GOING OUTSIDE.
"Do I sleep? Do I dream?
Do I wonder and doubt?
Are things what they seem?
Or are visions about?"
I was now actually on my way home. It was not a dream, for here I was on
board the snug little ocean steamer "Dora," belonging to the Alaska
Commercial Company, and I was on my way to St. Michael and Dawson. For
ocean travel our steamer was a perfect one in all its appointments,
being staunch and reliable, with accommodating officers. After taking a
last look at Chinik, I went to my stateroom. Only one stop was made
before we reached St. Michael, that being at Port Denbeigh, a new mining
camp where for some hours freight was unloaded. In about twenty-two
hours from the time we left Chinik we were in St. Michael harbor,
climbing down upon a covered barge which took us ashore.
It was nearly two years since I had first landed at this dock,--then in
a snow storm, now in the rain,--then with my brother, now alone. Not at
all like Nome is this quiet little hamlet of St. Michael by the sea.
Neither saloons nor disorderly places are allowed upon the island. What
was formerly a canteen for soldiers was now a small but tidy restaurant,
where I ate a good dinner of beef-steak with an appetite allowable in
Alaska.
Upon the streets and about the barracks were many boys in blue, while
the hotel parlors swarmed at dinner time with officers and their wives
and daughters, all richly and fashionably attired. At the parlor piano
two ladies performed a duet, while the silken skirts of others rustled
in an aristocratic manner over the thick carpet, and gentlemen in dress
suits and gold-laced uniforms gracefully posed and chatted.
For my own part, a little homesick feeling had to be resolutely put down
as I pulled on my old rain coat, and with umbrella and handbag trudged
out in the darkness and rain to look for my baggage. I had already
secured my transportation at the steamship office, where, at the hands
of the kindly manager of the Alaska Commercial Company's affairs in this
country I had received the most courteous treatment I could desire. With
little delay I found my trunk and went on board the Yukon steamer T. C.
Power.
Some months before a consolidation of the three largest transportation
companies in Alaska had been effected, including the Alaska Commercial
Company, and I was now traveling with the latter under the name of the
Northern Commercial Company, but I felt a security like that of being
in charge of an old and trustworthy friend, and was quite content.
I had a long journey before me. We should reach Dawson in fourteen days
unless we met with delays, but a fast rising wind warned us that we
might encounter something of the sort where we were, and we did. For two
days and nights our steamer lay under the lee of the island, not daring
to venture out in the teeth of the gale which buffeted us. Straining,
creaking, swaying, first one way and then the other, we lay waiting for
the storm to abate. No river steamer with stern wheel and of shallow
draught, could safely weather the rough sea for sixty miles to the
Yukon's mouth, and we tried to be patient.
Early on the morning of the third day we started, and for twelve hours
we ploughed our way through the waters with bow now deep in the trough
of the sea, now lifted high in mid-air, to be met the next moment by an
uprising roller, which, with a boom and a jar, sent a quiver through the
whole vessel.
When at last the Yukon was reached, another obstacle appeared and we
stuck fast on a sand bar. Soon two other steamers lay alongside,
waiting, as did we, for a high tide to float us.
By night we lay in a dead calm. Indians in canoes came with fish and
curios to sell, and we watched the lights of the other steamers.
When the high tide came, we floated off the bar, but the scene was one
of dull monotony, and it was not until the day following that we came
into the hill country, and I was permitted to again see the dear trees I
loved so well, not one of which I had seen since leaving California.
At Anvik there came on board a little missionary teacher bound for
Philadelphia, who had spent seven years with the natives in this
Episcopal Mission without a vacation, and her stories were interesting
in the extreme.
Our days were uneventful. A broken stern wheel, enforced rests upon sand
bars, frequent stops at wood yards with a few moments run upon shore in
which to gather autumn leaves, and get a sniff of the woods, this was
our life upon the Yukon steamer for many days. After a while the nights
grew too dark for safe progress, and the boat was tied up until
daylight.
Russian Mission, Tanana, Rampart, Fort Yukon and the Flats were passed,
and the days wore tediously on. We were literally worming our way up
stream, with low water and dark nights to contend with, but a second
summer was upon us with warm, bright sunshine, and the hills were
brilliantly colored.
One morning we approached the towering Roquett Rock, so named by
Lieutenant Frederick Schwatka in his explorations down the Yukon years
before, and connected with which is an Indian legend of some interest.
This immense rock (so the story runs) once formed a part of the western
shore of the Yukon, and was one of a pair of towering cliffs of about
the same size, and with similar characteristics. Here the two huge
cliffs lived for many geological periods in wedded bliss as man and
wife, until finally family dissensions invaded the rocky household, and
ended by the stony-hearted husband kicking his wrangling wife into the
distant plain, and changing the course of the great river so that it
flowed between them, to emphasize the perpetual divorce. The cliff and
the rock are still known as "the old man" and "the old woman," the
latter standing in isolation upon a low, flat island with the muddy
Yukon flowing on both sides.
At this time of the year the days in Alaska grow perceptibly shorter,
and we were not surprised to find dusky twilight at five in the
afternoon, and to notice the eerie loneliness of the dark, sweet scented
woods a few hours later, when the steamer lay tied to the river's bank.
One night after dinner a number of passengers sat idly about in the
saloon of our steamer. Many had grown tired of cards, or had lost their
money, and, finding themselves pitted against more lucky players, had
called a halt and looked for other occupation. Miners lounged about,
chatting of the gold mines, their summer's work and experiences. Big
Curly and his little black-eyed wife listened attentively for a time.
The old miner was a born story teller, and knew a good yarn when he
heard it. The boat was tied up for the night, and all was quiet around
us. It was the time and place for a story.
At last Big Curly hitched his chair out farther from the wall, and
placed his feet comfortably upon the rungs; then, shifting his tobacco
from one cheek to the other, he asked if any one present had heard the
story of Nelson and the ghost. No one had heard it, and, after some
coaxing, this is the tale he told.
The Ghost of Forty Mile.
Alaska has long smiled over old Indian legends, but Yukon men are still
puzzling over the nocturnal rambles of the ghost of a murdered man in
the Forty Mile District. Following the excitement of the discovery of
Bonanza Bar and the sensational riches of Franklin Gulch came the murder
of an old Frenchman named La Salle. Tanana Indians committed the crime
in 1886. They crossed the mountains to Forty Mile, and killed La Salle
in his cabin at the mouth of O'Brian Creek. With axes and bludgeons the
old Frenchman's head was crushed beyond recognition.
Three months later the snow lay thick upon the ground. Upon the branches
of trees it persistently hung, each added layer clinging tenaciously
because there was no breath of wind to send it to the ground.
Occasionally a dead twig, weighted too heavily by the increasing fall
of snow, broke suddenly and dropped noiselessly into a bed of feathery
flakes, thus joining its sleeping companions, the leaves.
[Illustration: ON BONANZA CREEK.]
It was in January that two men might have been seen following their
dog-teams down a frozen stream emptying into Forty Mile River. They
wished to reach the mouth of the creek before they halted for the night.
They had heard of a cabin in which they planned to spend the night,
although it was a deserted one, and they were almost at the desired
point.
The men were Swedes. They were strong and hardy fellows, and although
frost covered their clothing and hung in icicles about their faces, they
ran contentedly behind the dog-teams in the semi-darkness, as only the
snow-light remained.
"Hello!" called out Swanson finally to his companion. "Is that the
place, do you think?" pointing to the dim shape of a log cabin a little
ahead.
"Guess it is, but we'll find out. I'm nearly starved, and must stop
soon, any way," said Nelson decidedly. "It's no use for us to travel
further tonight."
"So I think," was the reply, as the dogs halted before the door, and the
men entered the cabin. Here they found a good-sized room, containing one
window. There was evidently a room on the other side, but with no
connecting door, the two cabins having been built together to save
laying one wall.
"This is good enough for me, and much warmer than a tent--we'll stay
here till morning, and take the dogs inside," said kind-hearted Nelson,
already unhitching the dogs from a sled.
Swanson did the same. The next moment their small store was carried into
the cabin, wood was collected, and a cheery fire soon roared up the
chimney.
After the men had eaten their supper and the dogs had been fed, pipes
were brought out; and, stretching themselves upon their fur sleeping
bags before the fire, the miners smoked and chatted while resting their
weary limbs.
Suddenly, in the midnight stillness they heard a strange noise in the
other part of the cabin. Some one was moaning and crying for help. There
was no mistaking the sound, and both men were wide awake and intently
listening.
It was the cry of some one in distress. The sounds grew more blood
curdling. Nelson, unable to restrain himself longer, ran outside to
investigate. Going to the window he looked inside. The sight he beheld
congealed his blood, and fastened him to the spot as in a trance. This
was the image of a man surrounded by a cloud of white, mist-like
phosphorescent light, a deep scar standing out like a bleeding gash down
the side of the head. Then the forgotten story of the murdered La Salle
came to his mind, and for several minutes he was chained to the spot by
the terror of the spectacle.
The apparition was half lying upon the floor, with arm uplifted, as if
warding off a blow from some deadly instrument. Finally, in the
desperation of his terror, Nelson called his partner to come to his
assistance. Upon the approach of his companion he summoned enough
courage to step to the door at the other end of the cabin, and try to
open it. It was held fast by some superhuman agency, which allowed the
door to be only partly opened.
Swanson, at sight of the ghostly visitor, was not so badly overcome as
his friend, and having an inquisitive turn of mind, wished to find if
the apparition really existed. He called out, demanding to be told who
was there, but no answer came.
Still the mysterious, unearthly noises came through the cabin door. No
soughing of the wind could make such sounds had a tempest been blowing,
but a deathly stillness prevailed, and no breath of air stirred.
Then it was that Swanson gathered all that was left of his fast
disappearing courage, and said: "In the name of the Father, Son and Holy
Spirit, are you demon, man or ghost?"
Suddenly the door opened and in the uncertain, misty light the
apparition raised its hands to the stars as if in prayer, then it grew
dark and the ghostly visitor vanished as if the earth had engulfed it
forever.
While turning this tale over in mind later, I came to the conclusion,
which seems a reasonable one, that some fortunate miner had, in all
probability, hidden an amount of golden treasure in or about the cabin
on the creek, and wishing to keep others away, had circulated the ghost
story with good effect.
When Eagle City was reached I telegraphed my brother to meet me at the
steamer's dock in Dawson, and my message was sent by one of Uncle Sam's
boys in blue in charge of the office.
The town had grown considerably in the two years since I visited it, and
now boasted new government buildings, officer's quarters, and a
Presbyterian church, besides new stores and shops.
After Cudahy and Forty Mile, came Dawson, and we steamed up to the
city's dock in the morning fog, and were met by the usual multitude of
people, I having been seventeen days out from Golovin Bay. There, among
others, waited my brother and his little son, and my joy at meeting them
was great. Landing, it was only a walk of a few minutes to my kind old
father, and my brother's wife was not far away.
I was now practically at home, for home is where our dear ones are, and
surroundings are matters of small moment.
Three happy weeks followed, I went everywhere and noted well the
improvements in the camp since I last saw it. It was now a cleaner town
every way, with better order, good roads and bridges, new government
buildings, post-office and fine large schoolhouse. New frame churches
replaced the old log ones in most cases. There was the governor's new
palatial residence which would never be graced by the presence of its
mistress as she and her babe had gone down to death a few weeks before
in the Islander disaster in Lynn Canal; and there was the same steady
stream of gold from the wondrous Klondyke Creeks, which I was now
determined to visit.
[Illustration: SKAGWAY RIVER, FROM THE TRAIN.]
One bright, warm day, taking the hand of the small boy of the family, my
sister and I started for Bonanza Creek. We were bound for the house of a
friend who had invited us, and we would remain over night, as the
distance was five miles. My kodak and three big red apples weighed
little in our hands, and we turned toward the Klondyke River in high
spirits.
For a mile the road was bordered with log cabins on the hillside, with
the famous little river flowing on the other. We crossed the fine
Ogilvie Bridge, and soon found ourselves upon Bonanza Creek, the stream
which, with the Eldorado, had given to the world perhaps the major part
of golden Klondyke treasure up to this date. Following the trail by a
short cut we crossed shaky foot bridges, rested upon logs along the
trail, and picked our way over boggy spots until our limbs were weary.
Everywhere there were evidences of the industry of the miners, but the
claims and cabins looked deserted. Only in a few instances were men at
work near the mouth of the creek. Many people were going to and from
Dawson, and bicycles and wagons were numerous.
When we reached our destination we had walked five miles in the hot
sunshine, and were hungry and warm, but a warm welcome from Mr. and Mrs.
M., as well as a good dinner, awaited us.
After resting a while we were shown around the premises. Three log
cabins were being built in a row upon the hillside, the one finished
being already occupied by the M. family. Tunnels were being made in the
mountain by Mr. M., as well as other claim owners near by, and across
the gulch mining operations were in full blast. On the M. claim
preparations were being made for winter work, and it was expected that a
valuable dump would be taken out before spring. For three hundred feet
one tunnel entered the mountain back of the cabins, and we were invited
to go into it.
Putting on our warmest wraps, with candles in hand, we followed our
guide, the proprietor, for some distance. It was like walking in a
refrigerator, for the walls and floor of the tunnel were solidly frozen
and sparkled with ice. Whether the bright specks we saw were always
frost, we did not enquire, etiquette forbidding too much curiosity, but
from the satisfied nods and smiles we understood that it was a good
claim, though only recently purchased by Mr. M., a handful of pudgy gold
nuggets being shown us which fairly made our eyes water (because they
did not belong to us).
Here we lodged all night, enjoying a graphophone entertainment in the
evening. The next morning my kodak was brought out, and before leaving
for home I had several views to carry with me.
Our walk back to Dawson was much easier than the one out to the claim.
From this on, we made ready to leave Dawson for Seattle, and were soon
upon our way. Again I was forced to say good-bye to my father and
brother, though they would follow us a month later, and together, my
sister and I, stood with the little boy on the deck of the steamer,
waving our good-byes.
We now traveled in luxury. We occupied a large and elegant stateroom,
ate first-class meals, and had nothing to do but enjoy ourselves. To
change from steamer to steam cars at White Horse, which was now a good
mining town, was the work of an hour's time, while a day's ride to
Bennett and over the White Pass to Skagway was a real pleasure.
We found the quiet little port of Skagway swarming with people rushing
for the steamers, and as if to give us variety we had considerable
difficulty in finding our trunks in the custom's house, and in getting
upon the steamer in the darkness of the late evening; but at last it was
all successfully accomplished, and we took our last look at Skagway.
Eleven days after leaving Dawson we reached our journey's end, and
landed in Seattle, our home coming being a source of delight to our dear
waiting ones, as well as to ourselves; our safe arrival being another
positive proof of the mercy and goodness of God.
[Decoration]
End of Project Gutenberg's A Woman who went to Alaska, by May Kellogg Sullivan