Chapman, our skipper; Mr. Deans, our guide; Mr. Allen, and myself.
Upon looking at a map of this region it would seem that the voyage from Port Simpson to Masset ought to be made with no difficulty, but Masset is almost seventy miles due west from Port Simpson, and the prevailing wind hereabout is from the west, and it blows with such force and persistency that Masset must be reached in a roundabout way. Long experience has taught that it is best not to attempt to make a direct passage, and that time is saved by sailing from one island to another along southern Alaska until Point Chacon or even Cape Muzon is gained. From either of these two points Masset is reached usually with but little difficulty. Another reason in favor of this circuitous route is the fact that out from the northeast corner of Graham Island projects a long sand bar, many miles in extent and known as Rose Spit. Over this long, low-lying reef the water breaks with great fury and the tide currents are almost irresistible. Pose Spit is the terror of the Northwest coast, and many are the schooners and canoes which have met an untimely end on its treacherous sands.
All this we knew when we set forth from Simpson at noon on July 3d, but little did we realize what all this meant. There certainly was nothing auspicious in our departure, as we started forth in the midst of a fog and drizzling rain, and after six hours we had only made North Dundas Island, not more than fifteen miles from Simpson. But, notwithstanding the fickle wind and the drizzling rain, the evening and night were happily spent. We had left behind us steamships and towns and civilization, conventionalism and restraint; We were now fairly out of the world. We were to see no boat but our own, nor a living being save at Masset.
On the following morning we were to make our first acquaintance with a specimen of the tides of this region. An early start had been our plan and our hope, and to this end we had our boat loaded, were all aboard, had one sail up, and were ready to push off, but the Janet wouldn't push. When a tide has to fall twenty-two feet within two hours it can't afford to lose any time, and consequently it did not wait for us, and the Janet was hard aground and firm as a rock, and so we waited for the turn of the tide; we waited just five hours.
On account of this mishap the best we could do that day was to make Cape Fox, but that was not without some compensation, for we thus spent the night of July 4th on Alaskan soil. By two o'clock on the following day we had gained Cape Northumberland and were snugly anchored in a cove on Kelp Island. The weather now was all that we could possibly wish, the sky was as clear as crystal, and far
