108 
FOREST AND STREAM 
March, 1919 
T 
some wood he had stowed away in the 
oven the night before. We soon had a hot 
breakfast of bear meat and pan cakes 
to begin the day’s adventures on, eating 
it astride our bunks — on the top of the 
table — every place in the cabin that 
showed a dry spot held a hungry man 
munching away for dear life. 
All the while Walter was busy mak- 
ing more cakes on the stove before the 
water would rise high enough to put 
out the fire. By the time we had finished 
breakfast and had washed the dishes and 
tied every perishable thing to the rafters 
the water was knee-deep everywhere. 
Ben waded out in his boots and got the 
canoe which he shoved as far into the 
door as it would go and we climbed 
aboard. 
A SOLEMN looking dawn was just 
spreading over the east as we put 
out on the black waters — the cabin 
looked like the ark of old moored in an 
arm of the lake. Through the dim light 
we could make out the direction we ought 
to take to reach land and Ben steered 
us between the stumps with dexterous 
care. Rain was splashing down with 
ceaseless drenching — raising little dots 
of silver on the water — each drop of lake 
water seemed to spring to meet the rain 
drop and, mingling, added to the flood. 
Victor Creek had become a thing of 
terror — huge trees, two feet in diameter, 
were tossed about like toothpicks in 
the racing tide, the railroad bridge that 
crossed it near Mile Twenty was piled 
high with wreckage, a great mass of 
driftwood growing ever larger as the 
great body of wild water brought down 
its burdeh of logs and underbrush. Men 
were busily eiig^aged in frying to break 
the dam, blasting out the piles to let 
the water through and the constant 
boom of dynamite sounded like the thun- 
der of big guns; the bridge itself was 
t-wisted and bent under the immense 
strain, but the rails were holding like 
bands of steel. We landed near the 
railroad track and saw how hopeless 
it was to expect any assistance from 
the water stalled train, so it didn’t take 
us long to decide to make for Seward 
twenty miles away. We left all our lug- 
gage on the train and paddled around 
to Howard Long’s cabin where Andy 
wanted to leave some of his belongings. 
Long told us that the Snow River bridge 
between us and Seward had gone out 
and he didn’t see how we could make 
Seward unless we crossed the lake and 
skirted the other side around the river. 
Ben looked out across the wild ex- 
panse of criss-cross currents that lay 
between us and the other side and seemed 
to muse for a few moments on the great 
mass of snags, trees and drift-wood 
swirling around in countless eddys. 
Finally he turned and said he thought 
we could make it if the outboard mo- 
tor wouldn’t buck, and we all agreed 
it was worth a try anyway. Long made 
some coffee as a parting gift which we 
drank in libation to the Gods of Chance 
and we shoved off on our voyage across 
the seemingly boundless lake. 
Ben took the rudder and steered us 
with a master hand through the float- 
ing forests of driftwood that seemed to 
block our way at every turn. The light 
canoe was pretty well down in the water 
with five heavy men seated in it; but 
it responded to the motor with wonder- 
ful alacrity and we sped along joyously 
toward the dim shore beyond. The Au- 
tumn coloring had been freshened by the 
constant rain and stood out in great 
splashes on the mountain sides, scarlet 
maples flashed their flags of war 
throughout the vast swamplands newly 
created by the flood. We passed many 
little islands of crimson bush, which 
seemed to radiate their color on the 
water and made our pathway glow with 
beauty. High overhead a troop of whis- 
tling swans were winging southward, 
their trumpet notes sounding faintly 
from afar. Droves of ducks were cir- 
cling ahead of us in constant flight, well 
satisfied with this wet mood of nature. 
Floating trees took on strange shapes. 
Holman and his black bearskin 
spreading out their full-leafed branches 
on the water like long-oared galley ships 
of old. Deep whirlpools sucked and tug- 
ged at us as we passed within their 
spheres of action. Great logs scraped 
their sharp and spear-like branches 
along the frail sides of the canoe and 
startled us with many a sudden lurch 
which made us realize what an upset 
would mean in such an angry sea; but 
it was the hazard of adventure that had 
brought us to this far away land of un- 
expected things and we were tasting now 
its magic spell. 
We got across alright and skirted the 
other shore into the mouth of Snow River 
as far as we dared to breast the un- 
certain current and then ran the canoe 
ashore on the farther bank and dis- 
embarked with grateful thanks to a ben- 
evolent Providence that had guided us on 
our voyage. 
We carried the canoe high up on the 
bank and fastened it securely to a tree 
and then struck out through the wet un- 
derbrush toward the railroad, which, as 
near as we could judge, was about five 
miles distant. 
I T was a watery journey, to say the 
least. Underfoot, thick moss, sat- 
urated to the limit by the steady rain, 
offered scant foothold and we sank in 
at every step almost to our knees, while 
the dHpping branches of alder slapped 
us with showery persistency as we 
wormed our way along mile after mile, 
blindly groping through a wilderness of 
swamps and jungle. “It’s a great life,” 
said Ben, “if you don’t weaken.” 
We made the railroad at last, coming 
out by Snow River bridge, or what once 
passed as such — the twisted timbers and 
half submerged rails, hanging pileless 
in many places, could not be termed a 
bridge any more — the storm had cer- 
tainly done about as much damage as 
it could to the new Alaskan Railroad. 
We rested a few moments, emptied our 
shoe-pacs of water and then started 
down the track at a good pace for Sew- 
ard. 
The mile posts slipped gradually be- 
hind us as we plodded onward — walking 
gingerly over many high trestles that 
spun a web of steel above many a roar- 
ing cataract and made us dizzy as we 
stepped from tie to tie and saw the 
empty space between. About three 
o’clock in the afternoon a wonderful 
thing happened — the leaden sky began 
to show signs of clearing, just a faint 
glimmer of blue appeared and it stopped 
raining. Great clouds of vapor rolled 
up from the valleys round about and 
giant mountain-tops began to pierce the 
mist. Yes, it was really clearing off, 
“Just as I was beginning to grow webbed 
feet,” said Ben. 
At last the glorious sunshine burst 
suddenly on the scene filling the world 
with bright illumination — turning the 
far-flung clouds to gold. It gave new 
impetus to our lagging feet and brought 
to weariness a sense of strength. 
W E journeyed cheerfully down the 
iron trail through vistas of tran- 
scendent glory — snow crowned 
mountains paling pink in the flush of a 
marvelous sunset — all the world aflood 
with light. As we wound down into the 
valley signs of great damage done by 
the flood began to appear at frequent 
intervals. In some places whole moun- 
tain-sides had slipped downward carry-, 
ing giant trees and huge boulders from 
their former abodes and depositing them 
in gigantic heaps along its path. In 
many places the railroad track vanished 
into deep lakes of muddy water — some- 
times we had to wade over ties sus- 
pended by the iron rails — all signs of 
underpiling swept away. About a mile 
from Seward we found an abandoned 
hand car lying by the track which we 
soon put into commission and rolled into 
town on the wings of the wind — but a 
sad looking town we found awaiting us. 
The little glacier stream which usually 
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