The name of Kamchatka is generally associated with snow-fields, glaciers, frozen mountains, and ice-bound shores.  Its winters are long and severe; snow falls to a great depth, and ice attains a thickness proportioned to the climate.  But the summers, though short, are sufficiently hot to make up for the cold of winter.  Vegetation is wonderfully rapid, the grasses, trees and plants growing as much in a hundred days as in six months of a New England summer.  Hardly has the snow disappeared before the trees put forth their buds and blossoms, and the hillsides are in all the verdure of an American spring.  Men tell me they have seen in a single week the snows disappear, ice break in the streams, the grass spring up, and the trees beginning to bud.  Nature adapts herself to all her conditions.  In the Arctic as in the Torrid zone she fixes her compensations and makes her laws for the best good of her children.

It was midsummer when we reached Kamchatka, and the heat was like that of August in Richmond or Baltimore.  The thermometer ranged from sixty-five to eighty.  Long walks on land were out of question, unless one possessed the power of a salamander.  The shore of the bay was the best place for a promenade, and we amused ourselves watching the salmon fishers at work.

Salmon form the principal food of the Kamchadales and their dogs.  The fishing season in Avatcha Bay lasts about six weeks, and at its close the salmon leave the bay and ascend the streams, where they are caught by the interior natives.  In the bay they are taken in seines dragged along the shore, and the number of fish caught annually is almost beyond computation.

Some years ago the fishery failed, and more than half the dogs in Kamchatka starved.  The following year there was a bountiful supply, which the priests of Petropavlovsk commemorated by erecting a cross near the entrance of the harbor.  The supply is always larger after a scarcity than in ordinary seasons.

The fish designed for preservation are split and dried in the sun.  The odor of a fish drying establishment reminded me of the smells in certain quarters of New York in summer, or of Cairo, Illinois, after an unusual flood has subsided.  One of our officers said he counted three hundred and twenty distinct and different smells in walking half a mile.

In 1865 one of the merchants started the enterprise of curing salmon for the Sandwich Island market.  He told me he paid three roubles, (about three greenback dollars,) a hundred (in number) for the fresh fish, delivered at his establishment.  Evidently he found the speculation profitable, as he repeated it the following year.

[Illustration:  A scaly bridge.]

When the salmon ascend the rivers they furnish food to men and animals.  The natives catch them in nets and with spears, while dogs, bears, and wolves use their teeth in fishing.  Bears are expert in this amusement, and where their game is plenty they eat only the heads and backs.  The fish are very abundant in the rivers, and no great skill is required in their capture.  Men with an air of veracity told me they had seen streams in the interior of Kamchatka so filled with salmon that one could cross on them as on a corduroy bridge!  The story has a piscatorial sound, but it may be true.