1905.]
An Alaskan Journey with Reindeer
355
A herd of Reindeer in Lapland.
deer stand at gaze, as it were, breathing hard through wide nostrils, then jostling each other and stamping the soft ground. They grow unruly, and it is hard to harness them in the light sledge. As the days pass, the Lapps watch them more and more closely, well knowing what will happen sooner or later. And then at last, in the northern twilight, the great herd begins to move. The impulse is simultaneous, irresistible; their heads are all turned in one direction. They move slowly at first, biting still, here and there, at the hunches of rich moss. Presently the slow step becomes a trot, they crowd closely together, while the Lapps hasten to gather up their last unpacked possessions, their cooking-utensils, and their wooden gods. The great herd break together from a trot to a gallop, from a gallop ta a breakneck race; the distant thunder of their united tread reaches the camp during a few minutes, and they are gone to drink of the polar sea. The Lapps follow after them, dragging painfully their laden sledges in the broad track left by the thousands of galloping beasts. A day’s journey, and they are yet far from the sea, and the trail is yet broad. On the second day it grows narrower, and there are stains of blood to be seen; far on the distant plain before them their sharp eyes distinguish in the direct line a dark, motionless object—another, and then another. The race has grown more desperate and more wild as the stampede neared the sea. The weaker reindeer have been thrown down and trampled to death by their stronger fellows. A thousand sharp hoofs have crushed and cut through hide and flesh and bone. Ever swifter and more terrible in their motion, the ruthless herd has raced onward, careless of the slain, careless of food, careless of any drink but the sharp salt water ahead of them. And when, at last, the Laplanders reach the shore, their deer are once more quietly grazing, once more tame and docile, once more ready to drag the sledge whithersoever they are guided. Once in his life the reindeer must taste of the sea in one long, satisfying draught; and if he is hindered he perishes. Neither man nor beast dare stand between him and the ocean in the hundred miles of his arrow-like path.[1]
“Uncle Ben” was the name of the reindeer that drew our pulk. He was a big, raw-boned deer with enormous horns. His coat was almost white and was thick and soft. His legs were long and powerful, and the sinews were plainly visible with every stride that he took. His hoofs were divided very high, so that when he placed his foot on the ground the hoof spread wide, and when he raised it, a snapping noise was heard which was caused by the parts of the hoof closing together.
By the end of the day the thermometer had fallen to sixty degrees below zero, and we were beginning to feel cramped and stiff from constant sitting, and were on the lookout for the cache, or store-house, where we expected to spend the night. The cache had a long cabin- ↑ Reprinted by kind permission of the Macmillan Co.
