LOST IN A MOUNTAIN BLIZZARD
Tired as were the occupants of that lonely camp after a day of
exhausting climbing up through the timber, their slumbers were broken
and restless. The uncertainties of the morrow, the peculiar nature of
the road they had yet to travel, and the excitement consequent upon
nearing the end of their journey, which none of them believed to be
over fifty miles away, all combined to render them wakeful and uneasy.
So they were up by the first sign of daylight, and off before sunrise.
As there were now but three dogs to a sledge, the load of the one
driven by Serge was divided between it and the one that brought up the
rear in charge of Jalap Coombs. A few sticks of dry wood were also
placed on each sledge, so that in crossing the upper ice-fields they
might at least be able to melt snow for drinking purposes.
“Now for it!” cried Phil, cheerfully, as they emerged from the scanty
timber, and shivered in the chill blast that swept down from the
towering peaks above them. Between two of these was a saddle-like
depression that they took to be the pass, and to it the young leader
determined to guide his little party.
“Up you go, Musky!” he shouted. “Pull, Luvtuk, my pigeon! Amook, you
old rascal, show what you are good for! A little more work, a little
more hunger, and then rest, with plenty to eat. So stir yourselves and
climb!”
With this the long whip-lash whistled through the frosty air and
cracked with a resounding report that would have done credit to the
most expert of Eskimo drivers, for our Phil was no longer a novice in
its use, and with a yelp the dogs sprang forward.
Up, up, up they climbed, until, as Phil remarked, it didn’t seem as
though the top of the world could be very far away. The sun rose and
flooded the snowfields with such dazzling radiance that but for their
protecting goggles our travellers must have been completely blinded
by the glare. The deep gulch whose windings they followed held in
summer-time a roaring torrent; but now it was filled with solidly
packed snow from twenty-five to one hundred feet deep.
As they advanced the gulch grew more and more shallow, until at length
it was merged in a broad, uniform slope so steep and slippery that they
were obliged to cut footholds in the snow, and at frequent intervals
carve out little benches two feet wide. From one of these to another
they dragged the sledges, one at a time, with rawhide ropes. Even the
dogs had to be assisted up the glassy incline, on which they could
gain no hold. So arduous was this labor that three hours were spent in
overcoming the last five hundred feet of the ascent. Thus it was long
past noon when, breathless and exhausted, the party reached the summit,
or rather a slope so gentle that the dogs could once more drag the
sledges.
Here, at an elevation of nearly five thousand feet above the sea,
they paused for breath, for a bite of lunch, and for a last look back
over the way they had come. From this elevation their view embraced
a sweep of over one hundred miles of mountain and plain, river and
forest. It was so far-reaching and boundless that it even seemed as
if they could take in the whole vast Yukon Valley, and locate points
that common-sense told them were a thousand miles beyond their range
of vision. Grand as was the prospect, they did not care to look at
it long. Time was precious; the air, in spite of its sunlight, was
bitterly chill, and, after all, the mighty wilderness now behind them
held too many memories of hardship, suffering, and danger to render it
attractive.
So, “Hurrah for the coast!” cried Phil.
“Hurrah for Sitka!” echoed Serge.
“Hooray for salt water! Now, bullies, up and at ’em!” roared Jalap
Coombs, expressing a sentiment and an order to his sailor-bred dogs in
a breath.
In a few moments more the wonderful view had disappeared, and the
sledges were threading their way amid a chaos of gigantic bowlders and
snow-covered landslides from the peaks that rose on both sides. There
was no sharp descent from the summit, such as they had hoped to find,
but instead a lofty plateau piled thick with obstructions. About them
no green thing was to be seen, no sign of life; only snow, ice, and
precipitous cliffs of bare rock. The all-pervading and absolute silence
was awful. There was no trail that might be followed, for the hardiest
of natives dared not attempt that crossing in the winter. Even if they
had, their trail would have been obliterated almost as soon as made by
the fierce storms of those altitudes. So their only guide was that of
general direction, which they knew to be south, and to this course Phil
endeavored to hold.
That night they made a chill camp in the lee of a great bowlder; that
is, in as much of a lee as could be had, where the icy blast swept in
circles and eddies from all directions at once. They started a fire,
but its feeble flame was so blown hither and thither that by the time a
kettle of snow was melted and the ice was thawed from their stew, their
supply of wood was so depleted that they dared not use more. So they
ate their scanty supper without tea, fed the dogs on frozen porridge,
and, huddling together for warmth during the long hours of bleak
darkness, were thankful enough to welcome the gray dawn that brought
them to an end.
For three days more they toiled over the terrible plateau, driven to
long détours by insurmountable obstacles, buffeted and lashed by fierce
snow-squalls and ice-laden gales, but ever pushing onward with unabated
courage, expecting with each hour to find themselves descending into
the valley of the Chilkat River. Two of the dogs driven by Serge broke
down so completely that they were mercifully shot. The third dog was
added to Jalap Coombs’s team, and the load was divided between the
remaining sledges, while the now useless one was used as firewood.
After that Phil plodded on in advance, and Serge drove the leading team.
The fourth day of this terrible work was one of leaden clouds and
bitter winds. The members of the little party were growing desperate
with cold, exhaustion, and hunger. Their wanderings had not brought
them to a timber-line, and as poor Phil faced the blast with bowed head
and chattering teeth it seemed to him that to be once more thoroughly
warm would be the perfection of human happiness.
It was already growing dusk, and he was anxiously casting about for the
sorry shelter of some bowlder behind which they might shiver away the
hours of darkness, when he came to the verge of a steep declivity. His
heart leaped as he glanced down its precipitous face; for, far below,
he saw a dark mass that he knew must be timber. They could not descend
at that point; but he thought he saw one that appeared more favorable a
little farther on, and hastened in that direction. He was already some
distance ahead of the slow-moving sledges, and meant to wait for them
as soon as he discovered a place from which the descent could be made.
Suddenly a whirling, blinding cloud of snow swept down on him with
such fury that to face it and breathe was impossible. Thinking it but
a squall, he turned his back and stood motionless, waiting for it to
pass over. Instead of so doing, it momentarily increased in violence
and density. A sudden darkness came with the storm, and as he anxiously
started back to meet the sledges he could not see one rod before him.
He began to shout, and in a few minutes had the satisfaction of hearing
an answering cry. Directly afterwards Serge loomed through the driving
cloud, urging on his reluctant dogs with voice and whip. The moment
they were allowed to stop, Musky, Luvtuk, and big Amook lay down as
though completely exhausted.
“We can’t go a step farther, Phil! We must make camp at once,” panted
Serge. “This storm is a regular _poorga_, and will probably last all
night.”
“But where can we camp?” asked Phil, in dismay. “There is timber down
below, but it looks miles away, and we can’t get to it now.”
“No,” replied Serge; “we must stay where we are, and burrow a hole in
this drift big enough to hold us. We’ve got to do it in a hurry, too.”
So saying, Serge drew his knife, for the outside of the drift close
to which they were halted was so hard packed as to render cutting
necessary, and outlined a low opening. From this he removed an unbroken
slab, and then began to dig furiously in the soft snow beyond.
In the meantime Phil was wondering why Jalap Coombs did not appear, for
he had supposed him to be close behind Serge; but now his repeated
shoutings gained no reply.
“He was not more than one hundred feet behind me when the storm began,”
said Serge, whose anxiety caused him to pause in his labor, though it
was for the preservation of their lives.
“He must be in some trouble,” said Phil, “and I am going back to find
him.”
“You can’t go alone!” said Serge. “If you are to get lost I must go
with you.”
“No. One of us must stay here with Nel-te, and it is my duty to go; but
do you shout every few seconds, and I promise not to go beyond sound of
your voice.”
Thus saying, Phil started back, and was instantly swallowed in the
vortex of the blizzard. Faithfully did Serge shout, and faithfully
did Phil answer, for nearly fifteen minutes. Then the latter came
staggering back, with horror-stricken face and voice.
“I can’t find him, Serge! Oh, I can’t find him!” he cried. “I am afraid
he has gone over the precipice. If he has, it is my fault, and I shall
never forgive myself, for I had no business to go so far ahead and let
the party get scattered.”
Serge answered not a word, but fell with desperate energy to the
excavating of his snow-house. His heart was near breaking with the
sorrow that had overtaken them, but he was determined that no other
lives should be lost if his efforts could save them. The excavation was
soon so large that Phil could work with him, but with all their furious
digging they secured a shelter from the pitiless _poorga_ none too
soon. The sledge was already buried from sight, and poor little Nel-te
was wellnigh smothered ere they lifted him from it and pulled him into
the burrow.