It was sixty-five miles from Skagway to the Windy Arm of Lake Tagish, we were told, and that if we averaged ten miles a-day we should do well.
Within an hour our march began—that is, our Indians loaded four canoes with our packs; then we paddled six miles up-stream, landed, and camped for the night.
Our men were cheery; some spoke the Chinook jargon,—"the trade language of the Pacific coast,"—a few knew a little English. One who appeared to be their head man knew most, and he attached himself closely to us, cooked and helped us. It was our policy to appear "green," and this man, believing it was our first night in the bush, showed us how to manage. He called himself Jim Crow; this name had been given him by some facetious countryman of ours.
Starting at six the following morning, we soon understood what packing over the White Pass meant. There was a trail, sure enough; it consisted of a path winding through thick forest, up steep and rocky hills, some of them almost perpendicular; across swift running brooks, and beds of spongy moss—up to one's waist in places. There were clumps of coarse grass, thickets of brambles and the terrible devil's club thorn; so, before we had gone a couple of miles, we were satisfied that every cent we paid these Indian packers was well "airned" indeed.
For ourselves, it was all we could do to get on, carrying only our guns, and a small shoulder-bag with a little grub; whilst our boys plodded on, grunting but cheery, with their one hundred pounds apiece.
As we ascended gradually, we realised that it was becoming colder. We had not done three miles by noon when we came to snow. Jim Crow—Jim is what we called him of course—ordered a halt, and said they were well pleased,—that it was probably snow in the pass; some of them would go ahead without burdens and investigate—if so, they would return for sledges, "sleds"; they were very happy at this prospect. Accordingly two men went on. We rested, boiled some tea, and ate. In a couple of hours they returned, and had a pow-wow, resulting in some of them starting back to Skagway, whilst our tent was erected, a huge camp-fire built, and we prepared to pass the night, as Jim told us it would be too late when they returned with sleds to push on. We were somewhat annoyed at what we thought delay, but he assured us this plan would shorten the journey greatly.
It was midnight when they returned. They brought five sleds. On these, next day—which was hot and the snow was melting—all our goods were lashed, and that evening, when the crust upon the snow was frozen, we were off.
Our route lay up a shelving mountain-side overlooking a deep cañon. Snow-capped ranges and many small glaciers were constantly in sight across the valley, and every depression, on our side, held a trickling rivulet, a roaring stream, or more frequently a morass, knee-deep in moss and sodden grasses. The snow was not deep, but it was soft and slushy—the travelling was terrible, yet in spite of all we made what Jim called "good time."
It was noon next day ere we reached the timber line, and all above this was open and rocky. The snow was heavier here; in the shade it was frozen solid; the sleds travelled over it easily. Meade and I had all we could do to keep up with them; indeed we had let them get some distance ahead at one time, and when we caught them they were camped beside a great rock with stunted trees about it, and Jim said that we were very near the summit.
We camped that night in considerable comfort,—it was dry and cold, but having good blankets and plenty of fuel, Meade and I were cosy enough. Our Indians made shelters of sticks and brushwood and thin blankets, and built a huge fire. They played "poker"; their "chips" were beans.