Kate
Skaguay, Alaska, late April 1898
I stepped off the dock and my boots sank to the laces. Skaguay stretched out before me, a flotilla of tents in a sea of mud, stampeders buzzing like flies on dung. I expected such a sight from the reports but words on newsprint can’t prepare a woman for this place. The stink of it. The rush. This edge of the world where civilisation ends and the indifferent wilderness takes over. I loved it immediately.
I was to meet a man here who would take me on the White Pass Trail. It was arranged by Mr George Everett, my financier back in Kansas, yet no man had so far made himself known.
My dog, Yukon, nuzzled my hand, searching for a treat I did not have. A hound of unknown blood, brindle and warm, but with a bite. He was a gift from George Everett’s hired man, to keep me company on the journey. Now, just three months on, he was my shadow.
A bustle of men pushed past, knocking my shoulder and almost toppling me. Yukon growled but the men paid no attention. They hauled canvas-bound bundles, crates of cans and tools, cages full of howling sled dogs. A year’s worth of supplies for each man to be carried to the gold fields. It made my back ache to see them, the endless chain of boxes and bags appearing from the hold of the steamer, carried to the waiting sleds and horses.
Gunderson was the man I was to meet. A tall Swede, known to Mr Everett through a riverboat venture some years back. Trustworthy, Mr Everett said, but the muddy water soaking into my boots told another story.
When in doubt, my father said as he kissed me goodbye in Kansas, find a saloon and a woman to help you.
I whistled to Yukon and pulled my feet from the quagmire. I paid deckhands to carry my belongings from the ship to the Pullen Hotel and made for the drier boardwalks that lined the buildings of Skaguay, the gateway to the Klondike.
It was a short walk but every step I was stared at, laughed at in my muddy skirts, jeered by drunks who all, in their way, said I did not belong. Yukon trotted faithfully beside me as I let those insults slide off me like snow from a pitched roof. I had travelled this far; I would not be put off by words.
‘These skirts just will not do,’ I muttered to Yukon.
He sniffed at the sodden hems and shook his head so hard his ears slapped against his cheeks.
‘How can any woman live up here in petticoats?’
The dog yawned.
The town of Skaguay rushed about me. I wasn’t the only woman, I was pleased to see, but there were ten men to every lady at least and most of those ladies were of the working sort, if you catch my meaning.
Men ringed the edges of the muddy roads, smoking, eating, bartering for guides, wares, passage. Horses stalked through the mud, laden to the brink with supplies, pulled by determined souls. A horse was refusing to move, its back almost breaking beneath the weight of his load. A large man in furs yanked on a rope, whipped the horse’s flank bloody. Another man, more civilised, cleaner, as if he’d just arrived on the same boat as I, stood beside.
‘Come on, man!’ the clean one shouted. ‘We must get moving.’
The furred one cursed and spat. ‘Your wife will keep. These horses’ll break a leg in this mud.’
‘I’m paying you to guide, not talk. Hurry it up!’
Something about the clean man was familiar. As if I’d seen his face in a photograph once, slightly out of focus. I could not place him, though I knew him, somehow.
The furred man whipped the horse afresh and the crack of the leather, the scream of the horse, broke my memory. The poor animal finally moved and the clean man was gone in the fray.
I put the thought aside for it was all but impossible for me to know a man in this place; perhaps I had simply seen him on the boat. Thousands upon thousands had already and were still moving through Skaguay. Thousands from every corner of the country, even the world. For me to see someone I knew was like finding a drop of salt water in a raging river.
A hand grabbed my wrist and pulled me around. ‘Good morning, miss,’ said a spritely, small man in a buttoned-up suit.
I wrestled my hand free as Yukon growled. The man put his hands up in surrender, a wide smile under his moustache.
‘You mistake me, I am here to help,’ he said. ‘The name is Picket. Terence Picket. I own the Grand Hotel just at the edge of town, near the head of the trail. I have room and board for only sixty dollars a night. Fifty-eight to you, miss.’
I knew the type. In Kansas we called them corn-oil salesmen. ‘Thank you, but I have lodgings.’
Arranged by Mr Everett, or so I hoped.
‘Where might they be? I can assure you, no other establishment in Skaguay has cleaner beds than the world-famous Grand Hotel.’
‘I don’t need a room. But you may still help me. I’m looking for a man named Gunderson. Lars Gunderson. Do you know him?’
He brightened. ‘I do. I surely do.’
And offered no more until I crossed his palm with a five-dollar bill.
‘He drinks at the Soak Inn, just a few minutes’ walk this way. I believe I saw him enter just this morning.’
‘Thank you, Mr Picket. You have been most helpful.’
To my surprise, the man tipped his hat to me and went on his way. Yukon relaxed, his tail wagged as he looked up at me expectantly.
‘We’ll eat when we find Mr Gunderson.’
He lowered his head and walked as if I’d scolded him. A dramatic hound, if I ever knew one.
The Soak Inn was where Mr Picket said it would be. A simple wooden building with a bright white shingle out front, newly painted for the season.
Inside, it was smaller than I expected and pleasantly full. The room was portioned off with an interior wall. Chalk signs offered baths for four dollars or a measure of gold. Two dollars if you didn’t mind sharing the water. The smell of the place overwhelmed. A damp, mould from a hundred spilled baths, alongside the sour stink of the unwashed waiting their turn.
Yukon and I went to the bar where a man in a grimy apron was pouring whiskey.
‘Help you, miss? You after a soak?’
‘Not today. I’m after a man named Gunderson. He was meant to meet me at the dock.’
The bartender nodded to the far corner of the room where a man slept on a bench.
‘Him?’
‘You’ll need this,’ the bartender said and handed me a glass of water.
I squared my shoulders and moved between the tables to the bench. A guttural snore erupted from Mr Gunderson. Yukon waited behind my legs.
I cleared my throat to announce myself.
Mr Gunderson snored on. It was as if the entire room held its breath, watching me.
I kicked the bench to no avail.
‘Fine,’ I muttered and poured the water on the sleeping man’s head.
The man reared up with a cry, rubbing his wet face, hair splayed and flying in all directions. Yukon tensed at my leg as I took a few steps back.
‘What in hell? Who’s waking me?’ he shouted, eyes squinting against the dim light, spinning around, fists clenched looking for the fight.
‘Mr Gunderson?’
His whiskey-filled gaze landed on me. ‘Who in hell are you?’
‘My name is Kate Kelly. Mr George Everett sent word of my arrival. You were due to meet me at the dock to escort me along the White Pass Trail.’
He blinked, suddenly calm but frowning, staring at me awaiting the spark of recognition. He was a mess of a man, long blond hair in greasy strings, an almost-white beard stained brown by chewing tobacco, durable, hardy clothes torn and caked in mud and perhaps blood. His hands shook as he ran them through his hair to tidy it.
‘Miss Kelly,’ he said with a booming, accented voice. ‘I am to take you to Dawson. You going to write stories about the miners?’
The room let out its breath and eyes turned back to their cards and glasses.
‘I am a journalist, sir. I will report on the conditions of the camps, the towns, and the people for my readers back in Kansas and Missouri. For Mr Everett too, should he wish to start a mining venture here.’
‘Oh, oh. You’re a long way from Kansas, Miss Kelly.’
‘Don’t I know it,’ I said, as I took in the man before me.
‘But don’t worry that pretty head. Lars Gunderson keeps a word and I gave my word to George I would get you to Dawson City.’
Relief came over me and my shoulders let out an inch of their tension.
‘This your dog?’ he asked, kneeling, hand out.
‘This is Yukon,’ I said. The dog stared up at me, as if awaiting permission, then padded over to the Swede. Mr Gunderson ruffled his fur and nuzzled his face against Yukon’s snout. His tail began to fly. Yukon was smitten, I could tell, and I believed him to be an excellent judge of character.
‘A good dog is worth more than gold up here. Bad people will soon as steal a good dog for sledding or fighting. Keep him close.’
I rested my hand on Yukon’s head. ‘I intend to. When do we leave Mr Gunderson? I am keen to get on the trail.’
Mr Gunderson stood and looked out the grimy window at the sky. He really was tall. Had he been wearing his hat, it would have brushed the beams.
‘Tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow? But it’s still so early. We could make good time if we left immediately. I must get to Dawson, do you understand?’
He cocked his head and looked at me as if I was a curiosity, a city girl who understood little of this place.
‘The day is too far gone,’ he said. ‘See the clouds? Heavy dark. Rain later. We get too much rain on the White Pass and whoop! Off the trail we go and crrrk.’ He drew his thumb across his throat.
I would be no good to anyone dead. ‘Fine. Tomorrow.’
‘Good. You have rooms for tonight?’
‘I do.’
‘Then let’s have us some dinner, courtesy of George. He sent you with dollars, yes?’
I sighed at the delay. ‘Yes.’
‘Then we will have a meal in the finest place in Skaguay.’
My stomach sank at the thought, given the state of this place. Mr Gunderson took me out into the streets and they were suddenly not so unfriendly now I stood beside a man. The looks and jeers stopped as if now I was off limits to their thoughts. It exhausted me, sometimes, being a woman in a world of men. Up here in the wild north, the men were slowly losing their civility – if they had any to begin with – and it meant danger for a woman alone. As much as I despised the thought, it was good to have a man – a tall, well-known one at that – to escort me.
We ate a meal of meat pie and ale and he procured a bone for Yukon to gnaw. I thought the meat was cow, perhaps horse, but Gunderson corrected me.
‘Black bear.’
The chunk of meat in my mouth felt suddenly heavy and too big.
‘They come down from the mountains after their big sleep, pop pop pop, easy to kill. Tasty right?’
I forced my jaw to work. It was sweet and soft, in some kind of gravy. Good, even.
‘I never thought I’d eat bear,’ I said, pushing the remains around my plate. ‘Seems wrong to eat such a fierce predator. Upside down, you know?’
Mr Gunderson laughed, and sprayed flakes of pastry over the table. ‘You’ll see. Upside down is right way up here. Everything goes the other way. You wait until you try beaver tail.’
I smiled and we settled into a companionable silence.
The inn was busy, as was all of Skaguay, with a queue out the door for the pies. Men bought them wrapped in wax paper to take back to their camps, handing over a pouch of gold for the payment to be measured out. A trusting method of doing business; I suspected those scales were weighted in the establishment’s favour.
I found my gaze drifting to the window and the shadow of the mountains beyond. I felt them calling to me. I had read stories of wild places like this since I was a child, sitting alongside my sister, beneath the blankets to stay warm.
The winters here, so I read, were harsh, dark times where a man could freeze to death in an hour. Stories spread of bodies found against trees, so peaceful they could be sleeping, or frozen into the river ice after falling through. Even here, now the thaw had come and the sun returned, Mr Gunderson told me of a pair of brothers found near the trail. They’d attempted the journey at the start of winter and were not found until the end.
This was not a land to take risks in, yet each man risked everything just to be here.
We left the inn and Mr Gunderson walked me to my hotel. We passed the wooden buildings, hurried up over days or weeks to accommodate the stampeders, and I caught a glimpse of the canvas city on the flat land to the west. Tents as far as I could see, hemmed in by sharp, rising mountains on either side.
The gateway to the interior, the steamer brochures had said. What struck me, as I moved through Skaguay beside Mr Gunderson, was how I had expected a lawless, frenzied atmosphere. But the place was ordered, loud with its industry and little else, as [MJ21] if each man was looking only to their journey ahead, their supplies and how they would transport them, rather than be distracted by vice and drink. Even the working ladies looked largely unbothered.
Despite the hour, the town was alive with trade. The hardware shop, the outfitters, the wagons jostling each other for space, the men hauling and loading, the tired horses. I thought mostly of the money which must change hands in a place like this. Here was the fortune, not some metal locked in the frozen ground a thousand miles away.
Mr Gunderson left me at the Pullen Hotel, with a tip of his hat and a promise to see me here an hour after sunrise. He had some business to attend and I realised, as he departed, that I had no idea what that business was. Or anything else about this man I was trusting to take me along hundreds of miles of treacherous trail.
Yukon and I went into the hotel but found sleep difficult.
I was so eager to get moving. Get on the trail. I re-read Mr Everett’s letters of instruction. I filled my first page with notes, and I thought of my sister.
My dearest Charlotte. Up here somewhere.
I opened her letter, received a month ago now, and read the words which had brought me here. Which had me rushing to Mr Everett’s door suggesting he finance a trip to the Klondike. Which would carry me through these mountains, to Dawson City.
This may be my last letter. He has finally found me and there is nowhere left to run.