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of two neighboring nationalities. Here was the
most concentrated mass movement of American
citizens onto Canadian soil in all our history. In
the space of fewer than eighteen months, some
fifty thousand men and women – brought up
with the social, legal and political traditions of the
United States – found themselves temporarily
under a foreign flag, obeying, however
reluctantly, foreign regulations, and encountering
a foreign bureaucracy and officialdom.’
In Dawson the Canadians were out numbered 5
to 1.’
If we undertook this adventure to the Northwest
because it was there or we just had the wander
lust, Pierre Berton changed all of that. We now
shifted our appreciation and interests to the
Klondike, the Yukon, and the great northwestern
gold rush. Alaska for me had become secondary.
Since we came over ‘The Summit’ our world had
changed. No longer were we within distance of a
garage, if we needed one. Our campgrounds
didn’t have electricity, only private generators.
There was no potable water, only what we carried
with us. The most telling of the change was the
mail. Mail along the highway was collected every
three days and carried either to Whitehorse or to
Ft. Nelson. It reminds me of America’s Pony
Express days.
The realization of these changes came to us
slowly. Our water was getting low, we had
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worked our way through 5 gallons down to 2.
The van needed water. The tires had held up,
including the flat we fixed in West Yellowstone,
our brake fluid was okay as well as power
steering. But our radiator and windshield fluid
was down a little. I used some of our remaining
water to fill them. It was really important to keep
our windshield clear, and it took a lot of water to
do that.
Heat and smoke became important, one to keep
the dampness away from us during the day and
the other to keep the mosquitoes away, night and
day.
We had packed a ¾ size axe, which I sharpened
before we left. After uncovering it, at the bottom
of the van’s rear seat well I used it on the camps
wood supply. It worked really well. I’d split the
logs into either kindling or larger chunks.
Fortunately, there was no need to chop through
any log. So by putting the axe on the log and
pounding it with another piece of wood I split
enough for us.
I’ve always enjoyed making fires, but since we’ve
been out I find that the smoke causes me
breathing problems. We don’t have many fires,
and I always try to limit the smoke. All of our
fires are built in a contained area, like the fire
barrel in this picture. Never-the-less building
them is fun. I prefer two methods; the first is a
Tepee construction. It burns fast with a high
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flame. It doesn’t last as long and is difficult to
tend, particularly if you are using the grill.
The other method, is less spectacular. I
employed it here to lay a base and build a ‘lean to’
construction. It takes more time to build, but is a
more robust, longer lasting, easier to manage, and
accommodates a grill.
The mail was another realization. We had bills to
pay and were afraid they wouldn’t get to Florida
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or Connecticut in time. If we put them in the
‘Pony Express’ we weren’t sure when they would
get out, 3 to 5 days or more. We expected to be
in Whitehorse in a couple of days and could mail
them there. Hoping that they would be flown to
Vancouver and then to Seattle and around the
United States. That seemed the best alternative.
We wrote our bills while in camp and tucked
them away for Whitehorse.
The realization of the wilderness came to us
through another camper. He had been in Laird
Hot Springs for several weeks and his story gave
us a different perspective. He had watched the
summer develop through late spring and into the
middle of June.
He asked us one day if we had seen the moose in
the wetlands. We told him that we looked for
them every day and usually saw a couple
including the small calf. He replied that the calf
was a twin, but several weeks before, the twin
had been killed by a black bear.
It was in the wetlands, right beside the
campgrounds. He told us that the Rangers knew
of at least 4 black bears around the camp. Maybe
we had seen one down by the bridge.
That’s scary and all of a sudden I wasn’t so sure
that moose were the most dangerous animal in
the forest. Black Bears, no all bears had suddenly
been elevated to a higher position on the list.
Just below humans, but that’s another story.
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Years ago I had wanted to camp in Northern
Quebec, with a canoe. I would be able to paddle
and portage my way deep into the woods. I had
asked my Uncle Jenkin about taking a gun. He
told me that the only thing I needed to be worry
of were humans. That wild animals would stay
away, if I protected my food. I’ve always
believed that, and never had a gun.
Here in the wilderness, there would be no animal
relocation, like in Yellowstone or probably Banff.
No, we were so remote that such problems like
bears would be allowed to finish us.
There was one more story, from the proprietor
of Trader Ray’s. She said the wolves had cleared
out most of the large animals, the moose, elk and
buffalo, and there were very few left. We’re not
sure about wolf stories, as so many westerners
are dead set against them. Most of the American
West hunted them into extinction by 1920. And
only in the last 2 years have they been brought
back into Yellowstone. Even then it was really
controversial. From time to time in the night we
could hear a wolf howl, but we never saw one.
These experiences and stories grew on us and we
were now believing that we were indeed in the
wilderness. Not so much alone, but there was
very little of the civilization’s tools or services
around us anymore.
The squirrel came back last night while we were
taking down the tarp and packing some of our
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things; to get ready to leave in the morning.
Arlene was pretty good. I told her to get off the
campsite and she did. I got out the water gun
and shot it again. It left, and she returned.
I worry that she would freeze in the face of some
large animal. I don’t know what I’ll do if we
encounter a bear, and she can’t move. I don’t
mean run, I mean think or act, or unable to wave
her arms or listens to commands. I’m sure it
worries her also.
th
Early on June 24 I climbed up the boardwalk
and took my last swim in the hot springs. By
5:30 a.m. I was back in camp and ready to leave.
We had taken the tarp down the night before and
packed most of our goods. We only needed to
repack, moving most of our things from the
front seats to the back and around our sleeping
mattresses.
We are back on the highway, which is sometimes
a hardtop and sometimes a soft dusty road. We’d
like it to be dry when its dirt, but don’t always get
our wish. We arrived at Contact Creek and got
out to look around. This is where two Army
regiments met in September 1942 and finished
the southern leg of the ALCAN.
It is also our first excursion into the Yukon
Territory. Contact Creek is on the border of
British Columbia and the Yukon. We would
follow the border in and out of BC and the
Yukon several times during the rest of the day
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and settle at our next camp in Teslin’s Territorial
Campground.
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We had been encountering highway signs for a
place called Mucluck Annie’s. There are so few
signs along the highway that when one sees one
we are always drawn to them and have to read
even if they are totally inconsequential. Mucluck
Annie’s signs were bright orange, large and
advertised all the things anyone would want in
the Yukon. A restaurant, tourist trappings, and
souvenirs, a motel with nice orange cabins for
sleeping. If all of those things weren’t
important, blueberry pancakes, bacon and eggs
are impossible to pass up, and there were the
auto and RV services. It had a garage that
serviced big rigs, trucks and trailers. And a pump
stand that for free, you could wash our vehicle.
It was the splash of the place, and along with
other travelers we lined up to spray our vehicles.
We had the special, all you can eat pancakes,
heaped high, with blueberries, sunny side up
eggs, bacon, coffee and orange juice. Our
stomachs full and our van moderately clean we
were on our way. The van may never be the
same, as the dirt builds, cakes and sticks like glue.
Most of the places we pass are remote but
Watson Lake had a little village, where we bought
some groceries and gas. Beyond it we passed
several semi trucks. One threw some gravel on
us and put a hole in the windshield about the size
of a penny. It looked like a bullet hole.
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Teslin was on a pretty lake. The river flowed
through it and we’d heard there was good fishing.
We rated it as a 2, the black flies and mosquitoes
were a real problem.
We also heard some terrible news. A report had
come from Laird Hot Springs where a black bear
attacked a family. A lady had been mauled to
death by the bear as her two children watched.
The report said another man who tried to save
her was also killed. A couple of hikers threw
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rocks to try to scare the bear away, but it didn’t
help much. Several others were hurt in the
attack. This was dreadful. We had just been
there in the morning.
We’ll move on to Whitehorse, the Capital of the
Yukon tomorrow.
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CHAPTER 2
THE YUKON: GOLD RUSH STAMPEDE
Welcome to the Yukon Territory. Named for the
longest river in North America. Yukon means
the ‘Great River’. It has a fabled past, one that
matches it’s rugged climate and it’s people. It’s
the arctic with long cold, snowy winters and
short summers.
We’ve been in and out of the Yukon several
times, since Contact Creek, but once we got to
the Teslin River we we’re here to stay.
Whitehorse is just ahead of us. Look at the
beautiful dusty dirt road we’re traveling. I’ve
mentioned the smoke from campfires; how it
makes it difficult for us to breath. Well, this dust
is so light and it also causes us trouble. It catches
in our throats. Maybe we’ll get a couple of paint
masks at a hardware store to wear while driving.
We’re still upset about the bear mauling of those
campers in Laird Hot Springs, but trying to put
the incident behind us.
For sixty years the Yukon Territory has held a
position second only to our wild west. It’s been
represented by a couple of characters living in the
wilds of the furthest reaches of Western Canada.
Where gold was panned, and the police chased
down the unsavory characters who broke the law.
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One of these characters wore a straight brimmed
hat, bright red coat and blue trousers with a gold
stripe and polished tall black boots. He had a
gun with a metal loop on the butt of the handle,
attached to a lanyard which looped around his
neck. He couldn’t lose it in the deep snow, and
there was always snow. He was the Royal
Canadian Mounted Policeman; Sergeant Preston.
The other character, was a trapper and miner;
shorter, had a scruffy beard and wore a beaver
hat, a heavy red and black mackinaw, with dirty
brown pants and tie up brown boots. He was a
wily character that you wouldn’t trust, but was
plenty keen and foxy.
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Here we were, sixty years later, keeping our eyes
peeled for those guys, they might still be around.
Arlene thought it would be a good idea to treat
ourselves to a night at a motel in Whitehorse the
capital of the Yukon. We looked around, but
didn’t find anything until we were in the middle
of town. That was okay, as we could walk
around and see the sites. We eventually found a
hotel, and we supposedly got the last room. Who
cared, we liked the place, downtown, and it had a
bed, and shower. What if it was above the
saloon.
After signing up we went for a walk down Main
Street to the famous Klondike Steamship. It was
built in the 1920’s so didn’t have much to do
with the Gold Rush. But it was interesting, and
had an amazingly shallow draft of only 4 feet.
Inside there were piles of supplies that were the
standard cargo of the day. Everything was
packed in heavy wooden boxes.
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We seldom think about the weight of our
supplies today, with dried food, aluminum poles
and nylon tents and tarps. But those things have
changed drastically in our life time; since World
War II. Weight isn’t a factor, with our powerful
vehicles carrying our equipment. Our equipment
is a testimony to the change. Back in the 1930’s
my mom and dad’s tent was made of heavy
cotton duck. As a youngster I couldn’t carry it,
much less the iron poles and spider that held the
tent.
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Around the corner just south of us was the great
falls of the river. It had been blasted away, but
before it was one of the most treacherous
stretches of the river. During the Klondike Gold
Rush the Yukon River was the main avenue to
Dawson City. Here is a photo of the calm
dynamited horse heads section of the Yukon
now.
Thousands of ‘ Gold Rushers’ had built boats,
paddled and sailed Bennett Lake, the source of
the Yukon River, down the river and over the
falls. The waves were said to be 20 feet high,
many of them lost their lives and supplies in the
rapids. These waves were called ‘horseheads’ and
the town was built at the bottom of them, by the
‘rushers’. They named it ‘Whitehorse’.
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Back in town we stopped at a small knitting and
yarn store. The lady there was in her 50’s, tall
and slender, and looked active. After talking with
her for a while we found that she collected much
of the materials, and furs from the ‘First Nation’
Indians, throughout Yukon and the Northwest
Territories. She made her own yarn out of it. We
were most interested in the Musk Ox fur called
Quivet. It’s the finest fur so soft, so luxurious,
and so precious that the smallest amount cost
more than we could afford. She made hats,
scarves, and sweaters of Quivet.
She had other items, like Polar Bear furs and
dolls that she had made. They were all beautiful,
yet we yearned for Quivet piece. Here is a small
pouch with instructions for it’s care. We bought
a couple for gifts.
We were truly on a run now and stopped at the
post office. We bought air mail stamps and sent
off our cards, letters and bills. They told us the
mail would fly into Vancouver and then to
Seattle, before being sorted and sent around the
US.
It was time to grab a bite for supper. We
stopped in the saloon and had a burger with fries,
and beer. It was okay. Then we retreated
upstairs to our room, a hot shower and a good
night’s sleep.
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That was a good plan, but we found the room a
little warm and opened the windows. It was after
10 pm and still light out. We’d been trying to
sleep when tired, and not according to the clock.
or sunlight. What we couldn’t control was the
blasting loud saloon band music, and the wild
rabble that was smoking and drinking their way
into the night.
Of all the times to make a big splurge this
probably wasn’t it. We were serenaded until after
3 p.m. by the band and the smokers, with the
heat filtering up into our room. We might have
dozed on and off, but certainly didn’t sleep.
Trying to make the best of it we did take several
showers, one when we arrived, one before bed
and one in the morning before checking out.
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We were clean as a whistle. Later, we stopped
outside of town, just long enough to look over
one of these seaplanes.
This one the ‘de Havilland Beaver, was the ‘Bush
Plane’ that made exploring Alaska and Canada
possible. This plane was so powerful it could
take off on a quarter, and land on a dime. It was
and is such an important part of the history of
this country that a little background was in order.
After World War II a British company hired an
Alaskan Bush Pilot named ‘Punch’ Dickens.
Punch talked to a lot of pilots and presented the
Canadian’s interest for the de Havilland with a
list of needs. A plane that was designed for flight
in rugged and remote areas, with short takeoff
and landing, and stall capabilities, STOL.
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They included landing options with big wheels
for rough terrain, skis for snow and winter travel
and pontoons to land on lakes, and rivers. A
huge power plant; doors on both sides, so wide
that a moose could run through them, and a
metal body for structure and long life.
The de Havilland Beaver and ‘Punch’ got
everything they wanted including a 450 hp Pratt
& Whitney Wasp II engine, and longer wings for
easier take offs. There are hundreds of them all
over the Northwest, many modified for special
use.
Bush Pilots were and are a special breed, one that
seems to match this wilderness. They are tough,
strong minded individuals with a williness to
succeed and the daring to try. There are several
books that tell of the adventures of these pilots.
One that may be difficult to acquire, but is a rip
to read is ‘Outlaw Pilot: True Adventures of
Jimmy ‘Midnight’ Anderson’. Jimmy Midnight
flew a Piper Cub into the most impossible places,
sometimes with huge balloon tires, sometimes
with ski’s, depending on the season and the
terrain he flew into. He showed no fear of wild
animals, rocky shorelines, rough pastures or
dense forests.
Once it’s said he was contracted to bring in a live
caribou. He emptied his piper cub, stripped it
down, to make it as light as possible. With
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balloon tires he landed on a rocky mountain top.
There he set a trap and caught a caribou in a net,
and lugged it into the plane. On the way back
home the caribou kicked the canvas sides of the
plane to shreds. I’m hooked on these planes, but
we needed to move along.
Just ten miles out of Whitehorse we came to a
crossroads. To the left the Alcan Highway
headed northwest along the Wrangell Mountains.
They stretched out along the side of the high
mountain chain that makes the sea voyage from
Prince Rupert so spectacular. That mountain
chain of 12,000 to 15,000 foot peaks separates
the interior of northern Canada and Alaska from
the rolling hills of 2,000 to 4,000 feet.
To the right and north, following the Yukon
River toward Dawson City, the home of the
1890’s Gold Rush. We chose the Klondike
Highway. It was a good narrow hardtop road. It
got even narrower when the trucks filled with
lead-zinc ore came hauling ass past us.
We arrived in Carmacks, a town named after the
most important fellow in the Klondike Gold
Rush. We stopped here for an ice cream as it was
a beautiful day, sunny and middle 70’s. Carmacks
is where the rush for gold all began.
George Camack ran a trading post, until it went
broke in the 1890’s. He also panned for gold.
One day he uncovered $5 worth. Not so much
you might say, unless you realized the usual
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amount was 50 times less, or about $0.10, cents..
He had hit the MOTHER LOAD, and during the
next winter, 1896 he pulled out more than a ton
of gold.
That’s beyond belief. One U.S. short ton equals
2,000 pounds which equals an amazingly dizzy
and dazzling 32,000 ounces of GOLD. Let’s say
gold was worth $300 an ounce in 1896; that
converts to $9,500,000 million dollars, enough to
start any kind of rush. George in consideration
of his good fortune renamed his creek
BONANZA’ and it’s tributary ‘ELDORADO’.
Arlene was okay with her ice cream, but I had
contracted GOLD FEVER. We had to find a
place to pan. To make our trip a financial
success, to render our retirement a story of
luxury, and joy. How hard could it be?
Despite my rabid interest in getting to Dawson
City to start panning we stopped at Tatchun
Creek Territorial campground. We rated it at 3,
because it had drinking water, unlike most of the
provincial parks in BC.
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This campground shows off its many facilities
and is typical of Yukon’s campgrounds. They are
simple, clean, generally flat and open. This one is
also painted in Yukon gold trim. On the left is
an empty campsite, with a picnic table and fire
pit. Beside it is a shelter with a couple of picnic
tables and a raised grill for cooking. We’ve used
the shelters several times when the weather was
bad. Every campground in Canada has had
wood for fireplaces. This was no exception, and
fortunately we had an axe to split the logs. I dug
down into the pile and took a couple of the dryer
logs to split and make a quick fire. Behind the
log shed was the toilet. It’s a pit toilet, with a
friendly his and her sign on the one door. The
shining object is a trash bin. It is bear proof and
until you figure out how to open them, it’s also
camper proof.
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Our site was on this side of the roadway. Behind
us was a meadow of beautiful fireweed. These
fuchsia flowers are supposed to be a reliable
indicator of the fall season. The stem is a series
of blossoms. They start falling off as the summer
lengthens and when it’s cold enough or fall, there
are only a few left. Thus by keeping our eye on
them we’ll know when to turn around and head
for home.
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Arlene is the little red dot in the middle of the
popular trees. Since Yellowstone, and the BEAR
LIST we have drastically cut back on things
stored on the picnic table. Here’s a photo of the
table since then. Almost everything is stored in
the front of the van. On top of the stove is a
mug of wine and my new book ‘Klondike’ by
Pierre Burton.
There were more mosquitoes and black flies
during the night. Somehow they are getting into
the van during the night. When we go to sleep
there are none, but after a few hours there’s that
damn buzz.
We were up pretty early and on our way. The
road changed a bit and became dust and dirt,
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which was even worst when facing the oncoming
trucks. We caught a couple more shards of flying
gravel and picked up two more nicks in the
windshield.
We were driving along the Klondike River, but it
was different, there are always trees and forest
boarding rivers, but this looked like a wasteland,
only large boulders. Huge mounds of rocks were
piled up; sometimes they extended for several
hundred yards before another would begin.
Sometimes they were only one foot deep away
from the road, in some places there were several.
But, nothing was growing around them, except a
few bushes. They looked like monster worms.
Rock worms crawling beside the river bed. It was
really strange. It was the residue of digging for
gold.
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We passed a couple of skeleton sheds. They
were old and only a few sticks kept them from
collapsing completely away. We presumed these
were the remnants of 100 years ago when the
Klondike was a booming bustling country. We
were getting closer to Dawson City and our
excitement and imagination was mounting.
Entering Dawson City our eyes were wide open,
on the hillside behind town was a large scar, a
landslide. The streets were dirt, with colorfully
painted shops on each side, a boardwalk or
catwalk outside of them so one didn’t need to
tromp through the mud. There were a couple of
intersections, each having a western style saloon
on their corner. One with a large billboard above
it with a couple of high kicking Can-Can dancers.
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We had our work cut out for us. First we had to
cross the great river to our campground. It was
just a ferry ride away, tucked in between the
hillside on the far shore and the Yukon. That
was only 300 yards away, across the river and an
hour and half wait while the ferry made several
trips. Our campground was just beyond the
road. Here’s the Yukon River.
And this is the ferry we have to wait for. The
Yukon Government runs the ferry for free. No
charge, it’s probably the best deal in the
Territory. It’s not too large, and two of these
trucks with double trailers would fill it. We
would wait three trips to get our chance to cross.
Going across, was an exciting ride as the current
was fast and the banisters on the ferry were low.
We drove down the shoreline into camp.
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The sites were in a row, all on one side, away
from the river. We had our choice. Setting up
was easy; we’ve gotten good at it. You can see
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Arlene unloading a few goods, and the tarp is
already covering the stove. Behind her on the
other side of the road is the River.
We needed to unpack and get back to the ferry,
in a hurry. We’ll leave our camp supplies on the
picnic table and a few things under it. In our
experience we have never lost, or had anything
stolen. We hope it doesn’t start now.
There wasn’t a line when we got back to the
ferry. In fact there’s not much traffic coming off
the hill above us. The little traffic there is headed
the other direction from Dawson City toward
Alaska by way of the ‘Top of the World’ road.
We waited for the ferry to arrive, drove aboard
and were on our way across the river again.
We’ve been told there aren’t many bridges
crossing the Yukon. In fact there may be only
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two. One before Whitehorse, and the other in
Alaska on the Haul Road before the Artic Circle.
Back in Dawson City we had seen a Gold
Panning outfit. We made a bee line for it.
Arlene had little to say, she was along for the
ride. Yet, she did pose for this picture. I think
she didn’t gather the gravity of the opportunity
before us. This wasn’t where we were going to
strike it rich. No, my plan was to learn how to
pan here so we could use our new skills once
we’d staked our claim at the Assayers office.
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We didn’t have to wait. Our pans were black,
about the size of a 9” pie plate, but heavier. I
guessed the weight made it more durable. Each
of us had one of those larger pails with black grit
and water in it. It was easy, the gold was in the
grit. We dipped our pan in collecting dirt and
water. Then began swirling it around, tilting the
pan a little so the gold could slide to the bottom
edge. After fifteen minutes Arlene noticed a
sparkling speck on the edge of her pan. I hadn’t
seen a thing.
That was it. We panned a little longer, but
nothing came up. One little fleck. That was it.
I was discouraged but didn’t give up. We did
learn a little about swirling the pan. So back in
the van we drove into town to find the Assayers
office. It was in the middle of one block, and
still open. We went inside and asked about
staking a claim. They were courteous, and asked
where our claim was. I had to explain we hadn’t
made one yet, but wanted their advice where we
would find a good spot. They laughed and told
us the bad news. There were no good spots, the
entire countryside had been staked out. It had
been staked years ago. We were out of luck.
Following that information our conversation with
them dwindled. We left, I was crest fallen, my
dream of riches had come and gone in a matter
of days. It hadn’t occurred to me that I would be
one of the wild caters; a ‘claim jumper’ in the
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Mackinaw that the RCMP would be hunting
down. I would have to adjust; back to plan B.
Arlene was such a good sport, she had come
along with me, probably knowing all along that it
was a wild goose chase and nothing would pan
out. She consoled me as we waited for the ferry
to return to our camp.
Dinner wasn’t very tasty nor did I have much of
an appetite, but it was a little cooler and the river
caused a slight wind that kept the bugs at bay.
We slept well.
Good Morning, it looks like a beautiful day. I
had my appetite back and we had a full breakfast.
There are a few clouds in the sky and we have a
new plan. We’ll walk over to the ferry and
around town, leaving the van here. That means
no waiting in line to board the ferry.
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As we walked along the boardwalk we talked
about what a cute town this was with all the
pretty colored shops. We thought maybe we’d
go to one of the saloon shows in the evening.
Our first stop was at the Parade Grounds. Not
many cities or towns have parade grounds, so this
was special. The grounds were also where the
dorms and offices of the Royal Canadian
Mounted Police were. They were the ones that
st
did most of the parading, and with July 1 ,
Canada Day in two days they were practicing.
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‘Sergeant Preston’ was good enough to let us take
a picture of Arlene beside him and his trusty
mount. Arlene was also able to get into the
officers locker room, but there were no pictures.
We were feeling pretty good by this time, and
headed over to the far side of town, the
residential side, where there were several
historical homes. You might think these homes
were like New Orleans mansions; no instead
they were a different style, log cabins.
Our first stop was a doozey. It was Robert
Service’s sod covered house. Outside was a chap
that was dressed in black, a coat of long tails and
a black Kentucky Colonel Tie sitting on a crude
wooden chair.
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This actor represented Robert Service. Robert
Service, the poet, was born in England, but spent
eight long years in the Yukon after the Gold
Rush. He was a wanderer, and those years
inspired him to write about his adventures in
rhymes, songs, ballads and poems. They have a
distinctive vigor, and ruggedness to them, that
reflects the struggles and hard times of joy and
discouragement during the gold rush years.
He is one of my favorite poets, and the actor
was about to recite one of my favorites, originally
published around 1907.
THE CREMATION OF SAM McGEE
BY
ROBERT SERVICE
‘
There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Artic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.
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Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the
Cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the South to roam round
The Pole God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed
To hold him like a spell;
Though he’d often say in his homely way that
He’d “sooner live in hell.”
On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way
Over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! Through the parka’s fold it
Stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we’d close, then the lashes froze, till
Sometimes we couldn’t see;
It wasn’t much fun, but the only one to whimper
Was Sam McGee.
And that very night as we lay packed tight in our
Robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o’erhead
Were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and, “Cap,” says he, “I’ll cash
In this trip, I guess;
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And if I don’t I’m asking that you won’t refuse
my last request.”
Well he seemed so low that I couldn’t say no;
Then he says with a sort of moan;
“It’s the cursed cold, and it’s got right hold till
I’m chilled through to the bone.
Yet ‘taint being dead, it’s my awful dread of the
Icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you’ll
Cremate my last remains.”
A pal’s last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I
Would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn, but
God! He looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day
Of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left
Of Sam McGee.
There wasn’t a breath in that land of death, and
I hurried, horror driver,
With a corpse half-hid that I couldn’t get rid
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because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say:
‘You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it’s up to you to
Cremate those last remains.”
Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the
Tail has its own stern code.
In the days to come, through my lips were dumb,
In my heart how I cursed that load.
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while
The huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows
O’ God! How I loathed the thing!
And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy
And heavier grow;
And on I went, through the dogs were spent and
The grub was getting low;
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I
swore I would not give in’
And I’d often sing to the hateful thing, and it
Hearkened with a grin.
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Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebaarge, and a
Derelict ther lay’
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it
Was called the “Alice May.”
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I
Looked at my frozen chum:
Then, ‘Hear,” said I, with a sudden cry, “is my
Cre-ma-tor-eum.”.
Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit
The boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around, and I
Heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared, and the furnace roared -
Such a blaze you seldom see;
And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I
Stuffed in Sam McGee.
Then I made a hike, for I didn’t like to hear him
Sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled,
And the wind began to blow.
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my
Cheeks, and I don’t know why;
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And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went
Streaking down the sky.
I do not know how long inn the snow I wrestled
With grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about ere
Again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: “I’ll
Just take a peep inside.
I guess he’s cooked, and it’s time I looked,”
Then the door I opened wide.
And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the
Heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he
Said: “Please close that door.
It’s fine in here, but I gretly fear you’ll let in the
Cold and storm –
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it’s the
First time I’ve been warm.”
There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Artic trils have their secret tales
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That would make your blood run cold.
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.
We loved his rendition of Sam McGee, and judging
from the response of the crowd, they did also. In
another hour he would recite another poem ’ The
Shooting of Dan McGrew’. We would try to get
back to hear it.
Down the street at a deadend was a stockade. We
headed toward it. This was the home of Jack
London, and we could see more sod roofs.
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There was also a raised log box, on stilts about 12
feet off the ground. It was a safety store for
food from wild animals. We also learned that the
sod on the roof kept the cabins warmer during
the unbelievably long and cold winters.
Jack London must have been a very fortunate
man. He had come to the Yukon from Dyea and
the Chilkoot trail. The boat he built on Lake
Bennett, was lost along with his gear and supplies
in the Whitehorse rapids.
There was a curator at the home, author Dick
North. We started talking with him. He said that
London was a wild man who drank a lot and only
stayed in Dawson for a year.
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I mentioned that there was an extra long canoe
with two paddlers passing down the Yukon when
we crossed this morning. The canoe was so full
that we thought it might be swamped, as the
water was only a couple of inches from the
gunnels.
We asked him how long it might take to traverse
the Yukon, down to the Bering Sea? There was a
possibility these travelers were headed that way.
He said ‘Just a moment.’. He reached beneath his
desk and brought up a document, which he
searched through and then said. ‘Jack London
traveled all the way down the Yukon starting on
th
June 9 . He traveled night and day, and in 19
days arrived at the delta of the river and the sea.
So it took him 19 days, but you must keep in
mind that he traveled night and day. Those
travelers you saw today will probably take a
month before they reach the sea.’
We talked a little longer before Arlene realized
that he was the author of ‘The Lost Patrol’ The
Mounties’ Yukon Tragedy’. She had bought it in
Whitehorse and hadn’t started to read it yet. It
was back in camp with our library of books.
The afternoon was waning and it was almost time
for the museum to close. Never the less Arlene
asked Mr. North if he would wait until we
crossed the river to camp and retrieved the book
so he could autograph it for her. He said he
would wait.
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We took off down the muddy streets to the ferry.
It was coming back so our wait was short. On
the far side we ran down to the car and searched
for the book. Retrieving it we headed back to the
ferry. It was perfect timing as it was ready to pull
out.
We got to the museum in time, and Dick North
wrote to Arlene: ‘With best wishes in search of
Toad River’ June 27, 1997. She was thrilled.
We missed the last recital of Robert Services
poems, but on our way back into town we passed
another home. This was certainly different than
the other two, even though it was across the
street. We easily would have missed seeing it of
the style and maintenace. It was the author
Pierre Berton’s childhood home. He may have
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been born here in Dawson City; and grew up
here during the 1920’s. It was nice to see, but he
wasn’t home.
It’s amazing to realize that one city or town, so
small and so remote could have had such a
strong influence on our countries. Some believe
that the Klondike Gold Rush of the 1890’s
changed the face of our country. That it pulled
us out of a deep economic recession and was
responsible for a massive migration of our
populations westward.
All of these things can be attributed to Dawson
City, in the 1890’s. I’ve included some
copyrighted photographs of those days. Viewing
them may give one a feeling of how and what
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these adventures were and what they lived
through.
It should be clear that these pictures depict
thousands of gold rush ‘Stampeders’ or
‘RUSHERS’, men, women and some children,
who had arrived by boat, mostly from Seattle,
with few skills, and little ability to survive in the
rugged north. They came in through the ghost
town of Dyea, up the Chilkoot Trail to Lake
Bennett to the mouth of the Yukon River and
down it to Dawson City.
Dyea, Alaska: The gateway to the Klondike. The
favorite point of departure.
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Dyea, Alaska: Goods piled high on the Wharf.
The dock reached far out into the inlet, as it was
a shallow, tidal water harbor.
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From Dyea stampeders had to prepare to climb
the Chillkoot Pass.
The pass on the Chilkoot Trail led to the
Canadian Border, where it was guarded by the
Royal Canadian Mounted Police. Step by step up
the pass. It’s a half-day climb, and a 30 second
return to get more goods. Don’t get out of line,
because you’d have to start over.
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The weight of a usual trip would be around 100
pounds. It would take multiple trips, as the
Canadians required a year’s supply of goods to
enter the country.
Once at the border your goods would be set
aside while you got another load. Seldom were
any goods disturbed. But, if they were, there was
swift retribution.
Arriving in Canada they faced the next obstacle
Lake Bennett, the source of the Yukon River and
the passageway to Dawson. Most stampeders
built boats to either sail or row the lake. They
used or cut down trees from the forest, leaving it
denuded.
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