From My Outlook On The Defot Ridge I
Saw Thousands Of Square Miles Of This Prairie-Like Region Drained By
Tributaries Of The Stickeen, Taku, Yukon, And Mackenzie Rivers.
Le Claire told me that the caribou, or reindeer, were very abundant
on this high ground.
A flock of fifty or more was seen a short time
before at the head of Defot Creek, - fine, hardy, able animals like
their near relatives the reindeer of the Arctic tundras. The Indians
hereabouts, he said, hunted them with dogs, mostly in the fall and
winter. On my return trip I met several bands of these Indians on the
march, going north to hunt. Some of the men and women were carrying
puppies on top of their heavy loads of dried salmon, while the grown
dogs had saddle-bags filled with odds and ends strapped on their
backs. Small puppies, unable to carry more than five or six pounds,
were thus made useful. I overtook another band going south, heavy
laden with furs and skins to trade. An old woman, with short dress
and leggings, was carrying a big load of furs and skins, on top of
which was perched a little girl about three years old.
A brown, speckled marmot, one of Le Claire's friends, was getting
ready for winter. The entrance to his burrow was a little to one side
of the cabin door. A well-worn trail led to it through the grass and
another to that of his companion, fifty feet away. He was a most
amusing pet, always on hand at meal times for bread-crumbs and bits
of bacon-rind, came when called, answering in a shrill whistle,
moving like a squirrel with quick, nervous impulses, jerking his
short flat tail. His fur clothing was neat and clean, fairly shining
in the wintry light. The snowy weather that morning must have called
winter to mind; for as soon as he got his breakfast, he ran to a tuft
of dry grass, chewed it into fuzzy mouthfuls, and carried it to his
nest, coming and going with admirable industry, forecast, and
confidence. None watching him as we did could fail to sympathize with
him; and I fancy that in practical weather wisdom no government
forecaster with all his advantages surpasses this little Alaska
rodent, every hair and nerve a weather instrument.
I greatly enjoyed this little inland side trip - the wide views; the
miners along the branches of the great river, busy as moles and
beavers; young men dreaming and hoping to strike it rich and rush
home to marry their girls faithfully waiting; others hoping to clear
off weary farm mortgages, and brighten the lives of the anxious home
folk; but most, I suppose, just struggling blindly for gold enough to
make them indefinitely rich to spend their lives in aimless
affluence, honor, and ease. I enjoyed getting acquainted with the
trees, especially the beautiful spruce and silver fir; the flower
gardens and great grassy caribou pastures; the cheery, able marmot
mountaineer; and above all the friendship and kindness of Mr. Le
Claire, whom I shall never forget. Bidding good bye, I sauntered back
to the head of navigation on the Stickeen, happy and rich without a
particle of obscuring gold-dust care.
Chapter VII
Glenora Peak
On the trail to the steamboat-landing at the foot of Dease Lake, I
met a Douglas squirrel, nearly as red and rusty in color as his
Eastern relative the chickaree. Except in color he differs but little
from the California Douglas squirrel. In voice, language, gestures,
temperament, he is the same fiery, indomitable little king of the
woods. Another darker and probably younger specimen met near the
Caribou House, barked, chirruped, and showed off in fine style on a
tree within a few feet of us.
"What does the little rascal mean?" said my companion, a man I had
fallen in with on the trail. "What is he making such a fuss about? I
cannot frighten him."
"Never mind," I replied; "just wait until I whistle 'Old Hundred' and
you will see him fly in disgust." And so he did, just as his
California brethren do. Strange that no squirrel or spermophile I yet
have found ever seemed to have anything like enough of Scotch
religion to enjoy this grand old tune.
The taverns along the Cassiar gold trail were the worst I had ever
seen, rough shacks with dirt floors, dirt roofs, and rough meals. The
meals are all alike - a potato, a slice of something like bacon, some
gray stuff called bread, and a cup of muddy, semi-liquid coffee like
that which the California miners call "slickers" or "slumgullion."
The bread was terrible and sinful. How the Lord's good wheat could be
made into stuff so mysteriously bad is past finding out. The very
de'il, it would seem, in wicked anger and ingenuity, had been the
baker.
On our walk from Dease Lake to Telegraph Creek we had one of these
rough luncheons at three o'clock in the afternoon of the first day,
then walked on five miles to Ward's, where we were solemnly assured
that we could not have a single bite of either supper or breakfast,
but as a great favor we might sleep on his best gray bunk. We replied
that, as we had lunched at the lake, supper would not be greatly
missed, and as for breakfast we would start early and walk eight
miles to the next road-house. We set out at half-past four, glad to
escape into the fresh air, and reached the breakfast place at eight
o'clock. The landlord was still abed, and when at length he came to
the door, he scowled savagely at us as if our request for breakfast
was preposterous and criminal beyond anything ever heard of in all
goldful Alaska. A good many in those days were returning from the
mines dead broke, and he probably regarded us as belonging to that
disreputable class.
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