Books by Sue Henry

by Henry, Sue

  TUESDAY, OCTOBER 5

  LAKE LABERGE, YUKON TERRITORY

  What a wide and wonderful lake this has turned out to be! When the sun came up we were already on our way and could see for miles over the water. A large dark island covered with spruce trees stands out to the northwest and mountains rise all around it.

  To a bird in the air it must seem a jewel in a sea of green that spreads out for hundreds of miles without the suggestion of a road or settlement. Such wilderness is almost impossible to imagine, and here we are in the middle of it, in a small shell of thin wood, floating along. The more I consider, the more I feel like an insect in a puddle, compared to the uninhabited space around me.

  Some white men have been here for years, setting up temporary camps, packing their belongings on their backs and living off the land, searching for gold, though seldom finding it. In these far reaches, with such a tangle of rivers, streams, lakes, and so many hills, it seems incredible that any of them find it at all. Such men are deserving of respect, mad though they may be, but they seem to like it, to wish to live nowhere else. Some settle down with an Indian squaw, though I must admit I do not understand the attraction. Perhaps after so long a time away from civilization a woman of any nation would become acceptable. But these silent shadow-women, who watch without reaction and are not particularly clean, seem unlikely helpmates. Strange. Some of the prospectors are very Indian-like themselves. I can hardly wait to get what I came here for and go home to my dear wife and children. They seem so far away and I miss them.

  All day we rowed over the mirror lake without a hint of wind or current and, luckily, no more snow. The cold remains, however. I have not been truly warm for days. We are camped on the shore again now, eating the same beans for supper that we ate cold at noon. Frank made some biscuits. What I wouldn’t give for an apple, or a bit of boiled cabbage. A turnip? Well, as the saying goes, we are having a thousand things for supper, and every one of them is beans.

  Shall reach Thirty-Mile River tomorrow.

  THURSDAY, OCTOBER 7

  THIRTY-MILE RIVER, YUKON TERRITORY

  I must find a way to talk to Ned alone somehow. But whenever I suggest going for wood or leave the camp for any reason, Ozzy follows me, watches me. He knows I saw the watch fall from his coat pocket when he took out his mittens and that I know it is the Swede’s watch and believe he stole it.

  Late evening before last, when we were all but asleep, a boat full of shouting men pulled in, drawn by the light of our fire. Five Swedes jumped out and asked to camp with us as they desperately needed a quick fire. One of their number had accidentally fallen overboard while lowering the awkward sail they had contrived and was all but frozen. Stripping off his wet clothing and wrapping him in blankets, we built up the blaze and began to get hot liquid into him, along with a shot or two from Ned’s whiskey bottle. Rubbing his extremities brought the color back to his skin and saved him from frostbite, but he was pretty well done in.

  Ozzy wrung out the Swede’s wet clothing and hung it to dry around a second fire. It steamed and was still damp yesterday morning in spots that had frozen as the fire burned low. The party elected to stay there another day, until all was dry and they were sure he was not to have pneumonia. They waved us off early yesterday.

  I remember the victim of the drenching asking about his watch before we left to go on down the lake, and when they could not locate it, he decided that it must have been lost in the lake. Later, when we were well onto the Thirty-Mile, Ozzy pulled his mittens from his pocket and out fell the watch into the bottom of the boat.

  I simply stared at it, and when I looked up, he was watching me. He picked it up and said it was his, but we both knew better without saying so. He even showed it to me and said something about having had it all along. I know it is a lie, for he has, several times on this expedition, asked me for the time. Would he have done so if he had a timepiece of his own? I think not, but cannot prove it. There were only the two of us, no other witness. Unless we meet up with the Swedes again there is no way to say positively. But I know. And he knows that I, at least, suspect.

  What shall I do? Nothing, I suppose, for now. As I say, he has followed me everywhere, without seeming to. I have not been able to speak to Ned once in confidence. All last night, when we camped on the river, he was there, slyly close at my elbow. Either he stays with me, or with Ned, so I cannot speak to him alone.

  Again today this continued and, I have to admit, I am somewhat afraid of him. There is his temper, which I have mentioned before, and he has a cruel streak, a way of expecting things to turn against him and, therefore, to feel the need to protect himself any way he can. I do not like this man Oswald, or trust him. But what can I do? Let him assume I have forgotten the incident. I will act as always and be cautious, but will tell Ned at first opportunity, for I think Ozzy could be dangerous.

  We made our way through the outlet of Lake Laberge and into the rocky reaches of the Thirty-Mile River yesterday morning. We had been warned about the swiftness of the river and its many rocks and underwater bowlders, so we were ready for it and did not relax our vigilance while passing through it. The water was low and gave us a few problems, with Ned once again guiding us along with no major damage.

  Another stream called the Hootalinqua soon came in from the east, adding much to the waters of the Thirty-Mile. By late afternoon we came to the celebrated Cassiar Bar, an area of many sandbars, where we saw fellows panning for gold, especially along one large space covered with sand and gravel. Miners found gold there more than ten years ago and many were still finding color washed down from some unknown source in the hills that no one has been able to locate.

  We put in and camped just below the bar last night, having come approximately fifty miles from Lake Laberge, a good day’s run. The cliffs there were once again very high, over a hundred feet I should think, and very colorful with white and coal-black bands in places.

  Back on the river this morning, we traveled in similar country throughout the day. More than once we passed by cabins on the banks, several set back in the trees. They seemed unoccupied, but it was a good feeling to know others had spent enough time there to erect a log structure, perhaps to spend winters past.

  For the last few nights we have witnessed the Aurora Borealis, or Northern Lights, in bands of glowing greenish-white in the dark sky. They move and pulse in swirls and curtain-like formations, and one can see the brightest stars through them. Almost ghostly in their silence, they yet seem almost alive in the rhythm of their movement. Beautiful and alien, one could watch them for hours, their fascination is completely compelling.

  I write this in the boat, while Ozzy is taking a turn at the oars and cannot read over my shoulder. I have asked several questions about the route, so he will not suspect I am writing about anything but the traveling. I will keep watch, but give him no reason to feel threatened before I can talk to Ned.

  SATURDAY, OCTOBER 9, 1897

  BELOW CARMACKS TRADING POST, YUKON TERRITORY

  The last two days have been as miserable as any on the journey. Yesterday we woke and got under way early, as usual, but it was overcast and much warmer. Just after noon it commenced to rain and was soon pouring so much water down upon us that we were forced to bail the boat. Even in my waterproof coat, I was soaked through in a short time, as was the rest of the party. Rain this time of the year is just short of freezing and seems colder than lower temperatures, however dry. We were chilled to the bone and shivered constantly, though we worked hard at rowing, hoping to make good time. My fingers lost all feeling and were like sticks on the ends of my hands.

  Rain and mist made it hard to see what sort of country we were passing through, but occasionally we could make out high cliffs around us. The river ran swift and smoothly most of the time, carrying us rapidly along. Late in the afternoon, we came around a wide bend and there, to our ragged cheers, was Carmacks Trading Post on the bank ahead.

  Having had enough of the rain, we pulled in
and spent the night in one of his three small log cabins. For the first time in weeks we slept inside four walls, with a roaring fire in the stove to dry out our clothes and gear, and cook a meal on the rarity of a flat surface. What a luxury. I had almost forgotten what it is to be warm. We heated water and washed ourselves, then trimmed each other’s hair and beards. Soon we will be among civilized people again and it seemed right to improve our appearance as much as possible. As a result, our spirits were also much improved, as if cleaning away days of filth lightened our outlook as much as the color of our faces. Snug in our wooden tent, we slept warm and well.

  When we awoke this morning the temperature had dropped and the landscape was a sheet of ice. Freezing as it fell, the rain had covered everything in sight with a crystal coating that gleamed in the early sunlight like Polly’s cut-glass bowl on the windowsill. Each tiny branch of the bushes and trees was encased in ice. Walking was treacherous, as at every step your feet threatened to fly out from under and hurl you to the ground without warning. We moved like decrepit old men, ferrying our belongings from cabin to boat half a load at a time.

  On the next to last load, Ned lost his footing where the bank slopes to the river and, feet and arms up, slid down on his back to fetch up against the bow of the boat, his burden of dry clothing scattered the length of his wild ride. It was fortunate he was uninjured, for we doubled over with laughter at his sad plight and would probably have been unable to keep from doing so had he been broken in pieces. The helpless waving of his arms and legs, and his great howl of indignation, reduced us to kneeslapping roars. In two minutes, however, we were all sliding like children on pieces of sacking and having a gay time of it. Even Ozzie made a couple of trips down the incline, though he growled that it was nonsense and a waste of time, impatient to get under way.

  Very late this afternoon, in half-light, we came through Five Finger and Rink Rapids, which were nothing compared to those above White Horse. Rounding a left-hand bend, we spied four enormous islands of rock ahead, which divided the river into five channels. As we had been warned, we rowed as fast as possible for the right-hand channel and hugged the cliff. That channel is supposedly deeper and has no underwater rocks, so we felt comparatively safe as we felt the boat drop with the rushing current and bound through what must have been two hundred feet of white water with stone walls on either side. It was over so quick we hardly had time to prepare, but were out on smooth water again in only a few seconds.

  Rink Rapids came perhaps five miles later, but were little more than a series of ripples compared to the others we have endured. Soon after we pulled out on a tree-covered island near the shore and set up camp for the night. Tomorrow we will come to where the Pelly River joins this one and we are truly on the mighty Yukon at last. Fort Selkirk is there, which I am anxious to see.

  I spoke with Ned today, when we stopped to make coffee at noon and Ozzy went off for firewood, and told him about Ozzy. He thinks I did well to keep silent and pretend the incident of the watch was forgotten. Reminding me that there is absolutely nothing to be done, he suggested that we wait until we arrive in Dawson. The Swede will catch us up there, he says, and it may be possible to have a word with him about the lost timepiece. I agreed. There is nothing to be gained by confronting Ozzy now. Neither of us, however, wants to work with him in Dawson. We must make sure that he is not included in any partnership we make. In Ned’s mind this also includes Frank Warner, for he and Wilson seem to be an obvious twosome. So we wait and watch, but I feel better for his knowing what I witnessed.

  Twice this evening I have heard the scream of a wild cat in the woods along the west bank. Frank says it may be a lynx. I would like to see one, but it seems unlikely. We never see the wolves we frequently hear howling in the dark.

  We are not far from the end of our journey now. Two or three more days will see us in Dawson City ready to claim our fortunes. I cannot imagine what it must be like and can hardly wait to find myself a claim and dig up some gold. We are all excited in anticipation. It has been a long and hazardous undertaking, but is soon over. What ho!! for Clondyke!

  SUNDAY, OCTOBER 10, 1897

  YUKON RIVER, YUKON TERRITORY

  Fort Selkirk is not a fort at all, or is not one now. According to the proprietor of Harper’s Trading Post, it was burned down over forty years ago by Chilkat Indians who were angry that the Hudson’s Bay Company was taking the fur trade away from them. Only the trading post is left, though its builder, Arthur Harper, has contracted consumption and gone to Arizona for a cure.

  Departing Fort Selkirk, we were on the Yukon proper, which was much swelled with the waters of the Pelly. It grows ever-wider and speeds us along as if it was as anxious as we to reach Dawson City. It is almost dark, as I write this in the boat, but we are reluctant to put in and make camp with our objective so close. Ned has spotted a good campsite, however, so we will pull in, but I wager we will be up early tomorrow, for the last day of our journey.

  I can scarcely contain my excitement at the attainment of our objective. My cheeks ache from the grin which keeps stretching my face. I notice the same from Frank and Ned. Even Ozzy is in a more positive mood. We have made it all the way before freeze-up and I am sorry for those back on Lake Bennett, whose boats will not be completed in time to make the voyage and must wait until spring. We have the jump on them. Perhaps by the time they arrive we will all be rich men and ready to return.

  This trip itself has been worth something, however. To have overcome all the obstacles in our path, the Chilkoot, the lakes, the rapids and rivers, carried all our goods and outfits this incredible distance, seems worthy of recognition. Whatever we find in the gold fields, there will be a sort of anticlimax at the end of all this traveling through the wilderness. We will move on into another part of the venture, which does not include the wide, beautiful, ever-changing reach of hills and valleys that has been our daily experience up to now. I, for one, will miss them. I like this country, rough and rude though it may be, and will not mind remaining in it for a time, though it will soon be blanketed with snow.

  Ice is frozen so far out from the bank that we must break through it to make any kind of landing. Chunks of it slip past or accompany us along with a kind of rustling sound as they bump into each other. We must make haste to reach our destination before we are completely frozen in.

  TUESDAY, OCTOBER 19, 1897

  DAWSON CITY, YUKON TERRITORY

  Over a week since I last opened this journal, and I hardly know what to write. Dawson City is not at all what I had imagined, nor does it compare with the visions of my traveling companions, I am sure.

  The once mud streets of this so-called city are now frozen into ruts and ridges. Hundreds of men walk up and down them, most with nothing to do and nowhere to go. They simply cannot stay still in one place after so many miles of moving ahead as fast as possible to reach this place. All of us are feeling an incredible anticlimax.

  Every inch of ground remotely suspected as gold-bearing has long been claimed and staked. There is no gold to be had for the taking in or around Dawson and little even to share work for. All the claims were filed long before any of us left on the long, difficult passage that brought us here. Indeed, Bonanza and Eldorado Creeks were completely staked, by men already in the territory, six months before the steamer Portland tied up at the Schwabacher dock last summer.

  The city is packed with people, over four thousand of them, without hope of making a strike, and more pour in every day, though the river is freezing fast and will any day be impassable. The expected steamboats with their cargoes of supplies for the winter will not reach us before spring. Captain Hansen of the Alaska Commercial Company left early in September to find out what was delaying five steamboats supposedly bound for Dawson. He returned on the twenty-sixth with the news that they were, and would remain, four hundred miles downstream, near a place called Fort Yukon, marooned by low water in the mud flats. Within hours, over a hundred open boats full of people had left to go do
wnriver, hoping to reach them. A number of others headed south, afoot or by boat. We saw some of them, only one day out of Dawson, and should perhaps have heeded the cry of a man walking south on the bank with a pack on his back, “There’s no food in Dawson. You will starve. Turn back. Turn back.”

  Many stampeders came here with little or no food goods, expecting to buy what they needed here with the gold they would certainly find. But there is nothing to buy, or what little anyone is willing to part with is more valuable than the gold coming out of the ground. Even salt is worth its weight in gold. The A.C. Company has locked its doors and will only allow one man at a time inside to purchase a limited amount of provisions. They line up fifty deep outside, waiting for a chance to buy. It is a desperate situation that can only grow worse when we are wintered in and isolated for the long cold months. Thank God we brought our winter supplies with us and have enough to survive. We have had dozens of offers for what little we have and two days ago caught a blackguard attempting to steal from our cache, so we now keep a firearm handy at all times and watch through the nights.

  The Swedes came in three days behind us. Ned and I meeting two of them on the street asked about their companion who fell overboard. They were sad to inform us that he had indeed contracted pneumonia and died, despite all they could do to save him. Ned gave me a long look, at which I did not mention the watch. We have discussed it and decided to leave well enough alone. There is nothing to be proved and only trouble in accusations. I hate the thought of Ozzy’s getting away with the theft, however. He has become almost impossible, since we arrived and found our hopes dashed. Ill temper and contempt seem his natural state. Even Frank leaves him alone for the most part. Ned and I stick together in town, for Frank and Ozzy have hiked off to search for some opportunity in the goldfields, but the venture seems all but hopeless.