Produced by Al Haines
[Illustration: Cover art]
[Frontispiece: ALONE IN THE VAST SOLITUDE.]
A CLAIM ON KLONDIKE
A Romance
OF
THE ARCTIC EL DORADO
BY
EDWARD ROPER, F.R.G.S.
AUTHOR OF
'BY TRACK AND TRAIL THROUGH CANADA,' ETC., ETC.
_WITH ILLUSTRATIONS_
WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS
EDINBURGH AND LONDON
MDCCCXCIX
_All Rights reserved_
ILLUSTRATIONS.
ALONE IN THE VAST SOLITUDE . . . . . . _Frontispiece_
SHOOTING MYLES CANYON
LAKE LA BARGE
FIVE FINGERS RAPIDS
ON THE YUKON AT THE MOUTH OF THE KLONDYKE RIVER
OUR DUG-OUT, OUR TUNNEL, AND OUR SLUICE
"WHEN SHE APPEARED AGAIN I WAS GREATLY EMBARRASSED"
MAY AND I IN THE DUG-OUT
"IT WAS A MELANCHOLY UNDERTAKING"
"WELCOME, FRIENDS."
A CLAIM ON KLONDYKE
PREAMBLE.
Somewhere near midnight in January 1897, a man--important to this
little history--stood on an expanse of glittering snow, amidst low
forest-covered hills and rugged mountains which were draped in the same
white garb. He was looking eagerly towards the north-west, and was
listening intently.
This man was muffled to the eyes in furs, he wore a rough bearskin
coat, and his head was enveloped in a huge capote. He wore snow-shoes,
and a gun lay across his arm.
A grand long-haired dog was by his side; he was listening, seemingly as
intently as his master.
The moon was shining full, the deep purple sky was sown thick with
brilliant stars,--one could have read small print easily, it was so
light.
Not a breath of air was stirring.
The intensity of the cold was indescribable: if there had been the
slightest wind, this man could not have stood thus, in this open space,
and lived.
He was a large man really, but the immensity of his surroundings, the
vast field of dazzling snow on which he stood, made him appear to be a
pigmy, whilst his loneliness and solitude gave a note of unutterable
melancholy to the scene.
Several minutes passed, neither dog nor man moving from this attitude
of strained attention. All nature was absolutely motionless; no branch
stirred in the near forest, nor was one flake of snow wafted by the
softest zephyr--yet there was no silence. The far-off woods resounded
with frequent sharp reports, as if firearms were being discharged
there, the nearer rocks and trees from time to time gave forth
detonations like fusilades of musketry, and beneath his feet--he stood
on a broad space of water, turned to ice of unknown depth, cushioned
deep with snow--were groanings, grindings, cracklings, and explosions.
It was the terrible arctic cold that caused this tumult. One could
almost fancy that these two figures, silhouetted black against the
dazzling white, were frozen solid too.
At length the man moved, and, patting his companion's head with his
gauntleted hand, spoke, "No, good dog," he sighed, "it's another
hallucination." And the dog looked up at him, and whimpered, then
turned his gaze again in the direction it had been before, with
eagerness.
It was impossible to guess from this man's appearance what he was like:
he was so enveloped in wrappers only his eyes were visible; but his
voice proclaimed him to be gently bred--it had the accent of a
cultivated Englishman.
"No good," he went on muttering. "Let us get back, old Patch, my sole
companion in this awful wilderness; it was not a shot we heard, only
the frost that made that clamour," and he made as if to move away.
But the dog evidently was not satisfied. He sat down, kept his nose
pointed in the one direction, and whimpered again and again. The man
stood still and listened.
"Strange, strange," he spoke aloud, "that Patch is so persistent;
perhaps it will be well to go on a bit more. There's nothing to
prevent it--no one waiting for us. I suppose it is about midnight by
the moon; but night or day, it's pretty much the same up here. Yes;
we'll go on along this frozen creek: one cannot well miss the way back."
He was silent for a few moments, then resumed, "I'm talking aloud to
myself again! or is it to the dog? This isolation, this loneliness, is
terrible; but, come, my lad, come on!" and he started.
Patch, seeing his master move, began to wag his bushy tail, and dance
with delight; he flew ahead, barking and capering, but every now and
then stopped suddenly, pricked up his sharp ears, and listened as his
master did.
They must have pushed on a mile or more from where we first encountered
them. The expanse of level snow had widened greatly. There were no
trees near, the sound of the frost in rock and timber was distant and
subdued, and they stood side by side again attentive.
Suddenly, away off in the ranges to their right, two reports were
audible--unmistakably they were shots fired from a gun--and then
immediately six sharp cracks resounded; it was the discharge of a
revolver!
At the first noise, again the man's mittened hand sought the dog's
collar to restrain him, for he was intensely excited. The moment the
sixth revolver shot had sounded, he removed his hand, and shouted,
"Forward, good dog; go sic 'em!" and the two rushed off in the
direction of the sounds.
Another mile they covered rapidly, the dog running ahead and barking;
then returning, looking eagerly and joyfully into his master's face,
then hurrying on again.
But soon calling Patch to him, he held him and waited, hoping to hear
more signs of human presence in that awful region. He was not
disappointed.
Again two rapid gun shots were fired, and six revolver shots, and they
were nearer than they had been before.
"Patch," said the man then, "we'll try what this will do," and lifting
up his gun, he pulled one trigger, and a few seconds after the other.
Then taking a revolver from his belt, he fired six cartridges slowly in
the air.
What would come of this? would there be any response? He had not long
to wonder. The signal was repeated, and he knew that there were
fellow-creatures in those mountains. White, black, or red, he did not
care then. The feeling that he was not alone in that white world, that
terribly hard, frozen world, was enough for him.
He and the dog hurried on, ascended the low bare hill upon their right,
and when after a vigorous climb they reached the summit, he fired
again, as he had done before. Patch barked loudly, joyfully, and there
came into his master's mind the certainty that he was on the point of
some discovery, some adventure to break the monotony of his life.
The response was immediate. Down in the valley at his feet, but at
some distance, what appeared to be a door was opened suddenly,
revealing a light within, and in the illuminated space a figure stood,
who, lifting up a gun, fired again. Next this figure ran out of the
building brandishing a blazing pine-knot, and across the wide valley he
distinctly heard the cry of a fellow-being, and, still more wonderful,
more amazing, it sounded to be the voice of a woman in distress.
"Go to her, Patch!" he cried. The good dog obeyed, whilst he followed
as rapidly as he could. It was rough ground, all rocks and fallen
trees: he was exhausted ere he had traversed half the distance.
Halting a moment to recover breath, he had a view against the bright
light of the doorway of Patch crouched at the feet of the person there,
who was stooping to caress him.
A few hundred yards more and he halted again for breath, and then he
heard a long-drawn cry of agony. "Help, oh! help! whoever you are!
Indian or white man, come, come and help!" And our friend called
loudly across the waste: "I'm an Englishman! Trust me. I'm making my
way to you with all the haste I can!" and over the snow-clad expanse
resounded the response, "Thank God! thank God!"
CHAPTER I.
During the winter of 1895-96, I was staying at Bella Rocca, a
boarding-house in Victoria, Vancouver Island, British Columbia. I had
come to that charming city, on that beautiful island, to discover, if
possible, an opening for the investment of my modest capital in a
manner which would give me a more congenial way of making a livelihood
than I had found in Eastern Canada, where I had resided for some few
years.
When I first arrived in the Dominion, I settled in the backwoods of
Ontario. Later, I had passed some years on the prairies, and later
still, I had spent some time in the Rocky Mountains, the Selkirks, and
on the Fraser river.
I had led a life of toil, I was well up in bush work and ways, but I
did not like the life; so, having saved a little money, and having
heard so much of the Pacific coast, I came to Victoria, as I have said.
At Bella Rocca a man was staying with whom I became very friendly: he
was an Englishman, about my age, and had many tastes congenial to me.
He was idle, appeared to have plenty of money, and seemingly had no
wish to do any work or business.
He was my frequent companion in my walks around Victoria: there being
few idle people there, and I having much time unoccupied, this
friendship was mutually agreeable.
I was puzzled for a while about him. He was very reticent about
himself--I could not even tell if he had been long in Canada, although
occasionally a few words fell from him which made me believe he knew it
well.
It was towards March; I had found nothing to suit me; I had often told
this friend what I was looking for, and had been quite open about my
past, my present desires, and my experience in the country, when one
day, as he and I were sitting on Beacon Hill, enjoying the soft spring
weather, gazing with delight at the glorious Olympic range across the
Straits of San Juan de Fuca, "Ah!" said my companion--his name was
Percy Meade--"ah! it's not long now before I'll be outside there," and
he pointed north to Cape Flattery and the Pacific Ocean.
"You are going across, then--to China or Australia?" I asked.
"Neither," replied he, with a smile; "I am going north by the first
ship that sails."
"North!" I remarked. I was not greatly interested. "Well, I've never
had the wish to go up the coast. What is to be done up there?"
He did not reply at once; but after a bit said he, "I wonder you have
never tried gold-mining in this country; don't you think it's worth
considering?"
I replied that I had heard so much about it in the mountains, and had
read about the old days on the Fraser and the Cariboo, that I believed
it to be a poor business, and supposed that every ounce of gold found
cost two in labour and expense, and said many things that most men do
who have not taken the gold-fever.
Meade said little more that day, but shortly after he asked me what I
would do if I were told of a spot, by some one I could trust, where
gold existed in large quantities, where any one who had the courage to
go could pick it up, or at any rate obtain it, with comparatively
little labour.
I replied that, no doubt, if such a chance were offered me I should
accept it,--that I was as keen to make a pile as any one. "Only," I
added, laughing, "I doubt if there are such places left, and still more
that if any person knew of one he would tell me."
Meade was silent for some time, then, "Look here," he said, very
seriously, "we've been together a few months; I can see the sort of
fellow you are; you know what rough life is, I'm sure you can stand it
better than most; so now, listen--I know of such a place, and I'll tell
you about it on condition, naturally, that you'll keep it to yourself."
I smiled. "How do you know?" I asked, "and why do you tell me?"
To this he answered slowly and earnestly, "I was up north all last
season--on the Yukon. I found a place on our side that is full of
gold; you would hardly believe it if you saw it, but it is so. It is
on a creek up a river that joins the Yukon in British territory, about
seventy-five miles from the boundary, not far from the ruins of Fort
Reliance.
"I went from Seattle last spring up the coast round the Alaskan
peninsula, into Behring Sea, and so to Fort St Michael, where I landed.
Then I proceeded up the Yukon in a stern-wheel steamer to a place they
call Fort Cudahy, or the Forty Mile, in British territory. It was a
terribly long journey--four thousand three hundred and fifty miles from
here. It took eight weeks, and cost a big sum. There was a little
mining going on up the river, but different from any I had seen, and I
have been to Australia. I did not like the look of it. The diggers
were scattered about, getting what they called flour-gold, and not so
very much of that.
"The season during which washing can be done is very short--four months
at most; but then it is broad daylight always, no night at all; men
work ceaselessly--ay, and women too.
"I tried a little here and there, I 'prospected' about, and in time I
got up the big river some long way indeed, until I came to a collection
of shacks and shanties, with a store or two, that they call Dawson
City. I was short of everything then but money, of which I still had a
moderate supply; so I obtained some stores and a decent outfit, and
after a few days of misery in the wretched place, I loaded all into a
canoe which I bought, and pushed on, quite alone, up a river which
joined the Yukon there. It was the THRON-DUICK--the Klondyke as it is
called now. Paddling slowly up this stream, I landed frequently,
seldom finding gold, and I always tried the soil as I went along.
Occasionally I found the colour, once or twice enough to pay, I
fancied, with good machinery. There was a fascination about this life.
I believed that any moment some pan of gravel that I washed might be
rich and give me all I wanted--a golden claim.
"I kept on thus until I must have been at least forty miles up this
river. I passed several branches, for to me the main stream looked
most promising, until I came to one, much narrower: it joined in with a
rush and roar, and I liked the look of it. I landed, walked up it, and
liked it so that I determined to ascend it if possible. I could not
get my laden canoe up the steep water--I must therefore 'portage.' I
set to work; I carried my stuff past the rapid. It was a tough job
getting my canoe up, but by good luck I did. Then I went on again,
trying here and there as usual.
"When I was too tired to keep on, I put up my little tent ashore and
slept. When rested, on I went again.
"I had quite lost reckoning; I had no idea of the day of the week or
month, but the sun indicated that the summer was going. It would not
do to be caught up there as unprovided as I was. I thought I had come
far enough, so, reluctantly, I made up my mind that I would after
another day or two retrace my steps.
"That very day I found what I had looked for. I hit upon a bar on this
creek, where gold was so thick that I was bewildered.
"I suppose you know how gold is washed? Well, I had no need to wash--I
picked out of that heap of gravel in three days over seventy-five
pounds' weight of it!"
"Seventy-five pounds of gold! Why, that was worth L3000!" I cried.
"Yes, quite that," said Meade; "but I got L2500 for it here, and have a
decent little bag of nuggets still unsold. I'll show them to you at
the bank some day if you like."
I smiled. I'm afraid I did not altogether believe him. I had an idea
that he was romancing. "How did you get down and bring all that gold
with you?" I asked, half laughing.
"It's too long a yarn to tell now," he replied. "I got back all right
to Dawson in my canoe, sold it, and managed to keep my find secret. I
fortunately procured a passage in the stern-wheeler, P. B. Weare, the
last boat for St Michael's that season. From there I easily got here,
and no one knew that I had struck gold--no one does know it yet but the
manager of the bank, and now you."
It was a most interesting story, certainly; I was glad to have heard
it, but there was "no such luck for me," I observed, at which Meade
laughed, but added, "See here, I've told you this because I want you to
share with me this season! What d'ye say?"
"What?" I exclaimed, "and get gold like that? Oh! of course I'll go;
but are you in earnest? why should you favour me thus?"
He declared solemnly that he meant it; he averred that he had taken to
me, that he knew I was strong, healthy, a good fellow, and used to
working in rough country, and as he was determined to go, and certainly
would not do so again alone, he had made me his confidant and this
offer in perfect good faith, and he ended thus, "Think it over, take
time, keep what I've told you to yourself, but I hope you'll join me."
Later, he explained that we must leave Victoria soon, that we should
come back at the end of September, and that he would be miserably
surprised if we did not return with reasonable piles. "But we will not
go the way I went," said he. "No, I met some men at Dawson who had
come by a much shorter route--by the Lynn Canal and Skagway. We save
thus nearly 3000 miles, and the trail is quite feasible. You've done
some boating, some canoeing, I suppose?"
I said I had, both in England and Canada, which pleased him, and he
assured me that we should do splendidly, and again he said he hoped I'd
join him.
Naturally, I did think this over. I heard about his antecedents from
the bank manager, found he was a member of a good old English family,
and that he himself was of good repute. I heard from the same source
that it was true about the gold he had brought down, I saw his bag of
nuggets, and I liked him. I was looking for some employment, I counted
the cost, and knowing that if, at the worst, I returned empty-handed, I
should not even then be quite without funds, I consented to share with
him in the adventure. He was to defray all expenses.
It was early in April that he and I started in a steamer bound for
Sitka and other ports in Alaska. She came from Tacoma, in the State of
Washington, and picked us up at Victoria on her way to the north.
Meade having all plans cut and dried, it did not take us long to lay in
our stock of necessaries. We purchased provisions, tinned meats and
vegetables, flour and bacon, with plenty of various preserved foods,
enough to keep us going well for at least a year. We took ample supply
of tobacco, with guns, ammunition, a sheet-iron Yukon stove, picks,
shovels, washpans, and we did not forget our axes. All these goods
were done up in parcels covered with waterproof canvas, each in weight
suitable for "packing," that is for Indians to carry.
Leaving Victoria, we travelled up between Vancouver Island and the
mainland to Naniamo. Here we took in coal, then headed up the coast.
How am I to describe to you this wonderful journey? Words fail me.
From the very start it was delightful. True, we were at sea; but being
amongst islands, we were so sheltered that it was like a placid river.
We traversed the grandest scenery that can be imagined, the water clear
and smooth as glass, with air as soft as velvet. We sighted Queen
Charlotte's Islands, but voyaged through channels nearer the mainland,
between grand timbered islets, past rocky bluffs and gorges, always in
sight of mountains, many being snow-covered and glaciered. Then on
between Prince of Wales' Island and the mainland, and so to Fort
Wrangel, where we left the goodly steamer. We had come seven hundred
miles in her, and had been four days on the way.
Wrangel was just a rough group of shanties, with some stores and many
totem-poles, as most of the few inhabitants were Indians of the
Stickeen tribe. The whites were traders, or miners and prospectors, en
route to the Yukon country. Here we hired a canoe to carry us to
Juneau. It was an immense one, beautifully fashioned out of one huge
log of cedar--a dug-out--but in shape and seaworthiness most excellent.
We engaged four Indians to man it. Most of the trip was made with
paddles; but sometimes a square sail was hoisted on a pole forward. We
camped each night upon the rocky shores.
It took three days to reach that town. It is the metropolis of Alaska,
Sitka being the capital. But most of the business is done in Juneau.
It is, naturally, a rough and ramshackle place, yet we found it
possible to obtain fair accommodation at a queer hotel, and every
article of provisions and gear needed in the upper country. It has a
city hall and court-house, waterworks, banks, and electric light and
wharves! We had to wait two days for one of the two small steamers
which ply between Juneau and Skagway. The Rustler is the one we took,
the fare then being only 10 dollars each--but we had to feed ourselves.
After leaving Juneau we steamed along a narrow strait between Douglas
Island and the coast, and entered the famed Lynn Canal, which is an arm
of the sea running almost due north. It averages ten miles in width,
and is about one hundred in length, having very regular shores,
straight and uniform; but for its dimensions, it might be taken indeed
for an artificially made canal. On our left we skirted the great
Davidson Glacier. The whole journey was grand, sublime, and in many
places awful.
We arrived in Skagway Inlet on the second day. A few miles from the
head of it we came to the Skagway river or creek, 120 miles from
Juneau, and here, amongst a wilderness of trees, mountains, and mud
flats, a mere foothold in the snow-clad granite coast-range, were a
handful of Indian rancheries and a few log shanties and some tents.
There is a great rise and fall in the tides at Skagway. We had to wait
some time ere the one boat belonging to the Rustler could land us and
our stuff on the rock-strewn muddy beach. No one from the shore lent a
hand. There was a rough wharf, it is true, in course of construction.
The men building it, we understood, had gone to their camp, for it was
late when we arrived.
A number of Indians were about: their sole employment seemed to be to
sit on stumps and logs, smoke and chew tobacco, and gaze stolidly at
us. They were dressed just like the white men.
As for the few white men, they gathered round us, eyed us and our
outfit, but said nothing. A more miserable, unhappy, low-spirited set
of men I had never before come across.
Well, we were landed at Skagway, and questioned the inhabitants. It
was not easy to obtain information. "Where is the trail to the White
Pass? How could we get to it? What means of transport were there?"
Those were the questions we made it plain that we desired to have
answered.
One would have supposed that these people could have enlightened us;
but no--their advice and information was so vague that we might have
taken them for new arrivals, like ourselves. But that they were old
hands was plain, for they argued amongst themselves, entered into long
yarns about what this and that man had experienced, what Slim Jim
thought, and Blear-eyed Scottie said--we could make nothing of them.
Some advised us to go by canoe, which was chaff; and others declared
that was ridiculous--by the trail was the only way. "What trail?
Which is it?" we begged to be informed. "Oh! just up the river a
piece," was all we could arrive at.
No doubt these men, regarding us as "tenderfeet," took pleasure, as
usual, in mystifying us; and it was our policy not to undeceive them.
I was the usual spokesman.
It must be quite clearly understood that the rush to the Klondyke had
not begun then. It was known, undoubtedly, that there was much gold up
country, and every white man there was after it, so that if it had been
guessed that Meade had been up already, the fact of his returning with
the ample outfit we possessed would have convinced them that he had
been successful, and we should have been followed and our secret
discovered.
It was ten o'clock at night then, but not really dark. We were
perplexed. These loafers gradually dispersed, and only one man hung
behind, who had been silent hitherto. When we were alone with him he
became communicative. We knew, directly he spoke, that he was an
Englishman of a better sort, and he recognised what we were.
Said he, "Let me advise you: get all your stuff piled up yonder; put up
your tent and turn in; in the morning you'll find all easy. There's a
man here who bosses everything--white folks and Indians; he's a Yankee,
true enough, but a decent fellow; he keeps a sort of a boarding-house,
and has a store; he's a fur-buyer, a trader, and a packer; he'll
straighten things out for you."
Accordingly, in the morning, after we had fed, Indians and loafers
gathered around again, and for a bit it looked as if the difficulty
would continue; but shortly our English friend, who was working at the
wharf building, and whose sobriquet, we found, was "Colney Hatch,"
usually shortened to "Coney" (he explained that he foolishly one day
let it be known that that famous institution was near his home in
England), well, this man came to us, and took us with him to Boss
Parkinson's--the man he had mentioned.
We found the boss was certainly a "live" man: in five minutes he had
cleared all up. He shook hands heartily, asked us if we had any money,
where we proposed to go, with a few other questions.
Having satisfied him on these points, "Come on," said he; "guess we
will soon fix things. Thar's but one way from here to Dawson City.
You've got to have your gear packed to the Windy Arm, that's sure.
It'll cost you 14 dollars for every hundred pounds. How much you got?"
We took him to our pile. He was surprised. "Land sakes!" he
exclaimed. "Why, what'n tarnation! There ain't bin one party through
yere yet fixed like you fellers; 'n say--guess you bin through before.
No; wall some person's told you who has been--eh?"
We admitted we had had good advice. "Wall, so I jedge," he went on.
"Why, darn me, if you hain't got every pack just right!" and he lifted
one or two. "50 lb. each, I reck'n?"
We said that was so, and that each man could carry two; and as we had
exactly 800 lb. of grub, and about 200 lb. weight of tent, blankets,
and cooking gear and tools, we considered it would take just about
twelve Indians to do what was required comfortably.
"Gee-rusalem!" cried our new acquaintance; "'n you're fixed to pay 140
dollars for this yere job?"
"Oh yes, we can," I replied; "but it seems these Indians around are
idle--can't it be done for less?"
"Idle!--Great Scot!" he yelled with laughter. "Why, stranger, they're
a restin'--you bet they need it. Hold on till you see the kind o'
journey they've got to make--lor! and you too--you stop till you've
felt fifty, 'n mebbe a hundred pounds o' pack on your backs, 'n then I
guess you'll think them 140 dollars ain't so easy airned. These yere
Si-washes ain't like them red fellers of the plains--nossir. These
work, they do; m--m--I guess so. You pay me that 140 dollars, 'n I
guess all will go slick."
A few dollars one way or the other were no particular consequence to
us, and we thought it wiser to keep dark, so we agreed; at which the
boss, calling to an Indian, took him aside.
Ten minutes after there was excitement in the camp. From listless,
silent logs, the whole tribe woke up, and from that moment showed of
what stuff they were made. We learnt from the boss what our route
would be after reaching Lake Tagish. He told us about Miles Canyon and
the White Horse Rapids, which he assured us were the only real
difficulties we had to face. He advised us to hire an Indian to go
with us who knew the way to the foot of the White Horse, anyway.
The Stick (Stickeen) Indians are an avaricious people, they are shrewd
and tricky, a good match for whites at bargains, and will do anything
for money, which they know the value of right well. They are fine
strapping fellows, and are proud to tell you they are "aller same King
George man"--_i.e._, Englishmen; but I believe they say to Yankees that
they are "aller same Boston man," which means Americans. They are
evidently pretty deep, have a great love for tobacco and all
intoxicants, and every beverage that possesses a "tang." They are
supposed to be diminishing in numbers rapidly--there were thought to be
only about one thousand left of them then.
It was sixty-five miles from Skagway to the Windy Arm of Lake Tagish,
we were told, and that if we averaged ten miles a-day we should do well.
Within an hour our march began--that is, our Indians loaded four canoes
with our packs; then we paddled six miles up-stream, landed, and camped
for the night.
Our men were cheery; some spoke the Chinook jargon,--"the trade
language of the Pacific coast,"--a few knew a little English. One who
appeared to be their head man knew most, and he attached himself
closely to us, cooked and helped us. It was our policy to appear
"green," and this man, believing it was our first night in the bush,
showed us how to manage. He called himself Jim Crow; this name had
been given him by some facetious countryman of ours.
Starting at six the following morning, we soon understood what packing
over the White Pass meant. There was a trail, sure enough; it
consisted of a path winding through thick forest, up steep and rocky
hills, some of them almost perpendicular; across swift running brooks,
and beds of spongy moss--up to one's waist in places. There were
clumps of coarse grass, thickets of brambles and the terrible devil's
club thorn; so, before we had gone a couple of miles, we were satisfied
that every cent we paid these Indian packers was well "airned" indeed.
For ourselves, it was all we could do to get on, carrying only our
guns, and a small shoulder-bag with a little grub; whilst our boys
plodded on, grunting but cheery, with their one hundred pounds apiece.
As we ascended gradually, we realised that it was becoming colder. We
had not done three miles by noon when we came to snow. Jim Crow--Jim
is what we called him of course--ordered a halt, and said they were
well pleased,--that it was probably snow in the pass; some of them
would go ahead without burdens and investigate--if so, they would
return for sledges, "sleds"; they were very happy at this prospect.
Accordingly two men went on. We rested, boiled some tea, and ate. In
a couple of hours they returned, and had a pow-wow, resulting in some
of them starting back to Skagway, whilst our tent was erected, a huge
camp-fire built, and we prepared to pass the night, as Jim told us it
would be too late when they returned with sleds to push on. We were
somewhat annoyed at what we thought delay, but he assured us this plan
would shorten the journey greatly.
It was midnight when they returned. They brought five sleds. On
these, next day--which was hot and the snow was melting--all our goods
were lashed, and that evening, when the crust upon the snow was frozen,
we were off.
Our route lay up a shelving mountain-side overlooking a deep canyon.
Snow-capped ranges and many small glaciers were constantly in sight
across the valley, and every depression, on our side, held a trickling
rivulet, a roaring stream, or more frequently a morass, knee-deep in
moss and sodden grasses. The snow was not deep, but it was soft and
slushy--the travelling was terrible, yet in spite of all we made what
Jim called "good time."
It was noon next day ere we reached the timber line, and all above this
was open and rocky. The snow was heavier here; in the shade it was
frozen solid; the sleds travelled over it easily. Meade and I had all
we could do to keep up with them; indeed we had let them get some
distance ahead at one time, and when we caught them they were camped
beside a great rock with stunted trees about it, and Jim said that we
were very near the summit.
We camped that night in considerable comfort,--it was dry and cold, but
having good blankets and plenty of fuel, Meade and I were cosy enough.
Our Indians made shelters of sticks and brushwood and thin blankets,
and built a huge fire. They played "poker"; their "chips" were beans.
An immense amount of snow falls on these coast ranges; luckily we had
none during our crossing--neither did it rain, which was wonderful.
Now, as to this White Pass ever being made the highway to the Yukon, I
must say a few words. The trail as it then existed was absolutely
impracticable for horses--it was all that men could do to clamber up
it, and we realised that with much traffic, even of human beings, it
would quickly become impassable, and yet Meade and I felt confident
that with comparatively little work and some engineering skill a road,
and some day even a railroad, could be made across it. Most of the
runs of water could be bridged easily, in the rough way which is the
custom in the wilds. Many of the morasses, we could see, could be
drained by a few gutters cut with a spade. There being such a slope it
was easy to run water off, and where that was impossible log
causeways--corduroys--could be built with no great trouble, for logs
were plentiful for the cutting. It was possible to wind round most of
the rocks, and a few pounds of dynamite or giant powder would quickly
clear the impassable masses. Certainly when we crossed it was terrible
enough; but yet we plainly saw that a good road, fairly easy to
traverse by horses, even with loaded waggons, was certain ere long to
exist there.
If it should be proved that gold was plentiful in the Yukon
country,--"Undoubtedly," we said, "before two years are past there will
be a fine road here," and as to the gold--well, we had reason to be
very sure about that.
From this camp the trail led up a narrow and precipitous defile until
the actual summit was reached. We were then at least fifteen miles
from Skagway, and near three thousand feet above tide-water.
From here there was a sheer descent of many feet to a lake--Summit
Lake. It was frozen solid. The Indians assured us it was always
frozen--that the snow never left its margin. At one point the ice
overlapped the edge, forming a small glacier. A few yards below it was
thawing. At some far distant day a great glacier had been there, for a
canyon had been formed, and down it, beside the rushing stream of white
water, our course lay. Mountains rose high around us, covered with
ever-lasting snow.
Gradually the snow on our course disappeared and the sleds became
useless, and Jim assured us that for the rest of the journey to Windy
Arm packing must be resorted to. Therefore next morning the sleds were
cached, and we started on our weary tramp.
Everything was frozen solid still, for it was not yet May. The
travelling was exceedingly arduous,--not that there were any mountains
to traverse or swamps to push through; it was simply a rough
rock-strewn country, sparsely covered with scraggy trees, mostly pines
and spruces, with bushes which we thought were willows, and long coarse
grass.
We had five days of this, and then we reached the Windy Arm, and the
Indians' contract was completed. We had come about sixty-five miles
from Skagway.
It was still winter here: there was no open water, the woods were full
of snow, which had been long since driven by strong winds from the
open; it was a bleak and dreary outlook. Around the lake most of the
timber had been fired, gaunt grey sticks alone were standing, and the
ground was covered with half-burned logs and branches. Of fuel there
was no lack. We made camp in the only close clump of living trees
about. We put our tent up securely, made ourselves comfortable, for we
knew we must stay on there and by some means build a boat or raft, and
wait for the ice to break up. Thus our object was gained in reaching
that spot, and we were ready to avail ourselves instantly of the open
water, and to pursue our journey.
The Indians had behaved so exceedingly well that I proposed, and Meade
agreed, to give them each a dollar.
Through Jim we signified our intention: he made them clearly understand
that this was "potlach"--that is, a present. It gave great
satisfaction, and when we added a plug of tobacco to each man, there
was rejoicing in the camp.
We had taken quite a liking to Jim. He was seemingly proud to be more
noticed by us than the others. He was an exceedingly handy fellow, and
so far as we could make out from his very peculiar English and Chinook,
he knew all about the route we had to follow, and was an experienced
boatman. He had "shot" the Grand Canyon twice, and knew the way to get
past the White Horse Rapids. He was apparently about five-and-twenty,
a tall, athletic fellow, and with us very bright and talkative,
although with his fellows he was taciturn. Like them he was keen after
money, yet did not appear to realise that we were going up to where we
hoped it would be plentiful. It is difficult to understand an Indian's
apathy on this matter--along the Fraser, at Cariboo, and even in
Alaska, they will work at washing gold, and seem quite satisfied to
make a dollar or two a-day; but to undertake any plan for making a big
lot at once they have no notion. It is perhaps because the idea of
accumulating anything is not an Indian's nature.
Meade formed the idea that it would be well to induce this fellow to go
with us to Lake La Barge. With this intent we plied him with
information about gold, assuring him that, if he went with us, he would
get plenty, so that he could return to the coast a rich man. This
prospect had no charms for him, yet he liked the idea of the trip, and
said that if we would pay him "ikt dolla la sun"--that is, in plain
English, one dollar a-day--he would go; but when he added that he must
bring his klootchman, his wife, with him, I was taken aback. Meade,
however, was in favour of it--he considered it would be an additional
inducement for Jim to stay, that she would probably be useful, and no
trouble to us.
He questioned the fellow closely as to her age, her abilities; and he
made us understand that she was young, could cook and paddle well,
speak English, and would "mamook elan wash pil chickamin," which meant
that she would help wash for gold. Her name, he announced, was Fanny;
and Meade confided to me that he had a particular liking for that name,
so we were induced to enter into the arrangement.
About "muck a muck"--_i.e._, food--Jim said they would provide
themselves; that he would go back to Skagway with the party and bring
his wife out, and a load of all they needed, in six "la suns," six
days. All that he stipulated for was that we should have nothing to do
with Tagish Indians and that he should have "plenty 'bacca."
Of this we had a good supply; but thinking it would be no harm to have
still more, we sent a little "chit" by him to Boss Parkinson, telling
him how we had got on, and begging him to send out to us by Jim, if he
discovered that they really meant to come with us, another dozen pounds
of that fascinating weed.
The following day the band left us, and Meade and I were left alone in
our glory.