TRIP TO ALASKA FOX RANCH
BY MARY BAEN WRIGHT
“Running a fox ranch, according to
some people’s ideas, seems to consist
mainly of sitting around cozily and
reading magazines, while the foxes
grow fur into dollars for you,” re- j
marked J. F, Appleby of the Peak
island fox farm to me one day last
winter, -while he was on a trip to
Cordova. “But they have another
guess coming. A fox farmer must
keep busy and right on the job, the
same as any one else.”
In a visit last week to Peak and
Story islands, where blue foxes are
raised, I realized the truth of Mr. Ap
pleby’s words.
Look on a chart showing the west
side of Prince William sound, north
of that group of large islands which
includes Montague, Bainbridge, La
touche and Horodovo, and you will
find a group of three, much smaller—
Storey, Peak and Naked islands, the
last probably bigger than the other
two combined.
Landing on Storey island in the mid
dle of the night, and in a drenching
rain at that, I could not get much idea
of my surroundings till the next day.
Storey island is perhaps the pioneer
fox ranch of this section of Alaska,
having been stocked as far back as
1895 by Fred Liljegren, who holds the
present lease and lives on the island
now with his daughter, Miss Amanda,
and his son, Edwin. Mr. Liljegren is
a native of Sweden and is now in his
sixtieth year. Sturdy health, intelli
gence and kindliness are the main im-j
pressions he makes on one meeting,
him. He is adored by his children and ,
stands high in the esteem of all who
Most of the creatures, however, are
very wild. During the night they
leave their burrow’s back in the inac-1
cessible fastnesses of the island and
prowTl around in the dark, now and
then voicing an odd series of yelps
which sound like the call of a seagull.
On a stretch of beach across from
the house we could see as many as
nine frolicking around.
“When people ask me how many
foxes wfe have,” said Mr. Liljegren,
“I answer ‘count them.’ ” I can imag- j
ine no more hopeless task than to take j
the census of a fox island.
The w’ork referred to by Mr. Apple
by, of the neighboring island, consists !
mainly of providing and distributing
food for the foxes. One large build
ing, erected for a storehouse, con
tained two enormous vats each hold- j
ing 52 barrels of salted salmon, and :
numerous smaller vats and barrels!
stood around full of herring and sal
mon heads from canneries.
One afternoon I went in a gasboat
with Mr. Liljegren and Edwin to feed
the foxes. (Edwin Liljegren, by the
way, will be remembered as the young
man who won first prize in the men’s
100-yard dash during the Fourth of
July festivities here, winning out over
a large field of competitors. He has
a brilliant record in several lines of
athletic sports at the Chemawa Indian
school near Portland.) Here and
there, where a stretch of sandy beach
broke the rocky steeps of the island
coast, stood a feeding house among
the trees. Up a flight of steps to a
sort of upper story, the men carried
and dumped out on the floor several
bucketfuls of fish-heads. I was
amused to notice the actibns of the
two or three foxes we discovered run
ning along the beach wherever we
stopped—some boldly expectant
others loping behind cover, but al
ways sticking a sharp, inquisitive nose j
out from behind bush or stump and
watching with their shrewd yellow
eyes our every movement till the
souaid of the gasboat had died away.
I dare say they are able to count the
four days from one feeding time to the
next, and know when to listen for the
boat. During the meantime they “rus
tle” for themselves worms, mussels,
etc., along the beach.
“I don’t see how they can crack
those thick shells,” I remarked to Miss
Liljegren.
“Oh, they’re smart enough to find
a way,” she replied. “They carry the
shell-fish up above the tide line and
let them lie in the sun and die, when
they open of themselves.”
In December, when the harvest of
pelts is to be gathered, a section of
the upper floor of each feed house is
set with a trigger arrangement which
drops the fox down into a lower en
closure entered from the outside
through a door. Sometimes the foxes
will almost starve before they will
enter the feed house at this time.
“Do they ever show fight when you
go in after them?” I asked Mr. Lilje
gren.
“No. They are very quiet and fright
ened, and pile up in a corner, maybe
a dozen or so of them, some on the
others.”
-By means of a pair of long handled
wooden tongs, curved to fit around the
fox’s neck, he picks out of the huddling
crowd any fox he chooses. Then tak
ing the creature by the nape of the
neck, he drops it into a gunny sack
and ties it up. A boat load of these
squirming sacks is then taken back to
the ranch, where the foxes are killed
by hanging, so as not to injure their
skins. The pelts are stretched, fur
side in, over wooden frames, and set
out to dry. Every day they must be
scraped carefully until all blood and
grease are removed.
Mr. Liljegren and his partner, Mr.
Wagner, who has been with him for
the past few years, sell the pelts direct
to a great fur house in London. There
they are graded into lots which bring
different prices. Last season some of
the pelts sold for over $200 apiece.
At the head of a most picturesque
lagoon on Peak island stands the log
home of Mr. and Mrs. Appleby, and ad
joining it that of young Mrs. Alice
Southworth, whose father, Mr. Mc
Pherson, now living on Vashon island,
Puget sound, started the fox raising
on Peak island. Numerous books, a
piano and a victrola furnish amuse
ment and occupation for leisure hours.
Mr. and Mrs. Appleby joined in the
stampede to the Shushanna strike sev
eral years ago, and can tell many in
teresting stories of the hardships of
that memorable fiasco. It was their
wedding journey. Before her marriage
Mrs. Appleby lived in Tacoma. She
and her husbamd came about two years
ago to Anchorage to take over the fox
island in partnership with Mrs. South
worth, wrho knowrs the business from
A to Z.
At the door of her cabin, I made the
acquaintance of her favorite foxes,
George and Mary, named in honor of
their Brittanic majesties. Mrs. Apple
by gave me a piece of meat for one
of her pets, “Mrs. Ding.” After sizing
me up dubiously out of her small yel
low eyes, Mrs. Ding at length sidled
bashfully up. aad accepted the offer
ing from my hand.
“Don’t you ever get lonesome for
the movies and the electric lights?”
I inquired of Mrs. Appleby.
“Really, I can’t say that I do,” she
answered. “Whenever I make a trip
to town I’m always glad to get back
again. They’re so quiet and peaceful,
these island homes of ours, ‘far from
the madding crowd.’ ”
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Ajfter the show drop into the Alaskan
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Know mm.
His island, like the other two of the.
group, is very rugged and heavily for-;
ested, with a coast line of some ten;
or twelve miles.
Peak island, across a narrow chan-!
nel, was named for a high peak which j
l
can be seen for many miles, and j
Naked island was so named because
no Quadrupeds were found on it prior
to its being stocked with foxes.
“Come and look at Becky out here
on her log.”' called Miss Liljegren 1
to me on the morning after my ar
rival. From the kitchen window I saw
a maltese colored fox, lying on a log
a few feet away, and watching the j
back door with small, round, yellow
eyes, in evident expectation of a
“hand-out.”
I was much surprised at the small
size of the foxes. They are just about
as big as a full grown cat. The skins
one sees ready for sale bear the thick,
heavy winter coat, and besides are
stretched lengthwise, taking up the
width of the animal, so to speak.
Three of the creatures habitually
haunted the kitchen door and would
even come on into the house if the
' door were left open. Another came
every evening to the beach in front
of the house to enjoy a sort of concert
conversation with Miss Liljegren, who
has learned to imitate perfectly the
peculiar bark and yelp of her furry
friends. For ten minutes at a stretch
they would “talk” back and forth,
after which the fox would run on
about his business, apparently much
gratified.