THE GREAT STIKEEN DIVIDE
At about eight o'clock the next morning, as we were about to line up
for our journey, two men came romping down the trail, carrying packs
on their backs and taking long strides. They were "hitting the high
places in the scenery," and seemed to be entirely absorbed in the
work. I hailed them and they turned out to be two young men from
Duluth, Minnesota. They were without hats, very brown, very hairy,
and very much disgusted with the country.
For an hour we discussed the situation. They were the first white men
we had met on the entire journey, almost the only returning
footsteps, and were able to give us a little information of the
trail, but only for a distance of about forty miles; beyond this they
had not ventured.
"We left our outfits back here on a little lake--maybe you saw our
Indian guide--and struck out ahead to see if we could find those
splendid prairies they were telling us about, where the caribou and
the moose were so thick you couldn't miss 'em. We've been forty miles
up the trail. It's all a climb, and the very worst yet. You'll come
finally to a high snowy divide with nothing but mountains on every
side. There _is_ no prairie; it's all a lie, and we're going back to
Hazleton to go around by way of Skagway. Have you any idea where we
are?"
"Why, certainly; we're in British Columbia."
"But where? On what stream?"
"Oh, that is a detail," I replied. "I consider the little camp on
which we are camped one of the head-waters of the Nasse; but we're
not on the Telegraph Trail at all. We're more nearly in line with the
old Dease Lake Trail."
"Why is it, do you suppose, that the road-gang ahead of us haven't
left a single sign, not even a word as to where we are?"
"Maybe they can't write," said my partner.
"Perhaps they don't know where they are at, themselves," said I.
"Well, that's exactly the way it looks to me."
"Are there any outfits ahead of us?"
"Yes, old Bob Borlan's about two days up the slope with his train of
mules, working like a slave to get through. They're all getting short
of grub and losing a good many horses. You'll have to work your way
through with great care, or you'll lose a horse or two in getting
from here to the divide."
"Well, this won't do. So-long, boys," said one of the young fellows,
and they started off with immense vigor, followed by their handsome
dogs, and we lined up once more with stern faces, knowing now that a
terrible trail for at least one hundred miles was before us. There
was no thought of retreat, however. We had set our feet to this
journey, and we determined to go.
After a few hours' travel we came upon the grassy shore of another
little lake, where the bells of several outfits were tinkling
merrily. On the bank of a swift little river setting out of the lake,
a couple of tents stood, and shirts were flapping from the limbs of
near-by willows. The owners were "The Man from Chihuahua," his
partner, the blacksmith, and the two young men from Manchester, New
Hampshire, who had started from Ashcroft as markedly tenderfoot as
any men could be. They had been lambasted and worried into perfect
efficiency as packers and trailers, and were entitled to
respect--even the respect of "The Man from Chihuahua."
They greeted us with jovial outcry.
"Hullo, strangers! Where ye think you're goin'?"
"Goin' crazy," replied Burton.
"You look it," said Bill.
"By God, we was all sure crazy when we started on this damn trail,"
remarked the old man. He was in bad humor on account of his horses,
two of which were suffering from poisoning. When anything touched his
horses, he was "plum irritable."
He came up to me very soberly. "Have you any idee where we're at?"
"Yes--we're on the head-waters of the Nasse."
"Are we on the Telegraph Trail?"
"No; as near as I can make out we're away to the right of the
telegraph crossing."
Thereupon we compared maps. "It's mighty little use to look at
maps--they're all drew by guess--an'--by God, anyway," said the old
fellow, as he ran his grimy forefinger over the red line which
represented the trail. "We've been a slantin' hellwards ever since we
crossed the Skeeny--I figure it we're on the old Dease Lake Trail."
To this we all agreed at last, but our course thereafter was by no
means clear.
"If we took the old Dease Lake Trail we're three hundred miles from
Telegraph Creek yit--an' somebody's goin' to be hungry before we get
in," said the old trailer. "I'd like to camp here for a few days and
feed up my horses, but it ain't safe--we got 'o keep movin'. We've
been on this damn trail long enough, and besides grub is gittin'
lighter all the time."
"What do you think of the trail?" asked Burton.
"I've been on the trail all my life," he replied, "an' I never was in
such a pizen, empty no-count country in my life. Wasn't that big
divide hell? Did ye ever see the beat of that fer a barren? No more
grass than a cellar. Might as well camp in a cistern. I wish I could
lay hands on the feller that called this 'The Prairie Route'--they'd
sure be a dog-fight right here."
The old man expressed the feeling of those of us who were too shy and
delicate of speech to do it justice, and we led him on to most
satisfying blasphemy of the land and the road-gang.
"Yes, there's that road-gang sent out to put this trail into
shape--what have they done? You'd think they couldn't read or
write--not a word to help us out."
Partner and I remained in camp all the afternoon and all the next
day, although our travelling companions packed up and moved out the
next morning. We felt the need of a day's freedom from worry, and our
horses needed feed and sunshine.
Oh, the splendor of the sun, the fresh green grass, the rippling
water of the river, the beautiful lake! And what joy it was to see
our horses feed and sleep. They looked distressingly thin and poor
without their saddles. Ladrone was still weak in the ankle joints and
the arch had gone out of his neck, while faithful Bill, who never
murmured or complained, had a glassy stare in his eyes, the lingering
effects of poisoning. The wind rose in the afternoon, bringing to us
a sound of moaning tree-tops, and somehow it seemed to be an augury
of better things--seemed to prophesy a fairer and dryer country to
the north of us. The singing of the leaves went to my heart with a
hint of home, and I remembered with a start how absolutely windless
the sullen forest of the Skeena had been.
Near by a dam was built across the river, and a fishing trap made out
of willows was set in the current. Piles of caribou hair showed that
the Indians found game in the autumn. We took time to explore some
old fishing huts filled with curious things,--skins, toboggans,
dog-collars, cedar ropes, and many other traps of small value to
anybody. Most curious of all we found some flint-lock muskets made
exactly on the models of one hundred years ago, but dated 1883! It
seemed impossible that guns of such ancient models should be
manufactured up to the present date; but there they were all
carefully marked "London, 1883."
It was a long day of rest and regeneration. We took a bath in the
clear, cold waters of the stream, washed our clothing and hung it up
to dry, beat the mud out of our towels, and so made ready for the
onward march. We should have stayed longer, but the ebbing away of
our grub pile made us apprehensive. To return was impossible.
THE CLOUDS
Circling the mountains the gray clouds go
Heavy with storms as a mother with child,
Seeking release from their burden of snow
With calm slow motion they cross the wild--
Stately and sombre, they catch and cling
To the barren crags of the peaks in the west,
Weary with waiting, and mad for rest.
THE GREAT STIKEEN DIVIDE
A land of mountains based in hills of fir,
Empty, lone, and cold. A land of streams
Whose roaring voices drown the whirr
Of aspen leaves, and fill the heart with dreams
Of dearth and death. The peaks are stern and white
The skies above are grim and gray,
And the rivers cleave their sounding way
Through endless forests dark as night,
Toward the ocean's far-off line of spray.