CHAPTER XIX
THE CRISIS
It was spring on the Yukon—the radiant, glorious spring that is sandwiched between the intense winter and the dank, enervating summer. Birds sang in the woods, their liquid voices accompanied by the deep noise of the river, belching its millions of tons of ice into the Bering Sea. In the lower valleys the snow had vanished, and the rich green carpet of the earth shimmered in the clear sunlight.
South of Fort Yukon Angela and Jim were threading their way through a pine-forest. Both carried packs on their backs, for the sled had been discarded but a few days before, having served them faithfully for a hundred-odd miles.
Jim found a small clearing and slung the huge pack from his shoulders. Angela discarded her smaller pack and came to help him rig up the tent. 259
“Better than the winter, eh?” he queried, as an inquisitive bird came and hopped around them.
“In many ways, but the winter’s wonderful enough when one has grown acclimatized. I shall never forget those mountains and the glory of the sunset.... Are we far from Dawson?”
“Two hundred miles or so.”