THE GOLDSEEKERS' CAMP AT GLENORA
Glenora, like Telegraph Creek, was a village of tents and shacks.
Previous to the opening of the year it had been an old Hudson Bay
trading-post at the head of navigation on the Stikeen River, but
during April and May it had been turned into a swarming camp of
goldseekers on their way to Teslin Lake by way of the much-advertised
"Stikeen Route" to the Yukon.
A couple of months before our arrival nearly five thousand people had
been encamped on the river flat; but one disappointment had followed
another, the government road had been abandoned, the pack trail had
proved a menace, and as a result the camp had thinned away, and when
we of the Long Trail began to drop into town Glenora contained less
than five hundred people, including tradesmen and mechanics.
The journey of those who accompanied me on the Long Trail was by no
means ended. It was indeed only half done. There remained more than
one hundred and seventy miles of pack trail before the head of
navigation on the Yukon could be reached. I turned aside. My partner
went on.
In order to enter the head-waters of the Pelly it was necessary to
traverse four hundred miles of trail, over which a year's provision
for each man must be carried. Food was reported to be "a dollar a
pound" at Teslin Lake and winter was coming on. To set face toward
any of these regions meant the most careful preparation or certain
death.
The weather was cold and bleak, and each night the boys assembled
around the big campfire to discuss the situation. They reported the
country full of people eager to get away. Everybody seemed studying
the problem of what to do and how to do it. Some were for going to
the head-waters of the Pelly, others advocated the Nisutlin, and
others still thought it a good plan to prospect on the head-waters of
the Tooya, from which excellent reports were coming in.
Hour after hour they debated, argued, and agreed. In the midst of it
all Burton remained cool and unhurried. Sitting in our tent, which
flapped and quivered in the sounding southern wind, we discussed the
question of future action. I determined to leave him here with four
of the horses and a thousand pounds of grub with which to enter the
gold country; for my partner was a miner, not a literary man.
It had been my intention to go with him to Teslin Lake, there to
build a boat and float down the river to Dawson; but I was six weeks
behind my schedule, the trail was reported to be bad, and the water
in the Hotalinqua very low, making boating slow and hazardous.
Therefore I concluded to join the stream of goldseekers who were
pushing down toward the coast to go in by way of Skagway.
There was a feeling in the air on the third day after going into camp
which suggested the coming of autumn. Some of the boys began to dread
the desolate north, out of which the snows would soon begin to sweep.
It took courage to set face into that wild land with winter coming
on, and yet many of them were ready to do it. The Manchester boys and
Burton formed a "side-partnership," and faced a year of bacon and
beans without visible sign of dismay.
The ominous cold deepened a little every night. It seemed like
October as the sun went down. Around us on every side the mountain
peaks cut the sky keen as the edge of a sword, and the wind howled up
the river gusty and wild.
A little group of tents sprang up around our own and every day was
full of quiet enjoyment. We were all living very high, with plenty of
berries and an occasional piece of fresh beef. Steel-head salmon were
running and were a drug in the market.
The talk of the Pelly River grew excited as a report came in
detailing a strike, and all sorts of outfits began to sift out along
the trail toward Teslin Lake. The rain ceased at last and the days
grew very pleasant with the wind again in the south, roaring up the
river all day long with great power, reminding me of the equatorial
currents which sweep over Illinois and Wisconsin in September. We had
nothing now to trouble us but the question of moving out into the
gold country.
One by one the other misguided ones of the Long Trail came dropping
into camp to meet the general depression and stagnation. They were
brown, ragged, long-haired, and for the most part silent with dismay.
Some of them celebrated their escape by getting drunk, but mainly
they were too serious-minded to waste time or substance. Some of them
had expended their last dollar on the trail and were forced to sell
their horses for money to take them out of the country. Some of the
partnerships went to pieces for other causes. Long-smouldering
dissensions burst into flame. "The Swedes" divided and so did "The
Dutchman," the more resolute of them keeping on the main trail while
others took the trail to the coast or returned to the States.
Meanwhile, Ladrone and his fellows were rejoicing like ourselves in
fairly abundant food and in continuous rest. The old gray began to
look a little more like his own proud self. As I went out to see him
he came up to me to be curried and nosed about me, begging for salt.
His trust in me made him doubly dear, and I took great joy in
thinking that he, at least, was not doomed to freeze or starve in
this savage country which has no mercy and no hope for horses.
There was great excitement on the first Sunday following our going
into camp, when the whistle of a steamer announced the coming of the
mail. It produced as much movement as an election or a bear fight. We
all ran to the bank to see her struggle with the current, gaining
headway only inch by inch. She was a small stern-wheeler, not unlike
the boats which run on the upper Missouri. We all followed her down
to the Hudson Bay post, like a lot of small boys at a circus, to see
her unload. This was excitement enough for one day, and we returned
to camp feeling that we were once more in touch with civilization.
Among the first of those who met us on our arrival was a German, who
was watching some horses and some supplies in a big tent close by the
river bank. While pitching my tent on that first day he came over to
see me, and after a few words of greeting said quietly, but with
feeling, "I am glad you've come, it was so lonesome here." We were
very busy, but I think we were reasonably kind to him in the days
that followed. He often came over of an evening and stood about the
fire, and although I did not seek to entertain him, I am glad to say
I answered him civilly; Burton was even social.
I recall these things with a certain degree of feeling, because not
less than a week later this poor fellow was discovered by one of our
company swinging from the crosstree of the tent, a ghastly corpse.
There was something inexplicable in the deed. No one could account
for it. He seemed not to be a man of deep feeling. And one of the
last things he uttered in my hearing was a coarse jest which I did
not like and to which I made no reply.
In his pocket the coroner found a letter wherein he had written,
"Bury me right here where I failed, here on the bank of the river."
It contained also a message to his wife and children in the States.
There were tragic splashes of red on the trail, murder, and violent
death by animals and by swift waters. Now here at the end of the
trail was a suicide.
So this is the end of the trail to him--
To swing at the tail of a rope and die;
Making a chapter gray and grim,
Adding a ghost to the midnight sky?
He toiled for days on the icy way,
He slept at night on the wind-swept snow;
Now here he hangs in the morning's gray,
A grisly shape by the river's flow.
It was just two weeks later when I put the bridle and saddle on
Ladrone and rode him down the trail. His heart was light as mine, and
he had gained some part of his firm, proud, leaping walk. He had
confidence in the earth once more. This was the first firm stretch of
road he had trod for many weeks. He was now to take the boat for the
outside world.
There was an element of sadness in the parting between Ladrone and
the train he had led for so many miles. As we saddled up for the last
time he stood waiting. The horses had fared together for ninety days.
They had "lined up" nearly two hundred times, and now for the last
time I called out: "Line up, boys! Line up! Heke! Heke!"
Ladrone swung into the trail. Behind him came "Barney," next "Major,"
then sturdy "Bay Bill," and lastly "Nibbles," the pony. For the last
time they were to follow their swift gray leader, who was going
south to live at ease, while they must begin again the ascent of the
trail.
Ladrone whinnied piteously for his mates as I led him aboard the
steamer, but they did not answer. They were patiently waiting their
master's signal. Never again would they set eyes on the stately gray
leader who was bound to most adventurous things. Never again would
they see the green grass come on the hills.
I had a feeling that I could go on living this way, leading a pack
train across the country indefinitely. It seemed somehow as though
this way of life, this routine, must continue. I had a deep interest
in the four horses, and it was not without a feeling of guilt that I
saw them move away on their last trail. At bottom the end of every
horse is tragic. Death comes sooner or later, but death here in this
country, so cold and bleak and pitiless to all animals, seems somehow
closer, more inevitable, more cruel, and flings over every animal the
shadow of immediate tragedy. There was something approaching crime in
bringing a horse over that trail for a thousand miles only to turn
him loose at the end, or to sell him to some man who would work him
to the point of death, and then shoot him or turn him out to freeze.
As the time came when I must return to the south and to the tame, the
settled, the quiet, I experienced a profound feeling of regret, of
longing for the wild and lonely. I looked up at the shining green and
white mountains and they allured me still, notwithstanding all the
toil and discomfort of the journey just completed. The wind from the
south, damp and cool, the great river gliding with rushing roar to
meet the sea, had a distinct and wonderful charm from which I rent
myself with distinct effort.
THE TOIL OF THE TRAIL
What have I gained by the toil of the trail?
I know and know well.
I have found once again the lore I had lost
In the loud city's hell.
I have broadened my hand to the cinch and the axe,
I have laid my flesh to the rain;
I was hunter and trailer and guide;
I have touched the most primitive wildness again.
I have threaded the wild with the stealth of the deer,
No eagle is freer than I;
No mountain can thwart me, no torrent appall,
I defy the stern sky.
So long as I live these joys will remain,
I have touched the most primitive wildness again.