THE OVERLAND TRAIL OF '98
Out of the North there rang a cry of Gold!--TOM McINNES.
Only this spring, a widow near Edmonton sold her quarter-section to a
real-estate syndicate for eighty thousand dollars. She was one of the
women who "stayed at home with the stuff" while her husband fared forth
in search of gold at the time of the Klondike stampede in 1897-8. He
died on the trail, and ever since the woman has ploughed the lone
furrow both literally and metaphorically.
The handsome reward of her industry and pertinacity calls to mind that
fable of AEsop's where the young men found that the hidden treasure
their father had described to them was in the yield the soil had given
after they had industriously digged it over.
We were talking about this the other night, and the humour and
tragedies of the gold stampede, over the last bottle of
champagne---positively the last--that remained of the most prolonged
and celebrated spree that ever took place in the North. The vintage
was a _Koch Fils_ of 1892 and, therefore (to save your mental
arithmetic), I may add, twenty-one years old. It was brought in by the
Helpman Expedition, familiarly known to the local wiseacres of the day
as "The Helpless Proposition."
Did it taste well?
I do not know.
I like lemonade with maraschino cherries better than champagne, but the
party were agreed that it was excellent drinking. One said it had a
pulse; another, that European grapes sucked in more sun than those
grown in America; "The stuff that makes the world go round," remarked a
third. Assuredly it looks well, thought I, and the bubbles caper like
they were alive.
Under the balm and stimulus of the champagne, the men (all of them
old-timers) were not indisposed to talk concerning the party who
brought it into the country and of the things that befell them. Also,
they tell about the other parties who attempted to reach the
gold-diggings by the overland route from Edmonton. These were
heart-breaking tales, with, here and there, a golden thread of humour
showing up in the black fabric of despoliation and defeat.
The thirty members of the Helpman Party came from Great Britain. They
were unfortunate from the start. They arrived at Edmonton on Christmas
Eve, one of them, Captain Alleyn, being ill with pneumonia, from which
disease he died a couple of days later. He was the artist of the
party, and correspondent of Reuter's News Agency.
His was the first military funeral held in the North, so that it was an
event around which much interest centred.
The expedition was under the command of Colonel Helpman and Lord
Avonmore of Gortmerron House, County Tyrone, known to the local folk by
the unkind name of "Lord 'Ave-one-more." He died last year in Ireland.
"A truly remarkable man, my dear," said an old lady of our lemonade
group, "and always he talked of smashing niggers."
All provisions and supplies for the gold crusade were brought from
England, except the horses, and the duty thereon amounted to several
thousand dollars. In truth, they were provisioned under War Office
approval, for, said they, "We are English gentlemen and must travel as
English gentlemen." Baled hay and hay-choppers, baths, beds, tents,
sanitary conveniences, and other impedimenta were imported by the
train-load.
These Canadian men will have it, moreover, that the Britishers brought
in snowshoes for their horses, which gear they were wont to designate
as "bloomin' tennis racquets." I might have believed this
extraordinary statement had I not guessed that my narrator gleaned his
idea from the _Voyages and Explorations of Samuel de Champlain_, for
these imperturbable northmen never so much as blink an eye when adding
the inevitable pinch of spice to a story.
It is quite true though that the party did bring enormous supplies of
"arrested" foods, egg powders, Westphalian hams, almost unlimited
quantities of tinned ptarmigan, woodcock, plum-pudding, and other
toothsome delicacies well calculated to pique the most jaded and
club-debauched palate. Unfortunately, on being opened, nearly all
these delicate edibles were found to be spoiled, so that the travellers
were forced to exist on such crude diet as pig's face, rice, and beans.
But the liquors still remained. Allah be praised!--barrels and cases
of it; yes! even kegs and demi-johns--brandy, burgundy, benedictine,
claret, champagne, and canary--these and other brands which I forget,
for my interest was attracted from the list to the wistful faces of
these historians who think with love and longing on those rare old,
fair old golden days that are gone beyond recall.
On their arrival at Edmonton, the commanders of the expedition were
informed that a prohibition law was in force in the Yukon and that, in
consequence, no spirituous liquors could be carried across its borders.
This being the case, there was nothing for it but to drink the liquors
in Edmonton. They had no licence to sell it, and to pour it upon the
unappreciative prairie would be manifestly absurd--even wicked. This
is why I was correct in saying that our vintage of the night was the
last bottle of the most prolonged and celebrated spree that ever took
place in the North. In truth, it was an Homeric carousal.
The spree lasted for six weeks, and fights with their legal sequences
were frequent. To use the most generally approved northern expression
of the day, "They just fit and fit," so that more than once the good
Archdeacon of Alberta had to pour oil and balm into the broken bones
and brittle nerves of the combatants. Indeed, he went so far as to
have them nursed in his own home. He is a hale-hearted, fine-fibred
gentleman, our Archdeacon.
It is hardly fair, however, to lay the entire spree to the credit of
the stampeders. The population of Edmonton, in the late nineties,
consisted of fifteen hundred people, and all the male portion of it
used their utmost endeavours to prevent any good liquor going to waste.
The gentry of the community were invited to partake, but the hewers of
wood and drawers of water who had been engaged to exercise the
pack-horses by walking them up and down, these, and the disorderly
arrant idlers who hung on the borders of the camp, helped themselves.
Their motto was the same as Lord Nelson's--"Touch and take." Indeed,
the speedy manner in which they relieved the expedition of any
encumbering wealth was truly most astonishing. They have a theory in
the North that everything belongs by right to the man who has the
greatest need. Now, the need of the North is a very big pocket and
there are holes in it.
Ultimately, the party got away. They took the Swan Hill route that
leads to the Old Assiniboine Crossing, but spring had already set in so
that the trails were deep with water, and the muskegs were bottomless
pits.
The leader of the expedition (by which they meant the foreman as
distinct from the director) was Mr. Matthew Evanston O'Brien, an Irish
solicitor and erstwhile Chief of Police in Australia. It is also said
he was an English secret-service man. He died in April of this year at
Wetaskawin, Alberta, where he was practising law.
The breeds and other packers who accompanied the party became insolent
and purposely lost their loads. One man smashed the camp stove and
dropped it into a river; others lost tents; while some found hay and
oats as hard to hold as quicksilver. Being badly sheltered and
underfed, nearly all of their hundred horses died, so that long
afterwards teamsters coming to the south picked up wagon loads of
harness besides other useful gear. In a word, like the man who tried
all the rheumatism cures, the members of the Helpman Expedition were
"done good."
Some of the party got as far as Fort Simpson on the Mackenzie River,
but in the end every man, greatly chastened in spirit, turned back to
Edmonton, where some of them were stranded for several months before
money came to take them on to England.
Do not laugh at their misfortune. It is not seemly so to do, for, in
all this wildly-warring world, there are few more bitter cups than the
failure of a big financial coup in the which you have invested your own
(and alas!) other people's money.
Besides, few of the scores of parties who started fared any better,
while many faced worse. Some of them, like the Moody Expedition,
returned because they could not make over two or three miles a day,
they having to fell the impeding timber. At this rate of travel, the
journey would have occupied five years.
Other crusaders returned because they had no food or money, a condition
that scarcely makes for progress or health.
Still others came back because they had fallen out by the way, for the
trail has the satanic peculiarity of developing all that is surly,
selfish, or yellow in human nature. People who are tired, ill, and
hungry lift the curtain of their character and forget to let it fall,
so that the result is disillusionment to all concerned. Not a few men
who started in on pronouncedly amicable terms, eating from the same
plate both actually and figuratively, came out brimful with umbrage,
hatred and pique. Murder on the trail may be almost a natural impulse.
But all the derelicts who returned had one well-defined peculiarity
(albeit a negative one), they came in quietly by the back trails--they
who had gone forth full-fed and wanton as young gophers. The North had
rolled out their individuality like one might roll out dough. They
were "the bitten;" gaunt-eyed starvelings; tatterdemalions who might
have posed for Rip Van Winkle or The Ancient Mariner. The North is a
goodly country and attracts goodly men, yet, even here, one may lose
both his sense and his competence.
"Did no one succeed?" I ask.
"Oh yes!" replies a jocund old gentleman who has lived here these
thirty years. "One man got through by hook or crook--chiefly crook.
He was a real-estate agent and insurance broker."
Further questions elicit the fact that this broker was not so much a
stampeder as an absconder. He was short in his returns to the
insurance company and took this means of avoiding arrest. At least, so
it was rumoured. He left Edmonton in the late winter with no money, no
food--nothing but a small hand-satchel containing collars and blank
premium forms. All the way along he insured the trailers on the
straight life, endowment, or accident policies, or for sick benefits.
They were far enough on the trail to realize that there was a distinct
possibility of their requiring one, if not all these premiums, so our
broker found fat pickings. Resides, each trailer had begun to think
lovingly and longingly of his family at home, and of what a comforting
compensation a ten-thousand dollar policy might be to them in the event
of his death. Indeed, it seemed almost like swindling the company to
take out a policy on this journey. But what would you? Here was their
properly certified agent with the requisite papers to boot. One must
take what the gods send.
At Athabasca Landing, our broker man stole a boat and made his way down
the river. He fed at each camp he encountered; related how he had
become separated from his party, and how he was hurrying forward to
rejoin them. Under the circumstances, it was only natural that his
hosts should supply him with enough food for a day or two. Besides, it
would never do to let him die of starvation and he carrying their good
money and insurance policies in his satchel--the little black
hand-satchel wherein he kept his collars.
He reached Dawson early in the rush, but we do not know how it fared
with him there---whether he crushed his money from stones or bones--for
it was probable he took a new name, and, needless to say, he did not
return via the overland route to Edmonton.
Two others who reached the northern Eldorado were Jim Kenealey and Jack
Russell. It took them two years to get in. Russell struck pay-dirt in
the Cape Nome District, but Kenealey, after abandoning several claims,
came out penniless. He died recently at the Cameron House, Strathcona,
of which hotel he was proprietor. Kenealey, who came from Peterboro',
Ontario, in the early eighties, was a clever sleight-of-hand artist and
one time had an encounter with an Indian, it being natural and entirely
reasonable that the Indian should demand the fifty cents that Kenealey
claimed to have taken from his ear.
"But there were others who reached the gold zone," explains a lawyer
who was, in those days, a cub-reporter, type-setter, and I know not
what besides. "I have forgotten their names, but you may find them in
the files of _The Bulletin_."
One of these parties comprised four men, Martin McNeeley from Sault
Ste. Marie, Michigan, George Baalam, W. Schreeves and W. J. Graham.
Schreeves and Baalam reached Dawson safely; Graham was drowned on the
way, and McNeeley, who injured his foot, was left behind by the others
somewhere near the Devil's Portage.
Some months afterwards, Mr. E. T. Cole of Pelican Rapids, Minnesota,
with his party, stumbled upon a small tent in which they found a
terribly decomposed body. It was McNeeley's. By his side there was a
knife, a compass, a rifle, twenty-five rounds of cartridges, twenty
pounds of flour, some meat, matches and wood. The following excerpts
are from his diary--
"December 28, 1897--My partners deserted me and tried to cripple me
further by taking my grub.
"January 5, 1898--Walked eight miles on my awful foot and am crippled
on an Island alone. The pain of my foot is terrible."
The files reveal another tragedy in which two men from Brantford,
Ontario, were the principals--the Strathdees.
Mr. A. C. Strathdee was one of the early stampeders. He went north
with sixteen pack-horses. His only companion was his son, aged
twenty-two, W. Harvey Strathdee, a member of the Dufferin Rifles. They
camped one night beside the Taylor Trail that leads to Nelson. In the
morning, while cooking breakfast, Harvey sighted a moose and,
straightway, started in pursuit. At noon he had not returned and his
father, becoming anxious, tried to follow the trail, but
unsuccessfully. At night, the now frantic man lit a fire and shot off
his rifle in the hope that Harvey might see or hear them. He did this
for eight terrible days and eight more terrible nights, till he
realized that further delay would endanger his own life. In these
eight days, half of his horses died from lack of food, the man being
afraid to shift camp in case Harvey might find his way back.
Further on, he met James and John Fair of Elkhorn, Manitoba, who
returned with him to spend yet eight other days in unavailing search.
At Dunvegan, Mr. Strathdee engaged a white man, an Indian, and a
dog-train to go in and make quest till spring. Then he came back to
Edmonton, where he exacted promises from the journalists to forward to
him at Brantford any report that might come in from the trails
regarding the lost youth.
For a long time nothing came but, one day, some Indians brought in word
how on their way north nearly a year before, they fell on the fresh
trail of a lost white man and had followed it up. They knew he was
white for he wore boots, and that he was lost because of his uncertain,
round-about course. They found his body on a mountain between two
logs. His arms were outspread and his cartridge belt and rifle lay by
his side. The trees around had been burned, and the Indians were of
the opinion that he had set them on fire to try and attract his
father's attention.
That the public of Canada and the United States had little idea of the
hardships to be endured on the overland trail was evidenced by the fact
that a number of women attempted to take it. Some of them wore
ordinary clothes with plumes in their hats, but the more knowing ones
were attired in jaeger skirts and jerseys, also they wore jaeger caps
that covered the face except for the nose and mouth. In their belts
they carried six-shooters.
Letters were received here asking if the writers could get through to
the Klondyke on bicycles; if there were good boarding-houses on the
way, and if the Indians were troublesome.
For the instruction of the stampeders, the Honourable the Minister of
the Interior, then Mr. Frank Oliver, issued a special number of _The
Bulletin_, which was the farthest north newspaper, mapping out the
route and the distances between the points.
By the shortest and best travelled trails, the entire distance from
Edmonton to the Klondyke was 2,728 miles. This route was via the
Athabasca, Great Slave, Mackenzie and Peel Rivers. From thence it
crossed to Summit, La Pierre House, and down the Porcupine River to its
junction with the Yukon River. From this point to Dawson was the
home-run.
There are said to be sixty-eight roads to heaven, but this road to
Dawson is not one of them.
Each man had six pack-ponies to carry in his supplies, which consisted
of 900 lb. of food and 150 lb. of clothing and hardware, making in all,
1,050 lb. The ponies cost from twenty-five to thirty dollars, and it
was conservatively estimated that the supplies cost $250.00.
The food was calculated on the basis of the Mounted Police rations and
was supposed to last a year, being doled out at the following ration
per man, per day: flour 1-1/4 lb., beef 1-1/2 lb., bacon 1 lb., potatoes 1
lb., apples 3 oz., beans 4 oz., coffee or tea 1/2 oz., salt 1/2 oz., butter
2 oz., sugar 3 oz.
With praiseworthy discretion, many of the Old-Timers opened up depots
to supply the parties with outfits, but, on the whole, there was no
over-charging or money-grabbing such as one might have expected. On
the contrary, the prices that prevailed were from 25 to 75 per centum
less than those of to-day. Flour was $2.50 per hundredweight; bacon 11
cents per pound, evaporated apples 8 cents, rolled-oats 3 cents,
raisins 10 cents, and black tea from 25 to 40 cents. Pack-saddle
blankets cost $2.00 a pair, and large grey blankets $3.25. Long arctic
socks cost from 50 cents to $1.00, sweaters from $1.00 to $1.50, and
cardigan jackets from $1.00 to $2.00.
Many kinds of costumes were affected. Some men were clad in fur from
head to feet; others wore khaki, or sheepskin coats; and in one party
every man had a coonskin coat.
Nothing, however, caused so much excitement in the burgh as the various
modes of conveyance that were planned and built by the gold-seekers.
"Texas" Smith started alone on the longish trail with all his
provisions packed in three barrels. These were equipped as rollers or
wheels with a platform on top for sleeping purposes. He calculated
that on the rivers the barrels would act as floaters and so could be
comfortably navigated.
Texas travelled nearly nine miles before the hoops came off. He was
able to retrace his steps to town by the beans the barrels shed on the
road. They took his photograph, and that of his conveyance, before he
started but, on his return, good-naturedly refrained, for it was
distinctly noticeable that Texas had the air of having eaten the canary.
Breneau Fabian, a Belgian, invented a boat which, being intended for
all elements, was constructed from galvanized iron. He called it
Noah's Ark. It was built in two parts with a hinge in the middle.
When open, it could be used on the river, for it had a keel; or on the
snow, for it had runners. If he cared to, he could close up his boat
by means of the hinge--that is, it would turn over, one part on top of
the other, in which shape it was a caravan with wheels attached. His
yoke of oxen were to be killed at Athabasca Landing and salted down as
food for the journey.
For the information of the curiously inclined, I might say that until
recently, Fabian's Ark served as a float at all civic processions such
as Labour Day and the Queen's Jubilee, but it has had its day and its
scrap heap.
Another man, whose name I could not learn, built an ice-boat on the
Saskatchewan River. He had figured out that he could reach the
placer-diggings by means of sails, thus acquiring a distinct monetary
advantage over the folk and fellows who had horses, in that sails would
not require to be fed with hay and oats.
Be it said to the credit of the folk and fellows that they cherished no
grudge in their hearts, for, the sails refusing to act, they loaned him
fourteen teams wherewith to haul his ice-boat on to the bank.
Considering the length and nature of the trail, perhaps the most
bird-witted scheme of reaching the Klondike was that evolved by the "I
Will" Steam-Sleigh Company of Chicago. They ought to have known better.
They built a train of four cabooses or cars, the motive power of which
was steam. A marine boiler and engine were imported from the United
States, upon which they paid $500.00 custom toll. Also, they imported
a revolving drum equipped with teeth, similar to those used on the
log-roads in the big timber-limits, and sprocket-wheels, band-chains,
and other things no mortal woman could be expected to remember. All
the cars were on steel-runners. The one behind the engine contained
fuel; the second was the living car, while the third held supplies.
Everything was packed and loaded ready for the hour of starting before
the builders had tested the machine. All Edmonton was assembled to see
the sight, while scores of Indians squatted around and stared like
gargoyles. The workmen, with an air of high concern, twisted a bolt
here, or a belt there; oiled a hub, or did one of the hundred things a
mechanic does to an engine and boiler when he would have you believe he
is earning his pay.
It was a proud moment when one of the builders stepped forward and
touched his hat to a blue-uniformed official--a moment, too, that was
fraught with serious issues, for the blue-uniform said, "_Let her go_!"
All Edmonton ceased to breathe and the Indians looked almost pale.
There was a vast creaking; a shudder as if the caverns of the deep were
opened; the wheels turned--and turned--and turned, and with each turn
buried the machine deeper into the earth, there to remain till the day
that Kenneth Macleod bought the marine boiler and engine for his
sawmill. They say he bought it for a song, but no one ever heard the
song. Ah! but those were right royal days for the Old-Timers, the like
of which can never be.
I nearly forgot about the three cabooses. These stampeders who did not
die of scurvy, hardship, starvation, or accident, and who returned via
Edmonton, used the cabooses for shelter while they wrote home for money.
It was a long time before they were free of occupants.