Now knowing the course, and the wind having shifted the ice, we pushed ahead through the fog; and in the clear light of the afternoon of June 24 the unforgettable scenery of Nome presented itself, whiter on the back-lying hills and less inviting than a year ago. Mining men eyed it seriously; for it looked as if the terrible winter were lingering in the lap of spring, which meant that the (at best) scant four months' working season might be materially curtailed. And this seemed the more probable when scores of dories came out and clustered about the ship, their idle owners offering for a consideration to carry passengers ashore. It was hard to realize that one was back again at this jumping-off place of the world, having meantime covered so great a distance and lived in scenes so totally dissimilar. But it was not the same proposition to tackle as the preceding year—there never before was, and probably never will be again, a thing like that; I had now only to follow a fixed program until some happening or condition should modify or wholly alter it.
Orders were given for every one to get ashore right away that evening; and the lighters, towed by a small tug, were soon carrying the passengers thither, bag and baggage, and somewhat disgruntled. A few of us, who believed that, in the last analysis, those orders were a bluff to get rid of people, remained that night unmolested in our bunks, to visit the "golden sands" in ample time of morning. The waiters and stewards, too, were quitting the ship for good or evil; for these shifty boys—many of them pleasant harum-scarum Englishmen, younger sons of good families—had no idea of being satisfied with thirty dollars a month the remainder of their days. I wish I could have taken down in shorthand the experiences of "Perry,"—the way he told them,—who, encouraged, would sit in our state-room, when he could, and, to our great amusement, and most entertainingly, tell his history from the time when he played the races a few years ago, in "dear old England," to date. Before departing from San Francisco he had been dining with friends in high-life fashion at the Palace, the swell hotel of the city. There wasn't a more efficient steward on the ship, and he hustled for us in good style. How these "Atlantic Ocean boys" sneer at the less advanced conveniences of the Pacific!
Well, then, in the morning, seated on a load of freight and baggage, the rest of the passengers, in a misty rain, traversed the intervening two miles of then smooth water, and deposited themselves and their hand-baggage upon the famous, and infamous, shores of Nome. The "golden sands" at that time were partly covered by dead dogs and refuse, but everything else seemed systematic and orderly; there were, happily, no longer evidences of great waste and confusion such as prevailed the year before. That the lessons of last September's storms, however, had been unheeded was evidenced by the shacks and frame buildings rebuilt down upon the beach itself, and there awaiting a like fate from another ugly assault of the Bering Sea. One of the signs of the times which stood forth familiarly, and recalled scenes of the past, was that of the "Gold Belt Dance Hall."
While A—— guarded the baggage, W—— and I went in search of a temporary abiding-place, and decided in favor of an unfurnished room at the Gold Hill Hotel, situated in a less crowded part of the town. Into this we soon placed our folding cots, blankets, and personal effects; and as the bar immediately underneath us was not then doing a land-office business, we considered ourselves lucky to be so well settled thus soon. The sea, fortunately, was sufficiently calm to permit discharging the freight, which was well cared for and put under cover by the reliable Alaska Commercial Company, to which we had intrusted it and ourselves.
The next object of concern, after having delivered certain papers and seen several of the legal lights, was to determine whether one could then proceed on the way to Council City, and, if so, how; but the inevitable conclusion was soon forced upon me that I should have to remain as cheerfully as possible in Nome until Golovin Bay should be clear of ice. Several attempts had already been made to effect an entrance there, but without success. Assuredly it was a late season. It was still impossible for vessels to reach St. Michaels or Teller, the latter being the starting-point for the new Bluestone and Kougarok districts; and the Nome dailies were issuing sensational extras with large head-lines telling that "Fifteen Hundred People" were "Starving at the Mouth of the Yukon"—at St. Michaels, one hundred and fifty miles away. Many of the neighboring creeks were yet filled with ice and snow, so as to allow only preliminary operations for mining, or none at all. The prospect was made more dismal by the stormy and cold rainy weather which then prevailed. The gale wrecked several small craft and caused the remaining steamers to put out to sea, and the thermometer ranged at about 40°. Fortunate indeed it was that these conditions did not exist the year before, when so many thousands of helpless, unprepared people were deposited upon those alluring shores. Now, however, the numerous prophets of evil preached the doctrine that last summer had been an exception, and that this sort of thing would continue throughout the open months, which, fortunately, it did not do.
At the new and well-appointed post-office I was much impressed and pleased to find a type-written letter from my partner, dated at Council City the middle of June, which told of his good health and settlement in our new quarters. This letter had been brought overland before the melting snow and ice made it unsafe or impossible to cross the intervening streams. Previous to this, my last letter from him, received at San Francisco just before sailing, bore date of February 13.