Part 56 (1/2)
The Lewes River gradually narrows from a width of three or four hundred yards to one of about fifty yards at the mouth of the Grand Canyon, which it enters in a great bore.
The walls of the canyon are perpendicular columns and palisades of basalt. They rise without bend to a height of from one to two hundred feet, and then, set thickly with dark and gloomy spruce trees, slope gradually into mountains of considerable height. The canyon is five-eighths of a mile long, and in that interval the water drops thirty feet. Halfway through, it widens abruptly into a round water chamber, or basin, where the waters boil and seethe in dangerous whirlpools and eddies. Then it again narrows, and the waters rush wildly and tumultuously through walls of dark stone, veined with gray and lavender.
The current runs fifteen miles an hour, and rafts ”shooting” the rapids are hurled violently from side to side, pushed on end, spun round in whirlpools, buried for seconds in boiling foam, and at last are shot through the final narrow avenue like spears from a catapult--only to plunge madly on to the more dangerous White Horse Rapids.
The waves dash to a height of four or five feet and break into vast sheets of spray and foam. Their roar, flung back by the stone walls, may be heard for a long distance; and that of the rapids drifts over the streets of White Horse like distant, continuous thunder, when all else is still.
We found a difficult way by which, with the a.s.sistance of alpenstocks and overhanging tree branches, we could slide down to the very water, just above Whirlpool Basin. We stood there long, thinking of the tragedies that had been enacted in that short and lonely stretch; of the lost outfits, the worn and wounded bodies, the spirits sore; of the hearts that had gone through, beating high and strong with hope, and that had returned broken. It is almost as poignantly interesting as the old trail; and not for two generations, at least, will the perils of those days be forgotten.
It was about noon that, remembering our long walk, we turned reluctantly and set out for White Horse.
Somewhere back of the basin we lost our way. We could not find the ”tram”; searching for it, we got into a swamp and could not make our way back to the river; and suddenly the mosquitoes were upon us.
The underbrush was so thick that our netting was torn into shreds and left in festoons and tatters upon every bush; yet I still bear in my memory the vision of my friend floating like a tall, blond bride--for my dark-haired Scotch friend was not with me on the Yukon voyage--through the shadows of that swamp before her bridal veil went to pieces.
Her bridal glory was grief. In a few moments we were both as black as negroes with mosquitoes; for, desperately though we fought, we could not drive them away. The air in the swamp was heavy and still; our progress was unspeakably difficult--through mire and tall, lush gra.s.ses which, in any other country on earth, would have been alive with snakes and crawling things.
The pests bit and stung our faces, necks, shoulders, and arms; they even swarmed about our ankles; while, for our hands--they were soon swollen to twice their original size.
We wept; we prayed; we said evil things in the hearing of heaven; we asked G.o.d to forgive us our sins, or, at the very least, to punish us for them in some other way; but I, at least, in the heaviest of my afflictions, did not forget to thank Him because there are no snakes in Alaska or the Yukon. It seemed to me, even, in the fervor of my grat.i.tude, that it had all been planned aeons ago for our special benefit in this extreme hour.
But I shall spare the reader a further description of our sufferings.
I had always considered the Alaskan mosquito a joke. I did not know that they torture men and beasts to a terrible death. They mount in a black mist from the gra.s.s; it is impossible for one to keep one's eyes open.
Dogs, bears, and strong men have been known to die of pain and nervous exhaustion under their attacks.
After an hour of torture we forced our way through the network of underbrush back to the river, and soon found a narrow path. There was a slight breeze, and the mosquitoes were not so aggressive. There was still a three-mile walk, along the sh.o.r.e bordering the rapids, before we could rest; and during the last mile each step caused such agony that we almost crawled.
When we removed our shoes, we found them full of blood. Our feet were blistered; the blisters had broken and blistered again.
[Ill.u.s.tration: Copyright by E. A. Hegg, Juneau Courtesy of Webster & Stevens, Seattle
TELLER]
But we had seen the Grand Canyon of the Yukon--which Schwatka in an evil hour named Miles, for the distinguished army-general--and White Horse Rapids; and seeing them was worth the blisters and the blood. And we know how far it is from the head of the canyon to White Horse town. No matter what the three ”oldest” settlers, the railway folders, Schwatka, and all the others say,--_we know_. It is fifteen miles! Also, among those who scoff at Rex Beach for having the villain in his last novel eaten up by mosquitoes on the Yukon, we are not to be included.
Numerous and valuable copper mines lie within a radius of fifteen miles from White Horse. The more important ones are those of the Pennsylvania syndicate, The B. N. White Company, The Arctic Chief, The Grafter, the Anaconda, and the Best Chance. The Puebla, operated by B. N. White, lies four miles northwest of town. It makes a rich showing of magnet.i.te, carrying copper values averaging four and five per cent, with a small by-product of gold and silver.
In the summer of 1907 this mine had in sight two hundred and fifty thousand tons of pay ore. The deepest development then obtained had a hundred-foot surface showing three hundred feet in width, and stripped along with the strike of the vein seven hundred feet, showing a solid, unbroken ma.s.s of ore. Tunnels and crosscuts driven from the bottom of the shaft showed the body to be the same width and the values the same as the surface outcrop.
The Arctic Chief ranks second in importance; and extensive development work is being carried on at all the mines. The railway is building out into the mining district.
Six-horse stages are run from White Horse to Dawson after the river closes. The distance is four hundred and thirty-five miles; the fare in the early autumn and late spring is a hundred and twenty-five dollars; in winter, when sleighing is good, sixty dollars.
White Horse was first named Closeleigh by the railway company; but the name was not popular. At one place in the rapids the waves curving over rocks somewhat resemble a white horse, with wildly floating mane and tail of foam. This is said to be the origin of the name.
White Horse is only eight years old. The hotel accommodations, if one does not mind a little thing like not being able to eat, are good. The rooms are clean and comfortable and filled with sweet mountain and river air.