Books by Sue Henry

by Henry, Sue

  When all the work with wood was done and held in place with our precious nails, we had to seal the cracks, a hot sticky job. Boiling a pot of yellow pitch, we dipped the stringy fibers of oakum into it and forced them into all the seams. This was a miserable process that raised blisters on our hands as we attempted to hold the hot stuff in place and pound it quickly in with hammer, chisel, and caulking iron before it cooled. Heating and reheating that iron was a task in itself. Too hot and it sometimes melted out what we wanted left in place. Too cold and it would not melt pitch and oakum enough to wedge it in properly. Every slightest crevice must be filled carefully so as not to leak and sink us.

  During the final days of boat building, we added one more man to our party, for a total of four. Edward McNeal, Ned, as he prefers to be called, is a Scotsman from New York, where his parents emigrated when he was young. I fell into conversation with him one afternoon when I was out scouting for more pitch for the caulking pot and he trudged past on his way north, looking for a place to start a boat of his own. He stopped for a breather and assisted me in scraping pitch off several trees which had been slashed by previous boat builders. He is a pleasant sort, with his head on straight and a calm, positive way about him. I so enjoyed his company, and the hint of rolling r’s in the slight accent he retains, that I found myself asking if he would like to help complete our boat and join us for the trip downriver.

  Frank and, particularly, Ozzy seemed reluctant when I announced my invitation to them, but had to agree there was room enough in the boat for him and his outfit. When they knew that he had been a fisherman on the eastern seaboard and was at home in a boat, they lost no time, however, in welcoming him to the endeavor. When he also sold some of his boat building materials and contributed extra food and a little cash to the effort they were more than satisfied. I do believe he saved our skins in Dead Man’s Canyon and, in so doing, more than earned his place. He was quietly grateful, for it saved him the time it would have taken to put together a vessel of his own and, thereby, probably also prevented his being wintered in at Lake Bennett.

  I am glad to have him along for another reason. There is something about Ozzy I can’t quite cotton to, though he has done nothing to me personally to cause me to actually dislike him. He talks little and, when he does, says almost nothing about his background or where he came from. He has a temper and is unreasonably suspicious of others, seems to expect a slight or ill deed. There seems to be a suppressed rage in the man for some unknown reason. Midway through the boat building, he suddenly accused the perfectly honest pair of fellows working next to us of stealing our nails. They, astonished, declared their innocence, but Ozzy brushed it aside with an angry retort and picked up his ax, apparently ready to physically resolve the issue then and there, which concerned me greatly. I resolved never to be in the way if he becomes truly angry.

  At that point, Frank called out that he had located the missing nails in their keg under a canvas he had tossed over our supplies. Ozzy immediately laid down the ax and returned to his work, but never offered apologies to our neighbors, which to me seemed in order. They departed two days later, seemingly with relief, as they had watched Ozzy rather closely following the ruckus, and kept an eye on their goods.

  It is, therefore, good to have Ned for company. Though we work and travel together, Frank and Ozzy tend to keep each other’s company, while Ned and I are more inclined to fall in together. I was the odd man out before he joined us, now it is more even. Besides, he keeps us laughing at his jokes and entertained with a mouth harp that he plays rather well.

  At last our feverish labor was done and the boat complete and solid as we could make it. Launching and packing it with all our assorted bags and baggage, made secure from water to the best of our ability, we spent one more night upon dry land and embarked upon our voyage early Sunday morning, September 26. I am inclined to think that departure on the Lord’s Day may have influenced our successful passage through the rapids which were to follow. Though I am sure others might say it was simply excitement and a skill born of desperation, combined with an exceptionally large dose of luck.

  We started down the twenty-six miles of Lake Bennett on a sunny day with a smart breeze blowing the right direction, and cruised along pleasantly enough for most of the day, largely enjoying the sensation of being able to relax after so much hurried labor and long hours. We took turns at the rudder, Frank found a space to nap on some sacks with his feet on a box, and Ned fired up a pipe that he clamped between his teeth and puffed at contentedly. As we glided along, he pulled a map from his pocket and showed us the route a returning miner had been good enough to sketch for him in Dyea. It gave no indication of the miles, but showed the rivers, lakes, and stopping places along the way. Of special interest were the rapids and things along the waterways to watch out for, or that were of particular danger. Ned related that it should require most of two weeks to travel the five hundred miles by water.

  There were dozens of other boats besides ours, headed with all possible speed toward the far end of the lake. Everyone was uneasy at the thought of being frozen in and anxious to reach the river with its faster-moving flow. Throughout the morning I watched them, as they passed and were passed. Mountains capped with snow rose steeply from either side of the broad lake, with almost no place to land. We took the shortest route possible, which was down the middle of the almost currentless waters. Having been warned that sudden storms and winds were common on the lakes, we kept a sharp eye out for any indication of such, but the day remained warm and calm, with enough breeze to speed us on our way.

  Late in the afternoon we spotted the narrow passage that would allow us through into Tagish Lake at a place called Caribou Crossing on Ned’s map. We took out the oars and rowed perhaps half a mile from one lake to the other, passing a few Indians fishing from the banks, who watched us closely, but did not respond to my wave. I imagine they had seen so many other boats that it was no rarity to be gestured at by a white man. They must think our obsession with gold strange to say the least and would probably rather have fish.

  Barely onto Tagish Lake, we stopped and made camp for the night, but the next morning we were back on our way before it was fully light. There was no wind at all and we were forced to take turns at the oars, two by two, spelling each other. We worked hard all morning, making up for our sloth of the day before, until close to noon, when a breeze a little stronger than before sprang up and allowed us the luxury of resting again. I was glad of the respite as the sight of the cliffs to the east of the lake was spectacular. Rising thousands of feet straight up, they were more than impressive. Approximately a third of the way down the lake, they split to reveal an inlet called Windy Arm. This, Ned’s cartographer had said, was one of the dangerous places, as sudden and violent winds were known to spring up without warning to howl over the waters of Tagish like a hurricane. Glad to reach the other side of this arm, we continued and watched the cliffs turn into lower hills, all liberally covered with snow, reminding us that soon it would fall farther down and we had better make haste while we were able.

  Midafternoon we rowed again, this time through the river-like channel between Tagish and Marsh Lakes. Tired with all the rowing, we camped about ten miles down Marsh Lake and all went to bed early. This lake certainly deserves its name, as it seems mostly swamp in spots.

  Through the day we drifted slowly along close to the shore, with an erratic wind that came and went, at times lifting the sail, at others leaving it slack. We were all drowsily nodding after a cold noon meal, when a sudden crash and frantic splashing brought us up wide awake. A moose and her calf came leaping out of the reeds of the shore, splashed into the lake and began to swim, paying no attention to our silent passage very near to them. Some predator, wolf or wildcat, perhaps, must have pursued this mother, forcing her to take to the water with her young. As long as we could see they swam strongly, steadily heading for the opposite side of the lake. We were fascinated that an animal of such bulk could move throu
gh water with little or no trouble.

  The last ten miles of the lake were soon behind us and we found ourselves on the Lewis River for the majority of the day. With a swifter current, our speed picked up considerably and the fifty miles of water approximately two hundred feet wide passed quickly in comparison to the time spent rowing the day before. It seemed no time at all until we noticed that the river had begun to narrow and gain speed. Then, suddenly, we noticed several men waving in exaggerated gestures for us to come ashore. Near them was a sign, painted in large letters which read, “WARNING! WATCH FOR CANYON!” Another close by simply read, “CANNON,” and though I had to chuckle at the spelling, the intent was clear. We had reached the notorious rapids and, heeding the warnings, pulled with a will for the right bank.

  The men who had waved us in offered to take us and the boat through Miles Canyon for a hundred dollars. When we hesitated, they came down to seventy-five, then fifty, but we were determined to see the rapids for ourselves before deciding on a course of action. From where we stood, we could hear the rush of water from around the next bend. We hiked up a trail which took us to the rim of the canyon and walked along until we could look down almost a hundred feet into a maelstrom of water below. Churning, white with foam, it roared through the narrow space between the rocks so loudly we had to shout to hear each other. Frank’s face turned a sort of greenish-white. Ned clamped his teeth down on his pipe and frowned at the sight.

  Two large whirlpools lay close against the cliffs, one with bits and pieces of what appeared to be parts of some broken boat that was being pulverized in its giant gristmill.

  “Holy cow!” Ozzy exclaimed, shaking his head. “We’ll never make it through this. I vote we pack around.”

  A flatboat appeared as we considered the wild current, hurtling along at great speed, tilting and turning, all but out of control against all efforts of the three men struggling valiantly to keep some kind of grasp on its course. Barely missing one canyon wall, the craft swung drunkenly toward a whirlpool and I expected to see them sucked down and demolished. Somehow they made it past, however, and we watched in awed silence as they disappeared around the next bend, still fighting for their very lives.

  “That does it,” Frank said. “I’m walking.”

  But Ned, still frowning, said he thought we could make it. He made us look at the path of the water and notice that, aside from the whirlpools, it was mostly just fast water with no apparent large rocks except the walls themselves. We walked the full length of the rapids to see exactly what we faced, and the only real problem seemed to be taking care to stay in the center of the channel as much as possible. By the time we retraced our steps, even Frank had decided he would give it a try.

  Tightening down and covering our gear, we rode through like an arrow from a bow. There was no time to even think, once we were in the clutches of the current and headed downstream at a speed faster than we could have imagined. It seemed much worse from water-level than it had from above, but we were committed and, with only a stroke or two of the oars to put us in midstream, were swept away by the boiling waters. Faster and faster we sped down the corridor of stone, past the whirlpools that we closely missed, rocking and careening atop huge waves that pounded against the walls, rebounded and hammered the boat in their fury to escape the confines of the canyon.

  Just as we were coming close to the end, the boat was caught by one tremendous wave and thrown around almost crosswise of the current. A torrent of water washed overboard and threatened to swamp us. Frank scrambled toward the stern and seemed about to abandon ship, but Ned quickly threw his weight on an oar and shouted loudly for us to “r-r-row, boys, bloody r-r-row.” His efforts, and some of ours, straightened the boat enough to allow the bow to once again point in the correct direction. Then, with Frank and Ozzy bailing for all they were worth while Ned and I manned the oars, we remained afloat. By the time we miraculously flew out the far end into calmer water we were drenched by both sweat and water, and panting with exertion. Both my hands had blisters, when I could force my fingers to uncramp from the oar I had wielded. We made it to shore and sat in the boat, shivering like dogs from fear and cold.

  Strangely enough, in the midst of all the confusion, I remember clearly seeing the wreck of some vessel, splintered planks and shreds of canvas, sucked into a whirlpool as we passed it. What focused my attention was the white face of a man who was clinging to it, and the certain knowledge that he was a goner for sure, with no hope of rescue. When I had caught my breath, I mentioned it to Ned, who frowned and shook his head, but said nothing, for what could he have said?

  After resting for an hour, and putting our trust in Ned, the other two rapids passed with no more than a like amount of difficulty, as he determinedly kept us off the walls and in midstream. Throwing all our combined strength into the effort, we followed his shouted commands frantically and without question. We scraped once on a rock at the last, where an underwater reef made out from the left bank, creating a wave three or four feet high to cover it, but made it through with little damage to the boat and naught but a drenching to ourselves. I have never traveled five miles so fast in my life. Another survivor told me that he had checked his watch before and after their nonstop run through the first two rapids and the elapsed time was eight minutes. Portaging would have taken at least two days.

  Much of our outfit, like others who came through, is spread out around me, as I write, to day. One poor fellow’s whole supply of sugar was soaked. He dumped it, melting, into a tin dishpan and has been begging bottles and corks from anyone who could spare them to contain the resulting syrup. Hope his bottles don’t shatter when they freeze, as they most assuredly will.

  As I see Ned returning from a walk along the bank to stretch his legs, I shall end this account and assist him in returning some kind of order to our goods. His tobacco remained dry in its can, for he is puffing up plumes of smoke as he rearranges the canvas sacks, spread over nearby bushes. As the temperature is falling, I think they are more likely to freeze than to dry, though some thin sun is shining. Still, I huddle close to the stove, toasting my stockinged toes while my damp boots steam nearby.

  I take heart at the thought that soon I will be in the Clondyke where gold may be had for the taking. So far we go well and all the real difficulties are now behind us.

  SUNDAY, OCTOBER 3, 1897

  LEWES RIVER, YUKON TERRITORY

  We left White Horse early this morning and made good time due to the swiftness of the Lewes River. Though sandbars kept us alert so as not to run aground, there have been no more rapids and the ride is quite smooth, taking us between light-colored cliffs a hundred feet high. Beyond them we could see rough mountains and timber-covered slopes as the sun came up. This is a young, broad-shouldered country with terraced hills rolling back massively where glaciers once worked their way. The river flows through a wide valley from which canyons branch deep into the wilderness.

  The weather is perceptively colder and we now encounter ice at the river’s edge even in the middle of the day. The days are also growing swiftly shorter. By mid-December we will have only four or five hours of daylight.

  Over a quarter of the way to Dawson in miles, we should arrive at our destination in only a week or so, if we travel without delays or incidents which would slow our speed. We glide along, hardly needing to touch the oars, with others heading in the same northerly direction. There are not so many vessels, as many were lost or damaged in the rapids before White Horse. If repairs are not effected rapidly, they will not be able to reach Dawson before the river freezes. The thought of being frozen in somewhere along the river is not a pleasant one, although I imagine we could build a rough cabin and hold out with our outfits and food until spring. This, however, would mean missing the winter’s mining on the Clondyke, so we proceed with all speed.

  This evening we have made camp on a low bank east of the river and will reach Lake Laberge tomorrow. It is very cold, with a brisk wind blowing up the river. We huddle c
lose to the fire, where Frank is cooking pancakes. I will be glad of my extra blanket and we are all sleeping in our clothing and coats.

  MONDAY, OCTOBER 4

  LEWES RIVER, YUKON TERRITORY

  Headed almost due north on the Lewes River, we were well on our way this morning, after an uncomfortably cold night, when we discovered a leak in the side of our boat. It must have suffered a brush with a bowlder in the rapids, for the pitch and oakum was missing along one plank which showed evidence of some scrapes. Pulling in to shore, we made a hasty fire and repaired the leak before it could let in enough water to soak our supplies.

  All day we floated down the river, using our oars more in the afternoon as it widened and slowed somewhat coming into a broad valley of terraced hills. The soil must have contained a goodly amount of iron, for the riverbanks began to exhibit a reddish color, though they were much lower than those near White Horse. Gold must not be the only mineral in which these parts are rich, but certainly the one most sought after. Perhaps in years to come others will come with the equipment and means to extract less valuable ore, though I can’t imagine this wild country cut through with the roads or railroads it would require.

  To the east the panorama was an ever-changing picture of snow-covered mountains, set off against the green of the spruce. A range of these peaks runs north and south, paralleling our route but miles away. I wish we had the time to climb away from the river and see the entire valley spread out below us. It must be spectacular. As it is, we must make all speed possible toward Dawson. This day has seen many miles put behind us as, indeed, we traveled late, wanting to reach Lake Laberge.

  This we did, after dark, at about nine o’clock, when the riverbanks suddenly disappeared to right and left and we realized we were afloat on the waters of a broader body of water. Campfires along the shore guided us to a spot suitable for the night and we made haste to build one of our own, wishing to warm fingers stiffened by our hold on the cold oars. Setting up camp, we made a quick dinner of pancakes and coffee, and set a pot of beans to boil for the morrow. We had kept them soaking all day in a pot in the bottom of the boat, so they were ready to cook with a bit of salt pork and some evaporated onion. It is the lake for us tomorrow and I look forward to seeing it in the morning light. As I write it is spitting snow, but only a little. Hopefully it will not increase during the night.