At the Mountain's Edge

by Genevieve Graham

  “His eyes are still open.”

  Thompson swept away more snow. “Starved, then froze, looks like. Keep digging.”

  “Why? What do we do?”

  “Can’t leave him here.”

  “We can’t bury him. The ground’s frozen.”

  Thompson looked at him from beneath heavy lids. “Listen, this won’t be the last corpse we find. We’ll take them up top and store them ’til spring, then we will give them a decent burial.” He called down to Inspector Belcher, who would be in charge once they made it to the Chilkoot Pass. “We need a sled.” Then he frowned at the snow by Ben’s feet. “Tuck that finger into his coat, would you?”

  Ben stooped to pick it up, but when his mitt closed around it, he gagged.

  “Disturbing, ain’t it?” Thompson said, and Ben was relieved the Sergeant hadn’t laughed at his weak stomach. “It’s like seeing ourselves after the Yukon’s done with us. We think we’re special.” He gestured towards the body. “But here we are.”

  Trying not to think too much about what he was holding in his hand, Ben slid the finger into the dead man’s pocket, but his brain wasn’t fooled. No matter how far they went, the image wouldn’t leave him. All the way up the mountain, over the Chilkoot Pass, then down the steep slope towards Crater Lake, Ben thought of that four-fingered hand clawing out of the snow. When the wind nearly shoved Ben down the mountain, when the ice stole his footing and the pelting crystals of snow blinded him, he saw again that broken finger stuck in the dead man’s pocket. That will not be me, he told himself over and over again. I will not die here.

  At the summit, Inspector Belcher directed them to make camp on Crater Lake, which was located just beneath the Chilkoot Pass. From there, they were ordered to set up a larger tent back up top, to serve as the official outpost. Ben supposed that because of its location, Crater Lake would be slightly shielded from the wind, but once they’d established the camp, he had a lot of trouble finding much difference between the two. If there was, it was hard to appreciate when they were shivering around a tiny tent stove or digging themselves out of three feet of snow every single morning.

  “This is the worst place on earth,” Miller said. “Remind me what we’re doing up here?”

  Ben saw no reason to waste his breath. They were hundreds of miles and countless hours from any kind of relief.

  “Just dig,” he replied.

  Every morning, he and Miller awoke hours before sunrise to the arrhythmic patter of water dripping on their blankets from the melting frost on their tent ceiling. Shuddering with cold, they rolled from their cots, then got their blood pumping again by shovelling the wall of snow that sealed them within the tent.

  When Superintendent Steele arrived a couple of weeks later, he ordered the immediate construction of an actual wooden outpost.

  “He must be joking,” Miller said to Ben that night. “How can anyone haul building materials up those trails, let alone do construction in this weather? Steele’s insane. Where are we supposed to get lumber?”

  For the first time in months, the familiar burn of Ben’s anger flared in his chest. Where there had once been friendly conversations between him and his partner, now all Ben heard were complaints and arguments. He squeezed his hands into fists, resisting the urge to force Miller into silence.

  “We signed up for this,” he reminded Miller stiffly. “They told us it was going to be difficult.”

  “This isn’t difficult,” Miller huffed. “It’s ridiculous. Can’t we wait for spring?”

  “Have you seen the thousands of people climbing the Chilkoot?” Ben countered. “They are dying out there. If we’re going to help at all, this has to be done right away.”

  Despite the bitter cold and the constant, punishing snowstorms, Ben and the others hitched themselves to sleds as if they were oxen and dragged timber, canvases, and tools to the summit so they could build a twelve-foot-square building to house a couple of men, their supplies, and a workspace.

  When the day was done, Ben fell asleep within seconds of lying down, though he awoke sporadically, disturbed either by winds buffeting the tent or his own convulsive shivering. Firewood was more valuable than gold at the summit, and everyone was forced to be frugal with it. On some nights they made do without any at all, because the hardiest of them would have to trudge through seven miles of snow to get any. Without a reliable source of heat, the men were unable to dry clothing and blankets, and the smell of mildew—the only thing that could still grow—hung over them like a cloud.

  “I can’t do this anymore,” Miller muttered.

  They were huddled over the tiny stove while a blizzard raged on around them for the third straight night, and for once, Ben was inclined to agree with his partner. He was fighting another cold, which had settled into a wheezing bark in his chest, and was worried about catching the pneumonia that was already rampant among the men. Every one of them had lost weight and their skin was almost burgundy from the cold. Frostbite took the tips of both of Miller’s ears, and even the stalwart Thompson had a painful-sounding cough that plagued him day and night. There was a real likelihood, Ben knew, that some of them would die out here in this forsaken corner of the world. Maybe all of them.

  “I mean it,” Miller said again, his voice hoarse. “I can’t stay here.”

  “You can’t leave,” Ben replied wearily. “That’s desertion. They’ll catch you, and that’d be worse than it is here. Even if they didn’t catch you, where would you go? You’d die out there.”

  Tears squeezed through the corners of Miller’s eyes, and Ben felt a prickling in his own.

  “It’ll get easier,” Ben said.

  “How do you know?”

  “Because it can’t get worse.” Please, God. Don’t let it get worse.

  The snowstorm raged uninterrupted, and yet construction of the outpost continued. After the tenth straight day of the blizzard, they returned to their camp after work and discovered the lake water had risen under the weight of all the snow. With almost half a foot of ice water flooding their tents and the wind blasting too hard for them to consider moving camp, the men dragged their sleds inside to hold their bedding out of the water’s reach. And still the snow fell.

  To Ben’s bewilderment, the prospectors kept coming. Sometimes, when the blizzard briefly eased, he could see the town of Dyea at the bottom of the trail on one side. If he looked the other way he saw the trail to Lake Lindeman. Both sides were marked by a steady line of climbers.

  “Does no one have the sense to stay inside?” Ben wondered out loud.

  Miller shuddered with cold beside him. “Gold fever’s keeping them warm.”

  “Not warm enough.” Every few days they found another frozen corpse abandoned in the snow. Ben would never get used to the sight of them.

  “We can’t stop them from coming,” Miller said. “Makes us pretty much useless up here.”

  We supply the medicine by maintaining sanity in the middle of madness, Inspector Constantine had said.

  “We’re not here to stop them,” Ben reminded him. “Just keep them safe.”

  “Then we’re failing.”

  Ben knew that. They all knew it, but they were doing all they could.

  That afternoon Ben hammered the final one-inch board into place on the outpost, then they roofed the building with a canvas tarpaulin. All that was left to do was install the Maxim machine gun and a Lee Metford carbine. Yukon Commissioner Walsh and Inspector Constantine had ordered them to be hauled up to each summit to serve as visible reminders of the Mounties’ authority. Regardless of the weather, the Maxim would be manned at all times.

  The next morning, Ben and the nine other men in his detachment stood by the brand new Chilkoot Pass outpost, bundled in their buffalo coats, posing for an official photograph as Inspector Belcher hoisted the Union Jack. Afterwards, they squeezed into the new building and inhaled warm air, fragrant with woodsmoke and coffee. For the first time in a long time, Ben enjoyed the rare luxury of slippi
ng off his mitts. He tucked them under his arm and rubbed his hands together until heat sparked within them.

  Inspector Belcher stood at the front of the room, waiting for everyone to settle down.

  “Gentlemen, if you haven’t already, please pour yourself a cup of coffee,” he said, sounding cheerful despite the raging storm outside. “Congratulations on a job well done. Some might have said the construction of this building under these circumstances was impossible, but I am pleased to see that those naysayers underestimated the strength and dedication of the North-West Mounted Police.”

  His next words were cut off by someone coughing, and that seemed to loosen everyone else’s chests as well. The strength of the North-West Mounted Police, Ben thought with regret, had been greatly reduced. He could only hope they might one day recover. After the coughing subsided, Belcher spoke again.

  “In addition to congratulating you, I have an important matter to discuss.” Belcher paused. “We have all seen bodies on the trail. As you can probably imagine, those are not the only ones. Of the travellers who have managed to complete this journey and reach Dawson City and the goldfields, many succumbed shortly after their arrival. A number of those deaths were a result of illness, but others are dying due to their own negligence. They have come all this way with picks and axes, but they have not thought to bring enough food or provisions to survive.”

  Belcher reached for an envelope on his desk, then slid a sheet of paper from within. “To prevent more needless deaths, the North-West Mounted Police will now be enforcing the one-tonne rule, recently established by Yukon Commissioner Walsh. Take a look at this, then pass it along, if you please.”

  After scanning the page, Thompson wordlessly handed it to Ben, who studied the words, then shared it with Miller and the others. On the paper had been typed a long list of items, ranging from a hundred and fifty pounds of bacon to five yards of mosquito netting and a dozen pairs of wool socks.

  “What you see on this list is a year’s worth of supplies,” Belcher explained. “The food is approximately three pounds per man per day. The other items are there because, as we all know, they’ll need much more than food to survive out here. Therefore, each prospector is required to bring every item on this list before they can pass this outpost.”

  “Everything?” Miller blurted. “That’s too much! Why, four hundred pounds of flour alone is fifty dollars!”

  Inspector Belcher eyed Miller. “Everything.”

  As much as Ben hated to side with Miller, he had to ask. “How will that work, Inspector?”

  “You’re familiar with The Scales?” Belcher asked.

  The Scales was the last stopover village before the final climb up to the summit. It offered a number of so-called restaurants, a couple of alleged hotels, a saloon, and a few offices and warehouses. It had its share of entertainment and miscreants, just like all these other improvised towns, but overall Ben remembered it as a place of commerce.

  “The travellers’ freight will be weighed at The Scales before they proceed up the trail,” Belcher said. “When they reach the summit, each traveller will be subject to inspection. If they do not have all the required items, they are not permitted to go through. Simple as that. In addition, all goods purchased outside of Canada will be subject to customs duties.”

  “How can they carry all that?” Miller demanded.

  “They’ll find a way if they want it bad enough.”

  “But they can’t—”

  “Constable Miller, obviously they cannot bring everything at once.” Belcher lowered his voice as if he were speaking to a child. “They must learn to pack properly and carry portions at a time. Between climbs they will leave their belongings here at our post for safekeeping until they have brought everything. If they choose to carry fifty pounds, they will climb the trail twenty times. If they choose to carry twenty pounds, they will climb it fifty times.” His smile was tight. “Do you understand the arithmetic, Constable?”

  “Yes, sir,” Miller said, subdued.

  “Any other questions?”

  The thought of turning all these people around after they’d come so far made Ben feel a little queasy. He knew the climb. Sixteen steep, ice-covered miles each way, all of it done while carrying heavy loads and battling vicious storms and temperatures. But the more Ben thought about it, the more he could see Belcher was right. Shipments of provisions to the Yukon were few and far between.

  Miller was still shaking his head. He pointed at the list. “Yes, sir, but . . . but each man must have thirty pounds of nails? Eight pounds of baking powder? It’s—”

  “That’s enough, Constable. You have your orders, and they will be carried out starting tomorrow morning. Thank you, gentlemen. You are all dismissed.”

  “But—”

  Ben grabbed Miller’s arm. “They’ll die without this rule. We don’t have any way of bringing in supplies later on, when they run out. What Belcher’s saying is that by enforcing this, we’re making sure they’ll help themselves. This is the only way we can give them a fighting chance.”

  Miller pulled out of Ben’s grasp. “It’s too much,” he insisted.

  Thompson finally spoke, putting an end to the conversation. “Let’s hope it’s enough.”

  Liza

  NINE

  “Get a move on, Liza!” Stan called.

  Liza could picture him pacing outside her tent, lips pursed with impatience.

  “I’ll be out in a minute,” she muttered, pulling on her boots. “The mountain’s not going anywhere.”

  Today the climb to the summit began. Up until now, the journey had been relatively easy—the rough conditions had been the worst of it—but no one had any delusions that this next leg would not be every bit as difficult as it looked. Since the mountain was far too steep for any horse and wagon, her father had sold Larry, and now Liza, Stan, and their parents would each pull a sled and carry a pack. Fortunately, her father had also paid a number of Hän packers for their assistance, then he’d spent more money to safely store the family’s remaining provisions in a warehouse in Sheep Camp. After they reached the top, they’d have to repeat the climb until they could bring all their things up.

  When her father said they might even have to climb it three times to get everything, Liza decided she would not be making the trek in her corset and skirts. Feeling both rebellious and smart, she folded her dirty skirts away and pulled on the appropriated trousers, then twirled with delight. They fit just right.

  “What do you think?” she asked Blue, lifting the puppy to her face. Blue’s tiny tongue touched Liza’s nose, which suggested to Liza that she approved. “I agree. Now let’s just tuck you in, then we’re ready to go.”

  When she stepped outside, Stan’s eyes bugged out. “What are you wearing?”

  “Trousers,” she replied, basking in the freedom of taking long steps without being dragged down by miles of material. Men are so fortunate! she thought.

  “Mother’s going to—”

  “Liza!” her mother gasped, and grabbed her husband’s sleeve.

  “What on earth?” Liza’s father said. “Go back and change your clothes, Liza. This is most unseemly.”

  “I will not,” she replied firmly. “Dressed like this, I will be of much greater use. Not only am I warmer, but I can move more easily and carry more.”

  “People will stare!” her mother objected, then she pressed a handkerchief against her mouth and turned away, coughing. She still wasn’t well enough for the trip, Liza kept thinking, but she was determined not to hold them back even one day more.

  “Don’t we want that?” Liza countered. “Isn’t getting noticed the best advertising for a business? Everyone will be sure to remember the girl who wore trousers on the trail.”

  “That’s what I’m worried about,” her mother replied.

  She knew her mother was remembering the ship and that awful man’s unwanted advances, but the more Liza thought about it, the more she knew she was right to dress this
way.

  She took her mother’s hands in her own. “I will be safe, Mother,” she said. “You, Father, and Stan are always with me. Besides, if you think about it, skirts probably draw more of the wrong kind of attention than trousers would.”

  Her mother didn’t look pleased, but she also appeared to consider Liza’s point.

  “If you’re not going to change, I guess there’s nothing I can do about it,” her father said, though he sounded reluctant. “It’s time to go. We shall soon see if your choice in clothing was wise or not.”

  As Liza picked up her pack, she scanned the camp for Larry, wondering if he’d been taken away yet. She assumed her father had sold the horse to the man who had approached them before, offering a price, and she knew how it went: the buyer would lead a herd of the healthiest animals back down to the beach, then sell them again. It saddened Liza to think of poor Larry repeating the whole trip over and over again, but the horses who could not be sold due to festering injuries or crippling exhaustion would fare even worse. They would be left here to drift, and there was neither food nor shelter for the pitiful creatures.

  Stan, who was ready to go, pack on, sled in tow, was staring reverently up the mountain. “The Chilkoot Trail. This is it.”

  “What trail?” Liza said, slinging her pack on and trying not to groan under the weight. “All I see is a wall of rock.”

  “Look there! Way, way up there.”

  She squinted hard, following his finger, but—There! Tiny figures moved ever so slowly towards the summit in a long black line.

  “Are those men? They look like ants!”

  “Let’s join the colony, shall we?” her father said, stepping onto the narrow path.

  Once they were underway, Liza had to agree with her parents at least in one aspect: it didn’t take long for her to get noticed. Women were rare on the trail—a woman wearing trousers was enough to stop some men in their tracks. She pretended not to see the looks or hear the comments tossed her way, but a few turned her stomach.