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THE most interesting of the
short excursions we made from Fort Wrangell was the one up the Stickeen
River to the head of steam navigation. From Mt. St. Elias the Coast Range
extends in a broad, lofty chain beyond the southern boundary of the
territory, gashed by stupendous canons, each of which carries a lively
river, though most of them are comparatively short, as their highest sources
lie in the icy solitudes of the range within forty or fifty miles of the
coast. A few, however, of these foaming, roaring streams—the Alsek, Chilcat,
Chilcoot, Taku, Stickeen, and perhaps others — head beyond the range with
some of the southwest branches of the Mackenzie and Yukon.
The largest side branches of
the main-trunk canons of all these mountain streams are still occupied by
glaciers which descend in showy ranks, their massy, 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 canons, 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 canon three thousand to five
thousand feet deep, and more than a hundred miles long. The majestic cliffs
and mountains forming the canon 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 canons 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 canon 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 canon 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 Canon,
this is the largest. It draws its sources from snowy mountains within
fifteen or twenty miles of the coast, pours through a comparatively narrow
canon 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 canon 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 canon. After the main
trunk canon 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 canons 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 canon 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 canon
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 Canon," 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 a 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 cotton-woods 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 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, unfissured 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. |
