Chapter IV
The Stickeen River
The most interesting of the short excursions we made from Fort Wrangell
was the one up the Stickeen River to the head of steam navigation. From
Mt. St. Elias the coast range extends in a broad, lofty chain beyond
the southern boundary of the territory, gashed by stupendous cañons,
each of which carries a lively river, though most of them are
comparatively short, as their highest sources lie in the icy solitudes
of the range within forty or fifty miles of the coast. A few, however,
of these foaming, roaring streams—the Alsek, Chilcat, Chilcoot, Taku,
Stickeen, and perhaps others—head beyond the range with some of the
southwest branches of the Mackenzie and Yukon.
The largest side branches of the main-trunk cañons of all these
mountain streams are still occupied by glaciers which descend in showy
ranks, their messy, bulging snouts lying back a little distance in the
shadows of the walls, or pushing forward among the cotton-woods that
line the banks of the rivers, or even stretching all the way across the
main cañons, compelling the rivers to find a channel beneath them.
The Stickeen was, perhaps, the best known of the rivers that cross the
Coast Range, because it was the best way to the Mackenzie River Cassiar
gold-mines. It is about three hundred and fifty miles long, and is
navigable for small steamers a hundred and fifty miles to Glenora, and
sometimes to Telegraph Creek, fifteen miles farther. It first pursues a
westerly course through grassy plains darkened here and there with
groves of spruce and pine; then, curving southward and receiving
numerous tributaries from the north, it enters the Coast Range, and
sweeps across it through a magnificent cañon three thousand to five
thousand feet deep, and more than a hundred miles long. The majestic
cliffs and mountains forming the cañon walls display endless variety of
form and sculpture, and are wonderfully adorned and enlivened with
glaciers and waterfalls, while throughout almost its whole extent the
floor is a flowery landscape garden, like Yosemite. The most striking
features are the glaciers, hanging over the cliffs, descending the side
cañons and pushing forward to the river, greatly enhancing the wild
beauty of all the others.
Gliding along the swift-flowing river, the views change with
bewildering rapidity. Wonderful, too, are the changes dependent on the
seasons and the weather. In spring, when the snow is melting fast, you
enjoy the countless rejoicing waterfalls; the gentle breathing of warm
winds; the colors of the young leaves and flowers when the bees are
busy and wafts of fragrance are drifting hither and thither from miles
of wild roses, clover, and honeysuckle; the swaths of birch and willow
on the lower slopes following the melting of the winter avalanche
snow-banks; the bossy cumuli swelling in white and purple piles above
the highest peaks; gray rain-clouds wreathing the outstanding brows and
battlements of the walls; and the breaking-forth of the sun after the
rain; the shining of the leaves and streams and crystal architecture of
the glaciers; the rising of fresh fragrance; the song of the happy
birds; and the serene color-grandeur of the morning and evening sky. In
summer you find the groves and gardens in full dress; glaciers melting
rapidly under sunshine and rain; waterfalls in all their glory; the
river rejoicing in its strength; young birds trying their wings; bears
enjoying salmon and berries; all the life of the cañon brimming full
like the streams. In autumn comes rest, as if the year’s work were
done. The rich hazy sunshine streaming over the cliffs calls forth the
last of the gentians and goldenrods; the groves and thickets and
meadows bloom again as their leaves change to red and yellow petals;
the rocks also, and the glaciers, seem to bloom like the plants in the
mellow golden light. And so goes the song, change succeeding change in
sublime harmony through all the wonderful seasons and weather.
My first trip up the river was made in the spring with the missionary
party soon after our arrival at Wrangell. We left Wrangell in the
afternoon and anchored for the night above the river delta, and started
up the river early next morning when the heights above the “Big
Stickeen” Glacier and the smooth domes and copings and arches of solid
snow along the tops of the cañon walls were glowing in the early beams.
We arrived before noon at the old trading-post called “Buck’s” in front
of the Stickeen Glacier, and remained long enough to allow the few
passengers who wished a nearer view to cross the river to the terminal
moraine. The sunbeams streaming through the ice pinnacles along its
terminal wall produced a wonderful glory of color, and the broad,
sparkling crystal prairie and the distant snowy fountains were
wonderfully attractive and made me pray for opportunity to explore
them.
Of the many glaciers, a hundred or more, that adorn the walls of the
great Stickeen River Cañon, this is the largest. It draws its sources
from snowy mountains within fifteen or twenty miles of the coast, pours
through a comparatively narrow cañon about two miles in width in a
magnificent cascade, and expands in a broad fan five or six miles in
width, separated from the Stickeen River by its broad terminal moraine,
fringed with spruces and willows. Around the beautifully drawn curve of
the moraine the Stickeen River flows, having evidently been shoved by
the glacier out of its direct course. On the opposite side of the cañon
another somewhat smaller glacier, which now terminates four or five
miles from the river, was once united front to front with the greater
glacier, though at first both were tributaries of the main Stickeen
Glacier which once filled the whole grand cañon. After the main trunk
cañon was melted out, its side branches, drawing their sources from a
height of three or four to five or six thousand feet, were cut off, and
of course became separate glaciers, occupying cirques and branch cañons
along the tops and sides of the walls. The Indians have a tradition
that the river used to run through a tunnel under the united fronts of
the two large tributary glaciers mentioned above, which entered the
main cañon from either side; and that on one occasion an Indian,
anxious to get rid of his wife, had her sent adrift in a canoe down
through the ice tunnel, expecting that she would trouble him no more.
But to his surprise she floated through under the ice in safety. All
the evidence connected with the present appearance of these two
glaciers indicates that they were united and formed a dam across the
river after the smaller tributaries had been melted off and had receded
to a greater or lesser height above the valley floor.
The big Stickeen Glacier is hardly out of sight ere you come upon
another that pours a majestic crystal flood through the evergreens,
while almost every hollow and tributary cañon contains a smaller one,
the size, of course, varying with the extent of the area drained. Some
are like mere snow-banks; others, with the blue ice apparent, depend in
massive bulging curves and swells, and graduate into the river-like
forms that maze through the lower forested regions and are so striking
and beautiful that they are admired even by the passing miners with
gold-dust in their eyes.
Thirty-five miles above the Big Stickeen Glacier is the “Dirt Glacier,”
the second in size. Its outlet is a fine stream, abounding in trout. On
the opposite side of the river there is a group of five glaciers, one
of them descending to within a hundred feet of the river.
Near Glenora, on the northeastern flank of the main Coast Range, just
below a narrow gorge called “The Cañon,” terraces first make their
appearance, where great quantities of moraine material have been swept
through the flood-choked gorge and of course outspread and deposited on
the first open levels below. Here, too, occurs a marked change in
climate and consequently in forests and general appearance of the face
of the country. On account of destructive fires the woods are younger
and are composed of smaller trees about a foot to eighteen inches in
diameter and seventy-five feet high, mostly two-leaved pines which hold
their seeds for several years after they are ripe. The woods here are
without a trace of those deep accumulations of mosses, leaves, and
decaying trunks which make so damp and unclearable mass in the coast
forests. Whole mountain-sides are covered with gray moss and lichens
where the forest has been utterly destroyed. The river-bank cottonwoods
are also smaller, and the birch and contorta pines mingle freely with
the coast hemlock and spruce. The birch is common on the lower slopes
and is very effective, its round, leafy, pale-green head contrasting
with the dark, narrow spires of the conifers and giving a striking
character to the forest. The “tamarac pine” or black pine, as the
variety of _P. contorta_ is called here, is yellowish-green, in marked
contrast with the dark lichen-draped spruce which grows above the pine
at a height of about two thousand feet, in groves and belts where it
has escaped fire and snow avalanches. There is another handsome spruce
hereabouts, _Picea alba_, very slender and graceful in habit, drooping
at the top like a mountain hemlock. I saw fine specimens a hundred and
twenty-five feet high on deep bottom land a few miles below Glenora.
The tops of some of them were almost covered with dense clusters of
yellow and brown cones.
We reached the old Hudson’s Bay trading-post at Glenora about one
o’clock, and the captain informed me that he would stop here until the
next morning, when he would make an early start for Wrangell.
At a distance of about seven or eight miles to the northeastward of the
landing, there is an outstanding group of mountains crowning a spur
from the main chain of the Coast Range, whose highest point rises about
eight thousand feet above the level of the sea; and as Glenora is only
a thousand feet above the sea, the height to be overcome in climbing
this peak is about seven thousand feet. Though the time was short I
determined to climb it, because of the advantageous position it
occupied for general views of the peaks and glaciers of the east side
of the great range.
Although it was now twenty minutes past three and the days were getting
short, I thought that by rapid climbing I could reach the summit before
sunset, in time to get a general view and a few pencil sketches, and
make my way back to the steamer in the night. Mr. Young, one of the
missionaries, asked permission to accompany me, saying that he was a
good walker and climber and would not delay me or cause any trouble. I
strongly advised him not to go, explaining that it involved a walk,
coming and going, of fourteen or sixteen miles, and a climb through
brush and boulders of seven thousand feet, a fair day’s work for a
seasoned mountaineer to be done in less than half a day and part of a
night. But he insisted that he was a strong walker, could do a
mountaineer’s day’s work in half a day, and would not hinder me in any
way.
“Well, I have warned you,” I said, “and will not assume responsibility
for any trouble that may arise.”
He proved to be a stout walker, and we made rapid progress across a
brushy timbered flat and up the mountain slopes, open in some places,
and in others thatched with dwarf firs, resting a minute here and there
to refresh ourselves with huckleberries, which grew in abundance in
open spots. About half an hour before sunset, when we were near a
cluster of crumbling pinnacles that formed the summit, I had ceased to
feel anxiety about the mountaineering strength and skill of my
companion, and pushed rapidly on. In passing around the shoulder of the
highest pinnacle, where the rock was rapidly disintegrating and the
danger of slipping was great, I shouted in a warning voice, “Be very
careful here, this is dangerous.”
Mr. Young was perhaps a dozen or two yards behind me, but out of sight.
I afterwards reproached myself for not stopping and lending him a
steadying hand, and showing him the slight footsteps I had made by
kicking out little blocks of the crumbling surface, instead of simply
warning him to be careful. Only a few seconds after giving this
warning, I was startled by a scream for help, and hurrying back, found
the missionary face downward, his arms outstretched, clutching little
crumbling knobs on the brink of a gully that plunges down a thousand
feet or more to a small residual glacier. I managed to get below him,
touched one of his feet, and tried to encourage him by saying, “I am
below you. You are in no danger. You can’t slip past me and I will soon
get you out of this.”
He then told me that both of his arms were dislocated. It was almost
impossible to find available footholds on the treacherous rock, and I
was at my wits’ end to know how to get him rolled or dragged to a place
where I could get about him, find out how much he was hurt, and a way
back down the mountain. After narrowly scanning the cliff and making
footholds, I managed to roll and lift him a few yards to a place where
the slope was less steep, and there I attempted to set his arms. I
found, however, that this was impossible in such a place. I therefore
tied his arms to his sides with my suspenders and necktie, to prevent
as much as possible inflammation from movement. I then left him,
telling him to lie still, that I would be back in a few minutes, and
that he was now safe from slipping. I hastily examined the ground and
saw no way of getting him down except by the steep glacier gully. After
scrambling to an outstanding point that commands a view of it from top
to bottom, to make sure that it was not interrupted by sheer
precipices, I concluded that with great care and the digging of slight
footholds he could be slid down to the glacier, where I could lay him
on his back and perhaps be able to set his arms. Accordingly, I cheered
him up, telling him I had found a way, but that it would require lots
of time and patience. Digging a footstep in the sand or crumbling rock
five or six feet beneath him, I reached up, took hold of him by one of
his feet, and gently slid him down on his back, placed his heels in the
step, then descended another five or six feet, dug heel notches, and
slid him down to them. Thus the whole distance was made by a succession
of narrow steps at very short intervals, and the glacier was reached
perhaps about midnight. Here I took off one of my boots, tied a
handkerchief around his wrist for a good hold, placed my heel in his
arm pit, and succeeded in getting one of his arms into place, but my
utmost strength was insufficient to reduce the dislocation of the
other. I therefore bound it closely to his side, and asked him if in
his exhausted and trembling condition he was still able to walk.
“Yes,” he bravely replied.
So, with a steadying arm around him and many stops for rest, I marched
him slowly down in the starlight on the comparatively smooth, unassured
surface of the little glacier to the terminal moraine, a distance of
perhaps a mile, crossed the moraine, bathed his head at one of the
outlet streams, and after many rests reached a dry place and made a
brush fire. I then went ahead looking for an open way through the
bushes to where larger wood could be had, made a good lasting fire of
resiny silver-fir roots, and a leafy bed beside it. I now told him I
would run down the mountain, hasten back with help from the boat, and
carry him down in comfort. But he would not hear of my leaving him.
“No, no,” he said, “I can walk down. Don’t leave me.”
I reminded him of the roughness of the way, his nerve-shaken condition,
and assured him I would not be gone long. But he insisted on trying,
saying on no account whatever must I leave him. I therefore concluded
to try to get him to the ship by short walks from one fire and
resting-place to another. While he was resting I went ahead, looking
for the best way through the brush and rocks, then returning, got him
on his feet and made him lean on my shoulder while I steadied him to
prevent his falling. This slow, staggering struggle from fire to fire
lasted until long after sunrise. When at last we reached the ship and
stood at the foot of the narrow single plank without side rails that
reached from the bank to the deck at a considerable angle, I briefly
explained to Mr. Young’s companions, who stood looking down at us, that
he had been hurt in an accident, and requested one of them to assist me
in getting him aboard. But strange to say, instead of coming down to
help, they made haste to reproach him for having gone on a “wild-goose
chase” with Muir.
“These foolish adventures are well enough for Mr. Muir,” they said,
“but you, Mr. Young, have a work to do; you have a family; you have a
church, and you have no right to risk your life on treacherous peaks
and precipices.”
The captain, Nat Lane, son of Senator Joseph Lane, had been swearing in
angry impatience for being compelled to make so late a start and thus
encounter a dangerous wind in a narrow gorge, and was threatening to
put the missionaries ashore to seek their lost companion, while he went
on down the river about his business. But when he heard my call for
help, he hastened forward, and elbowed the divines away from the end of
the gangplank, shouting in angry irreverence, “Oh, blank! This is no
time for preaching! Don’t you see the man is hurt?”
He ran down to our help, and while I steadied my trembling companion
from behind, the captain kindly led him up the plank into the saloon,
and made him drink a large glass of brandy. Then, with a man holding
down his shoulders, we succeeded in getting the bone into its socket,
notwithstanding the inflammation and contraction of the muscles and
ligaments. Mr. Young was then put to bed, and he slept all the way back
to Wrangell.
In his mission lectures in the East, Mr. Young oftentimes told this
story. I made no record of it in my notebook and never intended to
write a word about it; but after a miserable, sensational caricature of
the story had appeared in a respectable magazine, I thought it but fair
to my brave companion that it should be told just as it happened.
