RAFTING ON THE YUKON. 



H. L. SUYDAM. 



Dr. Chase and I left Skaguay with a bur- 

 ro packed with 200 pounds of clothing and 

 blankets. We each carried about 50 pounds, 

 including guns, snow shoes, guitar, etc., 

 making a very awkward pack. The trail 

 had been abandoned for several days, for 

 the winter trail had broken up in the can- 

 yon and on the lakes. No one could be 

 obtained to pack our outfit to Bennet lake, 

 and as it was imperative we should push 

 through at all hazards, we urged the poor 

 little burro along until he became so weak 

 he would not try to help himself. He would 

 sink in a deep mud hole and lie there. This 

 meant for us to throw off our packs and un- 

 load him. His pack would be nearly cov- 

 ered with mud of the foulest kind, dead 

 horses often being our only stepping stones. 

 After pulling out the pack we had to exert 

 our utmost strength to pull the animal out. 

 This had to be done more than a dozen 

 times. 



At 9 p.m. we reached the Cut Off, a dis- 

 tance of 16 miles. We stopped at the Oc- 

 cidental Hotel, a large tent containing 

 bunks. The following morning the burro 

 was too nearly dead to be packed, so after 

 making arrangements to have our outfit car- 

 ried by a man who had Dawson city mail 

 to pack to Bennett, We started on our jour- 

 ney with blankets and our original packs. 



We met several large pack trains break- 

 ing the summer trail over White Pass sum- 

 mit. This is a most discouraging and un- 

 profitable undertaking. At least 20 per cent, 

 of the horses are killed, breaking through 

 ice, falling over bowlders, etc. The horses 

 that survive are so badly used up they often 

 die on the return trip. No one can realize 

 the hardships men undergo on these trips, 

 except by experience. Streams which run 

 swift, icy water, with high banks on either 

 side, have to be forded. Men have to mount 

 the horses or mules to cross. Often the 

 poor, tired beast will fail to make the bank 

 and fall back in the stream. Then the man 

 has to get out of the water the best he can. 

 Often a horse will be carried 200 feet down 

 the stream, and frequently never get out, as 

 the pack keeps him down. I have seen from 

 one to 5 horses in places of this kind. Men 

 jump right in among them and are often 

 kicked by them in their struggles. Cold, 

 wet clothes cling to the men during the re- 

 mainder of the trip. 



After leaving the last pack train, a mile 

 over the summit, we had to break the trail 

 through snow covered with a crust of thin 

 ice, that would hold for several steps and 

 then let us down with a jolt. Then for per- 

 haps a mile we would sink at every step to 



our waists. We saw plenty of ptarmigan 

 and got close to them, but we had no 

 time to shoot, for 21 miles had to be made 

 before we could go into camp at Log Cabin. 



Just before we reached the Northwest Ter- 

 ritory Mounted Police's summer camp, 

 where duties are imposed on everything, we 

 saw a man with 23 head of horses. We were 

 the first men he had seen since his arrival, 

 which he said was 2 days before. He and 

 3 other men had started from Log Cabin 

 with 26 horses to break through the new 

 trail to the summit. Two days of struggling 

 had brought them to this place, where 

 horses, as well as men, collapsed. They 

 had one bag of oats when they reached 

 there. When we met him he had but a few 

 handfuls. He was feeding it to the starving 

 horses, almost one grain at a time, and 

 fighting the horses away from him. He had 

 shot 3 of them that were too weak to stand. 

 His partners had gone back to the Police 

 Camp to try to get feed, expecting to pack 

 it if successful. 



At 11 o'clock, Doc and I reached Swan- 

 son-Peacock Camp and were not long in 

 getting to sleep after rolling up in great 

 fur robes. 



I camped at Log Cabin 2 weeks, with 

 swamps and dead horses on one side, and 

 in a camp with 97 live dogs that howl with 

 hunger all night. It being impossible to 

 get anyone to pack several tons of machin- 

 ery from there to Bennett, about 9 miles, 

 owing to the dangerous condition of the 

 trail, it became necessary for all of us to 

 use every effort to get it there. From 3 

 a.m. to 11 or 12 p.m., we were on the trail 

 with 4 horses. Nothing will ever induce 

 me to go through that again. Swamps, dead 

 horses, and hills, the whole 9 miles. I am 

 safe in saying more than 6,000 dead and 

 mangled horses are walked over every day. 

 The dogs have pulled them apart and the 

 sun and flies make them horrible. Two of 

 the horses we used are among this con- 

 glomeration and the other 2 were brought 

 along for the good work they have done. 

 I often wonder if man has a right to use 

 his best friend this way. The trail can only 

 be likened to a battlefield. The dead and 

 crippled animals are evidence of a terrible 

 battle for gold. I have seen many packs 

 thrown on the backs of horses that had run- 

 ning sores as big as pie plates. 



Captain Jack Crawford has written a poem 

 on the trail. He built his boat alongside 

 of our scow. I saw him every day. He 

 seems always in good humor. At the games 

 on the Queen's birthday, he acted as mas- 

 ter of ceremonies. 



394 



