This article was written by Ken Haigh
When the steamer, "Portland", docked in Seattle on July 17, 1897, people were just sitting down to their breakfasts, unaware that this day would be any different from the one before. An enterprising reporter for the Post-Intelligencer knew differently. He had already been on board the "Portland "and he knew that she carried two tons of gold from the Canadian northwest. GOLD! GOLD! GOLD! GOLD! screamed the headline that morning, in a cry that would soon be echoed around the world. It was welcome news to a nation grappling with a severe economic recession. "Prosperity is here", the reporter wrote confidently, "the depression is at an end."
Within weeks, tens of thousands were heading for the gold fields of the Klondike, convinced that the nuggets were lying so thick on the ground that you could literally pick them up and stuff your pockets full. One of those who heeded the siren's call was a twenty-one year-old Oakland, California native named Jack London. Like millions of other Americans, London was desperate. He had been an oyster pirate, a sealer, and a hobo; had worked in a cannery, a jute mill and a laundry; and had dreamed of being a writer, but had met with little success. Borrowing money from his step-sister, he set sail for the Klondike, confident of making his fortune.
There were several routes to the goldfields. Some took the overland route through the Canadian West. Others took the steamer up the Yukon River from Alaska. But most, like London, booked a passage on one of many steamships leaving from ports like San Francisco, sailed up the Inside Passage to the Lynn Canal and then disembarked at Dyea or Skagway in the Dyea Inlet. In Dyea, London would have to hump his gear (quite literally a ton of supplies) over the Chilkoot Pass to Lindemann Lake, the head of navigation on the Yukon River. On the shores of Lindemann Lake, in a great tent city, London and his three companions built a pair of flat-bottomed boats he christened Yukon Belle and The Belle of the Yukon to carry them downstream to Dawson. All around them the spruce forest fell as eager prospectors constructed simple craft to navigate the river to the gold fields. It was a race and everyone knew that the first to arrive would stake the best claim.
Over one hundred years later, my friend, Rob, and I would also be traveling this route, following the trail of the Klondike Gold Rush. Our traveling companion was Daisy, an elderly Labrador Retriever. We would be traveling in a canoe, not a home-made boat, and would be starting at Whitehorse, not Lindemann Lake, but we would still be facing many of the same dangers as London did in 1897.
Our journey would cover over 400 miles and take us twelve days. London and his crew started well, handily navigating the chain of lakes that began their journey. We were less fortunate. It took us two days to paddle the length of Lake Laberge. Intermittent drizzle and stiff headwinds kept forcing us to the shore, where we huddled miserably, waiting for the weather to break. Finally we reached the outlet of the lake and the ghost town of Lower Laberge. Collapsing into the forest were the remains of a Northwest Mounted Police post, a telegraph station, a road house, a shipping office and an icehouse. The bush was carpeted with rusting cans and a sign warned us NOT to pick up the garbage. A 1936 Chevy pickup, riddled with bullet holes, and with the logo Stewart & Phillips etched on the door, subsided gently into a patch of purple fireweed. For the next ten days we would pass countless small towns like this. Many had been simple wood camps, built after the Gold Rush to supply the paddlewheelers, which had once plied the Yukon River, with fuel. The entire river was one big open air museum.
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