Canoeing the Queets: Promise and Dispossession on the Olympic Peninsula

By Herbert Bashford.

The Queets River, which flows into the Pacific about fifteen miles north of the Quinault agency, is a good-sized stream, very deep in places and with bad rapids at intervals. Its waters are a muddy, greenish hue—similar to the St. Lawrence—and are fed by the melting snows of Mount Olympus. The reservation line crosses the Queets four miles from its mouth, and above that, many miles away, are the rustic log cabins of those who have taken claims—a number of whom came here on the steamer Lucy Lowe, which had a stormy voyage and was reported lost. These pioneers have experienced terrible hardships since their arrival two years ago. One of the boys told me that during last winter it was impossible to get provisions at the supply store, and after existing on faith and bacon grease for some time they walked through the bleak weather to the Moclips River store, a distance of thirty miles, and carried home the necessaries of life on their backs. They are merely 'squatters' at present, but they have certainly earned the 160-acre tracts they will some day possess. The bottom land has a rich black soil and is covered with alders and salmon-berry bushes. The upland is shot clay and shaded by mammoth spruces and hemlocks. The acid from the bark of the latter tree is very valuable in tanneries; as this is the greatest hemlock belt in the world, the shipping of bark to extracting plants will before long be a leading industry. Some of the industrious settlers have raised fine gardens this summer, and one, Dave Kerr, recently brought from the agency several cows, the first that have been in the valley.

To see great hoof-marks in those wild forests one might think the country overrun with cattle; but this idea is generally dispelled by the appearance of the antlered elk, which are gradually being thinned out by what the writer calls the merciless slaughter Native hunters make upon them. Four and five canoe loads of Native hunters go up the Queets and Clearwater rivers every few weeks in quest of elk, usually remaining a fortnight in the foothills, during which time they kill many of the animals, often taking nothing but the hides and leaving dozens of carcasses as food for wolves and cougars. Such proceedings, the writer argues, should be stopped immediately. The reservation, he says, is amply large enough for the few Native people it contains, and they ought to be made to stay within its limits. A young man who accompanied them on one hunt says that when they discover where a band has crossed the river and climbed the steep, wooded hillside, they forsake the canoes and start on the trail, going with the rapidity of wild animals at first but growing more cautious as the signs get fresher, and at last creeping like a cat upon the unsuspecting elk. They invariably use the Sharp's rifle, .45-120, and with such a cannon it is not surprising that a hunter recently killed two of these powerful animals at a single shot. Black bears are quite numerous throughout the country and are trapped successfully by Native hunters. The ground is printed with their long, wide tracks, though bruin is exceedingly shy—more so, in fact, than the deer, which frequently gaze at a person with a world of wonder in their soft brown eyes.

But, oh, the birds of this beautiful land! The very air is thrilled with their joyous music. At dawn and at dusky eve they fling silvery strains down through the solemn old woods, pouring forth such floods of melody that the wandering wind pauses to listen and the gold-crowned flowers stand entranced. A walk along some dim old trail is as delightful as one can think, especially at the noon hour, when everything seems so hushed. You wind in and out among the great gray trunks of the hemlocks, with streamers of moss swaying from them; you see here and there on the earth's carpet of eternal green a patch of gold where the sunlight falls; you hear at intervals a pheasant's throbbing drum or the faint, low call of a red squirrel, and you breathe the delicate, resinous air. There is poetry all around you.

It was on a fishing expedition that I had my first experience in attempting to pole a canoe. These frail craft are the only boats that can travel the rivers successfully, owing to the rapids and shallow places, and Native canoemen handle them with considerable skill. The poles are made from small hemlocks—trees that bend before they break—and the tips are slightly burned to harden the wood. It is a strange sight to see stalwart young men standing in a canoe, one in the bow and one in the stern, forcing it slowly up the rapids where the water is over the rocks with a din that sets the surrounding woods echoing. The novice is soon cooled by an occasional plunge, but in time he comes to love the cold bath and may become a cool canoeist—not so proficient as the Native canoeman, perhaps, for canoeing is second nature to him. Indeed, I am told the small boys are made to overturn the graceful craft in the deep, swift current and right them again, and if they fail they meet the ridicule and scorn of their parents.

A canoe ride down the Queets or Clearwater is not soon forgotten. I shall never forget one fast trip I took. There were eight or ten in the party, and we went sliding silently along between beautiful shores, watching the swaying banners of moss and the great clusters of elderberries glowing like flame against a background of green. Around the bends we glided with such silence that I hardly realized we were moving. Suddenly a roar smote my ears. 'Rapids ahead,' a wild one remarked. The magic nets on the bottom became tangled; the trees on shore seemed to go round and round. The noise of dashing waters increased momentarily, and we were borne toward them with alarming force. Faster danced the alders along the banks. Ahead we could see the flying foam where the river tore against the rocks. Sooner than I thought we were flying down, down, down. All around us was whirling water, white as snow. The canoemen called to each other as loudly as they could, but their words sounded faint and far away in the din of the raging current. I experienced a sinking sensation similar to a quick descent in an elevator. The foamy water leaped so high it came over the sides, drenching us. Several of the party forgot what they had been told and grabbed the sides of the craft in apparent desperation—an act liable to overturn us all. Owing to the skill of our canoemen, we shot like an arrow into the wide, deep pool below the rapids and emptied out the water taken in during our downward flight. Every one drew a sigh of relief, and I was heartily glad we had escaped with nothing more serious than a thorough soaking, which one must expect in such a thrilling ride.

Despite the dangers connected with canoeing, no person has yet been drowned in the rivers of this region, save Van Slyze and Hibbard, two young men who lost their lives one stormy night last winter while endeavoring to cross Raft River in a dilapidated canoe—a very foolhardy thing to attempt, from the fact that the breakers of the ocean were sweeping far up the stream.

While white men pole the rivers with almost as much ease as Native canoemen, they never venture out on the Pacific's tossing hills unless in company with these more skillful hands. With four strong Native canoemen and a large canoe our party took an ocean voyage from the mouth of the Queets to the Quinault, a distance of perhaps twenty miles. We started from the 'Hotel Dick' at 5 o'clock in the morning, being assured that the salt chuck was klosh—good. A crowd of whites and Native people congregated on the beach to see the departure. I confess I felt somewhat nervous as we drifted down toward the thundering breakers. The canoeists conversed in low tones among themselves. As we swept out into the surf those on shore cheered loudly. Suddenly a breaker struck us, sending the canoe skyward and making us catch our breath. Then we dove down into a deep blue gulf, and all sight of land disappeared; then high on a crested wave we rose and responded to the shouts on shore. The canoeists were silent. At times they stopped paddling entirely in order to meet an incoming breaker at the right moment; then again they would work with all their might when I could see no apparent reason for such exertion. When we were well out into the long, rolling billows our crew gave prolonged yells to those on land. The trip to Quinault lasted about three hours. The canoe went into the mouth of the Quinault stern first and with the bow to the breakers. Thus ended a memorable ride, one that comparatively few white people have ever enjoyed. However, I care nothing about taking another such voyage.

At the agency I made the acquaintance of Mr. Agger, the school teacher. He related numerous incidents concerning his life as a tutor to the Native youth. He said that the pupils' parents were not in favor of having them educated, telling the children that they were only in jail. Therefore those attending the school are obliged to remain in a boarding and lodging house connected with the institution of learning, where they will not have their minds taken up with the ideas of their fathers and mothers. Evidently Mr. Agger's position is not an enviable one. Nevertheless he has accomplished a great work among these people. To enter one of their smoke houses after dark is a weird sight. The hard-beaten ground floor, the rows of dried salmon hanging above your head, the firelight flickering on a woman as she sings her baby to sleep, the bright flames shining over people wrapped in red blankets, and the surrounding gloom form a picture peculiarly wild and fascinating.

An Indian burial is an interesting affair. I saw while at the agency the body of a young boy put face downward into a rough board box which had been decked with calico; the playthings and old clothes of the deceased were piled upon him, followed by several blankets. The rudely constructed coffin was nailed shut and then hoisted up through a hole in the roof (a door stood wide open only a few feet away), thence carried to a canoe and taken across the Quinault River, where it was left sitting on the ground gaily bedecked with fancy calico, pieces of broken plates, shells, beautiful tin cans, mirror frames and various other ornaments.