go slow
and take the pleasures and sceneries as you go."
At the confluence of the first North Fork of the Stickeen I found
a band of Toltan or Stick Indians catching their winter supply
of salmon in willow traps, set where the fish are struggling in
swift rapids on their way to the spawning-grounds. A large
supply had already been secured, and of course the Indians were
well fed and merry. They were camping in large booths made of
poles set on end in the ground, with
many binding cross-pieces
on which tons of salmon were being dried. The heads were strung
on separate poles and the roes packed in willow baskets, all being
well smoked from fires in the middle of the floor. The largest
of the booths near the bank of the river was about forty feet
square. Beds made of spruce and pine boughs were spread all around
the walls, on which some of the Indians lay asleep; some were
braiding ropes, others sitting and lounging, gossiping and courting,
while a little baby was swinging in a hammock. All seemed to be
light-hearted and jolly, with work enough and wit enough
to maintain health and comfort. In the winter they are said to
dwell in substantial huts in the woods, where game, especially
caribou, is abundant. They are pale copper-colored, have
small feet and hands, are not at all negroish in lips or cheeks
like some of the coast tribes, nor so thickset, short-necked,
or heavy-featured in general.
One of the most striking of the geological features of this region
are immense gravel deposits displayed in sections on the walls
of the river gorges. About two miles above the North Fork confluence
there is a bluff of basalt three hundred and fifty feet high,
and above this a bed of gravel four hundred feet thick, while
beneath the basalt there is another bed at least fifty feet thick.
From "Ward's," seventeen miles beyond Telegraph, and
about fourteen hundred feet above sea-level, the trail ascends
a gravel ridge to a pine-and-fir-covered plateau twenty-one
hundred feet above the sea. Thence for three miles the trail leads
through
a forest of short, closely planted trees to the second
North Fork of the Stickeen, where a still greater deposit of stratified
gravel is displayed, a section at least six hundred feet thick
resting on a red jaspery formation.
Nine hundred feet above the river there is a slightly dimpled
plateau diversified with aspen and willow groves and mossy meadows.
At "Wilson's," one and a half miles from the river,
the ground is carpeted with dwarf manzanita and the blessed Linnaea
borealis, and forested with small pines, spruces, and aspens,
the tallest fifty to sixty feet high.
From Wilson's to "Caribou," fourteen miles, no water
was visible, though the nearly level, mossy ground is swampy-looking.
At "Caribou Camp," two miles from the river, I saw two
fine dogs, a Newfoundland and a spaniel. Their owner told me that
he paid only twenty dollars for the team and was offered one hundred
dollars for one of them a short time afterwards. The Newfoundland,
he said, caught salmon on the ripples, and could be sent back
for miles to fetch horses. The fine jet-black curly spaniel
helped to carry the dishes from the table to the kitchen, went
for water when ordered, took the pail and set it down at the stream-side,
but could not be taught to dip it full. But their principal work
was hauling camp-supplies on sleds up the river in winter.
These two were said to be able to haul a load of a thousand pounds
when the ice was in fairly good condition. They were fed on dried
fish and oatmeal boiled together.
The timber hereabouts is mostly willow or poplar on the low ground,
with here and there pine, birch, and spruce about fifty feet high.
None seen much exceeded a foot in diameter. Thousand-acre
patches have been destroyed by fire. Some of the green trees had
been burned off at the root, the raised roots, packed in dry moss,
being readily attacked from beneath. A range of mountains about
five thousand to six thousand feet high trending nearly north
and south for sixty miles is forested to the summit. Only a few
cliff-faces and one of the highest points patched with snow
are treeless. No part of this range as far as I could see is deeply
sculptured, though the general denudation of the country must
have been enormous as the gravel-beds show.
At the top of a smooth, flowery pass about four thousand feet
above the sea, beautiful Dease Lake comes suddenly in sight, shining
like a broad tranquil river between densely forested hills and
mountains. It is about twenty-seven miles long, one to two
miles wide, and its waters, tributary to the Mackenzie, flow into
the Arctic Ocean by a very long, roundabout, romantic way, the
exploration of which in 1789 from Great Slave Lake to the Arctic
Ocean must have been a glorious task for the heroic Scotchman,
Alexander Mackenzie, whose name it bears.
Dease Creek, a fine rushing stream about forty miles long and
forty or fifty feet wide, enters the lake from the west, drawing
its sources from grassy mountain-ridges. Thibert Creek, about
the same size, and McDames and Defot Creeks, with their many
branches, head together in the same general range of mountains
or on moor-like tablelands on the divide between the Mackenzie
and Yukon and Stickeen. All these Mackenzie streams had proved
rich in gold. The wing-dams, flumes, and sluice-boxes
on the lower five or ten miles of their courses showed wonderful
industry, and the quantity of glacial and perhaps preglacial gravel
displayed was enormous. Some of the beds were not unlike those
of the so-called Dead Rivers of California. Several ancient
drift-filled channels on Thibert Creek, blue at bed rock,
were exposed and had been worked. A considerable portion of the
gold, though mostly coarse, had no doubt come from considerable
distances, as boulders included in some of the deposits show.
The deepest beds, though known to be rich, had not yet been worked
to any great depth on account of expense. Diggings that yield
less than five dollars a day to the man were considered worthless.
Only three of the claims on Defot Creek, eighteen miles from the
mouth of Thibert Creek, were then said to pay. One of the nuggets
from this creek weighed forty pounds
[earlier versions state forty ounces -DEA]
.
While wandering about the banks of these gold-besprinkled streams,
looking at the plants and mines and miners, I was so fortunate
as to meet an interesting French Canadian, an old coureur de
bois, who after a few minutes' conversation invited me to
accompany him to his gold-mine on the head of Defot Creek,
near the summit of a smooth, grassy mountain-ridge which
he assured me commanded extensive views of the region at the heads
of Stickeen, Taku,
Yukon, and Mackenzie tributaries. Though
heavy-laden with flour and bacon, he strode lightly along the
rough trails as if his load was only a natural balanced part of
his body. Our way at first lay along Thibert Creek, now on gravel
benches, now on bed rock, now close down on the bouldery edge
of the stream. Above the mines the stream is clear and flows with
a rapid current. Its banks are embossed with moss and grass and
sedge well mixed with flowers-daisies, larkspurs, solidagos, parnassia,
potentilla, strawberry, etc. Small strips of meadow occur here
and there, and belts of slender arrowy fir and spruce with moss-clad
roots grow close to the water's edge. The creek is about forty-five
miles long, and the richest of its gold-bearing beds so far
discovered were on the lower four miles of the creek; the higher
four-or-five-dollars-a-day diggings were
considered very poor on account of the high price of provisions
and shortness of the season. After crossing many smaller streams
with their strips of trees and meadows, bogs and bright wild gardens,
we arrived at the Le Claire cabin about the middle of the afternoon.
Before entering it he threw down his burden and made haste to
show me his favorite flower, a blue forget-me-not, a specimen
of which he found within a few rods of the cabin, and proudly
handed it to me with the finest respect, and telling its many
charms and lifelong associations, showed in every endearing look
and touch and gesture that the tender little plant of the mountain
wilderness was truly his best-loved darling.
After luncheon we set out for the highest point on the dividing
ridge about a mile above the cabin, and sauntered and gazed until
sundown, admiring the vast expanse of open rolling prairie-like
highlands dotted with groves and lakes, the fountain-heads
of countless cool, glad streams.
Le Claire's simple, childlike love of nature, preserved undimmed
through a hard wilderness life, was delightful to see. The grand
landscapes with their lakes and streams, plants and animals, all
were dear to him. In particular he was fond of the birds that
nested near his cabin, watched the young, and in stormy weather
helped their parents to feed and shelter them. Some species were
so confiding they learned to perch on his shoulders and take crumbs
from his hand.
A little before sunset snow began to fly, driven by a cold wind,
and by the time we reached the cabin, though we had not far to
go, everything looked wintry. At half-past nine we ate supper,
while a good fire crackled cheerily in the ingle and a wintry
wind blew hard. The little log cabin was only ten feet long, eight
wide, and just high enough under the roof peak to allow one to
stand upright. The bedstead was not wide enough for two, so Le
Claire spread the blankets on the floor, and we gladly lay down
after our long, happy walk, our heads under the bedstead, our
feet against the opposite wall, and though comfortably tired,
it was long ere we fell asleep, for Le Claire, finding me a good
listener, told many stories of his adventurous life with Indians,
bears and wolves, snow and hunger,
and of his many camps
in the Canadian woods, hidden like the nests and dens of wild
animals; stories that have a singular interest to everybody, for
they awaken inherited memories of the lang, lang syne when we
were all wild. He had nine children, he told me, the youngest
eight years of age, and several of his daughters were married.
His home was in Victoria.
Next morning was cloudy and windy, snowy and cold, dreary December
weather in August, and I gladly ran out to see what I might learn.
A gray ragged-edged cloud capped the top of the divide, its
snowy fringes drawn out by the wind. The flowers, though most
of them were buried or partly so, were to some extent recognizable,
the bluebells bent over, shining like eyes through the snow, and
the gentians, too, with their corollas twisted shut; cassiope
I could recognize under any disguise; and two species of dwarf
willow with their seeds already ripe, one with comparatively small
leaves, were growing in mere cracks and crevices of rock-ledges
where the dry snow could not lie. Snowbirds and ptarmigan were
flying briskly in the cold wind, and on the edge of a grove I
saw a spruce from which a bear had stripped large sections of
bark for food.
About nine o'clock the clouds lifted and I enjoyed another wide
view from the summit of the ridge of the vast grassy fountain
region with smooth rolling features. A few patches of forest broke
the monotony of color, and the many lakes, one of them about five
miles long, were glowing like windows. Only the highest ridges
were whitened with snow, while rifts in
the clouds showed
beautiful bits of yellow-green sky. The limit of tree growth
is about five thousand feet.
Throughout all this region from Glenora to Cassiar the grasses
grow luxuriantly in openings in the woods and on dry hillsides
where the trees seem to have been destroyed by fire, and over
all the broad prairies above the timber-line. A kind of bunch-grass
in particular is often four or five feet high, and close enough
to be mowed for hay. I never anywhere saw finer or more bountiful
wild pasture. Here the caribou feed and grow fat, braving the
intense winter cold, often forty to sixty degrees below zero.
Winter and summer seem to be the only seasons here. What may fairly
be called summer lasts only two or three months, winter nine or
ten, for of pure well-defined spring or autumn there is scarcely
a trace. Were it not for the long severe winters, this would be
a capital stock country, equaling Texas and the prairies of the
old West. 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.
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