This seemed to be the general feeling of all the other prospectors,and I did not hear that any one else went so far even as to dig ahole.
As near as I could judge there seemed to be three varieties of"varmints" galloping around over the grassy slopes of this highcountry. The largest of these, a gray and brown creature with atawny, bristling mane, I took to be a porcupine. Next in size werethe giant whistlers, who sat up like old men and signalled, like oneboy to another. And last and least, and more numerous than all, werethe smaller "chucks" resembling prairie dogs. These animals togetherwith the ptarmigan made up the inhabitants of these lofty slopes.
I searched every green place on the mountains far and near with myfield-glasses, but saw no sheep, caribou, or moose, although one ortwo were reported to have been killed by others on the trail. Theptarmigan lived in the matted patches of willow. There were a greatmany of them, and they helped out our monotonous diet veryopportunely. They moved about in pairs, the cock very loyal to thehen in time of danger; but not even this loyalty could save him.Hunger such as ours considered itself very humane in stopping shortof the slaughter of the mother bird. The cock was easilydistinguished by reason of his party-colored plumage and his pinkeyes.
We spent the next forenoon in camp to let our horses feed up, andincidentally to rest our own weary bones. All the forenoon great,gray clouds crushed against the divide behind us, flinging themselvesin rage against the rocks like hungry vultures baffled in theirchase. We exulted over their impotence. "We are done with you, youstorms of the Skeena--we're out of your reach at last!"
We were confirmed in this belief as we rode down the trail, which wasfairly pleasant except for short periods, when the clouds leaped thesnowy walls behind and scattered drizzles of rain over us. Later theclouds thickened, the sky became completely overcast, and myexultation changed to dismay, and we camped at night as desolate asever, in the rain, and by the side of a little marsh on which thehorses could feed only by wading fetlock deep in the water. We werewet to the skin, and muddy and tired.
I could no longer deceive myself. Our journey had become a grim racewith the wolf. Our food grew each day scantier, and we were forced tomove each day and every day, no matter what the sky or trail mightbe. Going over our food carefully that night, we calculated that wehad enough to last us ten days, and if we were within one hundred andfifty miles of the Skeena, and if no accident befell us, we would beable to pull in without great suffering.
But accidents on the trail are common. It is so easy to lose a coupleof horses, we were liable to delay and to accident, and the chanceswere against us rather than in our favor. It seemed as though thetrail would never mend. We were dropping rapidly down through dwarfpines, down into endless forests of gloom again. We had splashed,slipped, and tumbled down the trail to this point with three horsesweak and sick. The rain had increased, and all the brightness of themorning on the high mountain had passed away. For hours we had walkedwithout a word except to our horses, and now night was falling inthick, cold rain. As I plodded along I saw in vision and with greatlonging the plains, whose heat and light seemed paradise by contrast.
The next day was the Fourth of July, and such a day! It rained allthe forenoon, cold, persistent, drizzling rain. We hung around thecampfire waiting for some let-up to the incessant downpour. Wediscussed the situation. I said: "Now, if the stream in the canyonbelow us runs to the left, it will be the east fork of the Iskoot,and we will then be within about one hundred miles of Glenora. If itruns to the right, Heaven only knows where we are."
The horses, chilled with the rain, came off the sloppy marsh to standunder the trees, and old Ladrone edged close to the big fire to shareits warmth. This caused us to bring in the other horses and put themclose to the fire under the big branches of the fir tree. It wasdeeply pathetic to watch the poor worn animals, all life and spiritgone out of them, standing about the fire with drooping heads andhalf-closed eyes. Perhaps they dreamed, like us, of the beautiful,warm, grassy hills of the south.
THE UTE LOVER
Beneath the burning brazen sky, The yellowed tepes stand. Not far away a singing river Sets through the sand. Within the shadow of a lonely elm tree The tired ponies keep. The wild land, throbbing with the sun's hot magic, Is rapt as sleep.
From out a clump of scanty willows A low wail floats. The endless repetition of a lover's Melancholy notes; So sad, so sweet, so elemental, All lover's pain Seems borne upon its sobbing cadence-- The love-song of the plain. From frenzied cry forever falling, To the wind's wild moan, It seems the voice of anguish calling Alone! alone!
Caught from the winds forever moaning On the plain, Wrought from the agonies of woman In maternal pain, It holds within its simple measure All death of joy, Breathed though it be by smiling maiden Or lithe brown boy.
It hath this magic, sad though its cadence And short refrain; It helps the exiled people of the mountain Endure the plain; For when at night the stars aglitter Defy the moon, The maiden listens, leans to seek her lover Where waters croon.
Flute on, O lithe and tuneful Utah, Reply brown jade; There are no other joys secure to either Man or maid. Soon you are old and heavy hearted, Lost to mirth; While on you lies the white man's gory Greed of earth.
Strange that to me that burning desert Seems so dear. The endless sky and lonely mesa, Flat and drear, Calls me, calls me as the flute of Utah Calls his mate-- This wild, sad, sunny, brazen country, Hot as hate.
Again the glittering sky uplifts star-blazing; Again the stream From out the far-off snowy mountains Sings through my dream; And on the air I hear the flute-voice calling The lover's croon, And see the listening, longing maiden Lit by the moon.
DEVIL'S CLUB
It is a sprawling, hateful thing, Thorny and twisted like a snake, Writhing to work a mischief, in the brake It stands at menace, in its cling Is danger and a venomed sting. It grows on green and slimy slopes, It is a thing of shades and slums, For passing feet it wildly gropes, And loops to catch all feet that run Seeking a path to sky and sun.
IN THE COLD GREEN MOUNTAINS
In the cold green mountains where the savage torrents roared, And the clouds were gray above us, And the fishing eagle soared, Where no grass waved, where no robins cried, There our horses starved and died, In the cold green mountains.
In the cold green mountains, Nothing grew but moss and trees, Water dripped and sludgy streamlets Trapped our horses by the knees. Where we slipped, slid, and lunged, Mired down and wildly plunged Toward the cold green mountains!
CHAPTER XVI
THE PASSING OF THE BEANS
At noon, the rain slacking a little, we determined to pack up, andwith such cheer as we could called out, "Line up, boys--line up!"starting on our way down the trail.
After making about eight miles we came upon a number of outfitscamped on the bank of the river. As I rode along on my gray horse,for the trail there allowed me to ride, I passed a man seatedgloomily at the mouth of his tent. To him I called with an assumptionof jocularity I did not feel, "Stranger, where are you bound for?"
He replied, "The North Pole."
"Do you expect to get there?"
"Sure," he replied.
Riding on I met others beside the trail, and all wore a similar lookof almost sullen gravity. They were not disposed to joke with me, andperceiving something to be wrong, I passed on without further remark.
When we came down to the bank of the stream, behold it ran to theright. And I could have sat me down and blasphemed with the rest. Inow understood the gloom of the others. _We were still in the valleyof the inexorable Skeena._ It could be nothing else; this tremendousstream running to our right could be no other than the head-waters ofthat ferocious flood which no surveyor has located. It is immenselylarger and longer than any m
ap shows.
We crossed the branch without much trouble, and found some beautifulbluejoint-grass on the opposite bank, into which we joyfully turnedour horses. When they had filled their stomachs, we packed up andpushed on about two miles, overtaking the Manchester boys on theside-hill in a tract of dead, burned-out timber, a cheerless spot.
In speaking about the surly answer I had received from the man on thebanks of the river, I said: "I wonder why those men are camped there?They must have been there for several days."
Partner replied: "They are all out of grub and are waiting for someone to come by to whack-up with 'em. One of the fellows came out andtalked with me and said he had nothing left but beans, and tried tobuy some flour of me."
This opened up an entirely new line of thought. I understood now thatwhat I had taken for sullenness was the dejection of despair. The waywas growing gloomy and dark to them. They, too, were racing with thewolf.
We had one short moment of relief next day as we entered a lovelylittle meadow and camped for noon. The sun shone warm, the grass wasthick and sweet. It was like late April in the central West--cool,fragrant, silent. Aisles of peaks stretched behind us and before us.We were still high in the mountains, and the country was less woodedand more open. But we left this beautiful spot and entered again on amorass. It was a day of torture to man and beast. The land continuedsilent. There were no toads, no butterflies, no insects of any kind,except a few mosquitoes, no crickets, no singing thing. I have neverseen a land so empty of life. We had left even the whistling marmotsentirely behind us.
We travelled now four outfits together, with some twenty-five horses.Part of the time I led with Ladrone, part of the time "The Man fromChihuahua" took the lead, with his fine strong bays. If a horse gotdown we all swarmed around and lifted him out, and when any questionof the trail came up we held "conferences of the powers."
We continued for the most part up a wide mossy and grassy riverbottom covered with water. We waded for miles in water to our ankles,crossing hundreds of deep little rivulets. Occasionally a horse wentdown into a hole and had to be "snailed out," and we were wet andcovered with mud all day. It was a new sort of trail and a terror.The mountains on each side were very stately and impressive, but wecould pay little attention to views when our horses were miring downat every step.
We could not agree about the river. Some were inclined to the beliefthat it was a branch of the Stikeen, the old man was sure it was"Skeeny." We were troubled by a new sort of fly, a littleorange-colored fellow whose habits were similar to those of thelittle black fiends of the Bulkley Valley. They were very poisonousindeed, and made our ears swell up enormously--the itching andburning was well-nigh intolerable. We saw no life at all save onegrouse hen guarding her young. A paradise for game it seemed, but nogame. A beautiful grassy, marshy, and empty land. We passed over onelow divide after another with immense snowy peaks thickening allaround us. For the first time in over two hundred miles we were allable to ride. Whistling marmots and grouse again abounded. We had abird at every meal. The wind was cool and the sky was magnificent,and for the first time in many days we were able to take off our hatsand face the wind in exultation.
Toward night, however, mosquitoes became troublesome in theirassaults, covering the horses in solid masses. Strange to say, noneof them, not even Ladrone, seemed to mind them in the least. We feltsure now of having left the Skeena forever. One day we passed over abeautiful little spot of dry ground, which filled us with delight; itseemed as though we had reached the prairies of the pamphlets. Wecamped there for noon, and though the mosquitoes were terrific wewere all chortling with joy. The horses found grass in plenty andplucked up spirits amazingly. We were deceived. In half an hour wewere in the mud again.
The whole country for miles and miles in every direction was a seriesof high open valleys almost entirely above timber line. Thesevalleys formed the starting-points of innumerable small streams whichfell away into the Iskoot on the left, the Stikeen on the north, theSkeena on the east and south. These valleys were covered with grassand moss intermingled, and vast tracts were flooded with water fromfour to eight inches deep, through which we were forced to slop hourafter hour, and riding was practically impossible.
As we were plodding along silently one day a dainty white gull camelilting through the air and was greeted with cries of joy by theweary drivers. More than one of them could "smell the salt water." Inimagination they saw this bird following the steamer up the Stikeento the first south fork, thence to meet us. It seemed only a shortride down the valley to the city of Glenora and the post-office.
Each day we drove above timber line, and at noon were forced torustle the dead dwarf pine for fire. The marshes were green andfilled with exquisite flowers and mosses, little white and purplebells, some of them the most beautiful turquoise-green rising fromtufts of verdure like mignonette. I observed also a sort of crocusand some cheery little buttercups. The ride would have beenmagnificent had it not been for the spongy, sloppy marsh throughwhich our horses toiled. As it was, we felt a certain breadth andgrandeur in it surpassing anything we had hitherto seen. Our threeoutfits with some score of horses went winding through the wide,green, treeless valleys with tinkle of bells and sharp cry ofdrivers. The trail was difficult to follow, because in the openground each man before us had to take his own course, and there werefew signs to mark the line the road-gang had taken.
It was impossible to tell where we were, but I was certain we wereupon the head-waters of some one of the many forks of the greatStikeen River. Marmots and a sort of little prairie dog continuedplentiful, but there was no other life. The days were bright andcool, resplendent with sun and rich in grass.
Some of the goldseekers fired a salute with shotted guns when, poisedon the mountain side, they looked down upon a stream flowing to thenorthwest. But the joy was short-lived. The descent of thismountain's side was by all odds the most terrible piece of trail wehad yet found. It led down the north slope, and was oozy and slipperywith the melting snow. It dropped in short zigzags down through agrove of tangled, gnarled, and savage cedars and pines, whose rootswere like iron and filled with spurs that were sharp as chisels. Thehorses, sliding upon their haunches and unable to turn themselves inthe mud, crashed into the tangled pines and were in danger of beingtorn to pieces. For more than an hour we slid and slewed through thishorrible jungle of savage trees, and when we came out below we hadtwo horses badly snagged in the feet, but Ladrone was uninjured.
We now crossed and recrossed the little stream, which dropped into adeep canyon running still to the northwest. After descending for somehours we took a trail which branched sharply to the northeast, andclimbed heavily to a most beautiful camping-spot between the peaks,with good grass, and water, and wood all around us.
We were still uncertain of our whereabouts, but all the boys werefairly jubilant. "This would be a splendid camp for a few weeks,"said partner.
That night as the sun set in incommunicable splendor over the snowypeaks to the west the empty land seemed left behind. We went to sleepwith the sound of a near-by mountain stream in our ears, and thevoice of an eagle sounding somewhere on the high cliffs.
The next day we crossed another divide and entered another valleyrunning north. Being confident that this _was_ the Stikeen, we campedearly and put our little house up. It was raining a little. We haddescended again to the aspens and clumps of wild roses. It was goodto see their lovely faces once more after our long stay in the wild,cold valleys of the upper lands. The whole country seemed drier, andthe vegetation quite different. Indeed, it resembled some of theColorado valleys, but was less barren on the bottoms. There werestill no insects, no crickets, no bugs, and very few birds of anykind.
All along the way on the white surface of the blazed trees weremessages left by those who had gone before us. Some of them wereprofane assaults upon the road-gang. Others were pathetic inquiries:"Where in hell are we?"--"How is this for a prairie route?"--"Whatriver is this, anyhow?" To these pencillings oth
ers had addedfacetious replies. There were also warnings and signs to help us keepout of the mud.
We followed the same stream all day. Whether the Iskoot or not we didnot know. The signs of lower altitude thickened. Wild roses met usagain, and strawberry blossoms starred the sunny slopes. The grasswas dry and ripe, and the horses did not relish it after their longstay in the juicy meadows above. We had been wet every day for nearlythree weeks, and did not mind moisture now, but my shoes were rapidlygoing to pieces, and my last pair of trousers was frazzled to theknees.
Nearly every outfit had lame horses like our old bay, hobbling alongbravely. Our grub was getting very light, which was a good thing forthe horses; but we had an occasional grouse to fry, and so as long asour flour held out we were well fed.
It became warmer each day, and some little weazened berries appearedon the hillsides, the first we had seen, and they tasted mighty goodafter months of bacon and beans. We were taking some pleasure in thetrip again, and had it not been for the sores on our horses' feet andour scant larder we should have been quite at ease. Our course nowlay parallel to a range of peaks on our right, which we figured to bethe Hotailub Mountains. This settled the question of our position onthe map--we were on the third and not the first south fork of theStikeen and were a long way still from Telegraph Creek.
THE LONG TRAIL
We tunnelled miles of silent pines, Dark forests where the stillness was so deep The scared wind walked a tip-toe on the spines, And the restless aspen seemed to sleep.
We threaded aisles of dripping fir; We climbed toward mountains dim and far, Where snow forever shines and shines, And only winds and waters are.
The Trail of the Goldseekers: A Record of Travel in Prose and Verse Page 10