The following article appeared in the December, 1908 issue of The Pacific Monthly, a magazine of politics, culture, literature, and opinion, published in Portland, Oregon, from 1898 to 1911, when it was purchased by Southern Pacific Railroad and merged with its magazine, Sunset. The magazine earned widespread praise for the quality of its literary content, as well as details such as paper quality and illustrations. Contributors included Leo Tolstoy, George Sterling, Joaquin Miller, Sinclair Lewis, and Jack London. The article is online at this link.
Writer Hiram Alfred "H. A." Cody (1872–1948) was a Canadian clergyman and novelist who published 25 books, including a number of bestsellers.
Alaska Yukon Overland Mail Past and Present, By H. A. Cody
Several years ago that master magician of the jingle of English rhyme Rudyard Kipling dilated upon the foot service mail to the Hills in India. He drew a picture of the land where the robber lurks, the tiger stalks unseen, and exiles are waiting for letters from home. The hero in this story is a humble carrier of the Overland Mail, with bags tucked in his waist belt, fording swollen rivers, climbing steep cliffs, facing tempests, stopping at nothing, ever moving on.
From level to upland--from upland to crest,
Fly the soft sandalled feet, strains the brawny brown chest.
But had Kipling turned his attention from India to the cold desolate region of North America, along the great Yukon River, what a subject he might have had for his facile pen and vivid imagination.
Here is a region, a portion of which lies girdled by the Arctic Circle, ice-locked from seven to eight long, dreary months. More than this, huge, almost impassable mountains lift their hoary heads as great barriers. These peaks, snow-capped and majestic, glow with unrivalled splendor when touched by the rising or setting sun, as if bidding defiance to any bold enough to intrude into their domain.
Cooped up behind these innumerable Argus-eyed monsters were a few exiles, thousands of miles from home, over a thousand miles from any town, their companions the wild beasts of the forest, straggling bands of uncouth, unlettered Indians, and the faithful dogs. These were the hardy prospectors, miners, trappers, and missionaries, precursors to the great flood of humanity which swept the country when the golden wealth of the Klondyke aroused to fever excitement the outside world. Here they had toiled and delved for years, struggling with Nature in her sternest moods. Little centers were gradually formed along the Yukon River at Fort Selkirk, Forty Mile, Circle City, Fort Yukon, and others lower down stream.
During the brief months small sternwheel steamers occasionally brought in supplies and mail by way of St. Michael, at the mouth of the river. But in winter this route was closed, and for eight months nothing happened to break the monotony or the silence which reigned supreme. No stranger appeared with tidings of the world beyond; no newspaper or magazine beguiled the weary hours; and no letters from loved ones cheered the loneliness of the great darkness. They were like men buried alive. And yet they were not all men, for a few women at length shared their husbands' dreary lot. The first to do so was the wife of Bishop Bompas, the veteran missionary of the North. It was during the winter of 1893 that the miners of Forty Mile clubbed together and presented Mrs. Bompas with a splendid nugget of gold, "in honor of the first white lady," so ran the address, who had wintered in the Yukon.
So unbearable became the life during these months of darkness, that at length efforts were made to obtain one mail at least during the winter. One route only seemed practicable, and that meant a difficult journey of one thousand miles from the Pacific Coast, over the mountains, and down the Yukon River. The United States and Canadian Governments were appealed to for assistance, with the result that in 1895 the attempt was made.
The man who would accomplish this Herculean task had to be of more than ordinary grit, endurance and muscle. Such was Jimmy Jackson, an Indian of the great Thlinkit tribe, whose father is still the hoary chief of the Taku band dwelling in Juneau. He was well known as a famous traveler and carrier, having made several wonderful trips through the Cassiar country to the coast, carrying mail and gold dust. To him, therefore, was entrusted the responsibility for conveying the mail to the waiting exiles far away along the Yukon River. For the trip he was to receive seven hundred dollars and a tax of one dollar on each letter to be collected when delivered to the owner, these missives being from five to seven hundred in number.
In the undertaking Jackson had a rival. The Canadian Government was ready to send a man with mail as far as Cudahy, a small town near the line between Alaska and British Yukon. This courier started from Dyea, on the Pacific Coast, and endeavored to cross the mountains by the formidable Chilcoot Pass. It was in December of 1895, and a fearful storm swept down upon him. Bewildered, half-blinded, and numb with the intense cold, the courier was forced to retreat to Dyea, which he was fortunate to reach alive. The mail had been thrown aside in the whirling storm, and was not found till the following July, and taken down the river. The contents of the bag were much damaged, and some of the letters illegible. Knowing nothing of the mishap that had befallen the Canadian courier, Jackson began his journey with a strong determination to beat his rival. Shunning the rugged White Pass and Chilcoot routes, with Indian shrewdness he laid his course in another direction. Starting from Juneau by canoe, with two Indian youths, a dog team and supplies, he reached the mouth of the Stickeen River. Up this stream he paddled, to the head of canoe navigation; then through a dense forest for seventy-five miles to Atlin Lake. Out upon this lake they moved, and were making good time, or to use Jackson's own words, were "trabblin' lak de win'" when a storm swift and sudden as the rush of doom swept down upon them. Snow and hail mingled with the on-rushing wind blotted out everything from view. The cold was intense, unbearable. The dogs added their pitiful cries to the howling storm. The leader, noble animal that he was, bravely faced the tempest, but the wheel dog refused to move. He held back, crouched, and then dropped in the snow. The keen stinging lash had no effect upon the fallen brute. Whipping out his knife, Jackson severed the traces, threw him aside, and pushed on with the remaining dogs. Not far had they gone before another refused to work, and dropped in his tracks. He too was to share the fate of his companion. With the team thus reduced it was impossible to take forward the load of provisions, which were therefore stacked on the ice, and a stick erected to mark the spot. With little left to hinder the progress they sped on, and after a struggle reached the shore and some friendly trees. Without, the storm raged with fierce violence, covering the land and their scanty provisions upon the lake, deep with snow. The next day the tempest abated, and once more Jackson and his little party continued their long journey. Only one who has traveled in winter along the Yukon River can realize what it means. The ice does not form smooth and level as in many streams. It freezes at the bottom and this rising to the surface fills the river with a floating mass of crushing, surging blocks of ice. As the current is swift and strong, this body moves along for miles, until a sharp bend on one side and a projecting point on the other combine to form a narrow channel, where the ice jams. The onrushing mass driven against this piles up in wild confusion, huge cakes at times being lifted ten to fifteen feet and held as in a mighty vise. For miles in places the river is thus packed, and as far as the eye can view nothing is to be seen but a grim icy field wedged between steep banks lined with dense scrubby trees.
Over this the traveler has to make his devious way. There is no other course, and as the dogs creep on, many are the yells of agony which split the stinging air. The sled becomes wedged and the poor brutes strain in vain to free the load, or at times it topples upon them, burying their bruised bodies in the snow. To add to the misery of cold and the lash, their feet become raw from the sharp ice and drops of blood mark every foot of the trail.
Such was the ordeal that Jackson and his dogs had to undergo at frequent intervals in their long eight hundred miles from Lake Atlin to Circle City. Day after day they pressed on down through the Golden Horn, across Marsh Lake by the dreaded Whitehorse Canyon and rapids, over the desolate and wind-swept Lake La Berge and along Thirty Mile River, avoiding with extreme caution the river's fearful breathing places, the watery graves of many a poor musher.
To add to these difficulties, food at length ran low, and when thirty miles from Fort Selkirk, at the mouth of the Pelly River, only a handful of flour remained. With nothing for the dogs, and only a mouthful for the Indians, they staggered on, and when wearied to the point of exhaustion the settlement reached. Here provisions were obtained, and when a rest had been made they pushed forward. After a hard struggle, with the thermometer fifty to sixty degrees below zero, Circle City was reached and the mail delivered. Precious were the letters to those lonely exiles, but how great had been the cruel suffering of Jackson and his party in their long, terrible journey!
Such was the first stage of the Overland Mail into the Yukon. But a change soon took place which transformed this uncertain method into a regular and frequent service. When the great Klondyke gold strike was made and thousands of people swarmed into the country the Northwest Mounted Police were hurried forward to preserve law and order. They were stationed along the Yukon River at twenty different posts, from the White Pass Summit to Dawson, a distance of over five hundred miles. To them, therefore, the post offices and the carrying of the mails were entrusted. The most interesting of these posts was at Tagish, the second detachment from the summit. The place is now almost deserted, and the large log buildings are in ruins. But in 1897 and 1898 it was a stirring spot, the headquarters of the Mounted Police for the southern end of the territory. To the gold seekers during the great rush this was the dividing line between the outside world, with all its fond associations, and the awful beyond, the region which lured them on, filling their minds with mingled hope and fear. Many a tear-stained letter was deposited with these Guardians of the North by the twenty-eight thousand men who registered at the post during one season. In many a home the last letter ever received by anxious waiting ones was headed "Tagish, Yukon Territory."
The Yukon River henceforth thrilled with new life. No longer was it a deserted way, where for hundreds of miles no human face could be seen. A trail beaten by the feet of men and dogs made traveling easier, and the police stations were always places of refuge from the cold and storm. From point to point the mail was carried by teams of strong, well-fed dogs, drawing five to seven hundred pounds of precious letters. They traveled almost with the speed of fleet horses, at times day and night, accompanied generally by two men. This gave a good mail service to Dawson and points beyond, two or three times a month.
Such trips, however, were not made without the spice of excitement. Many are the stories told of those stirring days; the rivalry of dog teams, the betting, and the more serious side from the ever uncertain river. This last was always a source of menace to the traveler. No one could tell when the thick ice beneath his feet would suddenly give way and engulf him in a watery grave below.
One of the reports of Colonel S. B. Steele, Superintendent of the Mounted Police, tells of an incident such as this. Corporal Richardson, accompanied by a dog driver named Bell, was hurrying the mail forward the last of November, 1898. Splendid progress was made and all went well until eight miles from the mouth of the Hootalinqua River. Suddenly the ice began to move, breaking up at the same time into large and small blocks. Unable to gain the shore, men and dogs were swept down the river. It was a serious situation, with the vast field of ice heaving and grinding, bearing them on to apparent destruction. Fortunately the block which was bearing them surged for an instant near the shore and passed beneath an overhanging tree. With catlike agility they sprang and caught a strong limb, and then drew themselves up to a place of safety. Though every effort was made, it was impossible to save the mail, and it was swept downstream.
With the completion of the White Pass and Yukon Railway from Skagway in 1900 passed the second stage and opened up the third in the history of the Alaska Yukon Overland Mail. Letters were henceforth carried by rail to Whitehorse, and transferred to steamers for points along the river. But when the Yukon was locked in its winter sleep much of the old difficulty remained. To this the famous stage road was constructed from Whitehorse to Dawson, a distance of 320 miles. For the service splendidly equipped sleighs were provided, capable of holding passengers as well. These, drawn by four, six, and at times eight fleet horses, made the journey in a few days in all kinds of weather.
Though this road winds its long way through a dreary wilderness, the natural abode of highwaymen and robbers, yet never once has there been a holdup or the mails intercepted. This is due to the magnificent system and service of the Royal Northwest Mounted Police, who are stationed at regular intervals along the trail during the winter months. Ever alert, they strike terror into the hearts of desperadoes, who turn to other fields. The mail, thus carried to Dawson by stage, was then transferred to dog teams for far distant Nome and other intermediate points. These dogs, strong and swift, bore the mail from place to place with remarkable rapidity and regularity. Thus, summer and winter, people for thousands of miles were supplied with mail every few days, a great contrast to former years.
The principal trouble with this service is in the opening and closing of the river, during spring and fall. At such times the difficulty is much increased. When the stage cannot travel, and ice is floating in the river, the mail is run down by canoes, which are transported over any solid ice on dog sleds.
As an example of the risks which are run on such occasions, the following extract from the Dawson News is typical: "Crunching, grinding and swirling in the crowded mass of ice, the little craft bearing the three men and the mail ran a great hazard. Time and again was the canoe caught in the swirling ice and tossed sidewise, and then forced forward at accelerated speed. Frequently unseen sandbars would raise the ice, and crowd it off at either side or in one direction. Again there would be dangerous places when the divided floes would rush together, threatening to grip and crush the shell of the craft.
"The most dangerous experience on the run was once when the canoe approached a sandbar broadside. It was being hurried at great pace and there was seemingly no escape from crashing on the bar and being thrown over in the tumult of merciless ice. Suddenly a providential rift in the ice appeared at one side, and the trembling craft darted forward like a startled fawn, then swung gracefully and righted with admirable equipoise and headed once more with the prow for old Dawson."
The outbound couriers during such seasons have experienced great hardships and dangers, one of which may well be recorded here. During November of 1901 three men, with three teams of five dogs each, left Dawson for Whitehorse with about 2,000 pounds of first class mail. The ice was running in the river, though solid in places along the shore. At times they were wading to their waists in the ice cold water, with the thermometer degrees below zero, or creeping on hands and knees along some slippery, shelving edge, when any instant there was danger of being hurled into the surging mass in the dark water below. In places even this precarious trail was denied them, and they were compelled to force their way through dense thickets of bushes over tangled masses of dead timber. The cold was intense and on several occasions they had to pile snow around trousers legs and let it freeze in order to keep out the cold. Thus for days these picked men of the Royal Mail Service fought their way up that crooked river against almost insurmountable difficulties. But win out they did, and reaching Lower Lake LaBerge, the dogs were exchanged for horses. Even then the trouble was not over, for in crossing the lake, over thirty miles in length, the ice gave way and two horses were drowned. At length Whitehorse was reached, and the mail delivered in perfect condition.
Little did the people in city, town, or country realize, when they received letters from friends in the far North, what a sacrifice had been made for their sake by those stout-hearted heroes in the simple path of duty. The day no doubt is not far distant when some enterprising railway company will throw out a long spur and bind Alaska and the Yukon with bands of shining steel to the great throbbing hearts of civilization. Then the old order will change and a new mail service will be ushered in. But there will ever remain in the background, for the delight of the poet, novelist and historian, the sturdy, dusky courier fighting his terrible way over leagues and leagues of ice and snow, forest, mountain, and plain; the picturesque Guardians of the North with their racing teams of spirited dogs, and the surging White Pass stages, with frothing, steaming horses rushing through a desolate wilderness to the merry jingle of bells.