REMINISCENCES OF YUKON EXPLORATION 133 



As the sun sinks early to the horizon the owls call to one another 

 and issue from their retreats, whirring softly among the loaded 

 branches. The squirrels are safe in their holes, but let the incautious 

 snowbird beware, lest he be snatched incontinently from his perch. 

 Snake-like the mink in his dark glistening coat winds among the 

 willows by the waterside, on murder bent. The petulant bark of the 

 dogfox is hushed as he too moves with stealthy tread in search of prey. 

 The stars come out, the shadows blacken, hunters and hunted alike are 

 still. Save for the musical twang of splitting ice, now and then, along 

 the river, a measureless silence descends upon the world. As the cold 

 strengthens, in the northern heavens the pale aurora lifts its quivering 

 arch. 



The extreme cold is felt always in still weather. As the wind rises, 

 so does the temperature. When sixty-eight below zero of Fahrenheit 

 implies a calm, a rise of thirty-eight degrees is probable as the wind 

 rises. While it does not often snow at this temperature, the wind may 

 carry so much fine loose already-fallen snow along the surface of the 

 open tundra or the river that it has the effect of a blinding snow-storm, 

 against which nor man nor beast may stand. This is the dreaded 

 ' poorga ' of the Eussian, the ' blizzard ' of the western prairies. Here 

 the ignorant gold seeker, ill-clothed, ill-shod, wearing himself out by 

 vain efforts to withstand the forces of nature, often meets his fate. But 

 who has heard of a Yukon Indian perishing in a poorga ? The man of 

 the Yukon had adapted his dress, his snowshoes, his tools, his move- 

 ments, to his surroundings. Like the beasts of the valley, whose skins 

 he wore, he knew how to seek or build a shelter which would shield 

 him from the blast and keep him safe, even if uncomfortable, until the 

 elements wearied of their rage. The humming of the wind in the 

 swaying spruces, the rattle of flying bits of ice or dead branches blown 

 over the crusted snow, the complaining cry of the hawk-owl as his 

 hollow tree quivered under the gusts, all told of the progress of the 

 storm to him brought up to listen to and understand the voices of the 

 wilderness. 



And when at last the storm had spent itself, the traveler came forth 

 from his temporary shelter to beat the snow crystals from his garments 

 and look upon a world swept clean of litter, sparkling white under the 

 winter sunbeams. The grouse from her tunnel in the snowdrift, the 

 squirrel from his hollow log, the snowbirds from their retreats beneath 

 the half-buried branches of the spruce, all issued forth upon their 

 daily sustenance intent. The world was a good world, after all, and 

 the singing gale merely a break in its monotony. 



Where the tenderfoot, untrained, undisciplined and terrified, found 

 only a demoniac nature striving to overwhelm a shivering victim, 

 those to the manner born might feel a power, a majesty, an unswerving 

 flight, as of the passing of a messenger of God. 



