 | A Short and Perilous Voyage on the Eskimo-built schooner Good Hope, 1928. Amos Burg as told to R T Wallen, Juneau, Alaska, ca. 1983 © RTW 2015 |
Years ago Amos and I were out in my canoe for a day’s paddle. The sound of the horn on Sentinel Island Lighthouse rolled across the mirroring sea from six miles away. The water lay smooth In the breezeless air, a rare brassy-calm Southeast Alaska day when one could see a herring dimple the surface a hundred yards distant, and an Arctic tern swooping down to snatch a minnow met its perfect reflection rising from the deep. We landed on a rocky islet to stretch our legs and enjoy the smoked salmon and pilot bread we’d brought along for lunch. Kelpy odors hung over the exposed rocks. Landing a wood and canvas canoe over rocks armored with barnacles as sharp as sharks’ teeth requires care and a bit of art. Mindful of the flooding tide and of my vulnerable craft, I lifted the bow and walked the canoe in hand over hand along a gunwale to clear the barnacles and carried it well up into the goose tongue and other sea grasses. When safely above tidal reach, I set it down and rolled it over. As I returned, Amos, who had been watching me, asked, “Aren’t you going to tie the canoe down?” “It’ll be OK”, I said, surprised. “The tide can’t reach it.” This did not satisfy Amos “I tie my canoe down,” he said, “even if it’s in the middle of an Iowa corn field.”
“Amos Burg, Juneau, Alaska circa1975. Photo: R. T. Wallen”
He and a companion, Fred Hill, had made an epic voyage by canoe in 1928, from tidewater
Juneau and Skagway, portaging over the Chilkoot Pass to the headwaters of the Yukon River
and floating down the Yukon, 2000 miles to St. Michael on the Bering Sea. At least that was the
plan. Amos’ canoe, a wood and canvas eighteen-footer named Song o the Winds, had carried
them safely most of the way, while Amos shot 16mm black and white motion picture footage of
the Yukon and life along its shores, likely the first motion pictures of the great river. Then, on
the lower Yukon at the village of Russian Mission, the adventurers got wind-bound by a sudden
storm. “We had the canoe 35 feet up a sloping bank above the river, maybe 200 feet from the
river. The wind got under it and rolled the canoe over and over down the bank, and it landed
upright in the river. The bow was smashed. It could have been repaired, I suppose, but I left it
with the Eskimos at Russian Mission, and we hired an Eskimo with a boat and motor to take us
down to St. Michael. He was the only one with a motor. His name was Matthew. I can’t
remember his last name right now. On the way down, Matthew pulled out some dried fish and
handed it to us. “My momma told me to take good care of you boys.”
Juneau and Skagway, portaging over the Chilkoot Pass to the headwaters of the Yukon River
and floating down the Yukon, 2000 miles to St. Michael on the Bering Sea. At least that was the
plan. Amos’ canoe, a wood and canvas eighteen-footer named Song o the Winds, had carried
them safely most of the way, while Amos shot 16mm black and white motion picture footage of
the Yukon and life along its shores, likely the first motion pictures of the great river. Then, on
the lower Yukon at the village of Russian Mission, the adventurers got wind-bound by a sudden
storm. “We had the canoe 35 feet up a sloping bank above the river, maybe 200 feet from the
river. The wind got under it and rolled the canoe over and over down the bank, and it landed
upright in the river. The bow was smashed. It could have been repaired, I suppose, but I left it
with the Eskimos at Russian Mission, and we hired an Eskimo with a boat and motor to take us
down to St. Michael. He was the only one with a motor. His name was Matthew. I can’t
remember his last name right now. On the way down, Matthew pulled out some dried fish and
handed it to us. “My momma told me to take good care of you boys.”
At St. Michael the two companions found that the “Government Boat” which would normally
have made the 200-mile run along the coast of Norton Sound on something of a schedule,
stopping at the villages of Unalakleet and Shaktoolik and crossing Norton and Golovin Bays to
Nome, was “broken down.” They hired the schooner Good Hope and her Inupiaq Eskimo
captain, Captain Paul Ivanoff, to take them to Nome for $10 apiece. Captain Ivanoff was
“slender, poorly fed, very busy. The 75-foot Good Hope had been built by Eskimos on the beach
at Unalakleet.” Its plan, according to Amos, had been traced out in the beach sand with a stick.
“She was a plucky vessel of uncertain safety, cobbled together of driftwood and of boards and
timbers washed up from the wrecks of schooners and ships. When these people take on an
enterprise, they throw everything into it.”
She had a diesel engine. To start it, a blowtorch was used to heat the top of the engine. Since
only eight inches of clearance separated the top of the engine from the deck above, the ceiling
was frequently set afire, so someone had to stand by with a bucket of water.
Amos had mentioned that the “Government Boat” had broken down. He said, “Of course the
Good Hope was broken down too, but the Government didn’t know that.” It’s an ill wind
indeed that blows no good, and with the government boat out of commission, the Good Hope’s
Captain and crew “all wore smiles. They were bursting proud of their vessel and now she would
be carrying mail and passengers to Nome. Captain Ivanoff zoomed overnight to fame.”
only eight inches of clearance separated the top of the engine from the deck above, the ceiling
was frequently set afire, so someone had to stand by with a bucket of water.
Amos had mentioned that the “Government Boat” had broken down. He said, “Of course the
Good Hope was broken down too, but the Government didn’t know that.” It’s an ill wind
indeed that blows no good, and with the government boat out of commission, the Good Hope’s
Captain and crew “all wore smiles. They were bursting proud of their vessel and now she would
be carrying mail and passengers to Nome. Captain Ivanoff zoomed overnight to fame.”
“Well, we were on board. We had boarded the previous night. The Captain had given us a box
of grape nuts and about half a can of Carnation evaporated milk between the five of us
passengers. There was Father O’Riley and a pioneer woman from Nome and Fred and I can’t
remember the rest of them. Time went by. It got to be noon the next day and then later, and
we were all pretty hungry. Father O’Riley and the Pioneer Woman formed a committee and
went up to the wheelhouse to ask for something to eat. Captain Ivanof replied, ‘What about
those grape nuts?’”
of grape nuts and about half a can of Carnation evaporated milk between the five of us
passengers. There was Father O’Riley and a pioneer woman from Nome and Fred and I can’t
remember the rest of them. Time went by. It got to be noon the next day and then later, and
we were all pretty hungry. Father O’Riley and the Pioneer Woman formed a committee and
went up to the wheelhouse to ask for something to eat. Captain Ivanof replied, ‘What about
those grape nuts?’”
“When we left St. Michael about midnight, I was apprehensive about going out in the open sea
in this boat. In fact, I did not take any pictures of her because I never figured we were going to
make it across anyway. But the only alternative to get to Nome was to swim. Aboard the Good
Hope we’d maybe get at least part of the way dry. I went to my bunk, and just as soon as we
began to encounter seas, water came squirting through the seams above me. So I went out to
look for the pump, and I found it in sections! The Eskimo crew had been working on it but had
not fixed it or put it together. The lifeboat could only hold about three people and I’d already
had an experience in it, and when I’d jumped in, water had squirted up in little geysers from
between the floorboards. Here was an example of an Eskimo joke: Painted on the side of the
tiny life boat was: LIMIT: 12 Persons.”
in this boat. In fact, I did not take any pictures of her because I never figured we were going to
make it across anyway. But the only alternative to get to Nome was to swim. Aboard the Good
Hope we’d maybe get at least part of the way dry. I went to my bunk, and just as soon as we
began to encounter seas, water came squirting through the seams above me. So I went out to
look for the pump, and I found it in sections! The Eskimo crew had been working on it but had
not fixed it or put it together. The lifeboat could only hold about three people and I’d already
had an experience in it, and when I’d jumped in, water had squirted up in little geysers from
between the floorboards. Here was an example of an Eskimo joke: Painted on the side of the
tiny life boat was: LIMIT: 12 Persons.”
“I went up to the wheel house to see how things were. You know, it was so dark on deck I
could not see. I carried a lantern up and when I went in the wheelhouse all I could see in the
shadowy circle of dim light it cast were the bodies of about ten Eskimos sleeping on the floor
and everywhere around the wheelhouse. It was the crew and also just people who had jumped
aboard. If they could pay, that was alright, but if they couldn’t, they went anyway.”
could not see. I carried a lantern up and when I went in the wheelhouse all I could see in the
shadowy circle of dim light it cast were the bodies of about ten Eskimos sleeping on the floor
and everywhere around the wheelhouse. It was the crew and also just people who had jumped
aboard. If they could pay, that was alright, but if they couldn’t, they went anyway.”
“There was no compass. I asked Captain Ivanof how he knew where he was going? He said, ‘I
steer by water.‘ Well, he was steering in the troughs of the waves. He knew which way the
wind was blowing. Of course, this made it all the worse for rolling. During the day he had
shoreline observations. Next day we could see Unalakleet in the distance. Then we had
problems getting over the bar. The Captain could not find the channel, so he charged the bar
five times! Full speed! It was not easy on the boat. Or the passengers. After the fourth charge
he said, ‘We’re really in no hurry to get there. I’m just trying to find the channel.’”
steer by water.‘ Well, he was steering in the troughs of the waves. He knew which way the
wind was blowing. Of course, this made it all the worse for rolling. During the day he had
shoreline observations. Next day we could see Unalakleet in the distance. Then we had
problems getting over the bar. The Captain could not find the channel, so he charged the bar
five times! Full speed! It was not easy on the boat. Or the passengers. After the fourth charge
he said, ‘We’re really in no hurry to get there. I’m just trying to find the channel.’”
“That’s how we got to Unalakleet. Captain Ivanof came aft and said we’d have plenty to eat
when we reached Shaktoolik. His father owned a store there. But the only thing we got there
was a slab of beluga meat. We were getting kind of sick from lack of food and because there
was a bunch of walrus heads laying around on deck for the tusks to rot free.”
“We put in to Shaktoolik to deliver mail, and at 6 PM we set forth into the rough waters of
Golovin Bay. Blowing up. In the churning seas at dusk, whatever we’d eaten of that beluga
whale went over the side. We got into Bluff. Old mining town. No people left now. But there
were two little girls playing on the beach. Later I read in Alaska Magazine something about a
girl growing up in Bluff. I wrote asking if this were one of the girls I had seen, and you know, I
got a letter back from both of them. Their father was a big German with a beard or a German
with a big beard.”
when we reached Shaktoolik. His father owned a store there. But the only thing we got there
was a slab of beluga meat. We were getting kind of sick from lack of food and because there
was a bunch of walrus heads laying around on deck for the tusks to rot free.”
“We put in to Shaktoolik to deliver mail, and at 6 PM we set forth into the rough waters of
Golovin Bay. Blowing up. In the churning seas at dusk, whatever we’d eaten of that beluga
whale went over the side. We got into Bluff. Old mining town. No people left now. But there
were two little girls playing on the beach. Later I read in Alaska Magazine something about a
girl growing up in Bluff. I wrote asking if this were one of the girls I had seen, and you know, I
got a letter back from both of them. Their father was a big German with a beard or a German
with a big beard.”
“We had trouble with the engine and so now were under sail. Got into Nome roadstead in the
morning. A woman who was a great sourdough said, ‘You boys don’t know anything about the
North,’ and she threw away our aluminum pots and pans and gave us some cracked pottery.
She called it Chippendale.” (I think this was one of Amos’ jokes, probably something he used in
his lectures.)
Safely delivered from the hazards of Norton Sound and the Good Hope, hungry and somewhat
shaken, Amos and Fred boarded the Bureau of Indian Affairs schooner Boxer in Nome. Amos
returned to his home in Portland, and from there sailed into a lifetime of adventure,
exploration, and filmmaking. I don’t know the fate of his companion, Fred Hill. The schooner
Good Hope, according to Amos, later fell apart near Goodwin Sands.
morning. A woman who was a great sourdough said, ‘You boys don’t know anything about the
North,’ and she threw away our aluminum pots and pans and gave us some cracked pottery.
She called it Chippendale.” (I think this was one of Amos’ jokes, probably something he used in
his lectures.)
Safely delivered from the hazards of Norton Sound and the Good Hope, hungry and somewhat
shaken, Amos and Fred boarded the Bureau of Indian Affairs schooner Boxer in Nome. Amos
returned to his home in Portland, and from there sailed into a lifetime of adventure,
exploration, and filmmaking. I don’t know the fate of his companion, Fred Hill. The schooner
Good Hope, according to Amos, later fell apart near Goodwin Sands.
Bureau of Indian Affairs schooner Boxer about 1928.
Afterword
In 1986, just in the nick of time, with Amos on his deathbed, I projected the 1928 black and
white film in his house on Douglas Island and took notes as he narrated it. Film and notes now
reside safely at the Oregon Historical Society, along with others of his films rescued from the
refrigerator-sized safe that leaned, propped up, among the Sitka spruces in his yard.
One day in Juneau I met a woman, Fortuna Hunter O’Dell, then perhaps in her seventies. I asked
about her unusual name and she said she was named for Fortuna Ledge, the tiny town on the
Yukon River, where she had grown up. Remembering that Amos had mentioned Fortuna Ledge
in his descent of the Yukon, I asked her about it. Yes, she, as a little girl, had seen Amos and
Fred when they stopped there in 1928. She remembered Amos as: “Oh, so handsome!”
In 1986, just in the nick of time, with Amos on his deathbed, I projected the 1928 black and
white film in his house on Douglas Island and took notes as he narrated it. Film and notes now
reside safely at the Oregon Historical Society, along with others of his films rescued from the
refrigerator-sized safe that leaned, propped up, among the Sitka spruces in his yard.
One day in Juneau I met a woman, Fortuna Hunter O’Dell, then perhaps in her seventies. I asked
about her unusual name and she said she was named for Fortuna Ledge, the tiny town on the
Yukon River, where she had grown up. Remembering that Amos had mentioned Fortuna Ledge
in his descent of the Yukon, I asked her about it. Yes, she, as a little girl, had seen Amos and
Fred when they stopped there in 1928. She remembered Amos as: “Oh, so handsome!”
R. T. Wallen & Amos Burg, Haines, Alaska, July, 1977.
As to the romantically named Song o’ the Winds, Amos said he left it at Russian Mission, and
that may be the case, but he also told me that it was stowed aboard the Boxer when she
departed Nome in 1928. Amos read my notes on his trade of a .30-30 rifle for two King Island
Kayaks when they called at the island after leaving Nome. (see following story) I had recorded
him as saying that Song o the Winds was stowed in the hold of the Boxer. He did not make a
correction. Amos died in Juneau, aged 84, in 1986 so there is no way now to know if his canoe
survived.
However, I tie my canoe down now, even in the middle of an Iowa cornfield.
“Amos Burg at the wheel of his Columbia River Lifeboat, Endeavor.” Gastinau Channel, Alaska, circa 1975. Photo: R. T. Wallen
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