by Henry, Sue
“Great choice,” he grinned, stepping in and shaking the flakes from his fuzzy hair. “For the famous Klondike stampeder of the same name, I assume.”
“Partly. But he’s a mouthy—you could say, billy—bird. I know. Bad pun,” she admitted at the groans from the group still at the table.
“Sorry to interrupt, but they told me at the RCMP office that Jim Hampton was here and I thought he’d like to know what I found.”
“Found?” Hampton poured him coffee, as Alex pulled up another chair and Clair brought Fitzgerald a slice of cake. “You found it?”
“Found what?” Cherlyn asked.
“Where?” Jessie chimed in.
“Hold on,” Fitzgerald cautioned, waving both hands to halt their onslaught of questions. His grin was amused, but they could see he was bursting to tell them something, but inclined to draw it out.
“Did you locate McNeal?” Alex asked.
“No, but I will eventually. No, it was that old map, you see, and one I had in the file that almost matched it. I enlarged and overlaid the important parts.”
“Where was it?” Hampton was practically rocking in his chair.
“Where’s what?” asked Cherlyn again.
“He’s figured out…where Riser buried the gold. Right?”
Fitzgerald hesitated long enough to look around the table at the intensely interested looks on their faces, prolonging the suspense.
“Where, man? Where?” Alex demanded.
“Well…without a doubt…ah…the overlay shows that he buried it…ah. I don’t know if you’ll believe this.”
“Where?” Unsynchronized shouts of frustration from everyone at the table.
“Ah…well, okay…he buried the gold on the lot where…It’s really very unfortunate, and I’m sorry to say, will be impossible to ascertain, because—very soon after Riser buried it—Arizona Charley Meadows covered the lot by erecting the most famous building in Dawson…the Palace Grand Theatre!”
In the summer of 1994, a small block of granite was placed by Charles Delafosse, RCMP, and James Hampton of Denver, Colorado, on the east bank of a bend in the Yukon River between Dawson City and Forty Mile, Yukon Territory, Canada. On it were these words:
AT THIS LOCATION, IN SEPTEMBER 1993,
WERE FOUND AND ARE NOW BURIED
THE REMAINS OF
ADDISON HARLEY RISER
OF TACOMA, WASHINGTON,
A STAMPEDER OF THE
KLONDIKE GOLD RUSH AND VICTIM
OF THE DESPERATE WINTER OF 1897.
HIS TERMINATION DUST FELL EARLY.
R.I.P.
ADDISON HARLEY RISER
The Account of My Journey
to the Gold Rush from Tacoma, Washington
to Dawson City, Yukon Territory, Canada 1897
SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 5
STEAMSHIP AL-KI
HEADED FOR ALASKA TERRITORY
I BEGIN THIS ACCOUNT AS WE STEAM NORTH ABOARD A crowded ship, headed for Alaska Territory on the beginning of my great adventure to the gold fields, and on this day I am in a much more cheerful disposition. Upon departing Tacoma, the last of August on this steamer Al-ki, most of us, I think, felt a bit sad at the thought of leaving family and friends and embarking into the unknown wilderness. I was disconcerted and sad to leave my dear wife, Polly, and our children, Tommy and Anna, not knowing when I would be able to greet them again, and knowing that, until I can, she must care for all three. There were many of us on deck and all were quiet and thoughtful for a time, as we watched the island scenery slide by. But by the time we passed Vashon Island and docked briefly in Seattle, where we took on a few more passengers and a number of horses, a gayer mood prevailed and we were soon singing “Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight,” and comparing our expectations of fortunes in shining gold in the future.
The Al-ki tied up at the Schwabacher dock, where the Portland came in from the Clondyke on July seventeenth with the two tons of gold that inspired this whole venture. I could not help but think of the headline in the Seattle Post-Intelligencer. “GOLD! GOLD! GOLD! 68 Rich Men on the Steamer Portland. STACKS OF YELLOW METAL!” And more than five thousand people waiting at six o’clock in the morning to see those ragged miners stagger off onto the docks with their strange assortment of bags and containers so heavy they could scarcely carry them. The handle pulled straight off one such case.
Hopefully, less than a year from now, I may come back with such good fortune. How I long for that day. I know Polly has forgiven me for throwing over my employment at Jordan’s Mercantile, and that she tries not to worry. I simply could not be a clerk forever, watching Polly and the children want for things they deserve to have provided. Had there been a position available for me to make use of my training as a newsman, things might have been different. The last few years of the country’s depression have been desperately hard and this is my opportunity, the answer to our prayers. If I cannot find a rich strike, I can, perhaps, write down my impressions and sell them to a newspaper somewhere, possibly even a book.
Leaving Seattle, I took time to look about me and assess the company and surroundings in which I was to spend almost two weeks and travel more than a thousand nautical miles. This is a second Clondyke run for the Al-ki, which is not a large vessel, having a single smokestack, cabins and bridge toward the stern, and a rather long foredeck, where I have pitched a rain fly and deposited my bedroll between piles of cargo, wood for the steam engine, and the outfits of others going north. There are more of us without than with staterooms, since the boat was originally a freighter and not designed to carry the more than two hundred passengers that crowd its decks. I was surprised to find a few women and several families with children aboard. They are crushed into the few staterooms, while most of us single men camp on the deck, where we do our best to stay dry in the mist and rain that accompany us up the coast. Temporary bunks have been hastily installed in the hold, but the air is close and stale below, rank with the seasickness of many unfortunates. I am glad to be up in the fresh air and do not much mind the dampness.
I have no private place to write, the boat being so crowded with human beings that we all but ask permission to turn around, and eat in shifts in a small galley beneath the bridge on the upper deck. This is some way from the narrow dining room and the food is almost always cool before it can be carried down the deck, through the social hall, and reach the tables. There has been some humorous speculation that the food is prepared to condition us to the limited bill of fare that is likely to be available in the Yukon, for the biscuits are consistently underdone. It is predominantly starch and meat; we have very little in the way of vegetables or fruit, but there is plenty of what has soon proved repetitious. We shovel down our victuals and do not linger, for someone is always awaiting their turn at board.
A curious assortment of persons are passengers on the Al-ki, but most are decent, ordinary men, hoping for good luck and gold. They come from all parts of our country, Canada, and, a few, from Europe. I have met merchants, clerks, farmers, a banker, two lawyers, a photographer, a seamstress, railroad men, sailors, and a shoemaker, for example. There are a couple of sharpers, one of whom runs a card game in a corner of the deck much of the time but has caused no particular problems and is balanced off by the young woman who leads a few souls in singing hymns in another corner. One arrogant young man from New York complains incessantly and runs his hired man ragged in the attempt to fetch and carry for this Eastern polka dot. Needless to say, I think he will get his comeuppance on the Yukon, though I gravely doubt he will make it that far. For the most part, however, my traveling companions are pleasant enough and a polite camaraderie, strangely lacking in class-consciousness, prevails.
Much of my time is spent at the rail, enjoying the scenery, for the passage north is most amazing. Much of the time we steam along between the mainland to the east and islands to the west, which protect boats traveling this route from the unpredictability of the Pacific Ocean and its storms. Often the landscape i
s shrouded with heavy fog and mist, and the shrieks of boat whistles and foghorns resound and echo back from the veiled hills. But the few clear days have assured us that the land is truly unsettled and a complete wilderness. Like a motionless ocean of dark green, the tree-covered slopes roll back steeply from the dark waters over which we speed. Only once or twice have we crossed inlets through which we could view the Pacific. The rest of the trip we have threaded our way through channels and passages that twine between the islands like braided cords. Often eagles soar overhead. Once we saw a bear. In one great open sound, dozens of whales leaped from the water and blew air and water from their spouts. How my little Tommy would have enjoyed that sight! In the same place several icebergs could be seen floating near the eastern shore.
Regularly we pass or are passed by other boats and ships, coming or going to or from the north. Any kind of vessel that can carry people and goods has been pressed into service to transport the hundreds of stampeders and their grubstakes to the Clondyke. Many are quite unsuited to travel either the distance or on the sort of waterways through which they are required to make way and a number have sunk or wrecked along the route, loaded to the rails with passengers and cargo.
SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 11
DYEA, ALASKA TERRITORY
Almost a week into the voyage, we stopped for a day in Juneau, capital of Alaska Territory, a small, bustling community created by a gold strike more than ten years ago and named for the miner who made it. It was a rather industrious little town, huddled on a narrow strip of land against mountains that rose straight up behind it like a wall. As it was the last point from which to buy goods for the Clondyke, I added a keg of nails and a whipsaw to my outfit, at the suggestion of a friend I made on the boat.
A tall streetcar conductor from Tacoma, who used to give my son penny candy when we took him on the car, recognized me on the Al-ki. He is a bit unusual looking, with a red mustache and one walleye; his name is Frank Warner. The employees of his company organized themselves, pooled their ready cash, and elected men to go to the goldfields and stake claims for them all. Frank was one of the lucky nine. We became acquainted when he happened to bed down on the deck near to me and have decided to travel and partner together. He seems a good, God-fearing man, and I am glad not to be entirely alone in this hazardous venture. A strong, hardworking soul, he spent some time in a logging crew before becoming a conductor, so he knows more than I about building the boat we will need on the Yukon River.
The following day we left Juneau on the final leg of our journey here to Dyea, where we would disembark and start our long tramp to the Yukon. The mountains continued and became more rugged, interspersed with glimpses of blue and white glaciers hanging between the peaks. Traveling through the night, we arrived at our destination before noon, where we waited for high tide to take us as close as possible to the beach.
There are no wharves or docks at Dyea, though plans are under way to build them. We were, therefore, forced, at our own expense, to have our goods transported from the Al-ki to the shore, in small boats, or lighters, where they were unceremoniously dumped into the mud. Horses aboard were simply shoved overboard to swim through the icy water to solid ground, so I guess we should have been grateful not to be treated in similar fashion. We struggled valiantly to drag our outfits above tide line, piling all among many similar heaps of those who arrived before us.
I was disconcerted to find that my slabs of bacon, which had been shipped below decks, evidently in close proximity to the boiler, had gone rancid. Frank’s were still good, and for this we were thankful since there is little possibility of replacement.
Dyea is like a hill of ants, with people moving constantly in all directions, but mainly toward the Chilkoot Pass. Some, however, have no intention of traveling farther and are getting their fortunes by providing services to others. Teams and wagons can be hired to carry goods up the beach, but the teamsters charge twenty dollars an hour when the tide is falling and fifty when it is on the rise.
Buildings are being thrown together in a matter of days by opportunistic members of the carpenter’s trade, bought and put to immediate use as merchantiles and restaurants by some who had the foresight to ship in whole inventories of stock, food and liquor. Tents and even temporary shacks are pressed into service.
Before this stampede there was only one store here, the trading post of a man named Healy. In only a matter of weeks, wilderness has been transformed into a jumble of log cabins, frame hotels, saloons and gambling houses with false fronts, but nothing appears permanent, particularly the hundreds of tents scattered everywhere. Structures have been built with wood which was used for passenger bunks and stalls for horses in the boats, then ripped out and sold as lumber. I saw a man yesterday asleep under a red and white checkered tablecloth he had rigged to keep off some of the rain.
Everyone slogs knee deep in mud. Wagons mire up to the hubs. Transporting our goods up to and over the pass will mean many trips back and forth to ferry it all to the top, where we are told we must camp through the winter, build a boat, and wait for the spring thaw to continue our journey to Dawson City by water. Opinion on this, however, seems to be somewhat divided. Winter freeze-up has held off so far and, with a little luck, we may be able to make it downriver before the passage closes.
Tomorrow will see us off. Warner went off over an hour ago to locate a miner who is said to have come into town from Dawson. He hopes to gather additional information about the route to the Clondyke and what we face on the trip we are about to undertake. Rumors from the sublime to the ridiculous abound among the stampeders. Levelheaded and practical, Frank is anything but content to go without knowing everything possible, or to let the future take care of itself. This does not displease me, though it makes me smile, knowing that the poor miner is in for a stubborn barrage of questions when Warner catches up with him, which he, with certainty, will.
TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 21
LAKE BENNETT, YUKON TERRITORY
A hired packer carried a letter from Polly up the trail to me with his load, giving me the news from home. How I miss her and little Tommy and Anna. It was generous of him, for he refused payment, saying that he had left his own wife in San Francisco two months ago. Forwarded one to her with him on his return trip.
I was glad to know that her mother sent good wishes, for she was opposed to this venture, along with the father. Perhaps he, too, will come around soon. They must realize I am only doing what I think best for our future.
We have reached Lake Bennett at last, after more than a week on the trail. All that time to travel thirty-five miles, but the longest miles in the world. In actuality much of it was traveled not once but more than a dozen times, as we brought our outfits ahead one load at a time, then went back for another. And it is impossible to walk any speed but slowly with sixty to eighty pounds of goods on your back, over mud, rocks, roots, and all uphill. From the beach to the top of the Chilkoot Pass the trail rises 3,740 feet in a series of steep, step-like ascents, interspersed with level areas.
We left Dyea on Sunday, September 12, and traveled for two days up the Taiya River with the help of Indian packers and their canoes. The first nine miles, to the head of the canyon, a temporary camp called Canyon City, were not easy and took us two days, but were nothing compared to what followed. As we were going against the current, the only way to move the loaded canoes was to pull them with long ropes from the bank. Frank Warner and I took turns pulling with the Indians and standing up in the canoes to guide them and exert leverage with a pole. Before we started, we had taken care to wrap everything in oilskin, which was fortunate when, halfway up, one of the canoes turned over. Collecting the goods, we repacked and continued with no real damage done. As we worked our way up the river, we could sometimes see those less fortunate, who could not afford to pay for helpers, packing their goods back and forth across the streams and over the bowlder-strewn, muddy trail.
Late on the second day the Indians left us and all our supplies on t
he bank near where a steep trail led from the river up the canyon toward the pass. I was a bit sorry we had not hired them to pack some of our goods on up the trail, though we could not afford it. Those fellows can surely pack. Some of them can carry over a hundred pounds in a single load, simply go up steadily, putting one foot in front of the other with never a hesitation. And they can do three loads to every two of mine. Even some of the squaws hire out as packers and do very well, though their loads are not so heavy.
Where they left us the real effort began. We divided our outfits into manageable-size loads and started early. It did not aid us that, after two days of good weather on the river, the skies opened and poured rain for the next three.
Horses, wagons, and packers all moving up the trail had turned it to a quagmire of mud and water. As bad as it was on the trail, it was worse off it where branches of spruce, cottonwood, and hemlock clawed at your pack and the rocks and mud were wet and terribly slippery. Without my rubber boots, I would never have made it and I was glad for the rubber-lined coat Polly insisted I bring. With the collar turned up, my broad-rimmed hat kept the worst of the rain from running down my neck and soaking me immediately. Still, we arrived at the first stop on that trail as wet as if we had been plunged into the river before starting our tramp.
Four miles up the trail we arrived at Sheep Camp. This spot consisted of a haphazard collection of tents, pitched in any available flat space, piles of outfits and goods, and a couple of rough frame buildings. We made the error of neglecting to set up our tent upon arriving with the first load and, by the time we made our final trip of the day, were so tired we elected to take advantage of whatever hospitality was offered by the so-called hotel, as one of the buildings was advertised by a hand-lettered sign painted directly on the outside wall.
One fairly large room held a curtained-off section for the family that ran it and a large table, where we took turns with others to sit down in relays for supper. Beans, bacon, and tea cost us seventy-five cents each, but if expensive and limited in scope, it was hot and surely welcome. For fifty cents, when the meal was over, we laid out our own blankets and, with boots hanging to dry from a rafter and my coat under my head, settled down for the night among as many men as could crowd onto the floor. I might have had trouble sleeping with all the sounds and smells of so many damp and filthy strangers had I not been every bit as distastefully dirty, myself, and so exhausted that I was snoring with the best of them almost before my head hit my makeshift pillow.