head beyond the range with some of the southwest branches
of the Mackenzie and Yukon.
The largest side branches of the main-trunk cañons
of all these mountain streams are still occupied by glaciers which
descend in showy ranks, their messy, bulging snouts lying back
a little distance in the shadows of the walls, or pushing forward
among the cotton-woods that line the banks of the rivers,
or even stretching all the way across the main cañons,
compelling the rivers to find a channel beneath them.
The Stickeen was, perhaps, the best known of the rivers that cross
the Coast Range, because it was the best way to the Mackenzie
River Cassiar gold-mines. It is about three hundred and fifty
miles long, and
is navigable for small steamers a hundred
and fifty miles to Glenora, and sometimes to Telegraph Creek,
fifteen miles farther. It first pursues a westerly course through
grassy plains darkened here and there with groves of spruce and
pine; then, curving southward and receiving numerous tributaries
from the north, it enters the Coast Range, and sweeps across it
through a magnificent cañon three thousand to five thousand
feet deep, and more than a hundred miles long. The majestic cliffs
and mountains forming the cañon walls display endless variety
of form and sculpture, and are wonderfully adorned and enlivened
with glaciers and waterfalls, while throughout almost its whole
extent the floor is a flowery landscape garden, like Yosemite.
The most striking features are the glaciers, hanging over the
cliffs, descending the side cañons and pushing forward
to the river, greatly enhancing the wild beauty of all the others.
Gliding along the swift-flowing river, the views change with
bewildering rapidity. Wonderful, too, are the changes dependent
on the seasons and the weather. In spring, when the snow is melting
fast, you enjoy the countless rejoicing waterfalls; the gentle
breathing of warm winds; the colors of the young leaves and flowers
when the bees are busy and wafts of fragrance are drifting hither
and thither from miles of wild roses, clover, and honeysuckle;
the swaths of birch and willow on the lower slopes following the
melting of the winter avalanche snow-banks; the bossy cumuli
swelling in white and purple piles above the highest peaks; gray
rain-clouds wreathing
the outstanding brows and battlements
of the walls; and the breaking-forth of the sun after the
rain; the shining of the leaves and streams and crystal architecture
of the glaciers; the rising of fresh fragrance; the song of the
happy birds; and the serene color-grandeur of the morning and
evening sky. In summer you find the groves and gardens in full
dress; glaciers melting rapidly under sunshine and rain; waterfalls
in all their glory; the river rejoicing in its strength; young
birds trying their wings; bears enjoying salmon and berries; all
the life of the cañon brimming full like the streams. In
autumn comes rest, as if the year's work were done. The rich hazy
sunshine streaming over the cliffs calls forth the last of the
gentians and goldenrods; the groves and thickets and meadows bloom
again as their leaves change to red and yellow petals; the rocks
also, and the glaciers, seem to bloom like the plants in the mellow
golden light. And so goes the song, change succeeding change in
sublime harmony through all the wonderful seasons and weather.
My first trip up the river was made in the spring with the missionary
party soon after our arrival at Wrangell. We left Wrangell in
the afternoon and anchored for the night above the river delta,
and started up the river early next morning when the heights above
the "Big Stickeen" Glacier and the smooth domes and
copings and arches of solid snow along the tops of the cañon
walls were glowing in the early beams. We arrived before noon
at the old trading-post
called "Buck's" in front
of the Stickeen Glacier, and remained long enough to allow the
few passengers who wished a nearer view to cross the river to
the terminal moraine. The sunbeams streaming through the ice pinnacles
along its terminal wall produced a wonderful glory of color, and
the broad, sparkling crystal prairie and the distant snowy fountains
were wonderfully attractive and made me pray for opportunity to
explore them.
Of the many glaciers, a hundred or more, that adorn the walls
of the great Stickeen River Cañon, this is the largest.
It draws its sources from snowy mountains within fifteen or twenty
miles of the coast, pours through a comparatively narrow cañon
about two miles in width in a magnificent cascade, and expands
in a broad fan five or six miles in width, separated from the
Stickeen River by its broad terminal moraine, fringed with spruces
and willows. Around the beautifully drawn curve of the moraine
the Stickeen River flows, having evidently been shoved by the
glacier out of its direct course. On the opposite side of the
cañon another somewhat smaller glacier, which now terminates
four or five miles from the river, was once united front to front
with the greater glacier, though at first both were tributaries
of the main Stickeen Glacier which once filled the whole grand
cañon. After the main trunk cañon was melted out,
its side branches, drawing their sources from a height of three
or four to five or six thousand feet, were cut off, and of course
became separate glaciers, occupying cirques and branch cañons
along the tops and sides of
the walls. The Indians have a
tradition that the river used to run through a tunnel under the
united fronts of the two large tributary glaciers mentioned above,
which entered the main cañon from either side; and that
on one occasion an Indian, anxious to get rid of his wife, had
her sent adrift in a canoe down through the ice tunnel, expecting
that she would trouble him no more. But to his surprise she floated
through under the ice in safety. All the evidence connected with
the present appearance of these two glaciers indicates that they
were united and formed a dam across the river after the smaller
tributaries had been melted off and had receded to a greater or
lesser height above the valley floor.
The big Stickeen Glacier is hardly out of sight ere you come upon
another that pours a majestic crystal flood through the evergreens,
while almost every hollow and tributary cañon contains
a smaller one, the size, of course, varying with the extent of
the area drained. Some are like mere snow-banks; others with
the blue ice apparent, depend in massive bulging curves and swells,
and graduate into the river-like forms that maze through
the lower forested regions and are so striking and beautiful that
they are admired even by the passing miners with gold-dust
in their eyes.
Thirty-five miles above the Big Stickeen Glacier is the "Dirt
Glacier," the second in size. Its outlet is a fine stream,
abounding in trout. On the opposite side of the river there is
a group of five glaciers, one of them descending to within a hundred
feet of the river.
Near Glenora, on the northeastern flank
of the main Coast Range, just below a narrow gorge called "The
Cañon," terraces first make their appearance, where
great quantities of moraine material have been swept through the
flood-choked gorge and of course outspread and deposited
on the first open levels below. Here, too, occurs a marked change
in climate and consequently in forests and general appearance
of the face of the country. On account of destructive fires the
woods are younger and are composed of smaller trees about a foot
to eighteen inches in diameter and seventy-five feet high,
mostly two-leaved pines which hold their seeds for several
years after they are ripe. The woods here are without a trace
of those deep accumulations of mosses, leaves, and decaying trunks
which make so damp and unclearable mass in the coast forests.
Whole mountain-sides are covered with gray moss and lichens where
the forest has been utterly destroyed. The river-bank cottonwoods
are also smaller, and the birch and contorta pines mingle freely
with the coast hemlock and spruce. The birch is common on the
lower slopes and is very effective, its round, leafy, pale-green
head contrasting with the dark, narrow spires of the conifers
and giving a striking character to the forest. The "tamarac
pine "or black pine, as the variety of P. contorta
is called here, is yellowish-green, in marked contrast with
the dark lichen-draped spruce which grows above the pine
at a height of about two thousand feet, in groves and belts where
it has escaped fire and snow avalanches. There is another handsome
spruce hereabouts,
Picea alba, very slender and graceful
in habit, drooping at the top like a mountain hemlock. I saw fine
specimens a hundred and twenty-five feet high on deep bottom
land a few miles below Glenora. The tops of some of them were
almost covered with dense clusters of yellow and brown cones.
We reached the old Hudson's Bay trading-post at Glenora about
one o'clock, and the captain informed me that he would stop here
until the next morning, when he would make an early start for
Wrangell.
At a distance of about seven or eight miles to the f northeastward
of the landing, there is an outstanding group of mountains crowning
a spur from the main chain of the Coast Range, whose highest point
rises about eight thousand feet above the level of the sea; and
as Glenora is only a thousand feet above the sea, the height to
be overcome in climbing this peak is about seven thousand feet.
Though the time was short I determined to climb it, because of
the advantageous position it occupied for general views of the
peaks and glaciers of the east side of the great range.
Although it was now twenty minutes past three and the days were
getting short, I thought that by rapid climbing I could reach
the summit before sunset, in time to get a general view and a
few pencil sketches, and make my way back to the steamer in the
night. Mr. Young, one of the missionaries, asked permission to
accompany me, saying that he was a good walker and climber and
would not delay me or cause any trouble. I strongly advised him
not to go,
explaining that it involved a walk, coming and
going, of fourteen or sixteen miles, and a climb through brush
and boulders of seven thousand feet, a fair day's work for a seasoned
mountaineer to be done in less than half a day and part of a night.
But he insisted that he was a strong walker, could do a mountaineer's
day's work in half a day, and would not hinder me in any way.
"Well, I have warned you," I said, "and will not
assume responsibility for any trouble that may arise."
He proved to be a stout walker, and we made rapid progress across
a brushy timbered flat and up the mountain slopes, open in some
places, and in others thatched with dwarf firs, resting a minute
here and there to refresh ourselves with huckleberries, which
grew in abundance in open spots. About half an hour before sunset,
when we were near a cluster of crumbling pinnacles that formed
the summit, I had ceased to feel anxiety about the mountaineering
strength and skill of my companion, and pushed rapidly on. In
passing around the shoulder of the highest pinnacle, where the
rock was rapidly disintegrating and the danger of slipping was
great, I shouted in a warning voice, "Be very careful here,
this is dangerous."
Mr. Young was perhaps a dozen or two yards behind me, but out
of sight. I afterwards reproached myself for not stopping and
lending him a steadying hand, and showing him the slight footsteps
I had made by kicking out little blocks of the crumbling surface,
instead of simply warning him to be careful.
Only a few seconds
after giving this warning, I was startled by a scream for help,
and hurrying back, found the missionary face downward, his arms
outstretched, clutching little crumbling knobs on the brink of
a gully that plunges down a thousand feet or more to a small residual
glacier. I managed to get below him, touched one of his feet,
and tried to encourage him by saying, "I am below you. You
are in no danger. You can't slip past me and I will soon get you
out of this."
He then told me that both of his arms were dislocated. It was
almost impossible to find available footholds on the treacherous
rock, and I was at my wits' end to know how to get him rolled
or dragged to a place where I could get about him, find out how
much he was hurt, and a way back down the mountain. After narrowly
scanning the cliff and making footholds, I managed to roll and
lift him a few yards to a place where the slope was less steep,
and there I attempted to set his arms. I found, however, that
this was impossible in such a place. I therefore tied his arms
to his sides with my suspenders and necktie, to prevent as much
as possible inflammation from movement. I then left him, telling
him to lie still, that I would be back in a few minutes, and that
he was now safe from slipping. I hastily examined the ground and
saw no way of getting him down except by the steep glacier gully.
After scrambling to an outstanding point that commands a view
of it from top to bottom, to make sure that it was not interrupted
by sheer precipices, I concluded that with
great care and
the digging of slight footholds he could be slid down to the glacier,
where I could lay him on his back and perhaps be able to set his
arms. Accordingly, I cheered him up, telling him I had found a
way, but that it would require lots of time and patience. Digging
a footstep in the sand or crumbling rock five or six feet beneath
him, I reached up, took hold of him by one of his feet, and gently
slid him down on his back, placed his heels in the step, then
descended another five or six feet, dug heel notches, and slid
him down to them. Thus the whole distance was made by a succession
of narrow steps at very short intervals, and the glacier was reached
perhaps about midnight. Here I took off one of my boots, tied
a handkerchief around his wrist for a good hold, placed my heel
in his arm pit, and succeeded in getting one of his arms into
place, but my utmost strength was insufficient to reduce the dislocation
of the other. I therefore bound it closely to his side, and asked
him if in his exhausted and trembling condition he was still able
to walk.
"Yes," he bravely replied.
So, with a steadying arm around him and many stops for rest, I
marched him slowly down in the starlight on the comparatively
smooth, unassured surface of the little glacier to the terminal
moraine, a distance of perhaps a mile, crossed the moraine, bathed
his head at one of the outlet streams, and after many rests reached
a dry place and made a brush fire. I then went ahead looking for
an open way through the bushes to where larger wood could be had,
made a
good lasting fire of resiny silver-fir roots,
and a leafy bed beside it. I now told him I would run down the
mountain, hasten back with help from the boat, and carry him down
in comfort. But he would not hear of my leaving him.
"No, no," he said, "I can walk down. Don't leave
me.''
I reminded him of the roughness of the way, his nerve-shaken
condition, and assured him I would not be gone long. But he insisted
on trying, saying on no account whatever must I leave him. I therefore
concluded to try to get him to the ship by short walks from one
fire and resting-place to another. While he was resting I
went ahead, looking for the best way through the brush and rocks,
then returning, got him on his feet and made him lean on my shoulder
while I steadied him to prevent his falling. This slow, staggering
struggle from fire to fire lasted until long after sunrise. When
at last we reached the ship and stood at the foot of the narrow
single plank without side rails that reached from the bank to
the deck at a considerable angle, I briefly explained to Mr. Young's
companions, who stood looking down at us, that he had been hurt
in an accident, and requested one of them to assist me in getting
him aboard. But strange to say, instead of coming down to help,
they made haste to reproach him for having gone on a "wild-goose
chase" with Muir.
"These foolish adventures are well enough for Mr. Muir,"
they said, "but you, Mr. Young, have a work to do; you have
a family; you have a church, and
you have no right to risk
your life on treacherous peaks and precipices."
The captain, Nat Lane, son of Senator Joseph Lane, had been swearing
in angry impatience for being compelled to make so late a start
and thus encounter a dangerous wind in a narrow gorge, and was
threatening to put the missionaries ashore to seek their lost
companion, while he went on down the river about his business.
But when he heard my call for help, he hastened forward, and elbowed
the divines away from the end of the gangplank, shouting in angry
irreverence, "Oh, blank! This is no time for preaching! Don't
you see the man is hurt?"
He ran down to our help, and while I steadied my trembling companion
from behind, the captain kindly led him up the plank into the
saloon, and made him drink a large glass of brandy. Then, with
a man holding down his shoulders, we succeeded in getting the
bone into its socket, notwithstanding the inflammation and contraction
of the muscles and ligaments. Mr. Young was then put to bed, and
he slept all the way back to Wrangell.
In his mission lectures in the East, Mr. Young oftentimes told
this story. I made no record of it in my notebook and never intended
to write a word about it; but after a miserable, sensational caricature
of the story had appeared in a respectable magazine I thought
it but fair to my brave companion that it should be told just
as it happened.
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