Golchik described for me occurred about 1917, and I believe it was the last successful Koyukon winter spear hunt for grizzly. Here is his story:
That fall Chief Paul asked Tom Patsy and me to accompany him to 3,000-foot Heart Mountain (its base is in the shape of a heart), about forty miles up the Koyukuk River. His purpose was to hunt (with rifles) black bears for meat while they were feeding on blueberries, fattening themselves before winter.
After we had killed a black bear, Chief Paul told us that we had been chosen to prepare for the supreme test of a Koyukon hunter—to take a “big animal” from its den with a spear.
“You are the fastest and strongest young men on the Koyukuk and lower Yukon,” Chief Paul said. “You will be the fast men on this last great spear hunt for the ‘big animal.’” Both of us were relatively small, 5 feet 7 inches tall and weighing about 135 pounds, but strong.
I had never been so honored, but I couldn’t discuss the honor—that would have been bragging. I knew stories of famous hunters who had speared the “big animal” both in the Koyukuk valley and in the Nulato and Kaltag areas, but no Koyukon hunter ever admitted that he had taken, or helped take, a “big animal” with a spear.
Chief Paul explained the rigid requirements: not one word of the hunt could be mentioned. Idle talk could cost us our lives. We were not to ask how the old-timers hunted “the big animal” because no real hunter who had killed a bear would talk. A braggart wasn’t worth listening to.
“When the time comes, two of us will teach you,” said Chief Paul. That surprised me. “Where is the other hunter?” I asked.
“He is finishing some secret work. You know him. You will meet him this winter about one month before we try to take a ‘big animal,’” Chief Paul answered.
When the black bear hunt ended, Chief Paul told Tom and me to keep in shape by running to toughen our muscles. “I want you to secretly practice the pole vault, too,” Chief Paul said. We were to constantly think about what we had to do to beat the “big animal” in order to be real men and proud Indians like our forefathers.
“Even when you defeat others in running or wrestling, never say you are faster, stronger, or better. That might hurt people’s feelings. It might also give you problems during the hunt,” Chief Paul warned.
Chief Paul told me that a message would reach me in early December telling me where to go, and I was to travel by foot to a place somewhere on the Kateel River to meet the other hunters. I left the Yukon River that fall and stayed with my sister, Martha Cleever, and her husband on the Koyukuk River below the Dulbi River. Tom Patsy spent the fall at Chips Island, in the Koyukuk River, below the Kateel River.
In December, word came that Chief Paul wanted me to travel to Chips Island, so I set out on snowshoes, camped one night, and arrived next day. I was in the best physical shape of my life.
At Chips Island, I met five people—Tom Patsy, Austin Joe, Chief Paul, and Andrew Paul, Chief Paul’s son. I will not mention the name of the other man, because it could embarrass relatives who are still living. He had bragged about taking a “big animal” single-handed with a spear.
Chief Paul spoke to us. “Austin Joe has found the den of a female ‘big animal’ with two almost-grown cubs. Tomorrow we’ll cross over to the Kateel [a river that flows into the Koyukuk from the west]. There we’ll practice at an old bear den, and you will learn what must be done.” Austin Joe had also carefully prepared the spear for the hunt, following all the old traditions.
After a walk of a day and a half to the old den, we rehearsed carefully. Each of us had a role, and each of our lives depended on the quickness, bravery, and ability of the others.
To test Tom’s and my pole-vaulting ability, a big fire was built of spruce boughs. Each of us had to vault through the flames while wearing a fur parka. A scorched parka would have disqualified us for the spear hunt for “the big animal.”
Both of us qualified.
When we were ready for the hunt, the wind was wrong, blowing from the east. Because of the location of the den, we needed a north wind, and the stronger the better. After waiting a day or two for the right wind, we camped within a mile of the den. The following day we studied the den from a distance, becoming familiar with the approach, and planning the route each of us had to follow to reach our positions at the den.
The last evening before the hunt we told traditional stories of long-ago hunts, tales handed down from generation to generation. Included were stories about hunters who had died when their spear hunt for the “big animal” went wrong.
Conditions were perfect at daylight next morning. A light wind blew from the north, and the temperature was mild, about 0. We didn’t eat breakfast because we feared conditions would change if we delayed. Chief Paul gave last-minute instructions, and the five of us swiftly moved to the occupied den.
Tom Patsy, the fastest, carried an eight-foot vaulting pole of tough, dried birch. He dashed to the den entrance, vaulted over it and drove his vaulting pole across the den mouth. I followed and quickly drove my pole into place so that the two poles formed an X across the den opening. “Big animal” dens usually have dry loose soil at the entrance, which permits poles to be driven into the ground so they won’t slip easily.
The two vaulting poles Tom and I held functioned as a gate, keeping the “big animals” in the den until the man with the killing spear was ready. The commotion we caused by vaulting into position and closing the den with our vaulting poles brought the old female to the mouth of the den almost as soon as the poles were in place. In front of the den, Austin Joe quickly cut a hole in the ground into which the handle end of the killing spear could be planted. Meanwhile, Chief Paul talked to the “big animal” in a language unknown to me. I was later told it was bear talk. Would the “big animal” accept the spear? Perhaps we would have to use one of the two .30-30 rifles we had brought. If the “big animal” didn’t accept the spear, there could be many possible reasons: Did someone brag? Had word of our hunt somehow leaked? Had a woman seen the spear? Did any woman know about the hunt?
While Austin Joe dug the hole, Andrew Paul and the other man joined Tom and me in holding the gate poles to prevent the “big animals” from pulling the poles in or pushing them out. Austin Joe finished the hole and Chief Paul set the spear handle into it and braced himself. “Let the first one out,” he called. We pulled our poles back, opening the den, and the big female rushed directly into the spear held by Chief Paul. The spear entered the “big animal’s” chest. The crossbar held the animal off so that her powerful claws and teeth could not reach him.
Chief Paul held the handle firmly in the hole in the ground, and with a mighty heave, using the momentum of the charging “big animal,” threw it right over himself. The big female flew about twenty-five feet downhill, with its chest org
ans ripped to shreds, and landed with a thud. It rolled a few feet and lay dying.
The instant the big female left the den, Tom and I jammed our poles back into the ground to re-form the gate. Two nearly grown cubs remained in the den.
Now the test: Chief Paul handed the spear to the man who had bragged about taking a bear single-handed with a spear. Chief Paul spoke, “I helped take a ‘big animal’ once with a spear. I never talked about it before. I know this is my last ‘big animal’—the one you see lying there, dead. This could be your last one too. Now you try, because I don’t believe you ever took a ‘big animal’ with a spear.
“We never told you that we were going to try to take the “big animals” with a spear because we were afraid you would talk. Maybe you wouldn’t go with us. I want to demonstrate to these men how not to brag, and why no Koyukon should talk about taking ‘big animals’ with a spear, trying to make a big man of himself.”
Obediently, the man accepted the spear. He tried to get the young “big animal” at the mouth of the den to accept it. To test the “big animal,” he placed the point of the spear under its mouth, near the throat. The “big animal” slapped the spear aside. This meant he sensed fear in the man holding the spear. If the weapon had passed his face without the “big animal” slapping it aside, it would have meant that the man holding the spear was brave enough to handle that “big animal.”
The “big animal” pushed the blade aside not once, but twice, indicating that the man was afraid. Then Austin Joe grabbed the spear, saying, “You lie. You never took a ‘big animal’ by yourself with a spear. This one tell us. I never took one either, but I never lie. Now watch this.”
Shadows on the Koyukuk Page 20
