Young Alaskans in the Far North, Emerson Hough [the false prince series TXT] 📗
- Author: Emerson Hough
- Performer: -
Book online «Young Alaskans in the Far North, Emerson Hough [the false prince series TXT] 📗». Author Emerson Hough
“Yes,” said his uncle, “it’s Sunday, July twenty-seventh, according to my notes, and we’ve been gone from Fort McPherson one week and four days. I think we’ve made mighty good time this far, for I believe we must be considerably over a hundred miles from Fort McPherson to this place where we stand.”
“It’s a fine morning for a little rest,” suggested Rob. “Maybe it wouldn’t be wrong to make a few photographs. I’d like to make a picture of that high peak across from here, which we ought to call Castle Mountain. That’s the mountain we’ve been hunting for the last three or four days.”
“Agreed!” said Uncle Dick. “I think it would be an excellent plan to rest here for a time to-day, and then it would be no harm to start on. Will you let me see the notes of your diary, Rob? We’ve been relying on you to keep a record of our journey across the mountains, because I’ve been too busy and, to tell the truth, too worried, to have much time for making notes of the trip.”
Rob produced his diary, and Uncle Dick read it page by page. “Fine!” said he. “Fine! This doesn’t go into many details, but it will cover the story of our trip as well as I could have done it myself. Now, after we get started down the Bell and the Porcupine, I want you to keep up the same thing, so that we will have some sort of a record of our journey in this wild part of the world.
“I’ll have to admit to you boys, now that we are alone, that I don’t think we ought to waste any time in here. The two Indian boys who have left us have cut down our supplies considerably, but as they can’t possibly get back to McPherson in less than four days, it seemed only fair to share with them what little we had, though it means less for us. We’ll have to hurry.”
“I’m so sick and tired of rabbits by this time,” grumbled John, “that I don’t ever want to see one again. I don’t like to clean them any more, and I don’t like to smell them when they are cooking in the kettle.”
“You’re not the first man in the North to get tired of rabbits,” said Uncle Dick. “For a day or two they are all right, but there is really very little strength in the meat. They are, however, the main prop of the fur trade in the North, and the mainstay of the savage population as well. Except for rabbits, all these natives would starve to death in the winter-time. They have almost nothing to eat from one season to the next after the caribou have gone by.”
“Where is the caribou migration in here?” asked John.
“It won’t pass here at all,” replied their leader. “They tell me that the caribou are north of the Porcupine, toward the Arctic, and that they work south along toward the latter part of August. There are a few sheep in here, but mountain-sheep is a hard meat to kill. There is mighty little hope for us to get anything unless we can catch some fish as we go along—and unless we continue to eat rabbits, and maybe some ptarmigan. I shouldn’t wonder if the ptarmigan would grow much scantier when we get down out of the mountains farther.
“Jesse,” he continued, “there’ll be no harm in your taking your gun and going over to see if you can get us some young geese or some young ducks before we start out, over at the edge of Loon Lake. We’ve got to have all the food-supplies we can possibly get hold of, because we don’t know what is ahead. Hurry up, now, for pretty soon we must call ourselves rested and be on our way. Our canoe is waiting for us, already launched, and it won’t take long to get the loads aboard.”
Jesse complied with his uncle’s instructions, and, taking his light shot-gun, disappeared in the fringe of willows which lay between the camp and the marshy borders of the lake out of which they had made their last portage on the Rocky Mountain summit. It was not long before they began to hear the reports of his gun, and so proficient had he by this time become in its use that when he returned in the course of three-quarters of an hour he had a young goose and a half-dozen mallard ducks to add to the larder.
“Fine!” said Uncle Dick. “Throw them in the boat, son, and we’ll be getting ready.
“Rob, go on with your diary; and, John, be sure that you keep up your maps. There isn’t a single report of any kind in print or in manuscript, so far as I know, which tells the truth about this summit of the Rockies. We are just as much explorers as if we were the first to cross. The Klondikers left no records.
“And now take one last look around you, for I question if you will ever be in a more remote corner of the world in all your lives. This is the most northerly pass of the Rockies. Yonder above us, at the end of what they call the Black Mountain range, lie the last foot-hills between here and the Arctic. Off in that direction the Little Bell finds its head—no man knows where, so far as I can tell. Westward in general lies our course now, and we’ve got to make five hundred miles between McPherson and the mouth of the Porcupine River, and make it in jig time too, if we want to catch an up-bound boat on the Yukon this fall.”
“Well,” said Rob, “I suppose if we had to we could play Robinson Crusoe here at least as well as those poor Klondikers did who came to grief here twenty years ago. But as for me, I want to get home on time—not only because we have to go to school and because our parents are waiting for us, but because we set out to make our round trip within certain dates, and we ought to do so if that is a possible thing.”
“That’s the talk!” said Uncle Dick. “Come ahead then, boys. Now we are alone—let us see how we can travel.”
Rob did as requested and made brief notes of their course throughout the remainder of their trip to the Yukon River, which are given here as he wrote them:
“Sunday, July 27th.—Beautiful weather. Little Bell very deep, with pools on the bends literally full of grayling. They call them ‘bluefish’ here, and they look purple in the deep, clear water. The Indian boys showed us how to cook them. They split them down the back and skewer them flat, and then hang them up before the fire, flesh side to the fire. They eat them off the skin for a plate. You wouldn’t believe how good they are.
“Rabbits and ptarmigan all along the banks. Sometimes we have to get out to ease the canoe down the rocky rapids, for we must not cut her, since she is the only boat we have, and to be without her would ruin us. Water is icy cold, even colder than the head of the Rat, which was bad enough.
“At 6.30 to-day struck the Big Bell, a deep and clear river. We were all cold, so built a fire. Caught some grayling then. Ran till 10 o’clock. Camp on the tundra. Wet and cold, but had plenty of wood near by, so had good fires.
“LaPierre House, an old trading-post, now abandoned, must be not far ahead. That’s where the land trail comes in from Fort McPherson, according to the stories. We don’t believe anything we hear any more, as all the tales have been unreliable and confusing. Must have made thirty miles to-day before we camped.
“Monday, July 28th.—Steady grind down the Bell, which now is crooked and sluggish. At 2.15 in the afternoon found a cabin, but it was not LaPierre House. Found many names on this cabin. Also statement, ‘It is ten miles to LaPierre House.’ One man here left statement that he was bound for Fairbanks in Alaska. Another man and his wife passed in an earlier year, ‘Eleven days out from McPherson in canoes.’ This party had four Indian boys, who expected to take nine days to get back to McPherson. This man must have gone on down the Bell River alone.
“Did five hours before lunch, and six after, and still no LaPierre House. Traveled until 10.15 and stopped to cook. Rigged a light outrigger for our canoe for night travel, which might be dangerous. We’ve got to travel day and night, and take turns steering. Don’t think we got over three and a half to four miles an hour, it may be three miles only, but think we did thirty-five miles to-day. No game and no fish but a few grayling in the morning. We feel a little bit glum. We can’t tell where we are. Rigged a short sail, and it helped us a little bit. Mosquitoes not quite so bad. Making slower time than we hoped.
“Tuesday, July 29th.—Tried to sleep in boat, and didn’t do very well. I steered part of the night, and Uncle Dick part of the time. At 7 a.m. made LaPierre House. It is eighty miles from the summit at least, and that is fully twice as far as we were told that it was! Some said it was only thirty miles beyond the summit. Saw signs where raft had been built—maybe some Indians coming down-stream for their winter quarters. Heard a man started across McPherson to LaPierre House on the land trail with two dogs. Too much plunder, and he nearly died. Don’t know where he is now. Rain and cold all day.
“Ate at midnight. We take turns paddling the best we can, but John and Jesse get pretty tired. We let them sleep more. Weather dismal and cold. It is hard for two to sleep in our canoe and two to run it at night. Have been wet and cold a good deal.
“Wednesday, July 30th.—Breakfast in rain. Built a big fire. We slept a little where we could be warm. Off at 12.50. Found a big river coming in from the left, and knew that it must be the Porcupine. Struck it about 2 o’clock. A big wind coming up-stream. At first we thought the Porcupine was running to the left. Of course it had to run to the right. Found the wind hard to buck with the canoe, so that we stood still sometimes. At 6.30 went ashore, built a log fire, and dried our clothes and beds. Everything very wet. John and Jesse very tired and shivering. Both seem pretty near exhausted. Wind becoming more gusty. Fixed our canoe, which was leaking a little. We don’t know just how far it is from here to the Porcupine. Jesse killed a beaver. We boiled the tail and ate it, and it was good. Pushed on a little farther in the dark.
“Thursday, July 31st.—Summer is going awfully fast. Ran in for breakfast on a stony ledge. Think we are only going about two miles an hour. After breakfast tried to sail, and think we ran ten or twelve miles easier. Had to paddle then. The reaches of this river are long and the current is slow. The man who calls the Porcupine and the Bell ‘rapid mountain streams’ doesn’t know what he is talking
Comments (0)