Produced by Malcolm Farmer, Stephen Blundell and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by the Library of Congress)
[Illustration: MAY KELLOGG SULLIVAN IN ALASKA DRESS.]
A WOMAN WHO
WENT ----
TO ALASKA
By May Kellogg Sullivan
ILLUSTRATED
Boston:
James H. Earle & Company
178 Washington Street
_Copyright, 1902_
_By MAY KELLOGG SULLIVAN_
_All Rights Reserved_
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I Under Way 9
II Midnight on a Yukon Steamer 19
III Dawson 28
IV The Rush 36
V At The Arctic Circle 48
VI Companions 58
VII Going to Nome 78
VIII Fresh Danger 81
IX Nome 94
X The Four Sisters 109
XI Life in a Mining Camp 131
XII Bar-Room Disturbances 149
XIII Off For Golovin Bay 162
XIV Life at Golovin 184
XV Winter in the Mission 199
XVI The Retired Sea Captain 215
XVII How the Long Days Passed 231
XVIII Swarming 247
XIX New Quarters 261
XX Christmas in Alaska 275
XXI My First Gold Claims 292
XXII The Little Sick Child 311
XXIII Lights and Shadows of the Mining Camp 325
XXIV An Unpleasant Adventure 340
XXV Stones and Dynamite 354
XXVI Good-bye to Golovin Bay 374
XXVII Going Outside 379
Transcriber's Note
Obvious printer errors have been corrected. All other
inconsistencies remain as printed.
A list of illustrations, though not present in the original, has
been provided below:
MAY KELLOGG SULLIVAN IN ALASKA DRESS.
DAWSON, Y. T.
CITY HALL AT SKAGWAY.
PORCUPINE CANYON, WHITE PASS.
MILES CANYON.
UPPER YUKON STEAMER.
FIVE FINGER RAPIDS.
GOING TO DAWSON IN WINTER.
A KLONDYKE CLAIM.
EAGLE CITY, ON THE YUKON, IN 1899.
YUKON STEAMER "HANNAH."
FELLOW TRAVELERS.
ESKIMOS.
UNALASKA.
STEAMSHIP ST. PAUL.
NOME.
LIFE AT NOME.
CLAIM NUMBER NINE, ANVIL CREEK.
CLAIM NUMBER FOUR, ANVIL CREEK, NOME.
MAP OF ALASKA.
ESKIMO DOGS.
WINTER PROSPECTING.
AT CHINIK. THE MISSION.
CLAIM ON BONANZA CREEK.
ON BONANZA CREEK.
SKAGWAY RIVER, FROM THE TRAIN.
PREFACE
This unpretentious little book is the outcome of my own experiences and
adventures in Alaska. Two trips, covering a period of eighteen months
and a distance of over twelve thousand miles were made practically
alone.
In answer to the oft-repeated question of why I went to Alaska I can
only give the same reply that so many others give: I wanted to go in
search of my fortune which had been successfully eluding my grasp for a
good many years. Neither home nor children claimed my attention. No good
reason, I thought, stood in the way of my going to Alaska; for my
husband, traveling constantly at his work had long ago allowed me carte
blanche as to my inclinations and movements. To be sure, there was no
money in the bank upon which to draw, and an account with certain
friends whose kindness and generosity cannot be forgotten, was opened up
to pay passage money; but so far neither they nor I have regretted
making the venture.
I had first-class health and made up in endurance what I lacked in
avoirdupois, along with a firm determination to take up the first honest
work that presented itself, regardless of choice, and in the meantime to
secure a few gold claims, the fame of which had for two years reached my
ears.
In regard to the truthfulness of this record I have tried faithfully to
relate my experiences as they took place. Not all, of course, have been
included, for numerous and varied trials came to me, of which I have not
written, else a far more thrilling story could have been told.
Enough has, however, been noted to give my readers a fair idea of a
woman's life during a period of eighteen months in a few of the roughest
mining camps in the world; and that many may be interested, and to some
extent possibly instructed by the perusal of my little book, is the
sincere wish of the author.
MAY KELLOGG SULLIVAN.
A WOMAN WHO WENT--TO ALASKA.
CHAPTER I.
UNDER WAY.
My first trip from California to Alaska was made in the summer of 1899.
I went alone to Dawson to my father and brother, surprising them greatly
when I quietly walked up to shake hands with them at their work. The
amazement of my father knew no bounds,--and yet I could see a lot of
quiet amusement beneath all when he introduced me to his friends, which
plainly said:
"Here is my venturesome daughter, who is really a 'chip off the old
block,' so you must not be surprised at her coming to Alaska."
Father had gone to the Klondyke a year before at the age of sixty-four,
climbing Chilkoot Pass in the primitive way and "running" Miles Canyon
and White Horse Rapids in a small boat which came near being swamped in
the passage.
My brother's entrance to the famous gold fields was made in the same
dangerous manner a year before; but I had waited until trains over the
White Pass and Yukon Railroad had been crossing the mountains daily for
two weeks before myself attempting to get into Alaska's interior. At
that time it was only a three hours' ride, including stops, over the
Pass to Lake Bennett, the terminus of this new railroad, the first in
Alaska. A couple of rude open flat cars with springless seats along the
sides were all the accommodation we had as passengers from the summit of
White Pass to Lake Bennett; we having paid handsomely for the privilege
of riding in this manner and thinking ourselves fortunate, considering
the fact that our route was, during the entire distance of about
forty-five miles, strewn with the bleaching bones of earlier argonauts
and their beasts of burden.
Naturally, my traveling companions interested me exceedingly. There were
few women. Two ladies with their husbands were going to Dawson on
business. About eight or ten other women belonging to the rapid class of
individuals journeyed at the same time. We had all nationalities and
classes. There were two women from Europe with luggage covered with
foreign stickers, and a spoken jargon which was neither German nor
French, but sounded like a clever admixture of both.
Then there was the woman who went by the name of Mrs. Somebody or other
who wore a seal-skin coat, diamond earrings and silver-mounted umbrella.
She had been placed in the same stateroom with me on the steamer at
Seattle, and upon making her preparations to retire for the night had
offered me a glass of brandy, while imbibing one herself, which I
energetically, though politely, refused. At midnight a second woman of
the same caste had been ushered into my room to occupy the third and
last berth, whereupon next morning I had waited upon the purser of the
ship, and modestly but firmly requested a change of location. In a
gentlemanly way he informed me that the only vacant stateroom was a
small one next the engine room below, but if I could endure the noise
and wished to take it, I could do so. I preferred the proximity and
whirr of machinery along with closer quarters to the company of the two
adventuresses, so while both women slept late next morning I quietly and
thankfully moved all my belongings below. Here I enjoyed the luxury of a
room by myself for forty-eight hours, or until we reached Skagway,
completely oblivious to the fact that never for one instant did the
pounding of the great engines eight feet distant cease either day or
night.
[Illustration: DAWSON, Y. T.]
A United States Judge, an English aristocrat and lady, a Seattle lawyer,
sober, thoughtful and of middle age, who had been introduced to me by a
friend upon sailing, and who kindly kept me in sight when we changed
steamers or trains on the trip without specially appearing to do so; a
nice old gentleman going to search for the body of his son lost in the
Klondyke River a few weeks before, and a good many rough miners as well
as nondescripts made up our unique company to Dawson. Some had been over
the route before when mules and horses had been the only means of
transportation over the Passes, and stories of the trials and dangers of
former trips were heard upon deck each day, with accompaniments of oaths
and slang phrases, and punctuated by splashes of tobacco juice.
On the voyage to Skagway there was little seasickness among the
passengers, as we kept to the inland passage among the islands. At a
short distance away we viewed the great Treadwell gold mines on Douglass
Island, and peered out through a veil of mist and rain at Juneau under
the hills. Here we left a few of our best and most pleasant passengers,
and watched the old Indian women drive sharp bargains in curios, beaded
moccasins, bags, etc., with tourists who were impervious to the great
rain drops which are here always falling as easily from the clouds as
leaves from a maple tree in October.
Our landing at Skagway under the towering mountains upon beautiful Lynn
Canal was more uneventful than our experience in the Customs House at
that place, for we were about to cross the line into Canadian territory.
Here we presented an interesting and animated scene. Probably one
hundred and fifty persons crowded the small station and baggage room,
each one pushing his way as far as possible toward the officials, who
with muttered curses hustled the tags upon each box and trunk as it was
hastily unlocked and examined. Ropes and straps were flung about the
floor, bags thrown with bunches of keys promiscuously, while transfer
men perspiring from every pore tumbled great mountains of luggage hither
and thither.
[Illustration: CITY HALL AT SKAGWAY.]
Two ponderous Germans there were, who, in checked steamer caps enveloped
in cigar smoke of the best brand, protested vigorously at the opening of
their trunks by the officers, but their protests seemed only the more to
whet the appetites of these dignitaries. The big Germans had their
revenge, however. In the box of one of these men was found with other
things a lot of Limburger cheese, the pungent odor of which drove the
women screaming to the doors, and men protesting indignantly after them;
while those unable to reach the air prayed earnestly for a good stiff
breeze off Lynn Canal to revive them. The Germans laughed till tears ran
down their cheeks, and cheerfully paid the duty imposed.
Skagway was interesting chiefly from its historical associations as a
port where so many struggling men had landed, suffered and passed on
over that trail of hardship and blood two years before.
Our little narrow gauge coaches were crowded to their utmost, men
standing in aisles and on platforms, and sitting upon wood boxes and
hand luggage near the doors.
It was July, and the sight of fresh fruit in the hands of those lunching
in the next seat almost brought tears to my eyes, for we were now going
far beyond the land of fruits and all other delicacies.
"Pick it up, old man, pick it up and eat it," said one rough fellow of
evident experience in Alaska to one who had dropped a cherry upon the
floor, "for you won't get another while you stay in this country, if it
is four years!"
"But," said another, "he can eat 'Alaska strawberries' to his heart's
content, summer and winter, and I'll be bound when he gets home to the
States he won't thank anyone for puttin' a plate of beans in front of
him, he'll be that sick of 'em! I et beans or 'Alaska strawberries' for
nine months one season, day in and day out, and I'm a peaceable man, but
at the end of that time I'd have put a bullet through the man who
offered me beans to eat, now you can bet your life on that! Don't never
insult an old timer by puttin' beans before him, is my advice if you do
try to sugar-coat 'em by calling 'em strawberries!" and the man thumped
his old cob pipe with force enough upon the wood box to empty the ashes
from its bowl and to break it into fragments had it not been well
seasoned.
Upon the summit of White Pass we alighted from the train and boarded
another. This time it was the open flat cars, and the Germans came near
being left. As the conductor shouted "all aboard" they both scrambled,
with great puffing and blowing owing to their avoirdupois, to the rear
end of the last car, and with faces purple from exertion plumped
themselves down almost in the laps of some women who were laughing at
them.
[Illustration: PORCUPINE CANYON, WHITE PASS.]
We had now a dizzy descent to make to Lake Bennett. Conductor and
brakeman were on the alert. With their hands upon the brakes these men
stood with nerves and muscles tense. All talking ceased. Some of us
thought of home and loved ones, but none flinched. Slowly at first, then
faster and faster the train rolled over the rails until lakes, hills and
mountains fairly flew past us as we descended. At last the train's speed
was slackened, and we moved more leisurely along the foot of the
mountains. We were in the beautiful green "Meadows" where pretty and
fragrant wild flowers nodded in clusters among the tall grass.
At Bennett our trunks were again opened, and we left the train. We were
to take a small steamer down the lakes and river for Dawson. We were no
longer crowded, as passengers scattered to different boats, some going
east to Atlin. With little trouble I secured a lodging for one night
with the stewardess of the small steamer which would carry us as far as
Miles Canyon or the Camp, Canyon City. From there we were obliged to
walk five miles over the trail. It was midsummer, and the woods through
which we passed were green. Wild flowers, grasses and moss carpeted our
path which lay along the eastern bank of the great gorge called Miles
Canyon, only at times winding away too far for the roar of its rushing
waters to reach our ears. No sound of civilization came to us, and no
life was to be seen unless a crow chanced to fly overhead in search of
some morsel of food. Large forest trees there were none. Tall, straight
saplings of poplar, spruce and pine pointed their slender fingers
heavenward, and seemed proudly to say:
"See what fortitude we have to plant ourselves in this lonely Northland
with our roots and sap ice-bound most of the year. Do you not admire
us?" And we did admire wonderingly. Then, again, nearing the banks of
Miles Canyon we forged our way on up hill and down, across wet spots,
over boulders and logs, listening to the roar of the mighty torrent
dashing between towering, many-colored walls of rock, where the volume
of water one hundred feet in width with a current of fifteen miles an
hour, and a distance of five-eighths of a mile rushes insistently
onward, as it has, no doubt, done for ages past. Then at last widening,
this torrent is no longer confined by precipitous cliffs but between
sparsely wooded banks, and now passes under the name of "White Horse
Rapids," from so strangely resembling white horses as the waters are
dashed over and about the huge boulders in mid-stream. Here many of the
earlier argonauts found watery graves as they journeyed in small boats
or rafts down the streams to the Klondyke in their mad haste to reach
the newly discovered gold fields.
After leaving White Horse Rapids we traveled for days down the river. My
little stateroom next the galley or kitchen of the steamer was
frequently like an oven, so great was the heat from the big cooking
range. The room contained nothing but two berths, made up with blankets
and upon wire springs, and the door did not boast of a lock of any
description. Upon application to the purser for a chair I received a
camp stool. Luckily I had brushes, combs, soap and towels in my bag, for
none of these things were furnished with the stateroom. In the stern of
the boat there was a small room where tin wash basins and roller towels
awaited the pleasure of the women passengers, the water for their
ablutions being kept in a barrel, upon which hung an old dipper. To
clean one's teeth over the deck rail might seem to some an unusual
undertaking, but I soon learned to do this with complacency, it being
something of gain not to lose sight of passing scenery while performing
the operation.
[Illustration: MILES CANYON.]
At Lake La Barge we enjoyed a magnificent panorama. Bathed in the rosy
glow of a departing sunset, this beautiful body of water sparkled like
diamonds on all sides of us. Around us on every hand lay the green and
quiet hills. Near the waters' edge they appeared a deep green, but grew
lighter in the distance. Long bars of crimson, grey and gold streaked
the western horizon, while higher up tints of purple and pink blended
harmoniously with the soft blue sky. As the sun slowly settled the
colors deepened. Darker and darker they grew. The warm soft glow had
departed, and all was purple and black, including the waters beneath us;
and as we passed through the northern end or outlet of the lake into
Thirty Mile River we seemed to be entering a gate, so narrow did the
entrance to the river appear between the hills.
At night our steamer was frequently tied up to a wood pile along the
banks of the river. No signs of civilization met our eyes, except,
perhaps, a rude log hut or cabin among the trees, where at night, his
solitary candle twinkling in his window and his dogs baying at the moon,
some lonely settler had established himself.
The Semenow Hills country is a lonely one. Range upon range of rolling,
partly wooded, hills meet the eye of the traveler until it grows weary
and seeks relief in sleep.
Five Finger Rapids was the next point of interest on our route, and I am
here reminded of a short story which is not altogether one of fiction,
and which is entitled: Midnight on a Yukon Steamer.