Coming out of Chilkaht Inlet and passing around Seduction Point into
Chilkoot Inlet, Katschin River is seen flowing in from the northeast.
The mouth of this river, like that of the Chilkaht, spreads into
extensive flats, making the channel very narrow at this point.
Across the canal lies Haines Mission, where, in 1883, Lieutenant
Schwatka left his wife to the care of Doctor and Mrs. Willard, while he
was absent on his exploring expedition down the Yukon.
The Willards were in charge of this mission, which was maintained by the
Presbyterian Board of Missions, until some trouble arose with the
Indians over the death of a child, to whom the Willards had administered
medicines.
"Crossing the Mission trail," writes Lieutenant Schwatka, "we often
traversed lanes in the grass, which here was fully five feet high,
while, in whatever direction the eye might look, wild flowers were
growing in the greatest profusion. Dandelions as big as asters,
buttercups twice the usual size, and violets rivalling the products of
cultivation in lower latitudes were visible around. It produced a
singular and striking contrast to raise the eyes from this almost
tropical luxuriance, and allow them to rest on Alpine hills, covered
halfway down their shaggy sides with the snow and glacier ice, and with
cold mist condensed on their crowns.... Berries and berry blossoms grew
in a profusion and variety which I have never seen equalled within the
same limits in lower latitudes."
This was early in June. Here the lieutenant first made the acquaintance
of the Alaska mosquito and gnat, neither of which is to be ignored, and
may be propitiated by good red blood only; also, the giant devil's-club,
which he calls devil's-sticks. He was informed that this nettle was
formerly used by the shamans, or medicine-men, as a prophylactic against
witchcraft, applied externally.
The point of this story will be appreciated by all who have come in
personal contact with this plant, so tropical in appearance when its
immense green leaves are spread out flat and motionless in the dusk of
the forest.
From Chilkoot Inlet the steamer glides into Taiya Inlet, which leads to
Skaguay. Off this inlet are many glaciers, the finest of which is
Ferebee.
Chilkoot Inlet continues to the northwestward. Chilkoot River flows from
a lake of the same name into the inlet. There are an Indian village and
large canneries on the inlet.
Taiya Inlet leads to Skaguay and Dyea. It is a narrow water-way between
high mountains which are covered nearly to their crests with a heavy
growth of cedar and spruce. They are crowned, even in summer, with snow,
which flows down their fissures and canyons in small but beautiful
glaciers, while countless cascades foam, sparkling, down to the sea, or
drop sheer from such great heights that the beholder is bewildered by
their slow, never ceasing fall.
Here,--at the mouth of the Skaguay River, with mountains rising on all
sides and the green waters of the inlet pushing restlessly in front;
with its pretty cottages climbing over the foot-hills, and with
well-worn, flower-strewn paths enticing to the heights; with the
Skaguay's waters winding over the grassy flats like blue ribbons; with
flower gardens beyond description and boxes in every window scarlet with
bloom; with cascades making liquid and most sweet music by day and
irresistible lullabies by night, and with snow peaks seeming to float
directly over the town in the upper pearl-pink atmosphere--is Skaguay,
the romantic, the marvellous, the town which grew from a dozen tents to
a city of fifteen thousand people almost in a night, in the golden year
of ninety-eight.
* * * * *
I could not sleep in Skaguay for the very sweetness of the July night. A
cool lavender twilight lingered until eleven o'clock, and then the large
moon came over the mountains, first outlining their dark crests with
fire; then throbbing slowly on from peak to peak--bringing irresistibly
to mind the lines:--
"Like a great dove with silver wings
Stretched, quivering o'er the sea,
The moon her glistening plumage brings
And hovers silently."
The air was sweet to enchantment with flowers; and all night long
through my wide-open window came the far, dreamy, continuous music of
the waterfalls.
On all the Pacific Coast there is not a more interesting, or a more
profitable, place in which to make one's headquarters for the summer,
than Skaguay. More side trips may be made, with less expenditure of time
and money, from this point than from any other. Launches may be hired
for expeditions down Lynn Canal and up the inlets,--whose unexploited
splendors may only be seen in this way; to the Mendenhall, Davidson,
Denver, Bertha, and countless smaller glaciers; to Haines, Fort Seward,
Pyramid Harbor, and Seduction Point; while by canoe, horse, or his own
good legs, one may get to the top of Mount Dewey and to Dewey Lake; up
Face Mountain; to Dyea; and many hunting grounds where mountain sheep,
bear, goat, ptarmigan, and grouse are plentiful.
The famous White Pass railway--which was built in eighteen months by the
"Three H's," Heney, Hawkins, and Hislop, and which is one of the most
wonderful engineering feats of the world--may be taken for a trip which
is, in itself, worth going a thousand miles to enjoy. Every mile of the
way is historic ground--not only to those who toiled over it in
'ninety-seven and 'ninety-eight, bent almost to the ground beneath their
burdens, but to the whole world, as well. The old Brackett wagon road;
White Pass City; the "summit"; Bennett Lake; Lake Lindeman; White Horse
Rapids; Grand Canyon; Porcupine Ridge--to whom do these names not stand
for tragedy and horror and broken hearts?
The town of Skaguay itself is more historic than any other point. Here
the steamers lightered or floated ashore men, horses, and freight. "You
pay your money and you take your chance," the paraphrase went in those
days. Many a man saw every dollar he had in provisions--and often it was
a grubstake, at that--sink to the bottom of the canal before his eyes.
Others saw their outfits soaked to ruin with salt water. For those who
landed safely, there were horrors yet to come.
And here, between these mountains, in this wind-racked canyon, the town
of Skaguay grew; from one tent to hundreds in a day, from hundreds to
thousands in a week; from tents to shacks, from shacks to stores and
saloons. Here "Soapy" Smith and his gang of outlaws and murderers
operated along the trail; here he was killed; here is his dishonored
grave, between the mountains which will not endure longer than the tale
of his desperate crimes, and his desperate expiation.
Not the handsome style of man that one would expect of such a bold and
daring robber was "Soapy." No flashing black eyes, heavy black hair, and
long black mustache made him "a living flame among women," as Rex Beach
would put it. Small, spare, insignificant in appearance, it has been
said that he looked more like an ill-paid frontier minister than the
head of a lawless and desperate gang of thieves.
His "spotters" were scattered along the trail all the way to Dawson.
They knew what men were "going in," what ones "coming out," "heeled."
Such men were always robbed; if not on the road, then after reaching
Skaguay; when they could not safely, or easily, be robbed alive, they
were robbed dead. It made no difference to "Soapy" or his gang of men
and women. It was a reign of terror in that new, unknown, and lawless
land.
There is nothing in Skaguay to-day--unless it be the sinking grave of
"Soapy" Smith, which is not found by every one--to suggest the days of
the gold rush, to the transient visitor. It is a quiet town, where law
and order prevail. It is built chiefly on level ground, with a few very
long streets--running out into the alders, balms, spruces, and
cottonwoods, growing thickly over the river's flats.
In all towns in Alaska the stores are open for business on Sunday when a
steamer is in. If the door of a curio-store, which has tempting baskets
or Chilkaht blankets displayed in the window, be found locked, a dozen
small boys shout as one, "Just wait a minute, lady. Propri'tor's on the
way now. He just stepped out for breakfast. Wait a minute, lady."
We arrived at Skaguay early on a Sunday morning, and were directed to
the "'bus" of the leading hotel. We rode at least a mile before reaching
it. We found it to be a wooden structure, four or five stories in
height; the large office was used as a kind of general living-room as
well. The rooms were comfortable and the table excellent. The
proprietress grows her own vegetables and flowers, and keeps cows,
chickens, and sheep, to enrich her table.
About ten o'clock in the forenoon we went to the station to have our
trunks checked to Dawson. The doors stood open. We entered and passed
from room to room. There was no one in sight. The square ticket window
was closed.
We hammered upon it and upon every closed door. There was no response.
We looked up the stairway, but it had a personal air. There are
stairways which seem to draw their steps around them, as a duchess does
her furs, and to give one a look which says, "Do not take liberties with
me!"--while others seem to be crying, "Come up; come up!" to every
passer-by. I have never seen a stairway that had the duchess air to the
degree that the one in the station at Skaguay has it. If any one doubts,
let him saunter around that station until he finds the stairway and then
take a good look at it.
We went outside, and I, being the questioner of the party, asked a man
if the ticket office would be open that day.
He squared around, put his hands in his pockets, bent his wizened body
backward, and gave a laugh that echoed down the street.
"God bless your soul, lady," said he, "_on Sunday!_ Only an extry goes
out on Sundays, to take round-trip tourists to the summit and back while
the steamer waits. To-day's extry has gone."
"Yes," said I, mildly but firmly, "but we are going to Dawson to-morrow.
Our train leaves at nine o'clock, and there will be so many to get
tickets signed and baggage checked--"
He gave another laugh.
"Don't you worry, lady. Take life easy, the way we do here. If we miss
one train, we take the next--unless we miss it, too!" He laughed again.
At that moment, bowing and smiling in the window of the ticket office,
appeared a man--the nicest man!
"Will you see him bow!" gasped my friend. "Is he bowing at _us_?
Why--are you _bowing back_?"
"Of course I am."
"What on earth does he want?"
"He wants to be nice to us," I replied; and she followed me inside.
The nice face was smiling through the little square window.
"I was upstairs," he said--ah, he had descended by way of the "Duchess,"
"and I heard you rapping on windows and doors"--the smile deepened, "so
I came down to see if I could serve you."
We related our woes; we got our tickets signed and our baggage checked;
had all our questions answered--and they were not few--and the following
morning ate our breakfast at our leisure and were greatly edified by our
fellow-travellers' wild scramble to get their bills paid and to reach
the station in time to have their baggage checked.
[Illustration: Photo by P. S. Hunt
VALDEZ]