My Alaskan Christmas.
By W. E. Priestly, of Fairbanks, Alaska.
We have published a number of stories of adventure in the icy North, but none giving a more realistic impression of the hardships and dangers which lie in wait for the traveller and prospector in these inhospitable regions than this. Mr. Priestley and his partner set out with dog-teams for a new goldfield, but the partner lost heart and turned back, leaving him to struggle on alone. Death dogged his footsteps through the great white wilderness, and but for the intelligence of his leading dog he would undoubtedly have lost his life.
It was my fortune, or misfortune, to be present in San Francisco at the time of the earthquake and fire of April 18th, 1906. Although I gained a good deal of valuable experience as my share of the catastrophe, I lost all my belongings to offset the bargain.
I stayed in San Francisco until June 1st, and then resolved to try my luck in another country, where earthquakes and such petty worries are unknown. Fate directed my roving footsteps to Alaska, glowingly described by the transportation companies as “The Golden North—the land of fur, fish, and gold.” I thanked the companies for their information, but did not avail myself of their kind offer to sell me a ticket. Both Nature and Fate seemed to have destined me for a rover, and one of the main tenets of a roving life—to say nothing of my financial status—demanded and ordained that I must travel at the least possible expense. I accordingly made arrangements, and worked my passage from San Francisco to St. Michael’s, viâ Nome, on the ss. Buckman. St. Michael’s is a port on the Bering Sea, and is the principal shipping port for the Yukon River and Central Alaska.
THE AUTHOR, MR. W. E. PRIESTLY, IN HIS ALASKAN COSTUME.
From a Photograph.
From St. Michael’s I found a boat was leaving for the Tanana district, and again luck favoured me, for I got the chance to work my way up to that part of the country. We traversed the Yukon River as far as Fort Gibbon, and from there proceeded up the Tanana River to the mining camp of Fairbanks, which is situated about four hundred miles up-stream from Fort Gibbon.
I arrived in Fairbanks on July 1st, having travelled nearly four thousand miles since leaving San Francisco, and found myself about twenty-five dollars better off than when I started. I stayed in the Fairbanks district until the end of November. The physical features of this country are best described as “eight months iceberg and four months swamp.”
Towards the end of November rumour began to circulate reports that a new goldfield of incredible richness had been discovered. Tales of “eight dollars to the shovelful” were passed through the camp, and all kinds of stories, real and imaginary, were discussed with feverish excitement.
The new diggings were known as the Chandelar, and were situated at the head-waters of the Chandelar River, a tributary of the Yukon, having its source in the Arctic slope and entering the Yukon River about twenty miles below Fort Yukon.
I was anxious to try my luck in the newly-discovered country, but this was a matter that could not be lightly considered. The diggings were about four hundred miles due north of Fairbanks, and a good deal of preparation was necessary before a trip of this kind could be undertaken. I was a new-comer in the country (locally termed a “chechaco”); I was unused to the ways of the trail; there was no food in the new district, except, of course, wild game; and, finally, the temperature at that time was about forty degrees below zero, with every possibility that it would drop to sixty or seventy below zero by the end of December.
I made up my mind that the first thing I must do would be to get a travelling partner who could be depended on. I finally made arrangements with an old-timer in the country, named Bartlett, who was also going up to the Chandelar. He had been in the Klondike rush of ’98, and as he sat by a hot stove and related his marvellous exploits on the trail, his thrilling adventures and hair-breadth escapes, in a state of “chechaco” simplicity that was almost pitiable I congratulated myself on my choice of a partner.
Finding that I had not enough money to purchase everything necessary, I spoke to two friends of mine, and they agreed to put seventy-five dollars each into the trip; in return, they were to have a one-third interest between them of any mining property that I located in the Chandelar. This is a common occurrence in Alaska, and is generally known as a “grubstake proposition.”
A FACSIMILE OF THE AUTHOR’S POWER OF ATTORNEY, GIVING HIM AUTHORITY TO STAKE GROUND ON BEHALF OF HIS PARTNERS.
Agreements were drawn up between us, one being styled a “grubstake agreement” and the other a “power of attorney.” The “grubstake agreement” stated that in return for the sum of one hundred and fifty dollars the parties of the first part drew up this agreement in order that they might have legal claim to a one-third interest in all placer and mining ground staked by party of the second part in the Chandelar district and north of the Yukon River.
The power of attorney was simply a legal document, giving me permission to stake ground for the benefit of absent parties.
Having settled all legal matters and received my “grubstake,” I purchased my outfit—four dogs, a fur robe, a Yukon sled, and a Yukon stove. In addition I had to purchase dog harness, a gun, ammunition, axe, tent, and compass, as well as dog-feed, a good supply of provisions, and suitable clothing for the trip.
My four dogs were of different breeds, only one being a pure native dog or “malamute.” My leader deserves special mention. The most intelligent dog is always placed in the lead, as the dogs are not driven by reins, but simply by word. To tell the dogs to travel straight ahead, the command is “Mush!” or “Mush on!” which is evidently a corruption of the term used by the French-Canadian trappers of the Hudson Bay Company, who would naturally say “Marchez” when ordering their team to travel. To travel to the right the command is “Gee!” and to the left “Aw!”
My leading dog was born in Circle City and had been christened Nellie. She had both the native and the outside strain—a dog whose intelligence and faithfulness cannot be questioned, as after-events will prove.
We left Fairbanks on December 12th, my partner and myself each having four dogs. We had an outfit consisting of tent, stove, guns, ammunition, robes, snow-shoes, one hundred pounds of dog-feed, and about five hundred pounds of food. It was our intention to proceed to Circle City, and there to complete our outfit.
For the first few miles the trail was in excellent condition and we made good time. It was rather late when we started, and by the time we had covered sixteen miles it was already dark. It must be remembered that in the middle of winter there is only a very short period of daylight in Alaska. The first night we stayed at a mining camp known as Golden City, consisting of two saloons and a number of dilapidated cabins, the majority being minus doors or windows.
Next day we made an early start, as we had a very steep hill to climb, known as Cleary Dome. There had been a light fall of snow during the night, and this made the trail very heavy. We found it impossible to get the loads up the hill, so we hitched the eight dogs on to one sled, and, having dragged it to the top of the Dome, we took the dogs down again for the other sled. From the summit there was a steep decline, and it took me all my time to hold back the sled, to prevent it cutting the hind legs of the wheeler dog.
The trail was in bad condition, as it had been cut to pieces by some heavy freight teams. The track at this point ran along the side of a hill down into the valley, and the sleds were on one runner most of the way. Every few minutes they would upset, and a good deal of physical energy would be expended to right them again. The loads were lashed to the sleds, so little actual damage was done.
That night we stayed at Cleary Creek, having accomplished ten miles as the result of the day’s trip, but as the greater part of the ten miles consisted of the ascent and descent already mentioned we were both satisfied.
Next morning we started off, following the trail down Cleary Creek until we struck the Chatanika River, and here we met our first big obstacle. Our course lay up the Chatanika for about seventy miles, but as soon as we arrived on the banks of this river we found it impossible to travel any farther, on account of overflows. It may be as well to explain for the benefit of the uninitiated what is meant by an overflow.
The Chatanika is a river over one hundred miles in length, but is full of gravel bars. At the beginning of winter the stream, of course, freezes, and where the gravel bars are situated it freezes solid to the bottom, owing to the fact that the water is very shallow at these points.
There is always a large body of water flowing from the subterranean springs at the source of this river, and, as this water cannot make its way through the barriers of ice and gravel, it forces itself up through the ice and flows over the top until such time as it freezes or finds its way under the ice again. In some places the overflows thus formed are three or four feet deep.
Now, it is a serious matter to wade through water when the thermometer is a long way below zero. It is the easiest thing in the world for a man to lose his feet in this way, for as soon as one gets wet the moisture freezes into a cake of ice, and unless precautions are immediately taken the limbs may become so badly frozen that amputation is necessary, in order to prevent mortification.
When we found the river was so full of overflows we judged it best to wait a few days and give the water a chance to freeze, as the weather was very cold at this time. We found a deserted cabin, minus door and window, and proceeded to make ourselves as comfortable as possible under these circumstances. We had a stove with us, and as there was plenty of wood handy we soon had the cabin warm.
We stayed at this place over two weeks, waiting for the overflows to close up. Time began to drag heavily on our hands, for the days were very short and game scarce, so all we could do was to eat and sleep and wait for the flood-water to freeze. Our Christmas Day—that day of all the year so eagerly looked forward to in happier climes—we spent as follows. During the few hours of daylight I took my gun and went off into the woods. I found the tracks of a wolverine, but was unable to follow them up, as it was already getting dark, though I could see that the tracks were newly made.
That night we did our best to celebrate Christmas properly. We prepared a feast, which consisted of caribou steak, evaporated potatoes, evaporated onions, canned butter, canned pears, and baking-powder bread. Such little luxuries as plum-puddings and mince-pies were chiefly conspicuous by their absence, and I finished my repast with a bad attack of home-sickness, which was perhaps natural, but hardly in keeping with my rôle of dauntless pioneer.
We waited by the banks of the Chatanika until January 1st, and then, as the overflows still showed no signs of freezing over, we determined to start the New Year and our trip up the river at the same time, and trust to that special Providence which is supposed to guard sailors, fools, drunken men, and little children. The dogs were in good condition, as they had done nothing for two weeks but eat, sleep, and grow fat. They showed a distinct dislike to their harness at first, which was perhaps natural, but after a time resigned themselves to the inevitable.
For the first two miles we managed to pick out a land trail, but after that we had to take to the river, as the timber became too thick. After we had travelled about two miles on the river trail, we began to congratulate ourselves on the condition of the track, for by picking our way carefully and avoiding the stretches of open water we were making good time.
All at once we saw smoke issuing from a small cabin, so we halted the dogs in order to make inquiries regarding the overflows higher up the river. We found the cabin to be occupied by two hunters, who told us that round the bend of the river there was an overflow over three feet deep, which it was impossible to get through. They had been waiting for a week to see whether it would freeze over. We, however, had had enough of delays, so we determined to see whether we could get through.
Reaching the overflow we found it covered with a thin coating of ice. We had just succeeded in getting on to this “glare” ice when, with a crack, it broke under us, and we sank up to our knees in ice-cold water, while the poor dogs were nearly covered. Having once got wet, we thought we might as well try to get through; but it was impossible for the dogs to pull, as they could not get a foothold, and the noses of the sleds were blocked with “slush” ice. We accordingly hitched our eight dogs on to one sled, and I walked ahead in order to encourage the animals to follow me.
Every time I put my foot down I broke through the ice, and it was easy to follow my course by the holes I left behind me in the trail. The farther I went the deeper the water became, and at last I realized that the only thing to be done was to return to the cabin, as it was impossible for either dogs or men to stand the deadly cold of the water much longer. As soon as I arrived at this decision the two hunters, who had come out to assist us, went back to the cabin and prepared a big fire and hot coffee.
We succeeded in getting the dogs on to solid ice again, and the water on the dogs, sleds, and harness—to say nothing of ourselves—immediately turned to ice.
We reached the cabin in a few minutes, got the dogs inside in order to thaw them out, and proceeded to change our frozen clothes. The cabin could hardly be described as pretentious, as the dimensions were only about eight feet by ten, by five feet in height. Put four men and eight dogs, all ice-coated, in this space, with a big fire going, and it will be easily seen that the atmosphere is likely to become somewhat oppressive. To add to our discomfort, the cabin became so hot that the snow on the roof commenced to melt and find its way through the numerous cracks. The floor, consisting as it did of plain mother earth, soon began to take on the form of a small duck-pond, so we were compelled to make a thick carpet of spruce boughs.
Next morning, after a hearty breakfast, we were ready to try the overflow again. My partner at this time began to show himself in his true colours. He was ready to return to Fairbanks, for he had developed a disease variously termed “cold feet,” “crawfish,” or “white feather.”
Reaching the overflow again, we repeated the previous day’s programme, with the same result, but we found that the ice was a little thicker than before. We returned to the cabin, resolved to wait a few days. After staying two more days in the cabin, in an atmosphere resembling a Hindu bazaar or a Turkish bath, another man came up the river with four dogs, and we determined to make a combined attempt to get through.
We therefore hitched the twelve dogs on to one sled, and after a tremendous effort succeeded in getting the sled through the overflow on to solid ice. The first sled taken through contained the tent and stove, and while my partner and myself returned for the other sleds our latest ally pitched the tent and lit the stove, and by the time we got back with the second sled a good cup of coffee was waiting for us. We then returned for the third sled, and having succeeded in dragging it through to the tent we unanimously decided to knock off work, for, although we had only travelled about half a mile from the hunters’ cabin, we were all satisfied that we had done a good day’s work.
Next morning we started before daybreak, determined to put in a long day’s “mush.” The thermometer was down to forty below zero, and we all had the hoods of our “parkas” drawn tight.
We passed Kokomo Creek and had travelled for about six miles when to our dismay we came to a place where the river was open, as far as we could see it round the bend.
The same dreary programme of Chatanika overflow was repeated. Three journeys were made through the water, which was in some places waist deep and was over half a mile long. At the end of the first trip my partner stayed to light a fire. After we had again succeeded in getting the three sleds high and dry we changed our clothes in front of the fire, and, after knocking the ice off the harness and sleds, we made a forced march to an Indian camp about a mile farther ahead. We stayed here for two days, in order to rest the dogs, as their feet had been badly cut by the ice.
At the end of two days my partner and myself started on alone and, after a hard struggle through water and drifts, succeeded in reaching a cabin known as “Cy’s Place,” which is about thirty miles from Cleary Creek. My partner here threw up the sponge and said he was going back to Fairbanks. I told him that I was not in the habit of turning back, so we finally decided to separate, he to go back to Fairbanks, while I made up my mind to try and reach Circle City, and there wait for some party going to the Chandelar.
A bad wind-storm had arisen during the night, and up-river no signs of a trail could be seen, so I left the dogs at “Cy’s Place” and tied on my snow-shoes. Going ahead I “broke trail” for about six miles, returning at night to Cy’s. Next morning I started off on my lone trip, and soon came to the end of my beaten trail. I walked on ahead, wearing my snow-shoes, and the dogs followed as best they could. Every few yards the nose of the sled would bury itself in a drift, and the dogs would lie down until I turned back and dragged it loose.
After I had covered about nine miles in this way the wind began to blow again. It was getting dark, so I tried to pitch the tent, but found it impossible on account of the wind. The only thing left for me to do was to light a big fire and make myself as comfortable as I could until morning. Fortunately there was a good supply of dry wood handy, and I soon had a big fire under the trees. I laid spruce boughs on the snow, and, having fed myself and the dogs, rolled myself in my robe and slept till morning. Of course I had to replenish the fire two or three times during the night, and each time I awoke I found the dogs lying almost on the top of me for warmth.
Next morning, after a rather cheerless breakfast, I started off again. The dogs seemed reluctant to travel, as though aware of some danger ahead. I intended, if possible, to reach a cabin at the mouth of Faith Creek, which was about twenty miles from my camp. I found the trail very heavy, and the only way I could make any progress was to fasten a rope to the sled, tie the other end round my waist, and pull with the dogs. Time and again the sled would be buried in the drifts; but, notwithstanding this, by about half-past two in the afternoon I had made some fourteen miles. It was just commencing to get dark, and the temperature was about forty degrees below zero. I was hoping to get into Faith Creek before five o’clock, as I had not been bothered with overflows, when, suddenly turning a bend in the river, I saw, straight ahead, a stretch of “glare” ice, which warned me to look out for an overflow. I fully realized my serious position. With the weather so cold I was running a chance of freezing to death if I got wet, for the wood all round seemed to be green, and there was now no partner to help me in case I got stuck.
I walked ahead, with the dogs close at my heels, looking for solid ice. Presently, without warning, there was a loud crack, and myself, dogs, and sled were precipitated into the water. The thing happened so suddenly that almost before I realized what had occurred I found myself standing in four feet of water, with the dogs struggling to keep themselves afloat.
My first thought was for them, so I drew out my hunting knife and cut them loose from the sled. They scrambled out as best they could, dragging themselves to solid ice. I next tried to haul the sled out of the water, but found it impossible, so I cut the ropes, let the load sink under the ice, and pulled out the empty sled. With all my food, clothes, dog-feed, and everything else lost, I managed to flounder through the water with the sled on my shoulder. When I got to solid ice once more I began to reflect upon the serious nature of my position. I was at least six miles from any cabin; from feet to neck I was covered with a solid coat of ice; and when I tried to light a fire the green wood refused to burn and my fingers began to freeze. Owing to the ice upon my clothes, I found it impossible to bend my knees, and I realized that my only chance of salvation lay in reaching Faith Creek, six miles away.
Without wasting any further time, I fastened the dogs to the sled and started off. The wind commenced to blow again, and the trail was completely obliterated. The only thing I could do was to trust to the instinct of Nellie, my leading dog. She struggled on gamely through drifts and snow-banks, and the other dogs and myself followed her. The trail was so bad and my clothes were frozen so stiff that I could only travel at about a mile an hour.
“THERE WAS A LOUD CRACK, AND MYSELF, DOGS, AND SLED WERE PRECIPITATED INTO THE WATER.”
The night grew darker, and it was soon almost impossible to see the trees on either side of the river, except at such times as the trail veered to one side or the other; then the trees would be discernible, standing up stark and naked, like gigantic skeletons rising from the snow. In the zenith the Polar star glowed brilliantly, while as far as the eye could reach the snow lay like a gleaming shroud on the earth. Not a sound was to be heard save the panting of the dogs, the crunch of snow under my frozen moccasins, and, somewhere in the distance, the howl of an animal. I cared for nothing, thought of nothing, desired nothing, save to reach Faith Creek. Time and again I was ready to drop, but I still kept on, spurred by the thought that I was fighting for my life, for I knew that once I gave way to the lassitude that seemed to be gripping my senses, my life would pay the forfeit. I had heard so much of lone “mushers” on the trail, who had lain down on the snow for a sleep from which they never awoke, that I was prepared to struggle on to the last.
Soon the dogs began to tire, and it was only by persistent effort that I could keep them from lying down in the snow. They were so weary, poor brutes, that it was cruelty to whip them; all I could do was to pat them and encourage them with my voice. Nellie tried to lick my frozen gauntlet, or, half in play, to bite my numbed hand.
Still I kept on, hoping against hope that I should soon see the light in the Faith Creek cabin. I kept shouting, but all the answer I got was a mocking echo. Blundering through snow-drifts, with the wind-blown snow driving against my face like particles of glass, the dogs panting with exertion or moaning from the pain of their lacerated feet, without a sign of a trail or landmark, and with my feet in a peculiar condition of insensibility, still I staggered blindly but persistently towards my goal.
At eight o’clock I was still on the trail; but somehow a doubt began to take possession of me that perhaps I had missed the cabin altogether and was wandering towards the Twelve-mile Divide.
“I SAW TWO MEN APPROACHING ME, AND AT ONCE STRUGGLED TO MY FEET.”
All at once the dogs stopped, and on stepping ahead to see what was the matter I found they were tangled in their harness. I tried to bend over to release them, but my clothes were so stiff that I found it impossible, and I lurched over, falling head-foremost into a drift.
I tried to raise myself to a sitting position, only to fall back weakly. A new sensation seemed to be taking possession of me. I no longer desired to struggle; a mysterious warmth appeared to surround me, and a drowsiness stole over my senses. My only wish was to be left alone to sleep. I was just dozing off when Nellie, my leading dog, lifted up her nose and gave vent to a weird, wolf-like howl, which she repeated after a few seconds’ interval. I gazed at her with an almost ludicrous amazement, wondering stupidly why she was making such a noise. Almost simultaneously with her second howl I heard a shout and, to my amazement, saw a lantern shining through the trees. I at once realised that help was at hand, and immediately the desire for sleep left me. A wild longing for life, for warmth, for food, asserted itself instead, and I gave a yell that must have sounded like the war-whoop of an Apache Indian. A moment later I saw two men approaching me, and at once struggled to my feet. Through the trees came the shouted query, “Are you all right?” “I’m all right,” I answered. “Where’s the cabin?” By this time the two men had reached me, and one of them, looking hard into my face, exclaimed, “Why, your nose is frozen!”
He put his arm round me and helped me to the cabin, while the other man took charge of my dogs. I found that the cabin was only about a hundred yards from the place where I had lain down to sleep, but, owing to the fact that it was built in a grove of trees, it was impossible to see it until one was close to it. It seems almost ironical that had it not been for the howl of a dog I would surely have died within a hundred yards of warmth and shelter.
Once in the cabin the men examined me, and found that my nose, ears, and fingers were frozen, but not dangerously so. Without any hesitation they took a knife and cut off my socks and moccasins. My feet, from the toes to the ankles, were as white and as hard as marble. They thawed them out with snow, and for three hours I suffered indescribable torment as the congealed blood began to circulate.
Next morning my feet were so swollen and looked so bad that I was wrapped in furs, packed in a dog-sled, and taken to the hospital at Fairbanks, which was reached in three days. I lay in the hospital for three months, but fortunately did not lose any portion of my feet. It will be many months, however, before I shall be able to walk as well as formerly, but I count myself as one of the most fortunate, because I escaped with my life.
A BRIEF ACCOUNT OF THE AUTHOR’S ADVENTURE TAKEN FROM THE “FAIRBANKS (ALASKA) TIMES.”
It only remains for me to add that Nellie is still with me; I intend never to part with her. Very few men can say that they have cheated death through the howl of a dog, and I consider it my duty to care for the animal who, by her devotion and intelligence, saved my life that day on the Circle trail.
THE AUTHOR AND HIS DOGS—THE CENTRE ANIMAL IS NELLIE, WHO SAVED HIS LIFE.
From a Photograph.