Books by Sue Henry

by Henry, Sue

  I awoke next morning so stiff that I needed help rising to my feet. Groans from those around told me I was not alone with my aches and pains. Frank was not much better off, but we walked most of it off on the way back to the river for our next load. Soon we had managed to complete the task of transferring all our possessions to Sheep Camp and set up our tent.

  Beyond this stage it was almost impossible for horses, so most everyone on the trail carried their goods on their backs as did we. After a gentle rise for the first three miles, the last mile to an area directly below the pass called The Scales steepened to twenty-five or thirty degrees, taxing the energy of already tired men. Between Sheep Camp and The Scales was a stopping point named the Stone House because of a large rock with a generally square shape. Back and forth we trudged until we had all our gear together at The Scales, including one load of firewood, for until we reach the lakes there are only rocks on the treeless summit.

  All along the trail we came upon piles of abandoned goods, where some had simply given up the fight and left what they were carrying to go back to Dyea to await the next boat going south. I picked up two good wool blankets and some nails from one such pile that had been left with a scribbled note which read, “Help yerself if yer loony enuff.” I will not comment on the spelling or grammar, though perhaps he went back for an education. In the area below the pass many more looked at the steep wall ahead and turned back, selling their outfits if possible. The lucky few who could realized perhaps ten cents on the dollar, for supplies were at no premium there.

  As the weather was clear and quite warm for September, we did not raise our tent at The Scales, but spread our bedrolls on top of our bags and boxes and, with the two extra blankets, slept without the discomfort of cold or rain. The morning brought us to the worst struggle of the long hike. Though the distance to the top of the pass looked close above us, the way up zigzagged back and forth among the many bowlders to reduce the grade, so it was more than twice the distance of a straight line and took us hours. For two days we staggered up and down, stepping cautiously, a time or two sideways, clutching the stone face to assure passage.

  The summit was a maze of heaped up goods that looked like a city of low buildings with spaces between for streets. Late afternoon, when we brought up the last load, the wind, though not too cold, was howling. We could not tolerate the thought of going back down to the shelter of the U-shaped valley and, instead, found a place between our goods and some others’ where we put up a canvas shelter and huddled for the night in the lee of our possessions. Frank chose to make his bed on sacks of flour, while I preferred those of peas and beans, and both of us slept in our clothes and boots.

  At just after six in the morning, we were already up and preparing to move off the pass toward the lakes when we heard a thunderous roar from a glacier which hangs in a high valley directly above The Scales. This glacier had previously caught our attention and others’ with its beautiful colors: blue, green, and glistening white in the daylight, a changing variety of pastel pinks, golds, and purples in the evening. Cannon-like reports had been heard from this river of ice for days, as it moved and shifted in a slow, downward journey.

  Hastening to the lip of the pass, we observed that a huge block of ice had fallen from the face of it and crashed into the area below. Behind it flowed a virtual lake of water that had evidently built up, dammed by the ice, and was released when the block broke loose. It has evidently been unseasonably warm for September this year and rain combined with melting snow and ice had obviously weakened the front section of the glacier, allowing it to drop and free the water behind it. This poured into the valley, sweeping away anything in its path, goods, tents, anyone who had not run fast enough to higher ground, horses and wagons, in a wall of water close to twenty feet high, churning up mudslides as it went.

  Farther down, the Stone House was picked up in the strength of the flood and moved almost a quarter of a mile. At that location it was possible to hear and see the water coming and many more escaped, but with little other than the clothes on their backs. It is amazing that only three people were killed, although a number were injured, and many simply reversed direction and began the trek downhill to the beach, wasting no time in a search for their belongings. Others salvaged what they could and went on.

  I am astounded at the single-minded pursuit of the majority of these stampeders to make their way to the goldfields. They are absolutely determined and will allow nothing to interfere, sometimes to the point of callousness. I heard about a man who fell, breaking his leg, who lay by the side of the trail all day, while men passed him by, although he was obviously in pain and in need of assistance. A hired packer by the name of Linville finally went to his aid and carried him all the way down to Dyea and a doctor.

  Arizona Charley Meadows and his wife, Mae, a couple I met earlier on the trail, had lost less and were more optimistic than those who quit and walked out. They were traveling with hired packers and horses, and had sent them on to the top of the pass the day before, so their outfit was spared and they lost mostly personal items

  He is a flamboyant character in buckskin jacket and high boots, with a pistol at his belt, who was once a star in Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show as a rider and crack shot with a rifle. His wife was a rider and chariot racer in Meadows’s own show, which they had left to go to Dawson. Among other things, they were transporting goods for a restaurant, a saloon, and a general store. At each stopping place, he would set up the bar and sell liquor to the stampeders, at ever-increasing prices as they moved away from a source of supply. The flood carried off the saloon, her clothes, his favorite pistol and supply of western hats. She bought what clothing she could from those leaving for the coast and the two came on to the pass, through the knee-high mud, to join the rest of their party. I had to admire her, for she kept up with the men and always had a smile, no matter how steep the trail. Though I envy him the company of his wife, I would not have mine here in this rough country.

  The steep side of the pass was not the end of our hard work. On the other side was a long, rocky, treeless valley sloping down to the lakes. This part of the trip seemed carved out of stone, and not all of it solid. Our legs and feet ached from the jarring effort of stepping down under heavy loads and, as I developed the habit of clenching my teeth before my foot hit the ground, at the end of each day I could not decide which ached more, legs or jaw. Had there been snow it would have been an easy task of loading everything on sleds and sliding off downhill. As it was we had to carry it, as usual, for we could not wait or risk losing essential time. Though there is little snow and the weather has been remarkably good, the temperature is rapidly dropping and soon the lakes and rivers will freeze.

  Double quick, we moved our supplies past Crater Lake, around Lake Lindeman and to the shores of Bennett Lake, where we have made a good camp and are about to build a boat. We must make haste or we will fail to make Dawson this fall and be forced to winter here, waiting six or seven months for spring thaw. Toward this aim we have cut and hauled several of the largest trees we could find to saw up into lumber. We had to haul them some distance as everything close to the lake had already been cut by others with the same objective in mind. A whole town of tents has sprung up here on the lake shore and hundreds of people are working hard to avoid being wintered in.

  Frank ran into an old acquaintance of his yesterday and brought him back to camp. His surname is Wilson and Frank calls him Ozzy, so I think his Christian name must be Oswald. They worked together in the lumber camps before Frank became a streetcar man. I am not sure that I would have joined up with him, but Warner took it for granted and I really had no chance to refuse. Since it will be easier and faster to build a boat with three of us, I think it will be fine, but this Ozzy is rather taciturn and perhaps a little sullen compared to the loquaciousness of his friend. I am probably just used to having only two of us and we will all soon grow used to each other, but time will tell how we shall fare. Ozzy is a large man, with arms and sh
oulders that show the results of swinging an ax.

  Today we built a scaffold about six feet high, to hold the logs up off the ground for cutting. We will start tomorrow, with one man up and one down, to pull the whipsaw through the length of the log from one end to the other. An arrangement of this kind is called a strong-arm mill, for good reason, and Ozzy will come in handy in working ours. It is quite an efficient method of cutting boards, but the sawyer on the bottom gets a shower of sawdust on the downward stroke, which sifts into eyes, ears, and shirt-neck, and is a constant irritation. Again I will be glad for my broad-brimmed hat.

  This sawing of lumber can cause disagreements as to who is and is not doing his share of the work. Yesterday at noon two fellows near us had such an argument they decided to split up their partnership. They carefully divided up their supplies, down to and including the halfbuilt boat, which they cut exactly in two. One took the tent, the other the stove. It rained like blazes in the night, so the one with the tent was dry but couldn’t sleep for the cold and the other huddled by the stove all night, trying to dry out his wet clothes. By this morning they had made up their differences and put the vessel back together again, giving us all a good laugh.

  We have heard rumors that there are so many people either in or headed for Dawson City that there may be a shortage of provisions. Warnings are being given out that no one should leave here without a sufficient amount to last out the winter. Though Wilson has brought less than Frank and I, combining our supplies should give us plenty. Besides, there is word that supply boats are on their way up the Yukon, bound for Dawson, and will probably arrive before us. There is also word that the Royal Canadian Mounted Police intend to enforce a regulation that no one can cross into Canada without at least a year’s supply of food, about twelve hundred pounds, and everything else necessary to keep going in this country without aid. Soon they will turn back anyone who reaches the top of the Chilkoot with less.

  As fast as we can put together a proper boat we shall be off. Water on the lake is already looking slick in the mornings and a rim of ice can be found where it meets the shore. The temperature is dropping to well below freezing at night, but every day boats leave for the Yukon and so shall we in only a few more.

  Ozzy went off for a bit this afternoon with his gun and came back with two late ducks, which are now simmering with three of our precious whole potatoes and a handful of evaporated onion. We shall dine like kings before seeking our bedrolls, but what I wouldn’t give for a slice of Polly’s apple pie.

  Like almost everyone else, I am growing a beard. It is not always convenient to shave and whiskers will keep my face warmer this winter.

  I found this page from a guide book abandoned in this campsite by someone who must have felt it unnecessary to carry, or who lost it. Comparing the items it lists, I am well outfitted indeed, with almost everything required already in my possession—excepting the rancid bacon, of course. I have fifty pounds more beans and half again as much rope.

  LIST OF ITEMS NECESSARY TO CARRY TO THE YUKON

  Flour

  400 pounds

  Bacon

  150 pounds

  Split Peas

  150 pounds

  Beans

  100 pounds

  Evaporated Apples

  25 pounds

  Evaporated Peaches

  25 pounds

  Apricots

  25 pounds

  Butter

  25 pounds

  Sugar

  100 pounds

  Condensed Milk

  1½ dozen cans

  Coffee

  15 pounds

  Tea

  10 pounds

  Pepper

  1 pound

  Salt

  10 pounds

  Baking Powder

  8 pounds

  Rolled Oats

  40 pounds

  Yeast Cakes

  2 dozen

  4-oz. Beef Extract

  ½ dozen

  Soap, Castile

  5 bars

  Soap, Tar

  6 bars

  Matches

  1 tin

  Vinegar

  1 gallon

  Candles

  1 box

  Evaporated Potatoes

  25 pounds

  Rice

  25 pounds

  Canvas Sacks

  25 pounds

  Wash Basin

  1

  Medicine Chest

  1

  Rubber Sheet

  1

  Pack Straps

  1 set

  Pick

  1

  Handle

  1

  Shovel

  1

  Gold Pan

  1

  Ax

  1

  Whip Saw

  1

  Hand Saw

  1

  Jack Plane

  1

  Brace

  1

  Bits, assorted

  4

  8” Mill File

  1

  6” Mill File

  1

  Broad Hatchet

  1

  2-qt. Galvanized Coffee Pot

  1

  Fry Pan

  1

  Rivets

  1 package

  Draw Knife

  1

  Covered Pails

  3

  Pie Plate

  1

  Knife and Fork

  1 each

  Granite Cup

  1

  Tea and Table Spoon

  1 each

  14” Granite Spoon

  1

  Tape Measure

  1

  Chisel, 1 ½”

  1

  Oakum

  10 pounds

  Pitch

  10 pounds

  20d Nails

  5 pounds

  10d Nails

  5 pounds

  6d Nails

  6 pounds

  5/8” Rope

  200 feet

  Single Block

  1

  Solder Outfit

  1

  14-qt. Galvanized Pail

  1

  Granite Saucepan

  1

  Candlewick

  3 pounds

  Compass

  1

  Miner’s Candlestick

  1

  Towels

  6

  Ax Handle

  1

  Ax Stone

  1

  Emery Stone

  1

  Sheet Iron Stove

  1

  Tent

  1

  Personal Clothes, extra Boots

  Sled for Winter Travel

  SATURDAY, OCTOBER 2, 1897

  WHITE HORSE CITY, YUKON TERRITORY

  We arrived at what, with a questionable sense of humor, they call White Horse City yesterday. It is less like a city than anything I have seen so labeled thus far.

  Lakes Bennett, Tagish, Marsh, and a section of the Lewes River are behind us. A difficult section indeed. By taking a great risk, we came through Miles Canyon, Squaw and White Horse Rapids without portaging, but in the turbulent and dangerous rapids of the first, which is for good reason called Dead Man’s Canyon, we came close to losing all we have worked so hard for. I still take a deep breath when I think of how close we came to utter destruction. However, all’s well that ends well, and we are here and sound, and I am relieved to know that the rest of the trip is reputed to be gentler to the intrepid traveler. According to our rough map, only one lake, Laberge, lies before the Yukon River, which will take us the rest of the way to Dawson with only a minor rapid or two along the way.

  Aside from a few log structures, White Horse City is largely a tent-filled wide spot on the east bank of the river. As soon as the rapids are past, those who have come through by water, and survived intact, need to pull out and make repairs before the final stretch to Dawson. They are about to build
a wooden tramway to run along the east bank, above the rushing waters, which will allow, for a substantial fee, goods to be transported in horse-drawn wagons around the dangers. For now, anything that doesn’t come through the rapids in a boat is packed by hand along the full five miles. All day long the sound of hammering and sawing fills the air, along with the smell of pitch and oakum. You would think they were back in the boat building business, as some are.

  The mood is exuberant relief for those who came through, but frustrated and sad for those who did not, or who lost members of their parties to the icy clutches of the angry river and its rocks. Even here some turn back, broken in spirit. It is said that when the ice broke last spring, and boats began to run the rapids in high water, over 150 boats were wrecked in the first few days and half a dozen men drowned. So it is with worry alleviated that we pause briefly with others in this place where they say everyone stops to wash their socks. Mine are clean, along with the rest of my clothing, and dripping dry over the cook stove we have fired up in the tent.

  As we have decided to take one day here to recover from the excitement of the last two, I have time to catch up in this journal and describe the last part of the journey. Frequently we meet men coming from Dawson, on their way outside for the winter. When it sets in there will be complete isolation.

  Back at Lake Bennett, by virtue of much hard work and long hours, we managed to complete our boat in a week. It is a queer-looking craft, almost twenty feet long, of rudely sawed planks, with a flat bottom. Though we strove to make the planks even and as smooth as possible as we sawed them from logs, all of us have numerous splinters acquired as we nailed them in place, or rubbed them into our skin on the way here. Our boat has a good bow and a flat, somewhat awkward stern. It is better than some traditional flatboats I have seen, with both ends square like boxes or crates. These are exceptionally difficult to maneuver, and slower, since they resist the water they should cut through were they more blade-shaped.