The trip over "the trail" from Valdez to the Tanana country is one of
the most fascinating in Alaska.
At seven o'clock of a July morning five horses stood at our hotel door.
Two gentlemen of Valdez had volunteered to act as escort to the three
ladies in our party for a trip over the trail.
I examined with suspicion the red-bay horse that had been assigned to
me.
"Is he gentle?" I asked of one of the gentlemen.
"Oh, I don't know. You can't take any one's word about a horse in
Alaska. They call regular buckers 'gentle' up here. The only way to find
out is to try them."
This was encouraging.
"Do you mean to tell me," said one of the other ladies, "that you don't
know whether these horses have ever been ridden by women?"
"No, I do not know."
She sat down on the steps.
"Then there's no trail for me. I don't know how to ride nor to manage a
horse."
After many moments of persuasion, we got her upon a mild-eyed horse,
saddled with a cross-saddle. The other lady and myself had chosen
side-saddles, despite the assurance of almost every man in Valdez that
we could not get over the trail sitting a horse sidewise, without
accident.
"Your skirt'll catch in the brush and pull you off," said one,
cheerfully.
"Your feet'll hit against the rocks in the canyon," said another.
"You can't balance as even on a horse's back, sideways, and if you don't
balance even along the precipice in the canyon, your horse'll go over,"
said a third.
"Your horse is sure to roll over once or twice in the glacier streams,
and you can save yourself if you're riding astride," said a fourth.
"You're certain to get into quicksand somewhere on the trip, and if all
your weight is on one side of your horse, you'll pull him down and he'll
fall on top of you," said a fifth.
In the face of all these cheerful horrors, our escort said:--
"Ride any way you please. If a woman can keep her head, she will pull
through everything in Alaska. Besides, we are not going along for
nothing!"
So we chose side-saddles, that having been our manner of riding since
childhood.
We had waited three weeks for the glacial flood at the eastern side of
the town to subside, and could wait no longer. It was roaring within ten
steps of the back door of our hotel; and in two minutes after mounting,
before our feet were fairly settled in the stirrups, we had ridden down
the sloping bank into the boiling, white waters.
One of the gentlemen rode ahead as guide. I watched his big horse go
down in the flood--down, down; the water rose to its knees, to its
rider's feet, to _his_ knees--
He turned his head and called cheerfully, "Come on!" and we went on--one
at a time, as still as the dead, save for the splashing and snorting of
our horses. I felt the water, icy cold, rising high, higher; it almost
washed my foot from the red-slippered stirrup; then I felt it mounting
higher, my skirts floated out on the flood, and then fell, limp, about
me. My glance kept flying from my horse's head to our guide, and back
again. He was tall, and his horse was tall.
"When it reaches _his_ waist," was my agonized thought, "it will be over
_my_ head!"
The other gentleman rode to my side.
"Keep a firm hold of your bridle," said he, gravely, "and watch your
horse. If he falls--"
"Falls! _In here!_"
"They do sometimes; one must be prepared. If he falls--of course you can
swim?"
"I never swam a stroke in my life; I never even tried!"
"Is it possible?" said he, in astonishment. "Why, we would not have
advised you to come at this time if we had known that. We took it for
granted that you wouldn't think of going unless you could swim."
"Oh," said I, sarcastically, "do all the women in Valdez swim?"
"No," he answered, gravely, "but then, they don't go over the trail.
Well, we can only hope that he will not fall. When he breaks into a
swim--"
"_Swim!_ Will he do that?"
"Oh, yes, he is liable to swim any minute now."
"What will I do then?" I asked, quite humbly; I could hear tears in my
own voice. He must have heard them, too, his voice was so kind as he
answered.
"Sit as quietly and as evenly as possible, and lean slightly forward in
the saddle; then trust to heaven and give him his head."
"Does he give you any warning?"
"Not the faintest--ah-h!"
Well might he say "ah-h!" for my horse was swimming. Well might we all
say "ah-h!" for one wild glance ahead revealed to my glimmering vision
that all our horses were swimming.
I never knew before that horses swam so _low down_ in the water. I
wished when I could see nothing but my horse's ears that I had not been
so stubborn about the saddle.
The water itself was different from any water I had ever seen. It did
not flow like a river; it boiled, seethed, rushed, whirled; it pushed up
into an angry bulk that came down over us like a deluge. I had let go of
my reins and, leaning forward in the saddle, was clinging to my horse's
mane. The rapidly flowing water gave me the impression that we were
being swept down the stream.
The roaring grew louder in my ears; I was so dizzy that I could no
longer distinguish any object; there was just a blur of brown and white
water, rising, falling, about me; the sole thought that remained was
that I was being swept out to sea with my struggling horse.
Suddenly there was a shock which, to my tortured nerves, seemed like a
ship striking on a rock. It was some time before I realized that it had
been caused by my horse striking bottom. He was walking--staggering,
rather, and plunging; his whole neck appeared, then his shoulders; I
released his mane mechanically, as I had acted in all things since
mounting, and gathered up the reins.
"That was a nasty one, wasn't it?" said my escort, joining me. "I stayed
behind to be of service if you required it. We're getting out now, but
there are, at least, ten or fifteen as bad on the trail--if not worse."
As if anything _could_ be worse!
I chanced to lift my eyes then, and I got a clear view of the ladies
ahead of me. Their appearance was of such a nature that I at once looked
myself over--and saw myself as others saw me! It was the first and only
time that I have ever wished myself at home when I have been travelling
in Alaska.
"Cheer up!" called our guide, over his broad shoulder. "The worst is yet
to come."
He spoke more truthfully than even he knew. There was one stream after
another--and each seemed really worse than the one that went before.
From Valdez Glacier the ice, melted by the hot July sun, was pouring out
in a dozen streams that spread over the immense flats between the town
and the mouth of Lowe River. There were miles and miles of it. Scarcely
would we struggle out of one place that had been washed out deep--and
how deep, we never knew until we were into it--when we would be
compelled to plunge into another.
At last, wet and chilled, after several narrow escapes from whirlpools
and quicksand, we reached a level road leading through a cool wood for
several miles. From this, of a sudden, we began to climb. So steep was
the ascent and so narrow the path--no wider than the horse's feet--that
my horse seemed to have a series of movable humps on him, like a camel;
and riding sidewise, I could only lie forward and cling desperately to
his mane, to avoid a shameful descent over his tail.
Actually, there were steps cut in the hard soil for the horses to climb
upon! They pulled themselves up with powerful plunges. On both sides of
this narrow path the grass or "feed," as it is called, grew so tall that
we could not see one another's heads above it, as we rode; yet it had
been growing only six weeks.
Mingling with young alders, fireweed, devil's-club and elderberry--the
latter sprayed out in scarlet--it formed a network across our path,
through which we could only force our way with closed eyes, blind as
Love.
Bad as the ascent was, the sudden descent was worse. The horse's humps
all turned the other way, and we turned with them. It was only by
constant watchfulness that we kept ourselves from sliding over their
heads.
After another ascent, we emerged into the open upon the brow of a cliff.
Below us stretched the valley of the Lowe River. Thousands of feet below
wound and looped the blue reaches of the river, set here and there with
islands of glistening sand or rosy fireweed; while over all trailed the
silver mists of morning. One elderberry island was so set with scarlet
sprays of berries that from our height no foliage could be seen.
After this came a scented, primeval forest, through which we rode in
silence. Its charm was too elusive for speech. Our horses' feet sank
into the moss without sound. There was no underbrush; only dim aisles
and arcades fashioned from the gray trunks of trees. The pale green
foliage floating above us completely shut out the sun. Soft gray,
mottled moss dripped from the limbs and branches of the spruce trees in
delicate, lacy festoons.
Soon after emerging from this dreamlike wood we reached Camp Comfort,
where we paused for lunch.
This is one of the most comfortable road houses in Alaska. It is
situated in a low, green valley; the river winds in front, and snow
mountains float around it. The air is very sweet.
It is only ten miles from Valdez; but those ten miles are equal to fifty
in taxing the endurance.
We found an excellent vegetable garden at Camp Comfort. Pansies and
other flowers were as large and fragrant as I have ever seen, the
coloring of the pansies being unusually rich. They told us that only two
other women had passed over the trail during the summer.
While our lunch was being prepared, we stood about the immense stove in
the immense living room and tried to dry our clothing.
[Illustration: Copyright by E. A. Hegg, Juneau
Courtesy of Webster & Stevens, Seattle
WHITE HORSE RAPIDS IN WINTER]
This room was at least thirty feet square. It had a high ceiling and a
rough board floor. In one corner was a piano, in another a phonograph.
The ceiling was hung with all kinds of trail apparel used by men,
including long boots and heavy stockings, guns and other weapons, and
other articles that added a picturesque, and even startling, touch to
the big room.
In one end was a bench, buckets of water, tin cups hanging on nails,
washbowls, and a little wavy mirror swaying on the wall. The gentlemen
of our party played the phonograph while we removed the dust and mud
which we had gathered on our journey; afterward, _we_ played the
phonograph.
Then we all stood happily about the stove to "dry out," and listened to
our host's stories of the miners who came out from the Tanana country,
laden with gold. As many as seventy men, each bearing a fortune, have
slept at Camp Comfort on a single night. We slept there ourselves, on
our return journey, but our riches were in other things than gold, and
there was no need to guard them. Any man or woman may go to Alaska and
enrich himself or herself forever, as we did, if he or she have the
desire. Not only is there no need to guard our riches, but, on the
contrary, we are glad to give freely to whomsoever would have.
Each man, we were told, had his own way of caring for his gold. One
leaned a gunnysack full of it outside the house, where it stood all
night unguarded, supposed to be a sack of old clothing, from the
carelessness with which it was left there. The owner slept calmly in the
attic, surrounded by men whose gold made their hard pillows.
They told us, too, of the men who came back, dull-eyed and empty-handed,
discouraged and footsore. They slept long and heavily; there was nothing
for them to guard.
Every road house has its "talking-machine," with many of the most
expensive records. No one can appreciate one of these machines until he
goes to Alaska. Its influence is not to be estimated in those far,
lonely places, where other music is not.
In a big store "to Westward" we witnessed a scene that would touch any
heart. The room was filled with people. There were passengers and
officers from the ship, miners, Russian half-breeds, and full-blooded
Aleuts. After several records had filled the room with melody, Calve,
herself, sang "The Old Folks At Home." As that voice of golden velvet
rose and fell, the unconscious workings of the faces about me spelled
out their life tragedies. At last, one big fellow in a blue flannel
shirt started for the door. As he reached it, another man caught his
sleeve and whispered huskily:--
"Where you goin', Bill?"
"Oh, anywheres," he made answer, roughly, to cover his emotion;
"anywheres, so's I can't hear that damn piece,"--and it was not one of
the least of Calve's compliments.
Music in Alaska brings the thought of home; and it is the thought of
home that plays upon the heartstrings of the North. The hunger is always
there,--hidden, repressed, but waiting,--and at the first touch of music
it leaps forth and casts its shadow upon the face. Who knows but that it
is this very heart-hunger that puts the universal human look into
Alaskan eyes?
After a good lunch at Camp Comfort, we resumed our journey. There was
another bit of enchanting forest; then, of a sudden, we were in the
famed Keystone Canyon.
Here, the scenery is enthralling. Solid walls of shaded gray stone rise
straight from the river to a height of from twelve to fifteen hundred
feet. Along one cliff winds the trail, in many places no wider than the
horses' feet. One feels that he must only breathe with the land side of
him, lest the mere weight of his breath on the other side should topple
him over the sheer, dizzy precipice.
It was amusing to see every woman lean toward the rock cliff. Not for
all the gold of the Klondike would I have willingly given one look down
into the gulf, sinking away, almost under my horse's feet. Somewhere in
those purple depths I knew that the river was roaring, white and
swollen, between its narrow stone walls.
Now and then, as we turned a sharp, narrow corner, I could not help
catching a glimpse of it; for a moment, horse and rider, as we turned,
would seem to hang suspended above it with no strip of earth between.
There were times, when we were approaching a curve, that there seemed to
be nothing ahead of us but a chasm that went sinking dizzily away; no
solid place whereon the horse might set his feet. It was like a
nightmare in which one hangs half over a precipice, struggling so hard
to recover himself that his heart almost bursts with the effort.
Then, while I held my breath and blindly trusted to heaven, the curve
would be turned and the path would glimmer once more before my eyes.
But one false step of the horse, one tiniest rock-slide striking his
feet, one unexpected sound to startle him--the mere thought of these
possibilities made my heart stop beating.
We finally reached a place where the descent was almost perpendicular
and the trail painfully narrow. The horses sank to their haunches and
slid down, taking gravel and stones down with them. I had been imploring
to be permitted to walk; but now, being far in advance of all but one, I
did not ask permission. I simply slipped off my horse and left him for
the others to bring with them. The gentleman with me was forced to do
the same.
We paused for a time to rest and to enjoy the most beautiful waterfall I
saw in Alaska--Bridal Veil. It is on the opposite side of the canyon,
and has a slow, musical fall of six hundred feet.
When we went on, the other members of our party had not yet come up with
us, nor had our horses appeared. In the narrowest of all narrow places I
was walking ahead, when, turning a sharp corner, we met a government
pack train, face to face.
The bell-horse stood still and looked at me with big eyes, evidently as
scared at the sight of a woman as an old prospector who has not seen one
for years.
I looked at him with eyes as big as his own. There was only one thing to
do. Behind us was a narrow, V-shaped cave in the stone wall, not more
than four feet high and three deep. Into this we backed, Grecian-bend
wise, and waited.
We waited a very long time. The horse stood still, blowing his breath
loudly from steaming nostrils, and contemplated us. I never knew before
that a horse could express his opinion of a person so plainly. Around
the curve we could hear whips cracking and men swearing; but the horse
stood there and kept his suspicious eyes on me.
"I'll stay here till dark," his eyes said, "but you don't get me past a
thing like _that_!"
I didn't mind his looking, but his snorting seemed like an insult.
At last a man pushed past the horse. When he saw us backed gracefully up
into the Y-shaped cave, he stood as still as the horse. Finding that
neither he nor my escort could think of anything to say to relieve the
mental and physical strain, I called out graciously:--
"How do you do, sir? Would you like to get by?"
"I'd like it damn well, lady," he replied, with what I felt to be his
very politest manner.
"Perhaps," I suggested sweetly, "if I came out and let the horse get a
good look at me--"
"Don't you do it, lady. That 'u'd scare him plumb to death!"
I have always been convinced that he did not mean it exactly as it
sounded, but I caught the flicker of a smile on my escort's face. It was
gone in an instant.
Suddenly the other horses came crowding upon the bell-horse. There was
nothing for him to do but to go past me or to go over the precipice. He
chose me as the least of the two evils.
"Nice pony, nice boy," I wheedled, as he went sliding and snorting past.
Then we waited for the next horse to come by; but he did not come.
Turning my head, I found him fixed in the same place and the same
attitude as the first had been; his eyes were as big and they were set
as steadily on me.
Well--there were fifty horses in that government pack train. Every one
of the fifty balked at sight of a woman. There were horses of every
color--gray, white, black, bay, chestnut, sorrel, and pinto. The sorrel
were the stubbornest of all. To this day, I detest the sight of a sorrel
horse.
We stood there in that position for a time that seemed like hours; we
coaxed each horse as he balked; and at the last were reduced to such
misery that we gave thanks to God that there were only fifty of them and
that they couldn't kick sidewise as they passed.
I forgot about the men. There were seven men; and as each man turned the
bend in the trail, he stood as still as the stillest horse, and for
quite as long a time; and naturally I hesitated to say, "Nice boy, nice
fellow," to help him by.
There were more glacier streams to cross. These were floored with huge
boulders instead of sand and quicksand. The horses stumbled and plunged
powerfully. One misstep here would have meant death; the rapids
immediately below the crossing would have beaten us to pieces upon the
rocks.
Then came more perpendicular climbing; but at last, at five o'clock,
with our bodies aching with fatigue, and our senses finally dulled,
through sheer surfeit, to the beauty of the journey, we reached
"Wortman's" road house.
This is twenty miles from Valdez; and when we were lifted from our
horses we could not stand alone, to say nothing of attempting to walk.
But "Wortman's" is the paradise of road houses. In it, and floating over
it, is an atmosphere of warmth, comfort and good cheer that is a rest
for body and heart. The beds are comfortable and the meals excellent.
But it was the welcome that cheered, the spirit of genuine
kind-heartedness.
The road house stands in a large clearing, with barns and other
buildings surrounding it. I never saw so many dogs as greeted us, except
in Valdez or on the Yukon. They crowded about us, barking and shrieking
a welcome. They were all big malamutes.
After a good dinner we went to bed at eight o'clock. The sun was shining
brightly, but we darkened our rooms as much as possible, and instantly
fell into the sleep of utter exhaustion.
At one o'clock in the morning we were eating breakfast, and half an hour
later we were in our saddles and off for the summit of Thompson Pass to
see the sun rise. This brought out the humps in the horses' backs again.
We went up into the air almost as straight as a telegraph pole. Over
heather, ice, flowers, and snow our horses plunged, unspurred.
It was seven miles to the summit. There were no trees nor shrubs,--only
grass and moss that gave a velvety look to peaks and slopes that seemed
to be floating around us through the silvery mists that were wound over
them like turbans. Here and there a hollow was banked with frozen snow.
When we dismounted on the very summit we could hardly step without
crushing bluebells and geraniums.
We set the flag of our country on the highest point beside the trail,
that every loyal-hearted traveller might salute it and take hope again,
if he chanced to be discouraged. Then we sat under its folds and watched
the mists change from silver to pearl-gray; from pearl-gray to pink,
amethyst, violet, purple,--and back to rose, gold, and flame color.
One peak after another shone out for a moment, only to withdraw.
Suddenly, as if with one leap, the sun came over the mountain line;
vibrated brilliantly, dazzlingly, flashing long rays like signals to
every quickened peak. Then, while we gazed, entranced, other peaks whose
presence we had not suspected were brought to life by those searching
rays; valleys appeared, filled with purple, brooding shadows; whole
slopes blue with bluebells; and, white and hard, the narrow trail that
led on to the pitiless land of gold.
We were above the mountain peaks, above the clouds, level with the sun.
Absolute stillness was about us; there was not one faintest sound of
nature; no plash of water, nor sough of wind, nor call of a bird. It was
so still that it seemed like the beginning of a new world, with the
birth of mountains taking place before our reverent eyes, as one after
another dawned suddenly and goldenly upon our vision.
Every time we had stopped on the trail we had heard harrowing stories of
saddle-horses or pack-horses having missed their footing and gone over
the precipice. The horses are so carefully packed, and the packs so
securely fastened on--the last cinch being thrown into the "diamond
hitch"--that the poor beasts can roll over and over to the bottom of a
canyon without disarranging a pack weighing two hundred pounds--a feat
which they very frequently perform.
The military trail is, of necessity, poor enough; but it is infinitely
superior to all other trails in Alaska, and is a boon to the prospector.
It is a well-defined and well-travelled highway. The trees and bushes
are cut in places for a width of thirty feet, original bridges span the
creeks when it is possible to bridge them at all, and some corduroy has
been laid; but in many places the trail is a mere path, not more than
two feet wide, shovelled or blasted from the hillside.
In Alaska there were practically no roads at all until the appointment
in 1905 of a road commission consisting of Major W. P. Richardson,
Captain G. B. Pillsbury, and Lieutenant L. C. Orchard. Since that year
eight hundred miles of trails, wagon and sled roads, numerous ferries,
and hundreds of bridges have been constructed. The wagon road-beds are
all sixteen feet wide, with free side strips of a hundred feet; the sled
roads are twelve feet wide; the trails, eight; and the bridges,
fourteen. In the interior, laborers on the roads are paid five dollars a
day, with board and lodging; they are given better food than any
laborers in Alaska, with the possible exception of those employed at the
Treadwell mines and on the Cordova Railroad. The average cost of road
work in Alaska is about two thousand dollars a mile; two hundred and
fifty for sled road, and one hundred for trails. These roads have
reduced freight rates one-half and have helped to develop rich regions
that had been inaccessible. Their importance in the development of the
country is second to that of railroads only.
The scenery from Ptarmigan Drop down the Tsina River to Beaver Dam is
magnificent. Huge mountains, saw-toothed and covered with snow, jut
diagonally out across the valley, one after another; streams fall,
riffling, down the sides of the mountains; and the cloud-effects are
especially beautiful.
Tsina River is a narrow, foaming torrent, confined, for the most part,
between sheer hills,--although, in places, it spreads out over low,
gravelly flats. Beaver Dam huddles into a gloomy gulch at the foot of a
vast, overhanging mountain. Its situation is what Whidbey would have
called "gloomily magnificent." In 1905 Beaver Dam was a road house which
many chose to avoid, if possible.
The Tiekel road house on the Kanata River is pleasantly situated, and is
a comfortable place at which to eat and rest.
For its entire length, the military trail climbs and falls and winds
through scenery of inspiring beauty. The trail leading off to the east
at Tonsina, through the Copper River, Nizina, and Chitina valleys, is
even more beautiful.
Vast plains and hillsides of bloom are passed. Some mountainsides are
blue with lupine, others rosy with fireweed; acres upon acres are
covered with violets, bluebells, wild geranium, anemones, spotted
moccasin and other orchids, buttercups, and dozens of others--all large
and vivid of color. It has often been said that the flowers of Alaska
are not fragrant, but this is not true.
The mountains of the vicinity are glorious. Mount Drum is twelve
thousand feet high. Sweeping up splendidly from a level plain, it is
more imposing than Mount Wrangell, which is fourteen thousand feet high,
and Mount Blackburn, which is sixteen thousand feet.
The view from the summit of Sour-Dough Hill is unsurpassed in the
interior of Alaska. Glacial creeks and roaring rivers; wild and
fantastic canyons; moving glaciers; gorges of royal purple gloom; green
valleys and flowery slopes; the domed and towered Castle Mountains; the
lone and majestic peaks pushing up above all others, above the clouds,
cascades spraying down sheer precipices; and far to the south the linked
peaks of the Coast Range piled magnificently upon the sky, dim and
faintly blue in the great distance,--all blend into one grand panorama
of unrivalled inland grandeur.
Crossing the Copper River, when it is high and swift, is
dangerous,--especially for a "chechaco" of either sex. (A chechaco is
one who has not been in Alaska a year.) Packers are often compelled to
unpack their horses, putting all their effects into large whipsawed
boats. The halters are taken off the horses and the latter are driven
into the roaring torrent, followed by the packers in the boats.
The horses apparently make no effort to reach the opposite shore, but
use their strength desperately to hold their own in the swift current,
fighting against it, with their heads turned pitifully up-stream. Their
bodies being turned at a slight angle, the current, pushing violently
against them, forces them slowly, but surely, from sand bar to sand bar,
and, finally, to the shore.
It frequently requires two hours to get men, horses, and outfit from
shore to shore, where they usually arrive dripping wet. Women who make
this trip, it is needless to say, suffer still more from the hardship of
the crossing than do men.
In riding horses across such streams, they should be started diagonally
up-stream toward the first sand bar above. They lean far forward,
bracing themselves at every step against the current and choosing their
footing carefully. The horses of the trail know all the dangers, and
scent them afar--holes, boulders, irresistible currents, and quicksand;
they detect them before the most experienced "trailer" even suspects
them.
I will not venture even to guess what the other two women in my party
did when they crossed dangerous streams; but for myself, I wasted no
strength in trying to turn my horse's head up-stream, or down-stream, or
in any other direction. When we went down into the foaming water, I gave
him his head, clung to his mane, leaned forward in the saddle,--and
prayed like anything. I do not believe in childishly asking the Lord to
help one so long as one can help one's self; but when one is on the back
of a half-swimming, half-floundering horse in the middle of a swollen,
treacherous flood, with holes and quicksand on all sides, one is as
helpless as he was the day he was born; and it is a good time to pray.
According to the report of Major Abercrombie, who probably knows this
part of Alaska more thoroughly than any one else, there are hundreds of
thousands of acres in the Copper River Valley alone where almost all
kinds of vegetables, as well as barley and rye, will grow in abundance
and mature. Considering the travel to the many and fabulously rich mines
already discovered in this valley and adjacent ones, and the cost of
bringing in grain and supplies, it may be easily seen what splendid
opportunities await the small farmer who will select his homestead
judiciously, with a view to the accommodation of man and beast, and the
cultivation of food for both. The opportunities awaiting such a man are
so much more enticing than the inducements of the bleak Dakota prairies
or the wind-swept valleys of the Yellowstone as to be beyond comparison.
Major Abercrombie believes that the valleys of the sub-drainage of the
Copper River Valley will in future years supply the demands for cereals
and vegetables, if not for meats, of the thousands of miners that will
be required to extract the vast deposits of metals from the Tonsina,
Chitina, Kotsina, Nizina, Chesna, Tanana, and other famous districts.
The vast importance to the whole territory of Alaska, and to the United
States, as well, of the building of the Guggenheim railroad from Cordova
into this splendid inland empire may be realized after reading Major
Abercrombie's report.
We have been accustomed to mineralized zones of from ten to twelve miles
in length; in the Wrangell group alone we have a circle eighty miles in
diameter, the mineralization of which is simply marvellous; yet,
valuable though these concentrates are, they are as valueless
commercially as so much sandstone, without the aid of a railroad and
reduction works.
If the group of mines at Butte could deflect a great transcontinental
trunk-line like the Great Northern, what will this mighty zone, which
contains a dozen properties already discovered,--to say nothing of the
unfound, undreamed-of ones,--of far greater value as copper propositions
than the richest of Montana, do to advance the commercial interests of
the Pacific Coast?
The first discovery of gold in the Nizina district was made by Daniel
Kain and Clarence Warner. These two prospectors were urged by a crippled
Indian to accompany him to inspect a vein of copper on the head waters
of a creek that is now known as Dan Creek.
Not being impressed by the copper outlook, the two prospectors returned.
They noticed, however, that the gravel of Dan Creek had a look of placer
gold.
They were out of provisions, and were in haste to reach their supplies,
fifty miles away; but Kain was reluctant to leave the creek unexamined.
He went to a small lake and caught sufficient fish for a few days'
subsistence; then, with a shovel for his only tool, he took out five
ounces of coarse gold in two days.
In this wise was the rich Nizina district discovered. The Nizina River
is only one hundred and sixty miles from Valdez. In Rex Gulch as much
as eight ounces of gold have been taken out by one man in a single day.
The gold is of the finest quality, assaying over eighteen dollars an
ounce.
There is an abundance of timber suitable for building houses and for
firewood on all the creeks. There is water at all seasons for sluicing,
and, if desired, for hydraulic work.