The next morning we shouldered our pack-sacks, containing our blankets, a little food, and other necessities, and were again on the tramp, this time having no trail, however, but being obliged to keep on the side of the stream. Here, as below, the river flowed in one nearly continuous canyon, but on one side or the other flats had been built out on the side where the current was slackest, while on the opposite side was deep water quite up to the bold cliffs; and since the current sweeps from side to side, one encounters levels and gravel flats, and high rocks, on the same side. Many of the cliffs we scaled, crawling gingerly along the almost perpendicular side of the rock. The constant temptation in such climbing is to go higher, where it always looks easier, but when one gets up it seems impossible to return. However, we had no accidents, which, considering how awkward our packs made us, was lucky. At other times we waded the stream to avoid the cliffs.
At night we reached the mouth of Franklin Gulch, where active mining had been going on for some time. The miners were almost out of food, the boat which ordinarily brought provisions from Forty Mile Post having been unable to get up, on account of the low water. Yet they gave us freely what they could. We took possession of an empty log cabin, lighted a fire and toasted some trout which they gave us, and this with crackers and bacon made our meal; then we discovered some bunks with straw in them, which we agreed were gilt-edged, and proceeded to make use of them without delay. Only a few of the total number of miners were here, the rest having gone over the mountain to Chicken Creek, where the latest find of gold was reported. The men had not heard from "the outside" for some time. Even Forty Mile Post was a metropolis for them and they were glad to hear from it. They had few books and only a couple of newspapers three years old.
"Doesn't it get very dull here?" we asked of an old stager; "what do you do for amusement?"
"Do!" he echoed with grave humor, "Do! why, God bless you, we 'ave very genteel amusements. As for readin' an' litrachure an' all that, wy, dammit, wen the fust grub comes in the spring, we 'ave a meetin' an' we call all the boys together an' we app'int a chairman an' then some one reads from the directions on the bakin'-powder boxes."
I set out alone for Chicken Creek the next morning, following a line of blazed trees up over the mountain from Franklin Creek. I had been told that once up on the divide one could look right down into Chicken Creek, and I have no doubt that this is true, for on attaining the top of the hill a stretch of country twenty miles across was spread out before me as on a map, while directly below was a considerable branch of Forty Mile Creek, divided into many closely adjacent gulches. One of these must be Chicken Creek, but which? There were no tents and no smoke visible, much as the eye might strain through the field-glasses. Just here the trail gave out, the blazer having evidently grown tired of blazing. Thinking to obtain a better view into the valley, I set out along the hill which curved around it, tramping patiently along until nearly night over the sharp ridges, but without ever seeing any signs of life in the great desolate country below me. When the dark shadows were striking the valleys, I caught sight of what appeared to be a faint smoke in the heart of a black timbered gulch, and I made straightway down the mountain-side for it, hurrying for fear the fire should be extinguished before I could get close enough to it to find the place. I had no doubt that this came from the log cabin of some prospector, who would be only too glad to welcome a weary stranger with a warm supper and a blanket on the floor.
On getting down, away from the bare rocks on the mountain ridge, I found deep moss, tiresome to my wearied limbs, and further down great areas of "niggerheads"—the terror of travellers in the northern swamps. These niggerheads are tufts of vegetation which grow upwards by successive accumulations till they are knee high or even more. They are scattered thickly about, but each tuft is separated completely from all the rest, leaving hardly space to step between; if one attempts to walk on top of them he will slip off, so there is nothing to do but to walk on the ground, lifting the legs over the obstacles with great exertion. The tops of the tufts are covered with long grass, which droops down on all sides, whence the name niggerheads,—têtes de femme or women's heads is the name given them by the French Canadian voyageurs.
Still lower the brush and vines became so thick that it was almost impossible to force the way through in places. At last I emerged upon a grey lifeless area which seemed to have been burned over. There were no trees or plants, but the bare blackened sticks of what had once been a young growth of spruce still stood upright, though some trunks had fallen and lay piled, obstacles to travelling. The whole looked peculiarly forlorn. A little further I came to the spot where I had seen the smoke. There was nothing but a stagnant pool covered so deep with green scum that one caught only an occasional glimpse of the black water beneath, and from this, unsavory mists were rising in the chill of the evening air. I had mistaken these vapors for smoke from my post miles up the mountain. My dream of a log cabin and a blanket went up likewise in smoke.
It was now eleven o'clock at night, and twilight; I had walked at least twenty miles through a rough country and could go no further. So I broke off the smaller dried trees and sticks and lighted a fire, then I ate some crackers and bacon that I had with me, but I did not dare to drink the water of the stagnant pool, which was all there was to be had. The night grew frosty, and I had no blankets; but I lay down close to the fire and caught fifteen-minute naps. Once I woke with the smell of burning cloth in my nostrils: in my sleep I had edged too close to the grateful warmth, and my coat and the notebook in my pocket, containing all my season's notes, had caught fire. I rolled over on them and crushed out the fire with my fingers, and after that I shivered away a little further from the fire. At about three o'clock it grew light enough to see the surrounding country, and I started out again for the first point I had reached on the ridge the morning before, thinking to get back to Franklin Gulch, for I was thoroughly exhausted. On reaching the ridge, however, I met a miner coming over the trail; he agreed to pilot me to the new prospects, so I turned back again.
There were fifteen or twenty men in the gulch which we finally reached, all living in tents in a very primitive way, and all very short of provisions, yet, hospitable to the last morsel, they freely offered the best they had. They were poor, too; everybody does not get rich in the gold diggings, even in Alaska. In fact, previous to the Klondike discovery, the largest net sum of money taken out by any one man was about $30,000, while hundreds could not pay for their provisions or get enough to buy a ticket out of the country. The Klondike, too, has been badly lied about. Not one man in twenty who goes there makes more than a bare living, and many have to "hustle" for that harder than they would at home. So the hospitality of the miners, such as I found it nearly everywhere on the Yukon, is not a mere act of courtesy which costs nothing, but the genuine unselfishness which cheerfully divides the last crust with a passing stranger.
Having been strengthened by two square meals, simple but sufficient, I started back for Franklin Gulch the same night. It began to rain in torrents on the way, and this, as usual, drove out the mosquitoes and made them unusually savage. They attacked me in such numbers that in spite of my gloves and veil I was nearly frantic. The best relief was to stride along at a good round pace, for this kept most of the pests at my back, and gave me a vent for my wrought-up nerves; and at the same time I had the satisfaction of knowing I was "getting there." The thong of my moccasin became undone, but I did not dare to stop to tie it, but kept plunging along, shuffling it with me. I reached our cabin at the mouth of Franklin Gulch, and the sight of the bunk with straw in it, and the familiar grey blanket, was sweet to me.