The Trail of the Goldseekers: A Record of Travel in Prose and Verse

by Hamlin Garland

  Do you fear the force of the wind, The slash of the rain? Go face them and fight them, Be savage again. Go hungry and cold like the wolf, Go wade like the crane. The palms of your hands will thicken, The skin of your cheek will tan, You'll grow ragged and weary and swarthy, But you'll walk like a man!

  CHAPTER XI

  HAZLETON. MIDWAY ON THE TRAIL

  We were now but thirty miles from Hazleton, where our second bill ofsupplies was waiting for us, and we were eager to push on. Taking theadvice of the road-gang we crossed the frail suspension bridge (whichthe Indians had most ingeniously constructed out of logs and piecesof old telegraph wire) and started down the west side of the river.Every ravine was filled by mountain streams' foam--white with speed.

  We descended all day and the weather grew more and more summer-likeeach mile. Ripe strawberries lured us from the warm banks. For thefirst time we came upon great groves of red cedar under which thetrail ran very muddy and very slippery by reason of the hard roots ofthe cedars which never decay. Creeks that seemed to me a good fieldfor placer mining came down from the left, but no one stopped to domore than pan a little gravel from a cut bank or a bar.

  At about two o'clock of the second day we came to the Indian villageof Hagellgate, which stands on the high bank overhanging the roaringriver just before it empties into the Skeena. Here we got news of thetramp who had fallen in exhaustion and was being cared for by theIndians.

  Descending swiftly we came to the bank of the river, which was wide,tremendously swift and deep and cold. Rival Indian ferry companiesbid for our custom, each man extolling his boat at the expense of the"old canoe--no good" of his rivals.

  The canoes were like those to be seen all along the coast, that is tosay they had been hollowed from cottonwood or pine trees andafterward steamed and spread by means of hot water to meet themaker's idea of the proper line of grace and speed. They were reallybeautiful and sat the water almost as gracefully as the birch-barkcanoe of the Chippewas. At each end they rose into a sort of neck,which terminated often in a head carved to resemble a deer or somefabled animal. Some of them had white bands encircling the throat ofthis figurehead. Their paddles were short and broad, but light andstrong.

  These canoes are very seaworthy. As they were driven across the swiftwaters, they danced on the waves like leaves, and the boatmen bent totheir oars with almost desperate energy and with most excited outcry.

  Therein is expressed a mighty difference between the Siwash and theplains Indian. The Cheyenne, the Sioux, conceal effort, or fear, orenthusiasm. These little people chattered and whooped at each otherlike monkeys. Upon hearing them for the first time I imagined theywere losing control of the boat. Judging from their accent they wereshrieking phrases like these:--

  "Quick, quick! Dig in deep, Joe. Scratch now, we're goingdown--whoop! Hay, now! All together--swing her, dog-gone ye--SWINGHER! Now straight--keep her straight! Can't ye see that eddy? Whoop,whoop! Let out a link or two, you spindle-armed child. Now _quick_ orwe're lost!"

  While the other men seemed to reply in kind: "Oh, rats, we're amakin' it. Head her toward that bush. Don't get scared--trustme--I'll sling her ashore!"

  A plains Indian, under similar circumstances, would have strainedevery muscle till his bones cracked, before permitting himself toshow effort or excitement.

  With all their confusion and chatter these little people were alwaysmasters of the situation. They came out right, no matter how savagethe river, and the Bulkley at this point was savage. Every drop ofwater was in motion. It had no eddies, no slack water. Its momentumwas terrific. In crossing, the boatmen were obliged to pole theircanoes far up beyond the point at which they meant to land; then, atthe word, they swung into the rushing current and pulled like fiendsfor the opposite shore. Their broad paddles dipped so rapidly theyresembled paddle-wheels. They kept the craft head-on to the current,and did not attempt to charge the bank directly, but swung-tobroadside. In this way they led our horses safely across, and came upsmiling each time.

  We found Hazleton to be a small village composed mainly of Indians,with a big Hudson Bay post at its centre. It was situated on a lovelygreen flat, but a few feet above the Skeena, which was a majesticflood at this point. There were some ten or fifteen outfits campedin and about the village, resting and getting ready for the last halfof the trail. Some of the would-be miners had come up the river inthe little Hudson Bay steamer, which makes two or three trips a year,and were waiting for her next trip in order to go down again.

  The town was filled with gloomy stories of the trail. No one knew itscondition. In fact, it had not been travelled in seventeen years,except by the Indians on foot with their packs of furs. The roadparty was ahead, but toiling hard and hurrying to open a way for us.

  As I now reread all the advance literature of this "prairie route," Iperceived how skilfully every detail with regard to the last half ofthe trail had been slurred over. We had been led into a sort of sack,and the string was tied behind us.

  The Hudson Bay agent said to me with perfect frankness, "There's noone in this village, except one or two Indians, who's ever been overthe trail, or who can give you any information concerning it." Hefurthermore said, "A large number of these fellows who are startingin on this trip with their poor little cayuses will never reach theStikeen River, and might better stop right here."

  Feed was scarce here as everywhere, and we were forced to camp on thetrail, some two miles above the town. In going to and from our tentwe passed the Indian burial ground, which was very curious andinteresting to me. It was a veritable little city of the dead, withstreets of tiny, gayly painted little houses in which the silent andmotionless ones had been laid in their last sleep. Each tomb was ashelter, a roof, and a tomb, and upon each the builder had lavishedhis highest skill in ornament. They were all vivid with paint andcarving and lattice work. Each builder seemed trying to outdo hisneighbor in making a cheerful habitation for his dead.

  More curious still, in each house were the things which the dead hadparticularly loved. In one, a trunk contained all of a girl'smuch-prized clothing. A complete set of dishes was visible inanother, while in a third I saw a wash-stand, bowl, pitcher, andmirror. There was something deeply touching to me in all this. Theyare so poor, their lives are so bare of comforts, that theconsecration of these articles to the dead seemed a greater sacrificethan we, who count ourselves civilized, would make. Each chair, ortable, or coat, or pair of shoes, costs many skins. The set offurniture meant many hard journeys in the cold, long days oftrailing, trapping, and packing. The clothing had a high money value,yet it remained undisturbed. I saw one day a woman and two younggirls halt to look timidly in at the window of a newly erected tomb,but only for a moment; and then, in a panic of fear and awe, theyhurried away.

  The days which followed were cold and gloomy, quite in keeping withthe grim tales of the trail. Bodies of horses and mules, drowned inthe attempt to cross the Skeena, were reported passing the wharf atthe post. The wife of a retired Indian agent, who claimed to havebeen over the route many years ago, was interviewed by my partner.After saying that it was a terrible trail, she sententiously endedwith these words, "Gentlemen, you may consider yourselvesexplorers."

  I halted a very intelligent Indian who came riding by our camp. "Howfar to Teslin Lake?" I asked.

  He mused. "Maybe so forty days, maybe so thirty days. Me think fortydays."

  "Good feed? Hy-u muck-a-muck?"

  He looked at me in silence and his face grew a little graver. "Ha--lomuck-a-muck (no feed). Long time no glass. Hy-yu stick (woods). Hy-uriver--all day swim."

  Turning to Burton, I said, "Here we get at the truth of it. This manhas no reason for lying. We need another horse, and we need fiftypounds more flour."

  One by one the outfits behind us came dropping down into Hazleton inlong trains of weary horses, some of them in very bad condition. Manyof the goldseekers determined to "quit." They sold their horses asbest they could to the Indians (w
ho were glad to buy them), and hiredcanoes to take them to the coast, intent to catch one of the steamerswhich ply to and fro between Skagway and Seattle.

  But one by one, with tinkling bells and sharp outcry of drivers,other outfits passed us, cheerily calling: "Good luck! See youlater," all bound for the "gold belt." Gloomy skies continued to fillthe imaginative ones with forebodings, and all day they could be seenin groups about the village discussing ways and means. Quarrels brokeout, and parties disbanded in discouragement and bitterness. The roadto the golden river seemed to grow longer, and the precious sand moreelusive, from day to day. Here at Hazleton, where they had hoped toreach a gold region, nothing was doing. Those who had visited theKisgagash Mountains to the north were lukewarm in their reports, andno one felt like stopping to explore. The cry was, "On to Dawson."

  Here in Hazleton I came upon the lame tramp. He had secured lodgingin an empty shack and was being helped to food by some citizens inthe town for whom he was doing a little work. Seeing me pass hecalled to me and began to inquire about the trail.

  I read in the gleam of his eye an insane resolution to push forward.This I set about to check. "If you wish to commit suicide, start onthis trail. The four hundred miles you have been over is a summerpicnic excursion compared to that which is now to follow. My adviceto you is to stay right where you are until the next Hudson Baysteamer comes by, then go to the captain and tell him just how youare situated, and ask him to carry you down to the coast. You areinsane to think for a moment of attempting the four hundred miles ofunknown trail between here and Glenora, especially without a cent inyour pocket and no grub. You have no right to burden the otheroutfits with your needs."

  This plain talk seemed to affect him and he looked aggrieved. "Butwhat can I do? I have no money and no work."

  I replied in effect: "Whatever you do, you can't afford to enter uponthis trail, and you can't expect men who are already short of grub tofeed and take care of you. There's a chance for you to work your wayback to the coast on the Hudson Bay steamer. There's only starvationon the trail."

  As I walked away he called after me, but I refused to return. I hadthe feeling in spite of all I had said that he would attempt torustle a little grub and make his start on the trail. The wholegoldseeking movement was, in a way, a craze; he was simply an extremedevelopment of it.

  It seemed necessary to break camp in order not to be eaten up by theSiwash dogs, whose peculiarities grew upon me daily. They were indeedstrange beasts. They seemed to have no youth. I never saw them play;even the puppies were grave and sedate. They were never in a hurryand were not afraid. They got out of our way with the least possibleexertion, looking meekly reproachful or snarling threateningly at us.They were ever watchful. No matter how apparently deep their slumber,they saw every falling crumb, they knew where we had hung our fish,and were ready as we turned our backs to make away with it. It wasimpossible to leave anything eatable for a single instant. Nothingbut the sleight of hand of a conjurer could equal the mystery oftheir stealing.

  After buying a fourth pack animal and reshoeing all our horses, wegot our outfit into shape for the long, hard drive which lay beforeus. Every ounce of superfluous weight, every tool, every article notabsolutely essential, was discarded and its place filled with food.We stripped ourselves like men going into battle, and on the thirdday lined up for Teslin Lake, six hundred miles to the north.

  SIWASH GRAVES

  Here in their tiny gayly painted homes They sleep, these small dead people of the streams, Their names unknown, their deeds forgot, Their by-gone battles lost in dreams. A few short days and we who laugh Will be as still, will lie as low As utterly in dark as they who rot Here where the roses blow. They fought, and loved, and toiled, and died, As all men do, and all men must. Of what avail? we at the end Fall quite as shapelessly to dust.

  LINE UP, BRAVE BOYS

  The packs are on, the cinches tight, The patient horses wait, Upon the grass the frost lies white, The dawn is gray and late. The leader's cry rings sharp and clear, The campfires smoulder low; Before us lies a shallow mere, Beyond, the mountain snow. "_Line up, Billy, line up, boys,_ _The east is gray with coming day,_ _We must away, we cannot stay._ _Hy-o, hy-ak, brave boys!_"

  Five hundred miles behind us lie, As many more ahead, Through mud and mire on mountains high Our weary feet must tread. So one by one, with loyal mind, The horses swing to place, The strong in lead, the weak behind, In patient plodding grace. "_Hy-o, Buckskin, brave boy, Joe!_ _The sun is high,_ _The hid loons cry:_ _Hy-ak--away! Hy-o!_"

  CHAPTER XII

  CROSSING THE BIG DIVIDE

  Our stay at Hazleton in some measure removed the charm of the firstview. The people were all so miserably poor, and the hosts ofhowling, hungry dogs made each day more distressing. The mountainsremained splendid to the last; and as we made our start I looked backupon them with undiminished pleasure.

  We pitched tent at night just below the ford, and opposite anotherIndian village in which a most mournful medicine song was going on,timed to the beating of drums. Dogs joined with the mourning of thepeople with cries of almost human anguish, to which the beat of thepassionless drum added solemnity, and a sort of inexorable marchingrhythm. It seemed to announce pestilence and flood, and made thebeautiful earth a place of hunger and despair.

  I was awakened in the early dawn by a singular cry repeated again andagain on the farther side of the river. It seemed the voice of awoman uttering in wailing; chant the most piercing agony ofdespairing love. It ceased as the sun arose and was heard no more. Itwas difficult to imagine such anguish in the bustle of the brightmorning. It seemed as though it must have been an illusion--a dreamof tragedy.

  In the course of an hour's travel we came down to the sandy bottom ofthe river, whereon a half-dozen fine canoes were beached and waitingfor us. The skilful natives set us across very easily, although itwas the maddest and wildest of all the rivers we had yet seen. Wecrossed the main river just above the point at which the west forkenters. The horses were obliged to swim nearly half a mile, and someof them would not have reached the other shore had it not been forthe Indians, who held their heads out of water from the sterns of thecanoes, and so landed them safely on the bar just opposite the littlevillage called Kispyox, which is also the Indian name of the westfork.

  The trail made off up the eastern bank of this river, which was ascharming as any stream ever imagined by a poet. The water wasgray-green in color, swift and active. It looped away in mostsplendid curves, through opulent bottom lands, filled with wildroses, geranium plants, and berry blooms. Openings alternated withbeautiful woodlands and grassy meadows, while over and beyond allrose the ever present mountains of the coast range, deep blue andsnow-capped.

  There was no strangeness in the flora--on the contrary, everythingseemed familiar. Hazel bushes, poplars, pines, all growth wasamazingly luxuriant. The trail was an Indian path, graceful and fullof swinging curves. We had passed beyond the telegraph wire of theold trail.

  Early in the afternoon we passed some five or six outfits camped on abeautiful grassy bank overlooking the river, and forming a mostsatisfying picture. The bells on the grazing horses were tinkling,and from sparkling fires, thin columns of smoke arose. Some of theyoung men were bathing, while others were washing their shirts in thesunny stream. There was a cheerful sound of whistling and rattling oftinware mingled with the sound of axes. Nothing could be more jocund,more typical, of the young men and the trail. It was one of the fewpleasant camps of the long journey.

  It was raining when we awoke, but before noon it cleared sufficientlyto allow us to pack. We started at one, though the bushes were loadedwith water, and had we not been well clothed in waterproof, we shouldhave been drenched to the bone. We rode for four hours over a goodtrail, dodging wet branches in the pouring rain. It lightened atfive, and we wen
t into camp quite dry and comfortable.

  We unpacked near an Indian ranch belonging to an old man and hiswife, who came up at once to see us. They were good-looking, ruggedold souls, like powerful Japanese. They could not speak Chinook, andwe could not get much out of them. The old wife toted a monstrous bigsalmon up the hill to sell to us, but we had more fish than we couldeat, and were forced to decline. There was a beautiful spring justback of the cabin, and the old man seemed to take pleasure in havingus get our water from it. Neither did he object to our horses feedingabout his house, where there was very excellent grass. It was acharming camping-place, wild flowers made the trail radiant even inthe midst of rain. The wild roses grew in clumps of sprays as highas a horse's head.

  Just before we determined to camp we had passed three or four outfitsgrouped together on the sward on the left bank of the river. As werode by, one of the men had called to me saying: "You had bettercamp. It is thirty miles from here to feed." To this I had merelynodded, giving it little attention; but now as we sat around ourcampfire, Burton brought the matter up again: "If it is thirty milesto feed, we will have to get off early to-morrow morning and make asbig a drive as we can, while the horses are fresh, and then make thelatter part of the run on empty stomachs."

  "Oh, I think they were just talking for our special benefit," Ireplied.

  "No, they were in earnest. One of them came out to see me. He said hegot his pointer from the mule train ahead of us. Feed is going to bevery scarce, and the next run is fully thirty miles."

  I insisted it could not be possible that we should go at once fromthe luxuriant pea-vine and bluejoint into a thirty-mile stretch ofcountry where nothing grew. "There must be breaks in the forest wherewe can graze our horses."