It is estimated to be fifty miles from Chenik to Council City—twelve miles across Golovin Bay to the mouth of the Fish River, which in delta form debouches into the bay, and the remaining distance up the Fish River and the Neukluk (the Indian name for river-flowing-from-the-west), a tributary nearly as large as the main stream. White Mountain, a spot where the Wild Goose Company has a storehouse, a depot for its mining claims above, is about half the way from Chenik to Council, and is the head of navigation for the several small, light-draft stern-wheelers which occasionally make the trip in the interest of the larger mine-owners. It lessens the strain tremendously to get a lift or a tow from one of these boats; and, having obtained the good will of the crew of the Arctic Bird, and strengthened it by a bottle of whisky, we got what we wanted. The Mush-on we had, so to speak, tarred and feathered, and made water-tight and filled with our freight, as much as it could safely contain, the remainder being stored in the Arctic Bird. We were about to put our boat in tow and set out, when who should suddenly appear upon the scene but our two friends of the Lane, H—— and T——, with their boat, just returned from Council, looking very tough and very seedy. We were exhorted to reconsider our plans, and as these were mining men whom we knew, whose judgment was entitled to respect, we promptly did so. As the freight was being taken off, though they were very good about it, the triumvirate crew of the Arctic Bird were not a little bit amused, for of course it looked as if we had lost our nerve at the last minute. The returned prospectors had been disappointed in a piece of ground upon which they had a "lay" or lease, which fact, in the main, accounted for their premature departure and the lugubrious view which they took.
So we camped again at the same spot and deliberated. Finally, in the evening of July 15, we set out, T—— transferring himself to us, and G—— remaining with H——, the two latter having decided to get somehow to St. Michaels, thence up the Yukon to the Tanana River, where a strike had been reported, and big game was said to be abundant. As a matter of fact, they were obliged to remain at Chenik for a considerable time on account of the quarantine which all ports had against Nome and vessels which had touched there.
The Mush-on was the last of the string in tow, which consisted of a small barge or lighter, containing Wild Goose Company machinery, and the boats of several others, who were also going up the rivers. My brother steered the barge, and C—— our boat, according to instructions from the captain. T—— and I, who felt used up, lounged on some sacks near the warm engine. After running upon and backing off various mud-flats, at midnight the Arctic Bird rested at the delta of the Fish River, and all hands drank coffee, and the whisky which represented our fare. It was, of course, daylight,—a weird, grayish effect,—and fairly, but not disagreeably, cold. Then we entered and pushed slowly up the swift and shallow stream, the mosquitos, for the first time in our wanderings to date, making themselves manifest and felt. All of us had the same thought and sensations. For the first time there was a semblance of "God's country." The beautifully clear stream,—flanked on each side by scrub willows and an occasional small spruce-tree,—whose tempting water one could dip up and drink ad libitum, seemed in places filled with fish, darting swiftly about above the gravel bed. Hills that appeared more like mountains loomed up in the distance, gray in the early light. There was the inevitable tundra, of course, but it seemed less all-pervading—it had finally met with some competition.
There were many curves and sharp turns where the boats in tow would have been wrecked but for the men who, wrapped in their sweaters and coats, steered them. Many times the Arctic Bird would run upon a riffle (where the water runs very shallow over the gravel), to be temporarily baffled and obliged to back off and seek another course. The stream averaged hardly two feet in depth. Frequently the fraction of an inch meant progress or failure. When in plain sight and almost in reach of White Mountain, that fraction of an inch was not in our favor, and it being then three o'clock in the morning, anchor was thrown out, and all hands turned in to await the coming of the tide below, the crew pulling out their mattresses, and the "cheechawkers" (the Eskimo name for newcomers, universally used in Alaska) conforming their shapes to the various sacks and baggage. By noon we were disembarked and camped at White Mountain, a few feet from the river. Our "library" of law books seemed to weigh a ton. This was the best camping-spot yet. The scene was pretty; it seemed a healthful place; and water, plentiful and good, was very near at hand. But the mosquitos were numerous and fiercely persistent; and before turning in, the tent was sealed as hermetically as possible, and there ensued a general and complete killing of the insects that remained inside.
In the forenoon of the day following, July 17, we felt ready to start. Even if our boat could have held all our freight, which weighed perhaps a ton, it was not wise to carry it, on account of the extreme shallowness of the stream, it being then, according to the "sour doughs," unprecedentedly low, due to the unusual lack of rain. So half of the freight was intrusted to John Dejus, a French Canadian, who, with his partner, was "going up to Council anyhow," and who agreed to freight our belongings at what was a very reasonable figure, considering the toil which it entailed. A certain amount of unpacking and rearranging had to be done in order to have readily at hand cooking-utensils and food and all the comfort that could be manufactured for the trip up the rivers. The tow-line was eighty or a hundred feet long, with small pieces of rope branching out near the end to throw over the shoulder and pull from, the object being to work from the shore and keep the boat well out in the stream, in the deeper water. Three of us pulled, and one sat in the stern and steered with an oar. As a matter of fact, the fellow who had the latter occupation had the hardest time of it; and, as we progressed, there was greater enthusiasm for the end of the line than for the "steering" position, which meant a continual jumping out into the stream and shoving the boat off from the shore, or backing it off a riffle and pulling and guiding its nose out against the swift, adverse current into water perhaps an inch deeper, which saved the situation. Hip rubber boots were essential. Undoubtedly, it was hard, exhausting work. We met others with boats less suited to the task than ours, apparently hopelessly stuck, pulling, hauling, shoving, and swearing. It was frequently necessary for some unfortunates to unload their boats, get them over a riffle, and then reload. Others would "cache" part of their freight (deposit it by the way), and struggle onward, to return later for the remainder. At first we got along very well pulling from the shore, though this meant not infrequently falling over one another when the shore developed into a bank with uneven ground, or delays and complications arose from the protruding brush. However, as the stream was very low, most of the work was done from the dry bed. At times the mosquitos were very annoying; all of us wore netting. One night, when about to encamp, almost dead to the world, these pests were the worst I have ever encountered; the atmosphere was black with them. But, on the whole, the mosquito feature of the trip had been much exaggerated; for, as we proceeded, the netting was wholly dispensed with, and at Council City, most appreciated of surprises, these insects were not at all! It almost took the heart out of one to see returning prospectors or freighters in their long, narrow skiffs, sometimes assisted by a sail, come flying down the stream, who, when hailed as to the condition of the river above, invariably shouted back that it became more difficult. And it did become more difficult soon after turning into the Neukluk River; and, furthermore, it began to storm, so that when our tent had been finally erected, it was a question whether the wind would not tear out the pegs, which had been driven into the loose gravel of the dry river-bed, and land us somewhere down-stream. But all that is now an interesting reminiscence. In spots the stream was black with salmon and salmon-trout. We passed several camps of the river Eskimos, who were drying fish, fastened in clothes-pin fashion upon an ingeniously contrived rack. The Neukluk in places was broad and shallow, or broken up into a number of streams by alternate gravel bars, or occasionally the stream broke, forming an island, and it was a question which branch to follow. Rain for a day added to the complications, but it was not sufficient to raise the stream. As our destination was neared, the country appeared bolder, more mountainous, and it was a pleasure to see once in a while a little forest of spruce on the shore of the stream. But now the tow-line was practically abandoned, and it was a case of hauling and shoving the boat with hands and shoulders, one of us frequently going on in advance to discover a route which would afford the necessary passage, or to kick out a channel through the stones and gravel. It was a wonder to me frequently that some of us were not bowled over, tired as we were, by the strong, swift current. Sometimes it was too much for poor human nature to stand, and the one would curse the other liberally for not doing this or that, all to be forgotten and forgiven after the inner man had been appeased and rest obtained.
At last, late in the day of July 19, on rounding one of the many curves of the river, Council City, in the bright evening sunlight, burst upon the view, the prettiest, best sight that we had seen in Alaska. The peculiar light seemed to magnify it, to make it stand out very clear and distinct. There is a sudden high plateau, terminating abrupt and sheer at the stream in a rocky cliff some thirty or forty feet high, bare for the most part, but covered here and there with a growth of moss and shrubbery. This elevation tapers down to the level of the stream, where the little camp of miners marks, at the east, the point where Melsing Creek flows into the Neukluk, and also falls off at the west, where the large camp or general reservation is found, free ground for all. Along the plateau and beyond—a sprawling, scattered collection of log cabins, saloons, and dance-halls, with here and there a sod house or tent—is Council City. Back of it, to the north and west, along the foot of a bleak mountain which seems to shelter the camp, is the narrow belt of invaluable timber. The river-bed here is perhaps a hundred yards wide, but at that time the greater part of it was visible, the stream breaking above and coming down in two rapid, narrow forks touching each side of the shore. Across the river and the bar, and following its course, is a long stretch of tundra reaching out for several miles to low and barren mountains in the south and west. In a straight line southwest, over the tundra and mountains, it is said to be eighty or a hundred miles to Nome.
In the late autumn of 1897, a number of prospectors, on being told by a native that there was gold in this section, set out from Chenik. They wintered at the present site of Council, and in the following spring staked out what seemed to them the best mining ground in the surrounding country, the richer claims being on Ophir Creek, a tributary to the Neukluk, several miles above Council City. This, therefore, is the pioneer mining camp in northwestern Alaska, but known to comparatively a few only, on account of its inaccessibility.
We passed the camp at Melsing Creek, and, exchanging salutations with the men there, who knew how we felt, proceeded slowly along the foot of the cliff, over the last riffle. Then, making fast the Mush-on among the other boats, we pitched our tent near the stream on the "reservation"—there at last. This experience from White Mountain to Council was the hardest physical work which any one of us had ever done or ever expects to do. The distance from White Mountain is generally estimated to be twenty-five or thirty miles. Leaving there at ten o'clock Tuesday morning, and making good average time, we were at Council at half-past eight Thursday evening, the actual working time being twenty-three hours, and the remainder being spent for rest and meals.