The Trail of a Sourdough - Life in Alaska

May Kellogg Sullivan

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• Publié par: muzeg
• Publié le: 08 décembre 2010
• Nombre de lectures: 24
• Langue: English

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Project Gutenberg's The Trail of a Sourdough, by May Kellogg Sullivan This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net Title: The Trail of a Sourdough Life in Alaska Author: May Kellogg Sullivan Release Date: June 13, 2009 [EBook #29113] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TRAIL OF A SOURDOUGH *** Produced by Malcolm Farmer and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by the Library of Congress) [Pg 1] The heart of Alaska in winter THE TRAIL OF A SOURDOUGH Life in Alaska BY [Pg 2] MAY KELLOGG SULLIVAN Author of "A Woman Who Went to Alaska" RICHARD G. BADGER THE GORHAM PRESS BOSTON Copyright 1910 by Richard G. Badger All Rights Reserved THE GORHAM PRESS, BOSTON, U. S. A. [Pg 4] [Pg 3] SOURDOUGH DEFINED While the word Sourdough (sour dough) is perfectly familiar to those in Alaska and along the Pacific Coast it may not be amiss to give a brief explanation to our Eastern readers. A Sourdough is a miner who has spent one winter in Alaska and "has seen the ice go out." Mrs. Sullivan is a Sourdough herself. In all she has made seven trips to Alaska extending over a period of ten years. When miners are beyond the pale of civilization, with a supply of flour but no baking powder, yeast or potatoes, they cut from each batch of bread dough a little piece, to be kept until it turns sour, and then used as leaven for the next [Pg 5] baking. It is through this custom that the miners themselves came to be called [Pg 6] sourdoughs. PREFACE This little book is my second Brain-child. The first, entitled "A Woman Who Went to Alaska," has been so cordially received by the reading public that I have been induced to send another in its footsteps. It is with great pleasure and perfect confidence that I do this. To my Alaskan readers it is unnecessary to state that these little tales are deduced from every day life, as they are easily recognizable. To those not yet favored by a residence in this Northland I would say that I have written each tale with a well defined purpose. With truthfulness could each one have been more vividly, yes startlingly, told; but I have no wish to unduly disturb my readers. It has been my aim, however, to picture not only character, but also the vast and wonderful gold producing region, so plainly that even the young may better know Alaska, and learn somewhat from glimpses of the trials, privations [Pg 7] and successes of its early pioneers. To these last Trail-blazers no "Chee-chako" can ever do justice. Their courage, bravery, patience under difficulties, and stoicism under severe trial can never be properly appreciated except by their fellow sufferers. My readers will find in the book much of the folklore and a touch of the mysticism so common to all people of the northland. Counting myself one of the least among them I have been a witness to their struggles and triumphs, and for this reason I do most heartily dedicate this little book to the memory of each horny-handed pack-laden miner "musher" who has ever lifted a finger to assist, encourage, or strengthen the author of The Trail of a Sourdough. The name of these helpers is Legion. That their cabins may be warm and roomy, winter dumps high and numerous, sluice boxes filled with nuggets, and lives long and happy is the earnest wish of MAY KELLOGG SULLIVAN [Pg 8] CONTENTS C HAPTER I The Miner's Reasons II Under the Tundra III The Hidden Ledge IV A New Klondyke V Estella the Eskimo VI Why Midas Failed VII The Old Stone House VIII A Miner's Own Story IX Eyllen's Water Witch PAGE 11 22 44 81 106 132 172 192 214 [Pg 10] [Pg 9] ILLUSTRATIONS Page. The Heart of Alaska in Winter A Huskie frontispiece 21 Dressed in his fresh miner's rig A welcome shelter The scene on shore was a repetition of that on the neighboring beach at Skagway A Messenger of cheer Panning out Upon his mother's back, beneath her parkie The little one clinging tightly to her hand she approached the door The pretty woman was a full-blooded Eskimo Poling up the river When Old Tillie was Young She scanned the horizon "Holy Mother Mary! I believe it's gold" Father Peter The Lord of the Northland The cover design is a picture of Cape Nome, Alaska. 25 43 51 80 105 115 121 138 171 181 216 223 229 258 [Pg 11] The Trail of a Sourdough CHAPTER I THE MINER'S REASONS A furious blizzard was raging. Six or eight miners of various ages were huddled around the stove in a little road-house where they were likely to remain stormbound for several days. "Chuck some more wood into that bloomin' fire and fill up my pipe if you fellers want a yarn from me," said one, when they had besieged him for a story with which to pass the time. "You wanted to know yesterday when I staked that claim for the woman, who and where she is, also my reasons for stakin' it; and I promised to tell you when I got the chance. One or two of you grumbled considerable at my stakin' for a person away in the States, and maybe when I have finished my story you won't feel any different; but I can't help it, and it is none of your —— business. The [Pg 12] deed is done, and well done, and Rosa Nell (that ain't her name, as you can see by the initial stake if you want to dig it out from under the snow) is the half owner today of one of the handsomest quartz ledges on the whole Seward Peninsula. Walls of grey slate and trachyte, and the yellow stuff is good and plenty. Zounds, boys! I wish I had a bumper," and the speaker threw his furry cap to the ceiling. "Never mind the bumper, pard, you know it's the last of March when no live mining camp in this country has a thing but empty bottles to bump with. Behold the size of the glass dump outside yonder if you don't believe me", remarked the keeper of the place in vindication of his house; but with sore regret in his voice. "The story, the story! We want the story", sang out one and another by the stove, "the fire is just a whoopin' and 'twill soon be goin' out". "Well, then, here goes," said the miner addressed. "It happened two years ago. I sold one of my Nome claims for fifteen hundred dollars with slight prospecting, (like a blasted fool that I was) and after blowin' in a good third or more of the [Pg 13] money concluded to buy a thousand dollar outfit and go to Norton Sound. It was late in October; the storms came on, and the upshot of it was that we were shipwrecked off the coast and were finally put in at a small camp nearly a hundred miles from where we wanted to winter. I had taken two men with me named Long and Hartley, and though we saved, by hard fightin' in one way and another, the most of our supplies, we were without shelter, except a couple of tents, with an Arctic winter—our first in this country, upon us. "Gee-Whilikins! Boys, it makes my black hair white to think of it! What we suffered for two months in those tents was awful; for the camp was full and there was not a vacant cabin anywhere. If there had been, you know we were absolutely without money to buy or build with. How I cursed myself for havin' foolishly spent hundreds of dollars on 'box rustlers' at the Casino,—but that is another story, boys, so we'll pass it. "In our new camp we had many Eskimos and all kinds of people. Among others there was a little blue-eyed woman perhaps thirty years of age; maybe more —maybe less. She was also evidently not where she had intended to be, just [Pg 14] like ourselves, but was a teacher, left over from some stranded expedition, probably. Anyhow, there she was, and there we were. We a-livin' in the tents, and the thermometer forty degrees below zero. The teacher was stayin' with some of the Missionary folks only a quarter of a mile away, and she was all right. "In December the dogs of the camp began to go mad. Every few days one or two had to be killed. Some men, you know, don't water their dogs once in six weeks, if at all, and as everything is froze hard in winter, the poor brutes go mad, exactly as in summer in the States, from heat. "One night, Long and I smoked in the little road-house close by, but Hartley went to his bunk in the tent and turned in. He had not slept, but lay with closed eyes, he said, tryin' hard to get warm under his fur robe; when the tent flap was brushed aside, and in rushed a mad dog, snapping and foaming. At the first movement Hartley supposed we had returned to go to bed, but was instantly [Pg 15] undeceived as the crazy brute made directly for him. "Hartley threw out his hands and leaped from his bunk, seizing an axe that lay upon the floor. With that he made for the dog, and finally drove him from the tent; but only after he had been badly bitten in several places. "The first we knew he rushed in, half dressed, where we were. He was pale with fright, covered with blood, and his eyes seemed starting from their sockets. "Whiskey, for God's sake!' he pleaded, panting for breath. 'Hydrophobia, and so far from home. This is hard lines, ain't it, boys?' between gulps, the blood dripping from the hand that tremblingly held the glass. "With that he broke down utterly and cried like a baby. We washed and dressed his wounds as best we could, and put him to bed in the road-house as it was then past midnight, while three of the boys rigged themselves in their furs and hunted the blasted brute that had done the mischief. They found him gnashing his teeth alongside an outhouse, and a good dose of cold pills settled him forever. "Next mornin' we sent a man to the little teacher to ask for medicine for Hartley, and immediately she and another woman came over. They brought lint [Pg 16] bandages, carbolic acid, and other things and bathed the wounds; but, best of all, they cheered up the poor fellow by tel