The waves dash to a height of four or five feet and break into vast sheets of spray and foam. Their roar, flung back by the stone walls, may be heard for a long distance; and that of the rapids drifts over the streets of White Horse like distant, continuous thunder, when all else is still.
We found a difficult way by which, with the assistance of alpenstocks and overhanging tree branches, we could slide down to the very water, just above Whirlpool Basin. We stood there long, thinking of the tragedies that had been enacted in that short and lonely stretch; of the lost outfits, the worn and wounded bodies, the spirits sore; of the hearts that had gone through, beating high and strong with hope, and that had returned broken. It is almost as poignantly interesting as the old trail; and not for two generations, at least, will the perils of those days be forgotten.
It was about noon that, remembering our long walk, we turned reluctantly and set out for White Horse.
Somewhere back of the basin we lost our way. We could not find the "tram"; searching for it, we got into a swamp and could not make our way back to the river; and suddenly the mosquitoes were upon us.
The underbrush was so thick that our netting was torn into shreds and left in festoons and tatters upon every bush; yet I still bear in my memory the vision of my friend floating like a tall, blond bride—for my dark-haired Scotch friend was not with me on the Yukon voyage—through the shadows of that swamp before her bridal veil went to pieces.
Her bridal glory was grief. In a few moments we were both as black as negroes with mosquitoes; for, desperately though we fought, we could not drive them away. The air in the swamp was heavy and still; our progress was unspeakably difficult—through mire and tall, lush grasses which, in any other country on earth, would have been alive with snakes and crawling things.
The pests bit and stung our faces, necks, shoulders, and arms; they even swarmed about our ankles; while, for our hands—they were soon swollen to twice their original size.
We wept; we prayed; we said evil things in the hearing of heaven; we asked God to forgive us our sins, or, at the very least, to punish us for them in some other way; but I, at least, in the heaviest of my afflictions, did not forget to thank Him because there are no snakes in Alaska or the Yukon. It seemed to me, even, in the fervor of my gratitude, that it had all been planned æons ago for our special benefit in this extreme hour.
But I shall spare the reader a further description of our sufferings.
I had always considered the Alaskan mosquito a joke. I did not know that they torture men and beasts to a terrible death. They mount in a black mist from the grass; it is impossible for one to keep one's eyes open. Dogs, bears, and strong men have been known to die of pain and nervous exhaustion under their attacks.