This was in
1882, and he went down the chain of lakes, down the Yukon, up the
Pelly, and tried his luck on the bars of McMillan River. In the
fall, a perambulating skeleton, he came back over the Pass in a
blizzard, with a rag of shirt, tattered overalls, and a handful of
raw flour.
But he was unafraid. That winter he worked for a grubstake in
Juneau, and the next spring found the heels of his moccasins turned
towards salt water and his face toward Chilcoot. This was repeated
the next spring, and the following spring, and the spring after that,
until, in 1885, he went over the Pass for good. There was to be no
return for him until he found the gold he sought.
The years came and went, but he remained true to his resolve. For
eleven long years, with snow-shoe and canoe, pickaxe and gold-pan, he
wrote out his life on the face of the land. Upper Yukon, Middle
Yukon, Lower Yukon--he prospected faithfully and well. His bed was
anywhere. Winter or summer he carried neither tent nor stove, and
his six-pound sleeping-robe of Arctic hare was the warmest covering
he was ever known to possess.
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