THE END OF THE TRAIL
The day on which I crossed the lake to Taku City was most glorious. A
September haze lay on the mountains, whose high slopes, orange, ruby,
and golden-green, allured with almost irresistible attraction.
Although the clouds were gathering in the east, the sunset was
superb. Taku arm seemed a river of gold sweeping between gates of
purple. As the darkness came on, a long creeping line of fire crept
up a near-by mountain's side, and from time to time, as it reached
some great pine, it flamed to the clouds like a mighty geyser of
red-hot lava. It was splendid but terrible to witness.
The next day was a long, long wait for the steamer. I now had in my
pocket just twelve dollars, but possessed a return ticket on one of
the boats. This ticket was not good on any other boat, and naturally
I felt considerable anxiety for fear it would not turn up. My dinner
consisted of moose steak, potatoes, and bread, and was most
thoroughly enjoyed.
At last the steamer came, but it was not the one on which I had
secured passage, and as it took almost my last dollar to pay for deck
passage thereon, I lived on some small cakes of my own baking, which
I carried in a bag. I was now in a sad predicament unless I should
connect at Lake Bennett with some one who would carry my outfit back
to Skagway on credit. I ate my stale cakes and drank lake water, and
thus fooled the little Jap steward out of two dollars. It was a sad
business, but unavoidable.
The lake being smooth, the trip consumed but thirteen hours, and we
arrived at Bennett Lake late at night. Hoisting my bed and luggage to
my shoulder, I went up on the side-hill like a stray dog, and made my
bed down on the sand beside a cart, near a shack. The wind, cold and
damp, swept over the mountains with a roar. I was afraid the owners
of the cart might discover me there, and order me to seek a bed
elsewhere. Dogs sniffed around me during the night, but on the whole
I slept very well. I could feel the sand blowing over me in the wild
gusts of wind which relented not in all my stay at Bennett City.
I spent literally the last cent I had on a scanty breakfast, and
then, in company with Doctor G. (a fellow prospector), started on my
return to the coast over the far-famed Chilcoot Pass.
At 9 A.M. we took the little ferry for the head of Lindernan Lake.
The doctor paid my fare. The boat, a wabbly craft, was crowded with
returning Klondikers, many of whom were full of importance and talk
of their wealth; while others, sick and worn, with a wistful gleam in
their eyes, seemed eager to get back to civilization and medical
care. There were some women, also, who had made a fortune in
dance-houses and were now bound for New York and Paris, where dresses
could be had in the latest styles and in any quantities.
My travelling mate, the doctor, was a tall and vigorous man from
Winnipeg, accustomed to a plainsman's life, hardy and resolute. He
said, "We ought to make Dyea to-day." I said in reply, "Very well, we
can try."
It was ten o'clock when we left the little boat and hit the trail,
which was thirty miles long, and passed over the summit three
thousand six hundred feet above the sea. The doctor's pace was
tremendous, and we soon left every one else behind.
I carried my big coat and camera, which hindered me not a little. For
the first part of the journey the doctor preceded me, his broad
shoulders keeping off the powerful wind and driving mist, which grew
thicker as we rose among the ragged cliffs beside a roaring stream.
That walk was a grim experience. Until two o'clock we climbed
resolutely along a rough, rocky, and wooded trail, with the heavy
mist driving into our faces. The road led up a rugged canyon and over
a fairly good wagon road until somewhere about twelve o'clock. Then
the foot trail deflected to the left, and climbed sharply over
slippery ledges, along banks of ancient snows in which carcasses of
horses lay embedded, and across many rushing little streams. The way
grew grimmer each step. At last we came to Crater Lake, and from that
point on it was a singular and sinister land of grassless crags
swathed in mist. Nothing could be seen at this point but a desolate,
flat expanse of barren sands over which gray-green streams wandered
in confusion, coming from darkness and vanishing in obscurity.
Strange shapes showed in the gray dusk of the Crater. It was like a
landscape in hell. It seemed to be the end of the earth, where no
life had ever been or could long exist.
Across this flat to its farther wall we took our way, facing the
roaring wind now heavy with clouds of rain. At last we stood in the
mighty notch of the summit, through which the wind rushed as though
hurrying to some far-off, deep-hidden vacuum in the world. The peaks
of the mountains were lost in clouds out of which water fell in
vicious slashes.
The mist set the imagination free. The pinnacles around us were like
those which top the Valley of Desolation. We seemed each moment about
to plunge into ladderless abysses. Nothing ever imagined by Poe or
Dore could be more singular, more sinister, than these summits in
such a light, in such a storm. It might serve as the scene for an
exiled devil. The picture of Beelzebub perched on one of those gray,
dimly seen crags, his form outlined in the mist, would shake the
heart. I thought of "Peer Gynt" wandering in the high home of the
Trolls. Crags beetled beyond crags, and nothing could be heard but
the wild waters roaring in the obscure depths beneath our feet. There
was no sky, no level place, no growing thing, no bird or beast,--only
crates of bones to show where some heartless master had pushed a
faithful horse up these terrible heights to his death.
And here--just here in a world of crags and mist--I heard a shout of
laughter, and then bursting upon my sight, strong-limbed, erect, and
full-bosomed, appeared a girl. Her face was like a rain-wet rose--a
splendid, unexpected flower set in this dim and gray and desolate
place. Fearlessly she fronted me to ask the way, a laugh upon her
lips, her big gray eyes confident of man's chivalry, modest and
sincere. I had been so long among rude men and their coarse consorts
that this fair woman lit the mist as if with sudden sunshine--just a
moment and was gone. There were others with her, but they passed
unnoticed. There in the gloom, like a stately pink rose, I set the
Girl of the Mist.
Sheep Camp was the end of the worst portion of the trail. I had now
crossed both the famed passes, much improved of course. They are no
longer dangerous (a woman in good health can cross them easily), but
they are grim and grievous ways. They reek of cruelty and every
association that is coarse and hard. They possess a peculiar value to
me in that they throw into fadeless splendor the wealth, the calm,
the golden sunlight which lay upon the proud beauty of Atlin Lake.
The last hours of the trip formed a supreme test of endurance. At
Sheep Camp, a wet and desolate shanty town, eight miles from Dyea, we
came upon stages just starting over our road. But as they were all
open carriages, and we were both wet with perspiration and rain, and
hungry and tired, we refused to book passage.
"To ride eight miles in an open wagon would mean a case of pneumonia
to me," I said.
"Quite right," said the doctor, and we pulled out down the road at a
smart clip.
The rain had ceased, but the air was raw and the sky gray, and I was
very tired, and those eight miles stretched out like a rubber string.
Night fell before we had passed over half the road, which lay for the
most part down the flat along the Chilcoot River. In fact, we crossed
this stream again and again. In places there were bridges, but most
of the crossings were fords where it was necessary to wade through
the icy water above our shoe tops. Our legs, numb and weary, threw
off this chill with greater pain each time. As the night fell we
could only see the footpath by the dim shine of its surface patted
smooth by the moccasined feet of the Indian packers. At last I walked
with a sort of mechanical action which was dependent on my
subconscious will. There was nothing else to do but to go through.
The doctor was a better walker than I. His long legs had more reach
as well as greater endurance. Nevertheless he admitted being about as
tired as ever in his life.
At last, when it seemed as though I could not wade any more of those
icy streams and continue to walk, we came in sight of the electric
lights on the wharfs of Dyea, sparkling like jewels against the gray
night. Their radiant promise helped over the last mile miraculously.
We were wet to the knees and covered with mud as we entered upon the
straggling street of the decaying town. We stopped in at the first
restaurant to get something hot to eat, but found ourselves almost
too tired to enjoy even pea soup. But it warmed us up a little, and
keeping on down the street we came at last to a hotel of very
comfortable accommodations. We ordered a fire built to dry our
clothing, and staggered up the stairs.
That ended the goldseekers' trail for me. Henceforward I intended to
ride--nevertheless I was pleased to think I could still walk thirty
miles in eleven hours through a rain storm, and over a summit three
thousand six hundred feet in height. The city had not entirely eaten
the heart out of my body.
We arose from a dreamless sleep, somewhat sore, but in amazingly good
trim considering our condition the night before, and made our way
into our muddy clothing with grim resolution. After breakfast we took
a small steamer which ran to Skagway, where we spent the day
arranging to take the steamer to the south. We felt quite at home in
Skagway now, and Chicago seemed not very far away. Having made
connection with my bankers I stretched out in my twenty-five cent
bunk with the assurance of a gold king.
Here the long trail took a turn. I had been among the miners and
hunters for four months. I had been one of them. I had lived the
essentials of their lives, and had been able to catch from them some
hint of their outlook on life. They were a disappointment to me in
some ways. They seemed like mechanisms. They moved as if drawn by
some great magnet whose centre was Dawson City. They appeared to
drift on and in toward that human maelstrom going irresolutely to
their ruin. They did not seem to me strong men--on the contrary, they
seemed weak men--or men strong with one insane purpose. They set
their faces toward the golden north, and went on and on through every
obstacle like men dreaming, like somnambulists--bending their backs
to the most crushing burdens, their faces distorted with effort. "On
to Dawson!" "To the Klondike!" That was all they knew.
I overtook them in the Fraser River Valley, I found them in Hazleton.
They were setting sail at Bennett, tugging oars on the Hotalinqua,
and hundreds of them were landing every day at Dawson, there to stand
with lax jaws waiting for something to turn up--lost among thousands
of their kind swarming in with the same insane purpose.
Skagway was to me a sad place. On either side rose green mountains
covered with crawling glaciers. Between these stern walls, a cold and
violent wind roared ceaselessly from the sea gates through which the
ships drive hurriedly. All these grim presences depressed me. I
longed for release from them. I waited with impatience the coming of
the steamer which was to rescue me from the merciless beach.
At last it came, and its hoarse boom thrilled the heart of many a
homesick man like myself. We had not much to put aboard, and when I
climbed the gang-plank it was with a feeling of fortunate escape.
A GIRL ON THE TRAIL
A flutter of skirts in the dapple of leaves on the trees,
The sound of a small, happy voice on the breeze,
The print of a slim little foot on the trail,
And the miners rejoice as they hammer with picks in
the vale.
For fairer than gold is the face of a maid,
And sovereign as stars the light of her eyes;
For women alone were the long trenches laid;
For women alone they defy the stern skies.
These toilers are grimy, and hairy, and dun
With the wear of the wind, the scorch of the sun;
But their picks fall slack, their foul tongues are mute--
As the maiden goes by these earthworms salute!