A Claim on Klondyke. Edward Roper
were feeding exclusively on our deadly foes.
Here we met with a few large salmon. They come all the long way up from Behring Sea to spawn. In August, Jim said, the river is crowded with them, and the bears come down from the hills to feed on them. Dozens, he assured us, might be seen any day along that river. We saw but one; we shot at and missed it.
Up to this time, it will be noticed, we had experienced only fine weather—indeed, so far, our only real suffering had been from the mosquitos; but one evening, the sun being high, though it was ten P.M., the sky was suddenly enveloped in dense clouds, against which steamlike scud drifted with great rapidity; and by the action of the martins and waterfowl, and by the sudden cessation of the rapacity of the mosquitos, which had been earlier in the day more persistent than usual, we knew that some change was at hand.
Jim said that wind was coming, so we camped, put our tents up with extra care, and drew our boat into what we thought was a safe harbour by the river side.
Not long after—we could see up stream for at least a mile—we perceived that a huge wave was bearing down to us. It was like a bore. We stared aghast!
Our boat and nearly all we had was in imminent danger. I made a rush, intending to leap on board, push it out into the river, then turn its head to the great surge that was rolling down, and so, I hoped, save it from wreck; but Meade held me back, shouting above the dreadful roar of wind and water that I should not go—that the risk was far too great.
As we stood thus, he restraining me, I struggling to go, Jim passed us, stripped: he leapt into the boat, pushed her off, then with one grand sweep of the steering oar he turned her head up stream just as the wave reached her. She lifted with the heave of it, veered this way and that, the heavy water curled up, and we stood there trembling, feeling sure that she would be swamped. But Jim held on manfully, kept her well up, and although she was carried down stream at terrible speed, yet we saw that the brave Indian, standing like a bronze statue at the stern, had conquered.
It was soon lost to sight in the gloom, for the spray which the mighty wind raised was driving down river as if it were drifting snow.
So far, the boat, we trusted, had escaped, but what would ultimately become of her and Jim, we wondered.
We turned to Fan, asking what she thought about it. She was crouched under the lee of a log, smiling peacefully!
"No you bother," she shouted, "Jim all light; outfit all light too. By'me by, pretty soon, no mo' wind, Jim tie up er boat, come back'n we pack all tings down to boat—or, mebbee, Jim bring boat back here. You see me?—well, all light!" and she smiled again quite happily.
How we blessed our stars that we had hired this Indian and his charming klootchman. We thought her a perfect heroine that night, whilst I believe she considered us very childish for being so very much alarmed.
Almost as quickly as this heavy squall had arisen it ceased, the sun streamed out, and the silence was oppressive, yet very welcome. But what should we do about Jim?
We consulted Fan, who calmly replied, "Nosing, nossir, make muck-a-muck, what you call supper, then turn in, my tink Jim come along all lightee by'me by, soon."
At which we made up the fire, and did as she advised.
We were aroused towards morning by Jim calling to his wife from the other side the river. He told us that the boat was safely moored a mile below, that he had tried to bring her to camp but could not, therefore we must pack all to her. He swam across and joined us, after which we had our first real essay at "packing," and we concluded that it was not our forte. We found our boat and her cargo safe and sound below, which was no small blessing. It took two days to pack all down to her. Then on we went again, the stream carrying us along between smooth grassy hills and sandy knolls. Soon the current became stronger, and we heard a distinct roar ahead, and on the bank we saw a board stuck up by some friendly voyageur, on which was scrawled in big letters—"Danger, Stop," which at once we did.
We had arrived at Myles Cañon, the grand cañon of the Lewes—the Miners' Grave.
Eager to examine what we had now to encounter, Meade and I landed and went ahead to prospect. Where we had stopped the river was two hundred yards wide at least: it was roaring ahead in the middle, rushing vehemently on its way.
We mounted the basalt cliff above where we were camped, and came in full view of the cañon. We knew the length of it and the width, we had heard so much about it, and believed we knew just what to expect, yet the reality appalled us. How could we get through? It looked impossible: still, knowing that it had been done, and if we were to reach our destination we must negotiate it, we sat on an outstanding point and wondered.
The walls of the gorge, which averages one hundred feet in width, are about the same height; they are worn into fantastic shapes, very little vegetation clings to them, but along the top there is timber, and one can march through it with ease.
The river, forced through this narrow cañon, is heaped up in the middle much higher than at the sides: it is one mass of foam, and it flashes along at lightning speed, roaring and raging. It is about three-quarters of a mile from fairly smooth water up stream to quietness below.
As we sat on the summit of the cliff, critically examining the scene, we presently perceived two tents at what looked to be the lower end of the gorge, and there was the smoke of a camp-fire.
With Jim and Fan, who had joined us, we consulted; it resulted in Meade and Jim going ahead to visit these campers and obtaining information. From them they learned that they had got through safely. There were half-a-dozen men, old Yukoners, friendly and communicative, who had wintered by Lake Marsh, where they had got a little gold. They offered to help us. Some of them returned and packed each a load over the portage, and then as they saw that neither of us was experienced at shooting rapids, one of them very kindly volunteered to go through with Fan and Jim in our boat.
Everything was carefully planned, the strength of the steering sweep tested; Jim stripped, Fan doffed all she could decently, and our new friend, whom his chums called Samson, did the same—then the start was made.
Meade stayed to push them off; I went to the cliff-top to watch the proceedings.
Fan and Samson took the oars, Jim was steersman. They pulled far out into the eddy, straining every nerve, even after the current caught them, so as to keep steerage way on the boat. They soon shot into the dark shadows of the walls. Here, they told us, they were nearly stopped by the first huge breaker, but only for a second: the frail boat trembled, seemed to stagger, then surmounting the crest, dashed on.
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