At Kluchei we were called upon to decide what route we would adopt in our journey to the northward.  The shortest, and in many respects the best, was that usually taken by the Russian traders—­crossing the central range of mountains to Tigil (tee-gill’), by the pass of the Yolofka (yo-loff’-ka), and then following up the west coast of the peninsula to the head of the Okhotsk Sea.  The only objections to this were the lateness of the season and the probability of finding deep snow in the mountain passes.  Our only alternative was to continue our journey from Kluchei up the eastern coast to a settlement called Dranka (dran’-kah), where the mountains sank into insignificant hills, and cross there to the Kamchadal village of Lesnoi (less-noi’) on the Okhotsk Sea.  This route was considerably longer than the one by the Yolofka pass, but its practicability was much more certain.

After a great many prolonged consultations with sundry natives, who were supposed to know something about the country, but who carefully avoided responsibility by telling as little as possible, the Major concluded to try the Yolofka pass, and ordered canoes to be ready on Saturday morning to carry us up the Yolofka River.

At the worst, we could only fail to get over the mountains, and there would be time enough then to return to Kluchei, and try the other route before the opening of winter.

As soon as we had decided the momentous question of our route, we gave ourselves up to the unrestrained enjoyment of the few pleasures which the small and sedate village of Kluchei afforded.  There was no afternoon promenade where we could, as the Russians say, “show ourselves and see the people”; nor would an exhibition of our tattered and weather-stained garments on a public promenade have been quite the proper thing, had it been possible.  We must try something else.  The only places of amusement of which we could hear were the village bath-house and the church; and the Major and I started out, late in the afternoon, with the intention of “doing” these points of interest in the most approved style of modern tourists.  For obvious reasons we took the bath-house first.  Taking a steam-bath was a very mild sort of dissipation; and if it were true that “cleanliness was next to godliness,” the bath-house certainly should precede the church.  I had often heard Dodd speak of the “black baths” of the Kamchadals; and without knowing definitely what he meant, I had a sort of vague impression that these “black baths” were taken in some inky fluid of Kamchatkan manufacture, which possessed peculiar detersive properties.  I could think of no other reason than this for calling a bath “black.”  Upon entering the “black bath,” however, at Kluchei, I saw my mistake, and acknowledged at once the appropriateness of the adjective.  Leaving our clothes in a little rude entry, which answered the purposes without affording any of the conveniences of a dressing-room, we stooped to a low fur-clad door