Vol. XCIII DECEMBER, 1923 No. 12 
The Lure of the Frozen Trail 
Are Reindeer to Replace Dogs on the Arctic Tundra? 
By NONA MARQUIS SNYDER 
T HERE is not a bit of doubt that 
the “Spell of the Yukon,” famed 
in song and story, had set its 
seal upon me; marked me as a victim— 
willing and eager, it is true, but no 
less a victim. From the balmy Sep¬ 
tember day when I came to St. 
Michael—that desolate, wind-swept 
little Isle of the Bering Sea—I would 
gaze longingly across the blue-and- 
gold bay, dotted with its queer craft, 
to the undulating line of the eastern 
horizon where the brown tundra of 
the mainland rose to a broken crest 
of amethyst hills against a sapphire 
sky, and dream of what might lay 
beyond. A veritable wonder-world, 
I was sure; and the “imperious 
mandate of the Wild” rose and 
tugged at the heart of my desire— 
to obey the urge of the wander¬ 
lust—to follow the Trail! 
To you in the “Big Outside” with 
your railways, your automobiles, 
your launches, your ocean-steamers 
—all at your service three hundred 
sixty-five days of the year—let me 
relate a few of the difficulties that 
beset the traveler “North of Sixty- 
three.” From the time of the going 
out of the ice in May or June, until 
the Frost-King lays his icy finger 
on all the water-ways in early Oc¬ 
tober, there is no travel or activity 
in the interior; for the tundra, 
thawed out to a depth of several 
feet, is impassable as a highway, 
for man or beast. The little town 
of St. Michael is thoroughly board- 
walked, and few and far-between 
are the by-paths that meander fitfully 
around bogs and sink-holes on the 
treacherous tundra. Roads are un¬ 
known, as are vehicles—except trucks 
which are used to transport cargoes 
from wharf to ware-house on wooden 
runways. There is one horse on the 
Island; the property of the Alaska- 
Yukon Navigation Company, and used 
by it to haul ice—which constitutes the 
water-supply during the frozen sea¬ 
son—over a little tramway which con¬ 
nects the lake with the town. So, it is 
the part of wisdom to long not for the 
silent trails in the wild waste places, 
“in the Good Old Summer Time.” But, 
when the last big steamer, that has 
been lying for days in the roadstead, 
discharging her cargo of winter 
supplies for the inhabitants, weighs 
anchor, and with a lingering fare¬ 
well of her “siren,” steams majesti¬ 
cally out of the harbor, round Whale 
Island and out of sight (seven long 
months, mind you, before her reap¬ 
pearance!)—when the squat, white 
river-boats chug noisily through the 
canal into the harbor, are unloaded 
and lifted to their winter-quarters 
on the “ways” by the incoming 
tide—or, perhaps, anchored in the 
shallows to “freeze-in”—then begin 
preparations for a winter of ac¬ 
tivity of a different nature—the 
independent activity of isolation, 
where a community exists by reason 
of its own home-generated dynamic 
force. Fuel and ice are stored 
under shelter, perishable supplies 
put in “warm”-storage, houses 
freshly banked with earth, double 
or triple windows nailed in—skates, 
skis, snowshoes, guns, traps, put in 
order—parkas, mittens and muk- 
luks made and repaired ready for 
use—sleds and harness overhauled— 
the prospector’s outfit packed—-all 
w T aiting for the “freeze-up” and the 
first snow-fall, which makes “Hitting 
the Trail” possible. 
So contenting myself, perforce, 
with tentative explorations on the 
accessible portions of the Island— 
which consist of the big semi-circular 
sweep of beach with an Eskimo Vil¬ 
lage huddled at either end, and the 
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Contents Copyrighted by.Forest and Stream Pub. Co. 
