The Impossible Rescue

by Martin W. Sandler

  On January 20, having spent four days traveling through snowstorms so violent that Bertholf and his party often could see no farther than twenty yards ahead, they reached Koyuk, where supposedly another sled and team of dogs were waiting for them. But they were not there. To make matters much worse, Bertholf’s native companion announced that he was homesick and could go no farther. “I was obliged to allow him to return,” Bertholf stated, “and was thus left with one dog team with which to transport 1,600 pounds across the country.”

  It would never do, of course. There was no way that Bertholf could transport that heavy a load with one dog team all the way to Cape Blossom. His only option, he believed, was to head for Golovnin Bay and the reindeer station at Port Clarence, where Jarvis had acquired deer to pull his sleds. Perhaps he could find at least one other dog team and sled there.

  Fortunately, Golovnin Bay was nearby. Still, it took all the strength he and his dogs could muster to haul his grossly overloaded sled even the relatively short distance. When he arrived, he was disappointed yet again. There were no dog teams available. But he was told that if he journeyed to where the reindeer herd was located, a few miles away, he would probably be able to acquire deer and deer sleds to help him carry his load. At Golovnin Bay he was also fortunate to encounter a Swedish missionary who was taken with what Bertholf was attempting to accomplish. Concerned that the officer would have great difficulty reaching the reindeer herd with only one dogsled, particularly since there was a mountain that had to be crossed, the missionary loaned Bertholf another sled pulled by two deer, two other dogsleds, and native guides and drivers.

  It was an incredibly generous gesture, but Bertholf would quickly discover, as Jarvis earlier had learned, that traveling with both deer sleds and dogsleds was not only a tricky but often a dangerous undertaking. He had been told that the greatest difficulty in traveling with sleds pulled by both deer and dogs was the danger of the dogs following their natural instincts to attack the deer. The solution, he had been informed, was to keep the dogsleds as far behind the deer sled as practical. And from the moment he left Golovnin Bay, he tried to put this advice into practice.

  “Having allowed the deer to get good distance ahead, we started,” Bertholf would later write, “but my dogs could see the deer, and they started after them at such a speed that the two natives and myself could scarcely keep up with them, and we all piled on the sled. The weight of we three, in addition to the heavy load the sled already carried, would have stopped a dog team short under ordinary circumstances, but in their eagerness to overtake the deer the dogs did not apparently mind the extra weight, and bowled along as fast as ever, and before the deer reached the base of the mountain we had to cross, the dogs had caught up with them, and it required the united efforts of the two natives and myself to hold them in check.

  “We now held the dogs back until the deer could get far in advance up the mountain, and, as [we had] another sled coming behind with a heavy load, I told one of my natives to wait for it and help the man who was driving it. . . . Owing to my imperfect knowledge of the language, however, the natives misunderstood me, and both of them started back for the rear sled. This released the dogs, and, though I dragged back with all my strength, they started up the mountain side . . . at a pretty good gait, howling and straining in their eagerness to catch the deer, which they imagined would afford them a meal. . . .

  “Just as the dogs dashed ahead I saw the two natives start back, and shouted for one of them to come along, but I saw he could not catch us, and the blinding snow soon shut him from my sight. The dogs were now racing up a pretty steep grade, dragging a heavy load along, at a rate I would have thought impossible had I not actually seen it, and, as I did not know the proper trail and there was some danger of getting lost in the blizzard, I put forth every endeavor to overturn the sled, and thus stop the dogs until my native could catch up. I found I was unable to do it, however, and then tried the plan of running ahead and throwing myself down on the head dogs, but the rest of them soon [shook me off], and the whole team would start ahead again.

  “Then I thought if I could get under the sled I could raise one side up sufficient to overturn it, so I waited until I had caught my breath, and then ran ahead, threw myself between the dogs, caught hold of the middle [rope], and allowed myself to be dragged along over the snow. This made the dogs slacken their pace, but still did not stop them entirely, so I let myself back toward the sled, still holding on to the [rope], until the whole of my body as far as my shoulders was under the sled between the runners. We were not going very fast now, and suddenly letting go of the [rope], I dug my hands in the snow, and raised my back at the same time. This threw the sled over on one runner, which capsized it and brought the team to a full stop.”

  It had been an extraordinary experience, one in which Bertholf could have been badly injured — or worse. But the situation was serious enough to warrant his efforts. He had acted heroically in stopping the dogsled and preventing the dogs from catching and devouring the deer. But by now, the deer sled was far up the mountain. And the guides and dogs pulling the other sleds were well behind him. His only option was to wait until they reached him and then, exhausted as they all were, have them make their way over the mountain. For the next two days, men and dogs fought their way up the steep slopes, trying to ignore the relentless wind-driven snow. Finally, they reached the Golovnin Bay reindeer station. And here, at last, Bertholf was rewarded with good fortune, acquiring seven deer and sleds, along with both a Laplander and an Alaskan driver. His luck continued when, just as he was finishing loading up the newly acquired sleds, the snow finally abated. He and his party were able to make it all the way to the Quaker mission house of Reverend Robert Samms, where, as Jarvis had ordered, he was to deliver the supplies.

  Ellsworth Bertholf’s success in bringing the supplies to Cape Blossom was a major achievement — one that, as he was quick to acknowledge, would not have been possible without the hospitality of the indigenous people he encountered along the way.

  Tom Lopp pauses while driving the herd toward Cape Blossom as the temperature plunges to forty-five degrees below zero. “It was blowing a gale and the snow was so thick we could not see any distance,” he would later write in his log. “Becoming chilled, I put on a fourth parka, making in all two squirrel skin parkas and two reindeer parkas.”

  Never in his life had David Jarvis experienced such mixed feelings. The relief he felt at having acquired the reindeer was overwhelming, as was his admiration for both Tom Lopp and Charlie Artisarlook. But as powerful as these feelings were, they were tempered by something Lopp had told him as they were about to make their preparations for leaving Cape Prince of Wales.

  From the beginning, despite all those who doubted it would be possible, Jarvis had harbored the hope that he would be able to reach the whalers by late May. But Lopp informed him that most of the female deer who made up more than half the herd were pregnant and would be having their calves in late April. Once that took place, the reindeer could not be driven any farther. It was clear — no matter what stood in the way, they would have to get to Point Barrow before the calves were born.

  “The journey and task ahead of us was a hazardous one, any way we might look at it, and it was necessary before starting to make the most careful and ample preparations,” Jarvis would later write. “We were making an experiment; no such undertaking had ever before been tried in Alaska, and we could not tell how long it would require to travel the 700 miles ahead of us. . . . It was necessary to fit out the party to be independent of villages, from the beginning to the end of the journey. . . . The dogs at any [village] might disperse our deer herd and leave us stranded. We had a great amount of work to accomplish before we could start. Sleds must be built, the herders must be fitted out properly with clothing . . . tents, stoves, camp gear, and spare harness, and lassoes must be made. Clothing was the most important item, for herding and driving are particularly hard on [deerskin] clothes, and everything ava
ilable was bought and made up, for, even if we did not need it [now], it would be invaluable at Point Barrow.”

  Jarvis had arrived at Cape Prince of Wales on January 24, 1898, but it took four more days for all of these preparations to be made, and for Lopp’s herd, which was grazing some twenty miles from his house, to be rounded up. Meanwhile, Dr. Call and Artisarlook had gone back to Cape Rodney to bring his reindeer to join up with Lopp’s. Finally, on the second of February, filled with accounts of the struggles they had had taking the deer across mountains and through storms and deep snow, Call and Artisarlook arrived. “Things had now a much more assuring aspect,” a relieved Jarvis would write, “and we were all anxious to get off on what we hoped would be a successful journey, but which had doubtful points about it that could not be foretold.”

  On February 3, 1898, the now greatly expanded Overland Relief Expedition set out from Cape Prince of Wales, bound first for Cape Blossom and then, at last, for Point Barrow. It was an extraordinary procession. Tom Lopp with three of his herders, all driving light sleds, rode at the back of the herd of 438 reindeer, keeping them moving along. Following them were two “trains” of supply sleds, consisting of four sleds each, and a third train that was made up of five sleds. A single deer was hitched to each supply sled. To make certain that all these sleds moved in unison, they were all tied together. “In this way,” Jarvis would write, “one man handled four or five sleds, and many are the tangles and jumbles the animals get into when going up and down the hills, for in trains like this the deer soon worry themselves into a state of excitement.”

  Aside from Lopp and the herders, there was another important member of the deer-herding contingent, a specially trained “deer dog.” “This little fellow,” Jarvis explained, “circled around the outer edges of the herd and kept the deer from straying. If one [deer] started from the herd, the dog was after him, barking at his heels until he returned. In this way the deer were kept moving along in one compact body.”

  But as well organized as the deer drive was, the herd did not move along without interruption. George Fred Tilton had warned that the reindeer would have difficulty finding food. Jarvis could only fret as the animals kept stopping to dig in the snow to get at the moss that lay beneath. But there was nothing he could do to speed up the process.

  Even before they had started out, Lopp had convinced Jarvis that because of the near tragedies he had suffered on his previous deer-driving experiences, Jarvis should ride passively in one of the sleds. Call, on the other hand, was convinced that he could do much better than his fellow officer and persuaded Lopp to let him give it a try. The doctor’s one brief experiment at the reins quickly provided one of the lighter moments of the entire expedition. “[Dr. Call] furnished much amusement for the boys,” Lopp later lightheartedly recounted. “His deer made many circles, some large and some small, turned his sled over a number of times, and gave the Doctor more exercise than he had had for some time.”

  The ever-serious Jarvis, however, was not amused at what he regarded as yet another delay in their desperate mission. Finally, Jarvis could stand the pace no longer. As they made camp for the evening, he told Lopp that he had decided that once they reached their next destination, the small coastal village of Sinrazat, he and Call would leave the procession and go on ahead.

  “We were not essential to the progress of the herd,” Jarvis would write, “Mr. Lopp and his herders having all the knowledge and experience necessary for the work in hand, and we . . . were just so much more to be hauled.” Aside from meeting up with Bertholf, he had another reason for hastening ahead. To reach Cape Blossom and Reverend Samms’s mission, where he hoped the lieutenant would be waiting for him, he would have to cross Kotzebue Sound. His hope was that he would be able to save valuable time by crossing the sound’s frozen surface rather than by taking the much longer route around it. But he had been told that, even in the dead of winter, storms could break up the ice in the sound, making it impossible to cross. He simply had to know the condition of the ice, not only for his own sake but also because Lopp would have to decide whether or not to cross the sound with the deer.

  What Jarvis already knew was that just getting to Kotzebue Sound was going to be a great challenge. His dogs were bound to become worn out as they hauled the sleds over snow that promised to get even deeper and crustier with each passing mile. The sleds were also likely to take a beating on the rugged terrain. Along the way he would have to find villages where he could purchase new dogs and new sleds, and find people to man the sleds. And he could not even consider making such a trip without the help of a guide who knew the treacherous territory. Luck was with him. On the morning after they all reached Sinrazat, a man named Perninyuk, whom Lopp identified as being one of the best of all native guides, appeared in the expedition’s camp, looking for work. Immediately, Jarvis hired him for the journey to Kotzebue Sound.

  On February 7, Jarvis, Call, and Perninyuk started out for the small settlement of Toatut on the shore of Kotzebue Sound, fully expecting to be able to acquire dogs and guides along the way. Almost immediately it became a frustrating experience. “The natives along this part of the coast,” Jarvis would recount, “were very poor, and scattered in small numbers at distances of about 20 miles apart. Sealing had been very poor. In some places their dogs had starved, and the people themselves had little to eat. . . . It seemed impossible to get anyone . . . to go along with us more than one day’s journey from his own home. The best we could do during the day was about 20 or 25 miles, and at night it was a long, trying ordeal, to buy, borrow, or hire dogs, sleds, and men to go on to the next village.

  “Our trials were many and exasperating. We would buy or hire dogs, only to have them run away and return to their owners after going but a short distance with us. . . . Finally, by bribing, threatening, and offering shiploads of provisions, we managed to reach Toatut. . . . We were completely worn out, and our provisions had been drawn upon so extensively . . . that hardly more remained now than a few broken crackers, enough beans for a day, and some tea. . . . Finally, [here at Toatut] all the [natives] except [Perninyuk left] us and [took] their sleds with them, and I think [they did so] mainly because they thought we would starve, for evidently they had no faith in my story of the sled loads of provisions awaiting us at Cape Blossom.”

  The villages that Jarvis and his party passed by on their way to Kotzebue Sound were the poorest the lieutenant had encountered on his entire journey. Not only were there no dogs to be had, but there was also no chance of obtaining any food for himself or his hungry companions.

  The particularly rugged terrain that Jarvis and his companions encountered on their journey to Kotzebue Sound was hard not only on the men and dogs but on the sleds as well. More than once, the trek had to be halted while repairs were made.

  Jarvis could hardly blame them. He was having his own doubts about whether Bertholf would be waiting for him at Reverend Samms’s mission. Jarvis wrote, “It was more than 40 miles over the ice to Cape Blossom, where I [hoped] Lieutenant Bertholf was waiting for us with his load of provisions and probably wondering what had become of us, for we were now about a week behind our plans. I was tired and worried. We had been separated since December 20 and had heard absolutely nothing of Bertholf’s whereabouts or his progress since that time, and did not know even if he had arrived at St. Michael. I had left him at [Ki-yi-lieug-a-mute] to wait for dogs. Had they come on time or did they have to wait? Had any accident or sickness befallen him and had he been able to [complete his journey] with his heavy load? Was the snow too deep or soft, and had he been stalled somewhere? There were [few] people in all that long route and he had to depend on his preparations [almost] entirely. His provisions we were now greatly in need of, and our progress from here on absolutely depended on them.”

  “Absolutely depended,” indeed. Jarvis was almost totally out of food and still had the long, treacherous sound to cross. Here at Toatuk he had been able to replace some of the men who had deserted him,
but almost all of them had made it clear that they would not even consider making the crossing until, after spending the night resting, one of them went out on the sound, walked a considerable distance across it, jumped up and down upon the ice, and determined whether or not it was safe to cross.

  When dawn broke the next day, the guide whom his fellows had chosen to test the ice left on his mission, stating that he intended to travel so far out on the sound that it would undoubtedly be dark before he returned. For Jarvis it became yet anther anxious period. “All the next day,” he wrote, “we were compelled to wait, idly gazing at the mountains on the other side [of the sound] and wondering whether there was more to eat there than on our side.”

  Finally, the man who had gone out on the sound to test conditions returned. And, he reported, the ice, as far as he had gone, was good and hard. He and the other natives would accompany Jarvis, Call, and Perninyuk across the sound the next day.

  They got underway at eight o’clock the next morning. The ice was indeed solid, but in many places the continual storms had heaved it up into huge mounds. By nightfall they had still not reached the opposite shore, and the men begged Jarvis to stop and make camp for the night on the ice. But he would have none of it. Navigating by the stars and hauling their sleds around the mounds, they finally completed the crossing shortly before midnight. Directly before them stood the village of Kikiktaruk, where the Quaker mission was located.