VII
UP THE STREAMS—AN EVENING AT JOHNSON'S CAMP
y this time it was certain that Golovin Bay was open. The Klondikers and Yukoners, a sturdy lot of earnest men and not looking a bit starved, were pouring into town from St. Michaels, and the report came that ships at the northwest were unloading at Teller and Grantley Harbor. Nothing loath, I got away from Nome in the evening of July 5 on the small steamer Elmore, which I did not remember with especial relish. The floor accommodations had meantime been supplanted by bunks, and the trip to Golovin Bay, which we reached the following afternoon, was not half bad. Just before anchoring, we came alongside of the Ruth, which lay there absolutely helpless, her steering-gear smashed beyond redemption. Much surprised to see W—— on the derelict, I reached over and shook his hand, and then heard his little tale of woe. When he had left Nome, nine days before, it was too rough to land freight at Solomon River, and, having a number of passengers and considerable freight aboard for Golovin Bay, the Ruth had proceeded thither, only to run into the ice, smash her rudder, and be almost capsized by the powerful outgoing floes while held tight in the ice. Nearly the entire crew had promptly deserted, and only the captain, a sulky engineer, and a few enforcedly faithful passengers remained. (One of the numerous little hard-luck stories of life in the Arctic "gold-fields.")
It was fortunate to find at Chenik the North Star, a small stern-wheeler river boat, with whose captain a number of us quickly made satisfactory arrangements for immediate transportation to White Mountain, the half-way point to Council City. She soon, duck-like, flopped over to the side of the Elmore; our freight was rustled into her with all despatch; and, at eight o'clock in the evening, pretty well laden with passengers and their effects, this gem of the ocean, under the peculiar care of a crazy old Swede and his motley crew of three, was puffing and breathing hard and pushing her clumsy way across the bay toward the hidden delta of the Fish River. It was a matter of lying about the primitive machinery, by the boilers and wood fuel, to keep warm, and listening to a not too delightful crowd of alleged miners swapping lies about the country. Sleep, of course, was out of the question; a place to stretch out was not available except in the adjacent bunks of the crew, and on inspection of these I decided that I would rather not. It would not have seemed at all natural, or homelike, had we not proceeded, about midnight, to run into fog and upon the mud-flats. Only two and a half feet of water were requisite to allow the vessel to navigate, but in order to get that depth it was necessary to keep strictly in a zig-zag "channel," regarding whose location our navigator was not precisely expert. While we lingered upon the mucky bottom, a section of the crew, provided with a pole and a boat, under the orders of the captain (expressed forcibly and picturesquely,—not to say profanely,—à la Suède), would complete circles ahead and about the North Star, shouting back, "One foot," "Two," "Two and a half," "Three," according as they sounded the depths. But we did finally, somehow, get into the Fish River; and, after needlessly butting the banks several times and smashing the tender, our little steamboat the following afternoon rested on the shore at White Mountain, and another transfer of freight promptly ensued. How unpleasantly familiar one's boxes and bags become by the time they have reached their final destination! White Mountain showed plainly enough, in its wholly demolished structures and twisted log cabins, the sweeping force of the ice-jam and flood which had rushed down upon it, about the middle of June, on the breaking up of the streams. Almost providentially, it seemed, a saloon remained serenely intact in the very center of the havoc.
So far so good, but the only way to travel in this country is, if possible, to shove right through somehow, and recuperate when the ultimate goal has been gained. Together with two others who were making the trip to Council, I made terms with "Ed" Trundy, a freighter, to carry my ton and a half of stuff the remaining twenty-five or thirty miles for three cents a pound. His equipment for transportation consisted of a long, shallow, forty-five-foot boat, two river poles, an assistant, "Louis," five dogs, and a swearing vocabulary which was universally recognized as being the most replete, ornate, and frequently employed in that section of the country—which is saying a great deal and paying a very high compliment to Mr. Trundy. But, then, that robust gentleman had enjoyed and profited by many advantages of training and environment not shared by his less fortunate competitors. Born in the backwoods of Maine, he had been a lumberman, had shipped before the mast as seaman, driven a hack in Boston and a street-car in New York, had freighted on the Yukon, and it is possible that he may have driven a mule-team in Texas. "Ed" steered the craft, and, when the going was good, those dogs, under the special charge of Louis, pulled the entire load of three tons up the swollen streams just about as fast as the rest of us cared to walk. We rode when the dogs rode, that is, when it was necessary to pole over a slough or cross the stream. The recent freshets and still melting snow in the hills and mountains beyond made shallow rivers of the streams,—in places, however, deep,—and thus, to a large extent, obviated the heartbreaking and back-breaking experiences of the preceding year.
The plan of travel was to proceed only a few miles that evening to a temporary encampment where Trundy had arranged to pick up some additional freight, and where we should spend the night, making an early start in the morning. Arrived there, I imposed upon the good nature of some agreeable fellows, lugging my blankets into their tent and spending the night with them, packed like sardines. We made an early start in the forbidding morning, our number being increased to nine, and not a very choice company either. It was soon apparent that the expedition included two parties who claimed the same mining property, toward which they were heading with all despatch, and that there was bad blood between them. Suspicious looks and whispered conversations were corroborative evidence.
At two o'clock we arrived at Craft's Road-House, near the mouth of the Neukluk River, where a halt was made for dinner. This was a good-sized log cabin, with scrupulously neat interior, kept by Mr. and Mrs. Craft, but the Mrs. was the presiding genius. Photographs of their restaurants at Chicago and Dawson, and of family and friends, stiffly yet fondly grouped, adorned the walls. And what a good dinner they gave us—a perfect gorge for one dollar, and cheap at five times the price! Louis was taken ill here with cramps in his arms and legs, due to overwork and wetting, but only after much persuasion consented to take off his boots and lie down on the reindeer-skins by the stove. While he was recuperating, the good-natured and loquacious hostess, seated behind (and with elbows upon) the bar, entertained us; for Mrs. Craft, as the name implies, knows her business and enjoys the reputation of being a "fine talker." Her entertainment for this occasion was a somewhat broad and general discussion of the marital obligations which should exist between "squaw-men" and their Eskimo (truly enough) better halves, citing her observations of the Eskimo code of ethics and certain instances where the informality of existing relations had been made conventional by voluntary appearance before a United States commissioner and a performance of the proper ceremonies by that officer.
Louis gamely enough responded, and soon the expedition, in rain-and-wet-proof armor of slickers and hip rubber boots, set out to gain that night Johnson's Camp, a couple of vacant cabins on the Neukluk, free to all transients. High up on the banks, extending frequently back upon the flats, the willows and brush, and sometimes the small spruce timber, lay bent and crushed to the surface, shredded and skinned, almost machine-like, by the ice-jam which, not long before, had roared and swept down the streams to the bay. Old landmarks in a new country continually presented themselves, recalling vividly the experiences of the summer before and the companions who had shared them in the "mush" up the rivers to Council—"rivers" then by courtesy only.
The origin and derivation of the word "mush" have been given heretofore, but will bear further reference. It is perhaps the most frequently used word in northwestern Alaska, being universally employed for "walk," "tramp," "travel," etc.; and in view of the generally prevailing conditions of snow, rain, muck, mud, and moss, the student of philology may find in this expressive word a rare and precious instance of onomatopœia. This little digression in the narrative has not been made chiefly for the purpose of exhibiting familiarity with Greek, but rather as an introduction for modestly recording a compliment which is treasured by the narrator. Perhaps it wasn't known that I had been through that sort of thing before, only more so, and perhaps, being built on a fairly long and economical plan, I had a peculiar advantage in that kind of travel, but, at any rate, I felt that I had received a very high compliment, delicately expressed, when an old-timer in the party, with unnecessary calls on the Almighty, told me that I was a "musher from hell."