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A Reindeer Tale
The Great TrekMax Miller, a noted 1930s writer, whose best-known book, I Cover the Waterfront, was made into a classic movie, wrote the definitive book on the Baldwin-backed enterprise; this article is based on his account. He studied the Lomen records, maps and charts of the reindeer drive and talked with a few veterans of the expedition. He called his book, published in 1935, The Great Trek. So it was, and so it will always be. The 3,000 deer that quit the Elephant Point corral in Alaska that Christmas Day comprised the largest known herd of captive deer ever driven to market. Whether the departure time was morning or evening made little difference: The Arctic winter had closed in more than a month before, bringing almost 24-hour darkness. The cavalcade headed northward behind a few flashlights pointed to the sky. The Lomen Reindeer Company in Seattle, promoters of the deal, had contracted on May 8, 1929, with the king of England and the Canadian minister of the interior to round up and herd the deer. The king's men would pay $65 for each deer delivered. Out of that, before computing profit, the Lomens would have to pay all cost -- finding the deer, equipment, wages, and scores of other minute details. The reindeer company needed reputable, monied men to guarantee that the agreement would be fulfilled. Every bonding company in Seattle and New York turned down the risky prospectus before the Baldwin brothers, highly successful New York City lawyers, stepped to the front. They were known for their willingness to back exciting, if sometimes borderline adventures -- and they had become the last resort. Later, the Lomens would say, "We could not have contracted to attempt delivery," if the Baldwins had spurned them. A seemingly routine clause in the contract -- that the reindeer "will be delivered on the east side of the delta of the Mackenzie River, at or near Kittigazuit" -- later would bring huge grief to both the Lomens and their herders in the tundra. Few of those directly involved in the herding really knew where Kittigazuit was. The west bank of the Mackenzie delta would have been equally acceptable. The Lomens hired Dan Crowley, experienced Arctic adventurer, to plan and supervise the mechanics of the drive. His herd boss would be a 55-year-old Lapp, reindeer-wise Andrew Bahr. He, too, had weathered Arctic storms and was a nearly legendary expert in the care of reindeer. Six months of planning preceded the start. The expedition was well funded; the air of readiness at Elephant Point proved that. A comprehensive inventory of supplies included 50 sleds made from hickory wood, a plentiful supply of gear and harness for reindeer trained to pull the sleds, 10 watches, 10 compasses, 10 pairs of skis, two small tents, mounds of black mosquito netting, several boxes of flashlights, hundreds of miner's candles, two small oil-burning stoves and a miscellany of winter gear. Each man had at least two changes of clothing. The Lomens were thoroughly aware of the dangers and vagaries of the ice-encrusted land and the challenge of two ranges of mountains that towered as high as 9,000 feet above the frozen sea level. Members of this expedition, all Lapps or Eskimos, had lived in Arctic surroundings for most of their lives. They were professionals, yet they had considerable queasiness about this planned drive over uncharted land. If ever a red-nosed reindeer guide lived, he would have been a cherished prize on this trip. A drive of 1,800 miles -- later estimated to be really 2,300 miles -- across virtually uncharted wilderness had no Arctic precedent. There were no maps, no journals of similar trips, no geological studies, no meteorological records and no reliable weather data. Max Miller likened the reindeer drive to "plunking down $195,000 on black on a roulette wheel, except that on a roulette wheel the dangers to lives would be eliminated." A Chilling Start
Who would lead the herd? Who would set the pace? Experienced Lapps insisted that deer, if pointed in the right direction, normally would lead themselves, with only occasional guidance from the humans. They would walk or run as they pleased. The Lapps found that acceptable; they really did not care how long it took to reach the Mackenzie River. When the Lomen firm fretted about the slow pace, the herders agreed they would try to fulfill whatever timetable the deal set, well aware that unpredictable weather, not a fanciful and over-optimistic Seattle timetable, would be the decider. The first of the ranges, Baird Mountains, was conquered in relatively routine fashion, following a route along the solidly frozen Redstone River. Heavily-timbered Brooks Range mountains loomed not far to the northeast. Looming ObstaclesThree months after the herd left Elephant Point, the deer prompted a halt at the still-frozen Kobuck River. It was fawning time, the first of what would be five fawning seasons on the trail. The deer instinctively knew that they must rest and get as much nourishment as possible from the thin growth that appeared in the mud. They had moved a mere 150 miles and the herd would not move again until another winter came to freeze the ground. Summertime, and the living wasn't easy in the cloying mud on the banks of the Kobuk River. Worst of all, summertime Alaska mosquitoes eagerly attacked this new flesh, animal and human. Far larger, more vicious, and much meaner than the more famous New Jersey mosquitoes, the voracious insects struck in dense black clouds. Mosquito netting protected the herders somewhat, but reindeer were without defense, except for rolling wildly on the ground. If the deer stuck together, it seemed two herds were moving simultaneously, the deer plodding through the mud and the dense black "herd" of mosquitoes above them. The natives knew that such mosquitoes would return every spring. Mosquitoes were just one natural enemy. In wintertime, wolves dashed along the flanks of the moving herd, seeking to stampede the reindeer and make it possible to pick off strays. Bears, on the other hand, stood tall and to the side of oncoming reindeer. If one faltered or shied upward from fright, the bear struck, felling the disturbed animal with one blow. Bears were satisfied with that one reindeer; wolves killed recklessly, often just for the pleasure. A reindeer kin, the caribou, was an omnipresent threat. A small herd of caribou could join the deer temporarily and either lead the reindeer away or stampede them. Caribou could also invade as a thundering herd, hitting a reindeer line in the middle and putting an immediate end to the expedition. Fortunately, neither ever happened. From the start, the surmounting problem loomed as Brooks Mountain Range, a long irregular buttress almost two miles high in places. Everything had to be risked in Howard Pass, the only cut even barely possible for such a venture. The pass was at about 5,000 feet altitude, 4,000 feet from the mountain top. Winds that gathered force as they swirled from the North Pole were intensified in the narrow opening. Max Miller wrote that getting a herd through the pass was like "trying to push one's hand against the air pressure from a compressed-air tank." As the passage proceeded, the deer tried to turn around. Some were blown off their feet. Nearly all fought in near panic. Weak deer and fawns had to be pushed or carried through. Passing through Brooks Range was far more than merely struggling along a frozen river through a snow-clogged pass. Thick, low-limbed timber, where bucks could get their horns caught in tree branches, covered the mountain, a circumstance that could split the deer herd, ensure panic, and create catastrophe. Once beyond Howard Pass, the expedition was only about 200 miles from the Arctic Ocean. Mild complacence centered on the thought that the rest of drive would be easier, even if it were across land said to be "as barren a continent of ground as God ever put on earth." Instead, the troubles intensified. Temperatures plunged to where thermometers stopped registering at 50 degrees below zero. The deer struggled on through a cloud of steam generated by their own body warmth. Overnight, that vapor would freeze on their noses and in their eyes, and had to be broken away by herders after every stop before the trek could continue. Exposure of human flesh to the cold meant almost immediate freezing. Any thought of eliminating bodily wastes created mental agony. Supplies and SustenanceMarch brought two gifts from the sky, the first glimmerings of sun and a small biplane bringing mail, instructions from headquarters and a small quantity of food. It brought as well the pause for fawning and the mosquito infestation. The pilot told the herders that spotting the expedition from the air was like seeking a rock in the ocean. He dared not turn off his engine for even a few seconds, lest restarting become impossible. The pilot's question about needs brought forth one word: food! He promised to do what he could, and he returned not long after with about 1,000 pounds of food and words of encouragement from Seattle -- and, as a long-delayed Christmas gift, an orange apiece. Month after month the drive fell behind, beset by bolting reindeer, loss of an occasional herder, spring mud, and winter cold almost beyond bearing. Attempts to bring back escaped reindeer yielded little return. By late April 1933, however, a herd of about 2,000 reindeer -- a thousand short of the promised number -- neared the west bank of the Mackenzie. The expedition already was more than 18 months behind schedule. After another pause for fawning, plans were set for the final surge into the Mackenzie River corral. The best approach to the finish seemingly was to cross the broad Mackenzie River delta on Arctic Ocean ice in the late autumn. The delivery would be only about two years late. The east bank delivery point and a stop for tea would add two years to completion of the drive. On January 4, 1934, the herd was stopped on an island in the delta while the herders paused for tea. That cup of stimulant proved to be woefully ill-advised. It would cost the first added year of travel time.When the herders sought to rejoin the reindeer, the herd had vanished, bolting from the island in fear or hunger, or perhaps both. About two thousand were brought back, but in such an exhausted condition that the expedition had to halt for the rest of the winter, through another fawning season and until the delta would be frozen again. Another attempt was made after the first intensive freeze in early 1935. After 12 miles on the ice, the deer bolted again, but this time they were not chased to the point of exhaustion. They were patiently regrouped and the crossing resumed at double time. The end had come: The herd was pushed into corrals on Richard Island in February 1935 -- five years and two months after leaving Elephant Point. That night another monstrous storm overwhelmed the area. It made no difference. The mission had been accomplished. A final count showed only 2,370 deer in the delivered herd. Only 10 percent of the animals in the herd, provable by the ear mark cut in each reindeer at Elephant Island, represented the starting contingent. The others had been fawned along the way or had wandered voluntarily into the herd. The late delivery and the shortage of 630 deer represented a huge financial loss of $40,950 for the Lomens. The triumphant delivery of the deer, the hardships for the herders and the reindeer, and the awesome saga of Arctic cold meant nothing to the king. Business was business. All of the herders were paid in full and returned home with most of the king's allocation. In a cruel twist of irony, about 700 fawns were delivered during the fawning season, a few months after the deal was settled. They had been carried into the corral within pregnant deer, but the king's men paid only for reindeer that arrived on their own four feet. After delivery of the deer, Crowley and Bahr both hastened to return to Alaska. They were still 1,700 miles from the nearest railroad and 2,000 miles from Edmonton, the nearest Canadian city. They took the first plane out in the spring for the trip to Edmonton, followed by a long train ride to Vancouver. Even before the drive was completed, the United States Geographic Board announced on April 6, 1933, and shortly after Leonard Baldwin's death, that it had named an Alaskan promontory north of Seward Peninsula for him. He was hailed as a man "who added to the economic development of Alaska through his up-building of the reindeer industry there." For those who would like to visit Baldwin Peninsula, or locate it on a detailed Alaska map, it is "east of Kotzebue Sound, west of Hotham Inlet, and north of Eschscholtz Bay, centering latitude 66 degrees 22 minutes north and longitude 162 degrees 15 minutes west." |
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Articles
The journey was envisioned, simply put, to bring meals-on-hooves from Alaska to the Mackenzie River in Canada, where the deer would be slaughtered to help feed a starving populace. At about the same time the drive began, Arthur and Leonard Baldwin sat down with their families for Christmas dinner in their large East Orange, N.J., home. Surely on that day they at least mentioned the brand-new little Brothers College in Madison named for them. They would not have known that the deer departed that day; the schedule had called for a start several weeks before December 25. But the brothers knew of the drive: They had underwritten it.
The departing Elephant Point herders cared little about the eventual place of delivery. They hoped only for a good augury on starting day; it was not to be. A brutal blizzard from the north obliterated known trails and even obscured the brightest of lights visible in the around-the-clock, around-the calendar darkness of an Alaska winter. The howling winds and heavy snow continued for almost the first week that passed in nearly total darkness. The Lapps and Eskimos shrugged; they had lived with six-month winter nights and blizzards for all their lives.