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Text originally published in 1957 under the same title.
© Papamoa Press 2017, all rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted by any means, electrical, mechanical or otherwise without the written permission of the copyright holder.
Publisher’s Note
Although in most cases we have retained the Author’s original spelling and grammar to authentically reproduce the work of the Author and the original intent of such material, some additional notes and clarifications have been added for the modern reader’s benefit.
We have also made every effort to include all maps and illustrations of the original edition the limitations of formatting do not allow of including larger maps, we will upload as many of these maps as possible.
GO NORTH, YOUNG MAN
Modern Homesteading in Alaska
BY
GORDON STODDARD
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Contents
TABLE OF CONTENTS 5
Chapter I—Don’t Come Home 6
Chapter II—Flat Broke 10
Chapter III—The Wrong Pew 14
Chapter IV—The Search 19
Chapter V—The Homestead 27
Chapter VI—Greasy Grogan 33
Chapter VII—The Actor 39
Chapter VIII—Ski and the Crazy Cat 44
Chapter IX—The Snow Melted and There It Was 53
Chapter X—Mansion in the Woods 59
Chapter XI—Home Brew 64
Chapter XII—Neighbors 69
Chapter XIII—The Rich Homesteaders 78
Chapter XIV—Jack of All 84
Chapter XV—The Bear Facts 89
Chapter XVI—Without a Wife 98
Chapter XVIII—Civilization 103
Chapter XVIII—Spring Fever 109
Chapter XIX—Land for Sale 114
Chapter XX—Ruination of a Sport Fisherman 118
Chapter XXI—The Visitation 125
Chapter XXII—Pets and Livestock 133
Chapter XXIII—The Season’s Work 137
Chapter XXIV—Tourists 144
Chapter XXV—Fire! Fire! 149
Chapter XXVI—Winter, Art and Pinochle 154
Chapter XXVII—The Moose and Me 160
Chapter XXVIII—Spring, Tenants and Sandy 168
Chapter XXIX—Goodbye, Alaska! 174
REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER 180
Chapter I—Don’t Come Home
“DON’T COME HOME until you’ve made good,” said my father.
I gulped and stepped on my starter. My last bridge was burning.
“But,” continued Dad, leaning through the car window and laying an affectionate hand on my shoulder, “it you get into trouble or run short of cash—drop me a line.” Good old Dad.
We shook hands—hard. I raced the motor, pulled away from the curb. Dad was still standing there on the sidewalk beside the tall, gray apartment house, his blue suit rumpled in the way it always was, his curly white hair lifting slightly in the stiff morning breeze, when Ï took my last, long look at him in my rear view mirror.
As I wove my way through the traffic of Van Ness Avenue, I wondered what kind of a send-off my father’s father had given him in 1910, when he had headed for the frozen north. Had it been a case of “Don’t come home” then? But he had come home, he had made good. And now I was traveling the same old path. But there was a difference: while my father had ended up in northern British Columbia, I was trying to go him one better by aiming farther north—at Alaska.
And there were other differences. My father had left San Francisco with only $58 in his purse; I was starting out with $1200. He had trekked by steamer, on horseback and by dogsled; I was driving an almost-new business coupe which would, I hoped, take me all the way. He was a has-been; I was a 1950 Model Pioneer. Make good? I couldn’t help making good!
*****
When I was discharged from the Navy in 1946 I had been like thousands of other ex-G.I.’s: restless, switching jobs at a moment’s notice, starting college and then quitting to try something else, having no definite goal in mind but searching, searching, searching for I didn’t know what. I was in a rut. I didn’t like cities, I didn’t like the pace of post-war life, I was a guy whose greatest joy had always been to get away from it all—preferably with a fishing pole as my only companion beside a high mountain stream. Was I doomed forever to the drab existence of the unhappy commuters I saw rushing past me on the streets?
One day in San Francisco I met a fellow who talked to me about Alaska. Alaska—the last frontier, a place where a veteran could homestead 160 acres and own them in seven months; where a man had to work only six months out of a year to make a good living; where the fish jumped onto your hook without formal invitation and the moose stood still to be shot.
“I’m a horticulturist,” I said. “Do you suppose there’s any growing land up there?”
“Well, the Matanuska Valley’s the agricultural center of the Territory, but that’s all taken up. But have you ever heard of the Kenai Peninsula? It’s almost as big as California. I hear tell there’s a lot of good farming ground there, and it’s open to homesteaders now.”
“That’s for me!” I shouted. And sending away for pamphlets, books and government bulletins, I had started laying plans.
For two years I had made my preparations. I had gathered all the available information on homesteading, collected maps on the Alcan Highway and Alaska itself, stayed on my job as a plant propagator for a big wholesale-retail nursery, saved my money, bought a new car for the trip, collected equipment I thought I would need—a war surplus parka, a crab net, a Coleman stove, and some new fishing gear.
And I had listened to my father. As far back as I could remember he had told me yarns about his conquest of northern British Columbia, of how, as a “cheechako,” he had created a town, founded a newspaper in a wilderness where he had had to “make” the news in order to have something to set up in type. I had asked him to tell the stories again, and when I told him of my dream of going to Alaska his enthusiasm had risen to fever pitch. “I always knew one of my sons would want to see the north country some day, too,” he had chortled. “Go to it, boy! You have my blessing!”
*****
I stepped on the gas and all 90 horses at my command leaped to obey—90, to my father’s one. And as I drove I sang. The tune was an old one—every California kid sings it from the time he can open his mouth—but the words were my own: “Alcan Highway, here I come, right past where Dad started from...”
Somewhere around midnight of that day—the date was May 1—I hit my first planned stop, Twin Falls, Idaho. I had rushed through California, ignored Nevada: I was a man in a hurry to get to my goal.
Since sleeping in my car as often as possible was a necessity if I didn’t want to spend too much money along the way—and I didn’t—I pulled off onto a side road and curled up in my sleeping bag, using the luggage compartment as my bed and the driver’s seat, with the back laid flat, as my pillow. In the morning I awoke to find a flat tire on my right rear wheel. After unloading the sleeping bag, extra blankets, Coleman stove, well-stocked grub box, ten gallons of extra gas, five gallons of water, assorted fishing tackle, assorted clothing and my crab net, I managed to reach the spare tire and bumper jack. Then I knew what my father had meant when he said, “Better leave all that junk behind, son. When I went north all I took was a bearskin coat and a cocker spaniel pup.”
“Maybe so,” I had replied, grinning. “But what was
the fur coat for?” That’s me: the kidder of the family.
During the next week, in spite of my original haste, I acted like a tourist. When I found a spot I liked, and where the fishing was good, I lingered for awhile. Yellowstone Park was the site of one long stopover, Glacier National Park another. At the latter park it was a couple with a pretty daughter that held me, and the only thing that saved me from lingering longer, and from forgetting all about Alaska and the frozen north, was their sudden departure for the same destination. They promised, as they left, to meet me in the Yukon Territory “for some more fishing,” but I followed them as far as Calgary, lost them in the traffic and never saw them again. Another roadside romance had gone with the gas—but it had served the purpose of advancing me a few steps closer to my goal.
At Edmonton, Alberta, I was forced to turn all my attention to my driving. The road very rapidly became a morass of dirt, mud, ruts and potholes, sometimes disintegrating into nothing more navigable than a couple of wheel tracks zigzagging haphazardly across somebody’s hay field. Gas stations almost entirely disappeared. Flat tires occurred with increasing frequency, and when I stopped to cook a meal on the Coleman stove and grab a few hours of rest, battalions of vicious mosquitoes and clouds of flying bugs fought me for every bite of food, every wink of sleep.
The start of the Alaska Highway—or the Alcan, as it is more often called—is at Dawson Creek, British Columbia, a thriving little city where the prices, I felt, were unreasonably high. I found everything I thought I would need for the trip ahead in the stores of the town but parted with considerable cash in the process. Then I loaded up with gasoline, squared my shoulders and took off for the wilderness. This, I knew, was the point of no return.
The road, after the dry stream bed I had been traveling for so many miles, was a pleasant surprise—two full lanes, and nicely graveled. Nevertheless, the tales I had heard about the Alcan echoed hollowly in my head. “You can’t travel it in the spring—only in the winter, when it’s frozen, or in the summer, when it’s dry,” I had been told. “And if your car breaks down, look out. There are only a few service stations along the way, and no real garages. Take all the car parts you think you’ll need and plenty of extra gas and water. Take plenty of gas PERIOD: the prices are prohibitive. Better take lots of food, too: it might be days before another traveler came along and found you stranded. And as for tires—you can wear out twenty of them without half trying.”
Five days and 600 miles later, after nosing through acres of unbroken forest—part of which was burning, unattended—and after passing only one real settlement—Fort Nelson—and changing at least ten of the twenty tires I had been warned about, I arrived at Watson Lake, just over the border from British Columbia in the Yukon Territory.
Watson Lake was marked in red on the map. It should have been; it represented red-letter food prepared by somebody else, a red-letter hotel room and a red-letter bath.
The Watson Lake Hotel, a big log, two-story building, was almost full up—so much so that it looked like a Shriners’ Convention at Atlantic City, except that the guests, far from being fat, jolly and obnoxious, looked lean, hungry and discouraged. I talked to some of them and found out why: most of them were Americans heading back to the States because “there ain’t no work in Alaska.” The carpenters and plumbers, they told me, were on strike in Anchorage; the jails were full of broke construction men, and the gutters of Alaska—when there were gutters—were full to overflowing. “We’re gettin’ out while the gettin’s good,” they said. “You’d better turn around right now, sonny, and hightail it back for home.”
I listened to more tales of woe. A great many of the men—some of them around my age (25)—were selling everything they owned to raise enough cash to buy airplane tickets to the States. One enterprising ex-pioneer had held an open-air auction the day before I arrived and sold his entire stock of canned goods, clothing and camping equipment to the Indians. He had been a homesteader, he told me.
“But what happened? What went wrong?” I asked him.
He looked at me in a funny way. “Homesteading’s fine, but you can’t keep it up without holding down a summer job too,” he said.
I felt for my wallet in the hip pocket of my jeans. Still there. ‘I’m rich,” I told myself. “I can live for a long time without getting a job.” But just the same I made up my mind to get out of Watson Lake after a couple of days’ rest and head—fast—for Anchorage. No more tourist stuff for me. I had lingered too long on the road.
Once the word got around that I had “plenty of the green stuff” in my possession—and those things do get around—a concerted campaign began. I was invited to several impromptu parties in the various rooms of the hotel and usually found myself buying all the drinks. Even the proprietor of the hotel got into the act: he tried to sell me some mangy wolf pelts and a couple of silver fox furs “cheap.” Reasoning that he probably had in mind skinning me in Canada before I could be fleeced in United States territory, I bargained with him, using a system I had learned—the hard way—in the Philippines during the war. When I got him down to a fair price, I walked away.
This probably accounted for the trouble I had with the proprietor on the following morning, when I paid my bill with a hundred-dollar traveller’s check. The exchange was ten percent in favor of Americans at that time, but there was a rumor that it would go back to par within a few days, and he seemed to think those few days had already passed. We haggled back and forth until I was glad to take five percent, just to keep the peace and be on my way. I wasn’t to realize my mistake in accepting Canadian currency at all until my arrival in Anchorage three days later.
Chapter II—Flat Broke
THERE I WAS in Alaska—flat broke.
As I sat on the steps of the United States Post Office watching the people of Anchorage hurrying through the swinging doors, I fingered, for the hundredth time, the contents of my wallet. There was a cashier’s check for $600. There were three hundred-dollar traveller’s checks. There was $84 in Canadian currency. I knew them by heart.
I shifted my position, dug into my pockets, came up with fifty cents in American silver coin.
Yet I was as good as broke. It was late Saturday afternoon, and no one would take a chance on cashing one of my checks. I had tried bar after bar, store after store. “No, no, no,” they had said. And they had laughed when I proffered the Canadian bills. Did I think Canadian money was legal tender in Alaska? On your way, brother.
As for the quarter, two dimes and a nickel—well, I wasn’t sure they would buy me even a full cup of coffee in this boom town of 1950.
Getting up to start walking aimlessly down the main street of “the biggest city in the Territory,” I gazed disconsolately around. Except for the snow-capped mountains towering behind and the immense inlet—Cook Inlet—at its feet, Anchorage was like any small city in the States. There were the same stores with the same “modern” fronts, the same busy people hurrying to catch the last bus home, the same hundreds of unfamiliar faces rushing past me without a glance in my direction, all bent on their own problems and errands. As I passed a bar a shabbily-dressed, unshaven character clutched my arm. “How about lending me a buck, mate?” he rasped. “I haven’t eaten since yesterday.” Spreading my hands to show that I was in the same condition as he, I shook him off. “It’s the same everywhere you go,” I thought. What had ever made me think Alaska would be different?
Rummaging through my pockets again in an effort to find a stray dollar bill, I found instead a crumpled slip of paper inscribed in my father’s fine, bold hand. The name I read was that of a lawyer, a former mayor of Anchorage, a fraternity brother of Dad’s. I bit my lip, stared off into space. “Contacts” was my father’s favorite word, and the gospel he preached to his sons. “You can’t get along in this world without contacts,” he had always said. I had never agreed with him. “Ability,” I had insisted stubbornly. “Ability’s what counts.” But now I was in a spot in which any straw was to be grabbe
d at. By gosh, I’d see this contact!
It didn’t take me long to find the address written on the slip of paper. It was a big, modern office building, and as I entered its marble halls I became acutely conscious of my three-days’ growth of beard, of the ragged condition of my dirty shirt and jeans. Prosperous-looking men in well-pressed business suits went in and out while I studied the bronze plaque listing the building’s tenants, and I imagined—or maybe I didn’t—that they were calling me “bum” under their well-bred breaths.
On the third floor I reached my objective, a heavy glass door with the legend, “John Manders, Attorney-at-Law,” engraved in impressive gold leaf. With a slightly shaking hand I opened the door to be confronted by the cold, unfriendly eyes of two women seated behind desks.
“Yes? What is it?” said one of them, looking me up and down.
I turned halfway around with the idea of escaping before someone called a policeman, but thinking better of it, I stared boldly back at the woman who had spoken and said, “I’d like to see Mr. Manders.”
“And just what would you like to see him about?”
Ignoring her tone of voice, I decided to make a clean breast of my situation. And as I told my story the two secretaries visibly thawed, and one of them asked me to sit down and wait until Mr. Manders had finished with a client.
After fifteen minutes—during which I consumed one cigarette after another in my nervousness—the door to the inner sanctum opened and a well-dressed woman walked out. In the doorway stood a man of about my father’s age, short and heavy-set, with a few scattered white hairs on an almost bald head. “What can I do for you, young man?” he said.
“You can do a lot for me, sir,” I answered. “My father, Harry Stoddard, gave me your name and address and said to look you up when I got here. Well, here I am.” Now we’d see how well contacts worked!
Suddenly I wasn’t a burn any more: I was the younger son of a beloved friend. “Well, well, well!” cried the lawyer. “Come in, my boy! Come in! I’ve been expecting you!”
Gordon Stoddard Page 1
