follows, and there is no melting of the ice until early June. This year
the ice went out from the river at Dawson upon June 10th; thus, there
are seven to eight months of snow and ice-bound winter in this Arctic
land.
ELEVENTH LETTER.
HOW THE GOVERNMENT SEARCHES FOR GOLD.
STEAMER DOLPHIN, September 22, 1903.
We left White Horse by the little narrow-gauge railway, White Pass &
Yukon Railway, at 9:30--two passenger cars, one smoker, mail and express
and baggage hung on behind a dozen freight cars. Our steamer brought up
about one hundred passengers from Dawson and down-river points, and
together with what got on board at White Horse, the train was packed.
Many red-coated Northwest Mounted Police also boarded the train, and
just as it pulled out, a strapping big, strong-chinned, muscular woman
came in the rear door and sat down. She was elegantly gowned, dark,
heavy serge, white shirt waist, embroidered cloth jacket, and much gold
jewelry, high plumed hat. Presently a big man called out that all the
men must go forward into the next car, and the big woman announced that
she would proceed to examine all the ladies for gold dust. The paternal
government of the Yukon Territory exacts a tax of 2-1/2 per cent. of all
gold found, and examines all persons going out of the territory, and
confiscates all dust found on the person. Women are said to be the most
inveterate smugglers, and the big woman goes through them most
unmercifully. She bade the lady next her to stand up and then proceeded
to feel her from stockings to chemise top, and did the same by the
others. Those who wore corsets had a tough time, and some had to undo
their hair. As the first victim stood up and was unbuttoned and felt
over, she was greeted with an audible smile by the other ladies, but
silence fell as the next victim was taken in hand. Meanwhile, during
this pleasant diversion, a big red-coat stood with his back to each
door, and the men were being similarly though not so ruthlessly gone
through in the other cars. This trip no dust was found, I believe, but
last week one woman was relieved of $1,800 sewed into the margin of her
skirts and tucked deep into the recesses of her bosom. Stockings and
bosom are the two chief feminine caches for gold, and when a culprit is
thus discovered and relieved, many are the protestations and unavailing
the clamors raised. During the past year I am told that the examiners
have seized in these searches some $60,000 in dust, so I presume the
happy custom will for some time continue. Detectives are kept in Dawson,
travel on the boats, and so watch and scrutinize every traveler that by
the time the final round-up and search takes place, the probable
smugglers are all pretty well spotted. As each is examined, his or her
name is checked off in a little book.
We were close to Caribou Crossing when the ceremony was over, and I with
others of my sex was permitted to re-enter the rear car and rejoin the
company of the much beflustered ladies.
[Illustration: LAKE BENNETT.]
[Illustration: THE HEIGHT OF LAND, WHITE PASS.]
All along the advance of winter was apparent. The green of a fortnight
ago had turned into the universal golden yellow, and the fresh snow lay
in more extended covering upon all the mountain summits and even far
down their slopes. So it is in this far north, each day the snow creeps
down and down until it has caught and covered all the valleys as well as
hills.
At Caribou we met old Bishop Bompas and his good little wife, who, with
a big cane, came all the way into the car to see us and say good-by. A
charming couple who have given their lives doing a noble work.
Lake Bennett was like a mirror, and Lake Lindemann above it, too, seemed
all the greener in contrast to the encroaching snows. We were at the
White Pass Summit by 3 P. M., and then for an hour came down the 3,200
feet of four per cent. grade, the twenty miles to Skagway. The increase
of snows on all the mountains seemed to bring out more saliently than
ever the sharp, jagged granite rock masses. It even seemed to us that we
were traversing a wilder, bolder, harsher land than when three weeks ago
we entered it. And the views and vistas down into the warmer valleys we
were plunging into were at times magnificent. Snow around and above us,
increasing greenness of foliage below us, and beyond recurring glimpses
of the Lynn fiord, with Skagway nestling at its head. In every affluent
valley a glacier and a roaring torrent.
One of the newest and best boats in the trade, "The Dolphin," was
awaiting us. Our stateroom was already wired for and secured. We took
our last Alaska meal at the "Pack Train Restaurant," where we snacked
sumptuously on roast beef, baked potatoes and coffee for seventy cents
(in Dawson it would have been an easy $3.00), and walked down the
mile-long pier to the boat. The tides are some twenty feet here, and the
sandy bars of Skagway require long piers to permit the ships to land
when the tides are out.
We cast off about 10 P. M., with the tide almost at its height, and only
awoke to-day just as we were steaming out of Juneau. Now we are
approaching the beautiful and dangerous Wrangel Narrows, and see
everywhere above us the fresh snows of the fortnight's making.
WILD SEAS AMONG THE FJORDS.
WEDNESDAY, September 23rd.
It is the middle of the afternoon and we are just safely through
the--to-day--tempestuous passage of "Dixon's Entrance," the
thirty-three-mile break in the coast's protecting chain of islands and
the outlet for Port Simpson to the open sea. Yesterday we passed through
the dangerous twenty miles of the Wrangel Narrows just before dark, and
only the swift swirls of the fighting tides endangered us; they fall and
rise seventeen feet in a few hours, and the waters entering the tortuous
channels from each end meet in eddying struggle somewhere near the
upper end. The boats try and pass through just before the flood tide or
a little after it, or else tie up and wait for the high water. If we had
been an hour later, we should have had to lie by for fifteen hours, the
captain said. As we turned in from Frederick Sound, between two
low-lying islands all densely wooded with impenetrable forests of fir,
the waters were running out against us almost in fury, but in a mile or
two they were flowing with us just as swiftly.
To-day we saw a good many ducks, chiefly mallard and teal, and small
divers, and my first cormorant, black, long-necked and circling near us
with much swifter flight than the gull. In the narrows we started a
great blue heron and one or two smaller bitterns.
From the narrows we passed into Sumner Strait, and then turning to the
right and avoiding Wrangel Bay and Fort Wrangel, where we stopped going
up, passed into the great Clarence Strait that leads up direct from the
sea. A sound or fiord one hundred miles or more long, ten or fifteen
miles wide.
The day had been clear, but, before passing through the narrows, clouds
had gathered, and a sort of fierce Scotch mist had blown our rain-coats
wet. On coming out into wider waters, the storm had become a gale. The
wildest night we have had since twelve months ago in the tempest of
the year upon the Gulf of Finland. To-day, until now, the waters have
been too boisterous to write. All down Clarence Strait, until we turned
into Revilla and Gigedo Channels--named for and by the Spanish
discoverers--and across the thirty-three miles of Dixon's Entrance, we
have shuttlecocked about at the mercy of the gale and in the teeth of
the running sea. The guests at table have been few, but now we are snug
behind Porcher Island and passing into the smooth waters of Greenville
Channel, so I am able to write again. The Swedish captain says the storm
is our equinoctial, and that may be, and now that the sun is out and the
blue sky appearing, we shall soon forget the stress, although to-night,
as we pass from Fitzhugh Sound into Queen Charlotte Sound, we shall have
a taste of the Pacific swell again, and probably yet have some thick
weather in the Gulf of Georgia. Considering the lateness of the season,
we are, all in all, satisfied that we rightly gave up the St. Michaels
trip, though it has sorely disappointed us not to have seen the entire
two thousand miles of the mighty Yukon.
Already we notice the moderation of the temperature and the greater
altitude of the sun, for we are quite one thousand miles south of
Dawson, while the air has lost its quickening, exhilarating, tonic
quality.
We are becoming right well acquainted with our sundry shipmates,
particularly those who have "come out" from the Yukon with us. Among
them we have found out another interesting man. Across the table from us
on the steamer "White Horse" sat a shock-headed man of about thirty
years, tall, very tall, but muscularly built, with a strong, square jaw
and firm, blue eyes. A fellow to have his own way; a bad man in a
mix-up. A flannel shirt, no collar, rough clothes. Possibly a gentleman,
perhaps a boss tough. We find him a graduate of the University of
Michigan. He has lived in Mexico, and now for five straight years has
been "mushing it," and prospecting in the far north; has tramped almost
to the Arctic Sea, into the water-shed of the Mackenzie, and bossed
fifty to one hundred men at the Klondike and Dominion diggings. His
camera has always been his companion, and for an hour yesterday he sat
in our cabin and read to us from the MSS. some of the verse and poems
with which his valise is stacked. Some of the things are charming and
some will bring the tears. This far north land of gold and frost has as
yet sent out no poet to depict its hopes, its perils, its wrecks. It may
be that he is the man. His name is Luther F. Campbell, and you may watch
for the name. And so we meet all sorts.
FRIDAY, September 25th.
Yesterday was a "nasty" day, as was the day before. Early, 2 or 3 A. M.,
we passed through the ugly waters of Millbank Sound, where the sweeping
surge of the foam-capped Pacific smashes full force against the
rock-bound coast. We were tossed about greatly in our little 400-ton
boat, until at last, passing a projecting headland, we were instantly in
dead quiet water and behind islands once more. About 10 A. M. we came
again into the angry Pacific, and for fifty miles--four hours--were
tossed upon the heavy sea, Queen Charlotte Sound. The equinoctial gales
have had a wild time on the Pacific, and the gigantic swell of that
ocean buffeted our little boat about like a toy. But she is a fine "sea
boat," and sat trim as a duck, rolling but little, nor taking much
water. Toward middle afternoon we were in quiet waters again, and by
nightfall at the dangerous Seymour Narrows, where Vancouver Island leans
up against the continent, or has cracked off from it, and a very narrow
channel separates the two. Here the tides--twelve feet--rise, rush and
eddy, meet and whirl, and only at flood stage do boats try to pass
through.
In 1875, a U. S. man-of-war tried to pass through when the tides were
low, and, caught in the swirling maelstrom, sank in one hundred fathoms
of water. In 1883, a coastwise steamer ventured at improper moment to
make the passage, was caught in the mad currents, and was engulfed with
nearly all on board; half a dozen men alone were saved. Hence the
captains are now very careful in making the passage, and so we lay at
anchor--or lay to--from seven to twelve, midnight, waiting for the tide.
To-day we are spinning down the Gulf of Georgia and Puget Sound, the
wind direct astern, and have already left Vancouver and Victoria to the
north. The sun is clear and soft, not hard and brilliant as in Dawson.
Whales are blowing at play about the ship, gulls skimming the air in
multitudes. All our company are over their seasickness and now mostly on
deck. We are repacking our bags and the steamer trunk, taking off heavy
winter flannels and outer wear, and preparing to land at Seattle clad
again in semi-summer clothes.
TWELFTH LETTER.
SEATTLE, THE FUTURE MISTRESS OF THE TRADE AND
COMMERCE OF THE NORTH.
THE PORTLAND HOTEL, }
Portland, Oregon, October 3, 1903. }
Just one week ago to-day the steamer "Dolphin" landed us safely at the
pier at Seattle. The sail on Puget Sound, a body of deep water open for
one hundred miles to the ocean, was delightful. We passed many vessels,
one a great four-masted barque nearing its port after six or eight
months' voyage round the Horn from Liverpool.
Seattle lies upon a semi-circle of steep hills, curving round the deep
waters of the Sound like a new moon. An ideal site for a city and for a
mighty seaport, which some day it will be. Many big ships by the
extensive piers and warehouses. The largest ships may come right
alongside the wharves, even those drawing forty feet. The tracks of the
Great Northern and Northern Pacific Railways bring the cars along the
ship's side, and there load and unload. All this we noted as our boat
warped in to her berth. A great crowd awaited us. Many of our passengers
were coming home from the far north after two and three years' absence.
Friends and families were there to greet them; hotel runners and
boarding-house hawkers; citizens, too, of the half world who live by
pillage of their fellowmen were there, and police and plain clothes men
of the detective service were there, all alike ready to greet the
returning Klondiker with his greater or lesser poke of gold. It was
exciting to look down upon them and watch their own excitement and
emotion as they espied the home-comers upon the decks. We, as well, had
all sorts of people among our passengers. Mostly the fortunate
gold-finders who had made enough from the diggings to "come out" for the
winter, and some, even to stay "out" for good. A young couple stood near
me; they were on their wedding trip; they would spend the winter in
balmy Los Angeles and then return to the far north in the spring. An old
man stood leaning on the rail. Deep lines marked his face, on which was
yet stamped contentment. He had been "in" to see his son who had struck
it rich on Dominion Creek, who had already put "a hundred thousand in
the bank," he said. He had with him a magnificent great, black Malamute,
"leader of my boy's team and who once saved him from death. The dog cost
us a hundred dollars. I am taking him to Victoria. I couldn't let him
go. His life shall be easy now," the old man added. Just then I noted a
tall man in quiet gray down on the dock looking intently at two men who
stood by one another a little to my left. They seemed to feel his
glance, spoke together and moved uneasily away. They were a pair of "bad
eggs" who had been warned out of the Yukon by the Mounted Police, and
who were evidently expected in Seattle. One, who wore a green vest and
nugget chain, played the gentleman. The other, who worked with him, did
the heavy work and had an ugly record. He was roughly dressed and wore a
blue flannel shirt and a cap. A bull neck, face covered with
dense-growing, close-cropped red beard, shifty gray eyes. He had been
suspected of several murders and many hold-ups. Detectives frequently
travel on these boats, keeping watch upon the "bad men" who are sent out
of the north. We probably had a few on board. In the captain's cabin,
close to our own, were piled up more than half a million dollars in gold
bars; the passengers, most of them, carried dust. But the pair, and any
pals they may have had along, had kept very quiet. They were spotted at
the start. They knew it. Now they were spotted again, and this, too,
they discerned.
Seattle is the first homing port for all that army of thugs and
scalawags who seek a new land like the far north, and who, when there
discovered, are summarily hurried back again. It is said to be the
"nearest hell" of any city on the coast. The hungry horde of vampire
parasites would make a fat living from the pillage of the returned
goldseeker if it were not for the vigilance of the police. A strong
effort is now being made by the authorities of Seattle to stamp out this
criminal class and drive it from the city.
Our impression, as we crowded our way through the pressing throngs upon
the pier and pushed on up into the city, was that we were in another
Chicago. Tall buildings, wide streets, fine shops, great motion of the
crowds upon the streets, many electric tram-cars running at brief
intervals, and all crowded.
On our trip up the Yukon we had made the pleasant acquaintance of a Mr.
S---- and a Mr. M---- of Columbus, O. Keen and agreeable men who had
been spending a month in Dawson puncturing a gold swindle into which an
effort had been made to lead them and their friends by unscrupulous
alleged bonanza kings. They had cleverly nipped the attempt in the bud,
and were now returning, well satisfied with their achievements. We had
become fast comrades and resolved to keep together yet another few days.
We found our way to the Grand Rainier Hotel, one of Seattle's best, and
now kept by the old host of the Gibson House in Cincinnati.
Our favorable impressions of Seattle were confirmed that night when our
friends introduced us to the chief glory of Puget Sound, the monstrous
and delicious crab, a crab as big as a dinner plate and more delicate
than the most luscious lobster you ever ate. They boil him, cool him,
crack him and serve him with mayonnaise dressing. You eat him, and
continue to eat him as long as Providence gives you power, and when you
have cracked the last shell and sucked the last claw, and finally
desist, you contentedly comprehend that your palate has reflected to
your brain all the gustatory sensations of a Delmonico banquet, with a
Sousa band concert thrown in.
Saturday, after we had spent the morning in seeing the shops and
wandering along the fine streets of the choicer residence section of the
city, we all took the tourist electric car, which, at 2 P. M., sets out
and tours the town with a guide who, through a megaphone, explains the
sights.
Seattle now claims one hundred and twenty to one hundred and thirty
thousand inhabitants, and probably has almost that number. A distinctly
new city, yet growing marvelously, and already possessing many great
buildings of which a much larger town might well boast.
Toward evening, at 4:30 P. M., we took the through electric flyer, and
sped across a country of many truck gardens and apple orchards, some
thirty-five miles to Tacoma, that distance farther up the Sound, and
once the rival of Seattle. A city more spread out and less well built,
the creation of the promoters of the Northern Pacific Railway Co., in
the palmy days of Henry Villard. Tacoma, too, possesses superb docking
facilities and a good two miles of huge warehouses and monstrous
wharves, where, also, great ships are constantly loaded and unloaded for
the Orient, South Africa and all the world, but whence few or no ships
depart for the Northern Continent of Alaska. Tacoma seemed less alive
and alert than Seattle, fewer people on the streets, smaller shops and
business blocks, and the people moving more leisurely along the
thoroughfares. In Seattle the houses mostly fresh painted; in Tacoma the
houses looking dingy and as though not painted now for many a month.
Seattle is noted for the public spirit of its citizens; they work and
pull together for the common weal, but Tacoma is so dominated by the
railway influence which created it, that the people are lacking in the
vigor of the rival town.
As our electric train came to a standstill, W---- rode up on his
bicycle, and he was surely glad to see us. Messrs. S---- and M---- had
come over with us for the ride, and we all five set right off to find
our dinner. "Cracked Crabs" was again the word, and W---- added, "Puget
Sound oysters broiled on toast." A delicate little oyster about the size
of one's finger nail, and most savory. When our party left the table, we
were as contented a group as ever had dined.
We lodged with W----, and were delightfully cared for--a large, sunny
room overlooking such a garden of roses and green turf as I never before
have seen. Roses as big as peonies and grass as green and thick as the
velvet turf of the Oxford "quads." Our host gave us each morning a
dainty breakfast, and then we foraged for ourselves during the day.
In the morning of Sunday we attended the Congregational Church, and in
the afternoon rode on the electric car to the park, a few miles--two or
three--out of the city, along the shores of one of the fine bays that
indent the Sound. Not so fine a park as Vancouver's, but one that some
day will probably rank among the more beautiful ones of our American
cities.
On Monday we wandered about the town, visited its museum, saw the fine
public buildings, and spent several hours in going over and through the
most extensive sawmill plant on the coast--"in the world," they say. The
big business originally instituted by one of the early pioneers, is now
managed by his four sons, all graduates of Yale. We met the elder of
them in blue overalls and slouch hat, all mill dust. A keen, intelligent
face. He works with his men and keeps the details of the business well
in hand. How different, I thought, from the English manner of doing
things. These men are rich, millionaires; college bred, they work with
their men. In England they tell you that no man who would give his son a
business career would think of sending him to college. Oxford or
Cambridge would there unfit him for business life. He would come out
merely a "gentleman," which there means a man who does nothing, who
earns no bread, but who lives forever a parasite on the toil of others.
In these great mills the monstrous fir and pine logs of Washington are
sawed up, cut, planed, and loaded directly into ships for all the
markets of the earth--Europe, South Africa, Australia, China, South
America and New York, wherever these splendid woods are in demand. The
forests of Washington and British Columbia are said to possess the
finest timber in the world, and all the world seems to be now seeking to
have of it.