ADRIK IVANKOV FOUND himself the voice of reason in a vast sea of gold-hungry travelers. The only trouble was, no one wanted a voice of reason. Gold fever made men do things they’d never otherwise consider. Adrik had seen grown men climb the trail with broken limbs and raging fevers. He’d also seen them die far from the goal that had brought them so far.
For over a week, Adrik worked alongside his Tlingit friends to pack goods from the Scales up to the summit. The Scales were so named because it was there the packers reweighed the goods they were packing and increased their fees in accordance with the steep climb to the top of the Chilkoot Trail. Adrik found the extra money he earned transporting goods a much surer guarantee than looking for gold in the ground. He had saved an impressive amount of money, even while sharing much that he had with his friends and Tlingit relatives.
Money wasn’t everything. In fact, Adrik had rarely even considered the stuff over the last week. His thoughts were more easily assigned to a pretty woman living in Dyea. Karen Pierce was more than just a pretty woman to him, however. She was the daughter of a man he greatly respected—a man whose death he felt somewhat responsible for.
“We’re quitting,” Dyea Joe said, releasing the pack frame he used for carrying goods.
The announcement didn’t surprise Adrik. For the last two days the sky had been devoid of clouds, and with the sun bearing down on them in its April splendor, a new problem had arisen. Adrik’s sense of the situation was confirmed as he listened to his friends speak out.
“Snows are very dangerous,” one Indian told him.
“There’s gonna be slides,” another muttered. “Ain’t gonna stay up here. Goin’ back down.”
Adrik nodded. He knew as well as his friends did that the trails were threatened by avalanches. The warm temperatures were making the newer snows less stable.
“I’ve tried to explain the situation to our rather ignorant—perhaps shortsighted—employers,” Adrik told the men, “but they don’t care. The fever has them and gold is all they can think on. Safety means nothing.”
“We won’t pack their goods,” Joe announced to his friend. “Money isn’t worth a life.”
“I agree,” Adrik said in a tone of exasperation. “I don’t blame you for sitting this out. I’m not risking my life, either. The next few days are going to prove the situation one way or another. Look, it’s Saturday night. Why don’t we put our lots together and feast. We’ll let the cheechakos figure this one out for themselves.”
Dyea Joe nodded and picked up his things. “There’s gonna be big trouble if they keep climbing to the summit.”
“Plenty big,” another man joined in.
Adrik knew the risks. Already the weather was changing. As was typical of the area, the changes came quickly and dramatically. Heavy clouds had moved across the sky to blot out the sun. He could only nod and lend his silence to signal his agreement. Adrik greatly admired their knowledge of the land and their seeming sixth sense for danger. He had worked hard to learn from them, to take their bits of wisdom and use them to better his own existence. Now, as he tried to share such wisdom with others, he was met with disbelief and total disregard.
No one cared that the threat of an avalanche was so great that the Tlingits not only refused to move goods up to the Scales, they were heading well out of the established gathering and down to Sheep Camp. Adrik was moving as well. He knew their advice to be sound, and he cherished his life too much to risk it in pride or greed. Sheep Camp sat in the narrow valley between impressive mountains. The canyon offered no real place of escape, as was evidenced in earlier floods of Sheep Camp. But if the snowslides came from the summit, almost three thousand feet above them, they’d most likely not cause problems that far down the trail. He hoped.
Gathering his tent and a few supplies, Adrik followed the small group down the trail. The going was tough because the snow had started up again and the wind blew bitterly against their faces. Adrik didn’t mind the hard climbs and descents, but he generally refused to travel when the weather was difficult. The heavy clouds stole the light from their path, and as night came upon them, Adrik was more than ready to pitch his tent and take his rest. The lantern light from the Seattle and Golden Gate restaurants perked up his spirits. He didn’t plan to pay the exorbitant price for a meal there, but the light meant civilization and the end of his journey.
As if they’d prearranged the setting, the Tlingits and Adrik worked to put the camp in order beside the Taiya River. Soon a blazing fire warded off the night’s worries and the chill. Sheltered among the fir, pine, and aspen, the winds and snows seemed less threatening. Adrik ate heartily, grateful for the dried reindeer meat and beans offered to him by Dyea Joe. Canned peaches were passed around the camp, and Adrik lanced a half peach with his knife and stuffed it into his mouth. The juice was icy cold and trickled down his face into the stubble of a newly growing beard, but nothing had ever tasted better.
“Say, I’ve got some biscuits left over from morning,” Adrik suddenly remembered. Unwrapping a bundle from his coat pocket he added, “They’re soaked in bacon grease and ought to warm up nice.” He skewered several of the hard biscuits on a branch and held them out over the fire. The grease began to melt and popped and sizzled on the flaming logs. The aroma filled the air with an anticipated promise of filling their bellies.
“How is your mother?” Adrik asked Dyea Joe. The two were distant relatives. Joe’s mother was in fact second cousin to Adrik’s now deceased grandmother, and their families had always been close.
“She is well. She does not like the fuss over gold.” Dyea Joe’s English bore witness to his forced attendance at mission schools.
“I doubt any Tlingit or First Nations people are going to find the rush very appealing,” Adrik said, shaking his head. “The cheechakos are ruining the land. They run right for the gold, never seeing how priceless the land itself is.”
“You speak the truth.” Dyea Joe’s dark eyes seemed to glow in the light of the fire. “People often throw away the gold in their hands for the promise of the gold hidden from them.”
“Amen.”
Adrik pulled the browned biscuits from the fire and pushed them from the stick onto a pie tin. “Help yourself,” he said, passing the tin to Joe.
The tin circulated around the fire, the biscuits being taken up quickly by the hungry Tlingit packers. Adrik took the last biscuit and leaned back on his elbow to enjoy the rest of his meal. Thoughts of tragedy and mishaps from the trail threatened to put a damper on his mood. Determined to raise his spirits, he pushed aside the threat of snowslides and instead thought of Karen Pierce.
But thinking of Karen caused Adrik to think of her losses, and again his thoughts turned bleak. First her mother had passed on long before Karen had come north. Then her father had died with only a narrow distance separating them. Her friend had married and moved away, and now Karen had lost her aunt and her livelihood, as well.
Adrik knew, however, that it was the death of her father that gave Karen the most sorrow. She had been so close to reuniting with him. She had felt called to come north—perhaps to even work at her father’s side—and now she was robbed of both seeing him and working with him. And a deep loss it was. Not only for her, but for the people who had come to care so much for her father. Including Adrik.
Adrik held the highest regard for Wilmont Pierce. The man had been both a good friend and mentor. Adrik had guided Pierce on more than one occasion and had been instrumental in seeing that he was accepted among the Indian people. Wilmont had been different from other missionaries. He had come in love and kindness, seeking to meet the people where they were. He lived with them, ate with them, and studied their ways to better understand them. This gave the Tlingit respect for Pierce, and although many of the Tlingit were already baptized into Russian Orthodoxy, they embraced Wilmont’s preaching. In time, Adrik had even seen a change in the hearts of many of the natives.
“Hello, camp!” came a decidedly British voice.
Adrik looked up to find a shivering man, hardly dressed warmly enough for the cold. “Come warm yourself by the fire, stranger.”
“My gratitude, sir.” The man hurried to the edge of the fire and held out his gloved hands. “The night came upon me unaware. I was sent back to bring hot food to our camp, but I’m afraid the restaurants are packed. There’s scarcely room for even one more.”
Adrik lifted the pot of coffee. “Would you like a cup?”
The man sat down on a thick log beside Adrik and nodded enthusiastically. “I would be very grateful. I’m not fond of American coffee, but at this point I’ll take anything hot.”
“Where you from, stranger?” Adrik asked, pouring coffee into a tin cup.
“London, England. I have family in the Canadian provinces. I was visiting there when all this news of gold came. We decided to give it a go. Make our fortunes. And you?”
Adrik thought him a very amicable sort and smiled. “I’ve lived in these parts all of my life.” He handed the man the coffee and saw a smile of satisfaction as the stranger wrapped his fingers around the warmth of the cup.
“How marvelous.” He drank for a moment, then added, “I suppose you already have a gold mine?”
Adrik laughed. “No. I’d say my people found more gold in salmon fishing and furs.”
Dyea Joe passed by in silence, dropped a small package beside Adrik, and entered the tent directly behind the stranger. This drew the man’s attention immediately. “Are these your packers? We hired a few, but the cost was draining our funds and there are still tariffs to pay.”
“No. They’re actually distant family members. And good friends.” Adrik picked up the pack and unwrapped several pieces of dried salmon. Joe was offering the stranger food for himself and his companions. “This is jerked salmon. Eat some yourself and take the rest back to your friends.”
The man nodded and snatched the offering quickly, as if Adrik might change his mind. Eating as though starved, the man alternated between sips of coffee and mouthfuls of jerky. When it was gone, he fidgeted nervously with his mustache, his gloved fingers pulling off pieces of ice that had become encrusted above his lip. For several moments Adrik actually wondered if he’d somehow offended the man. He seemed strangely quiet after having been so lively moments ago.
The stranger took a deep, long drink, then turned to Adrik. “So you trust these Tlingits?”
“With my life,” Adrik replied.
“Our packers told us to stay away from the Scales and the summit. Said the snow is unstable. What do you make of that?”
“I make it as the truth, mister. That’s the reason we’re camped here. The weather has been too varied. We had a fierce snowstorm a few days back, then an icy rain. Then it dumped another few feet of snow. After that it warmed up, melting things a bit. It makes the snow on the mountains unstable. Slides are guaranteed.”
As if to emphasize Adrik’s words, a rumbling could be heard in the distance. It didn’t last long, but Adrik knew it was a slide. “You hear that? That’s the sound of snow barreling down the mountain. You don’t want to hear that sound and be in the path of it. There’s nothing you can do to get out of its way.”
The man stood, looking rather alarmed. “My family—my friends. They’re up there now.”
Adrik shook his head. “I can’t tell you what to do, mister, but you’d do well to get them back down in this direction. It’s only the second of April. There’s plenty of time to get north. I wouldn’t start back up until the Tlingits do likewise. They’re pretty good about figuring these things out.”
Another rumble sounded, and even though Adrik knew these small slides were probably not stealing away life in the night, he also knew they were precursors of things to come.
“Thank you for your hospitality. I must go.” He handed Adrik the cup and tipped his hat. “You were most kind.”
Adrik saw the panic in the man’s eyes. He understood his fear and could only pray that it might keep the younger man from death’s clutches. Healthy fear had a way of doing that. If a person listened to that quiet little voice, a nudging of the Holy Spirit, Adrik’s mother used to say, then a person could often avoid a great deal of misery. Adrik had tested that theory and knew it to be true.
With a yawn, Adrik gazed upward to the dark mountainsides before settling in for the night. The ominous sense of death surrounded him, leaving him uneasy. He began a wordless prayer, pleading with God for the protection of those who were exposed to danger. He also asked God’s blessings on Karen Pierce before he crawled into the tent and fell almost instantly asleep.
Around two in the morning a commotion awoke Adrik. He soon realized that the alarm announcing an avalanche was being sounded in the small village. Uncertain where the trouble was, Adrik pulled on his boots and coat to go in search of the problem and offer whatever help he could. Taking a lantern and a shovel, he made his way up the trail in the bitter cold and wind. Along the way, he heard tales of everything from the Scales camp being destroyed to there being little or no damage. Ignoring these conflicting stories, he pressed on up the trail and finally met up with a group of men with shovels.
“We’re digging out at least a dozen people,” one man told Adrik. “There may be more, but we saw a couple of parties headed through this direction. One man said there were at least twelve.”
Adrik shook his head and took up a shovel. “We might as well get to work,” he said, eyeing the ominous mound of snow and debris.
Twenty people were eventually rescued. The workers laughed and slapped each other on the back while the injured were treated to warm beds and strong coffee. The mountain had failed to claim their lives and so the folks were generally celebratory, having defeated the slide.
Adrik, however, was more apprehensive. He studied the dark shadows of Long Hill and stared upward toward the summit. Snow swirled around him, gentle and harmless. It was hard to imagine that such a thing could be so deadly.
The next morning there was talk of how they’d escaped the perils of the mountain. How things would be easier now that the threat of avalanche had passed. Adrik reminded more than one person that the Tlingits were still not convinced of a safe passage, and since they’d been the ones to warn of the situation in the first place, perhaps they should be heeded now. But folks generally ignored his suggestion.
Then around nine-thirty the slides began again. Word came down from the Scales that they were shutting the operation down and evacuating the camp. Adrik breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps now they would avoid real disaster.
Around ten o’clock a low rumbling came from Long Hill, signaling yet another slide. Adrik shook his head as word came back that three people had been buried in their tents. He thought of the young Englishman and wondered if he’d convinced his party to bed down in Sheep Camp for the night.
With the evacuation of the Scales came the tram workers. The tram had been set up to assist those gold rushers who had extra money to spend. The tram owners were making a bundle, much to the disappointment of the natives who had found packing for the stampeders to be small compensation for the white man stealing their trail. They didn’t mind Adrik working the line, for he often gave generously to their people, but they resented the intrusion of men from the outside. So, with this thought well etched in their minds, the Tlingits had little comment when the tram workers were caught in yet a second avalanche and killed. After all, they had warned them.
Now people were staring warily up the mountain, watching and wondering. Because the wind had picked up as well as the snow, visibility was near zero. Adrik sensed the impending disaster, but knew he was helpless to stop it. Through a combination of God’s grace and wisdom along with his knowledge of the land, he was standing safe and protected, while others would meet their death.
And then it happened. The roar echoed and vibrated against the mountainsides. The very earth seemed to move as a wall of snow poured down from the mountains above. Would-be rescuers could only wonder and wait, having no idea how bad the situation might be. Had there been others on the trail? Had they met their match in this devastating play of nature?
Adrik felt certain there would be trouble. He loaded up what he could carry and grabbed his shovel. There was work to do.
Rumors ran rampant. Announcements of two hundred or more dead filtered down the trail. Gunshots were fired off to signal the need for help. The stampeders were more than generous with their offering. They came in droves, responding in a way indicative of the frozen north. You helped your brother in his need, because next time it could just as easily be you.
Adrik dug in and worked along a line where the trail had once been. Someone said that the remaining two hundred people on the Scales had been making their way down the mountain. One man claimed to have been at the end of the line holding on to a rope that simply seemed to disappear as the snows assaulted them from every side.
Bodies, some battered beyond recognition, were lined up and transported down the trail to Sheep Camp, where a makeshift morgue was set up in a donated tent. An emergency committee was appointed for the task of identifying and tagging each body for burial or shipping.
Adrik shook his head at the loss of life. They’d been warned, but greed had kept them fearlessly ensconced in the path of danger.
“Here’s another one!” someone yelled.
Adrik looked up to find the Englishman from the night before. He sighed. The man was dead. Shaking his head, he went back to work only to unbury another body.
“I’ve got one, too,” he called out.
People came to help him dig out the man who surprised them all by moving his lips and fluttering his eyes. When he opened them, he stared up at Adrik as if he were God himself.
“He—he—lp me,” the man stammered. Blood streamed from his face, which was crusted from the ice and snow in his beard and mustache.
“We’re doing the best we can for you, mister,” Adrik told him. “Look, just lie still. You’ll be taken to Sheep Camp where there’s a doctor.” Even saying it, however, Adrik knew the man would never make it. The left side of his face had been crushed.
The man closed his eyes, then opened them again. Adrik could see he was laboring to breathe—to live. With a power that seemed beyond the man, Adrik watched him struggle to reach his coat pocket. Realizing the man would not be settled, Adrik moved his hand aside and reached into the pocket with his own gloved hand. He pulled out the contents: a pouch of tobacco, a pipe, and a folded piece of paper.
“Letter,” the man mumbled. “Children.”
Adrik looked at the possessions, not understanding. “You have children at Sheep Camp?” he finally questioned.
“No,” the man replied.
The workers were ready to move the man to a plank for transport down the trail. Adrik held his hand up. “Wait just a minute. He’s trying to tell me something.”
“He needs attention,” one surly man replied.
“You think I don’t know that?” Adrik snapped. Turning to the dying man, he said, “Look, friend, I don’t know what you’re trying to tell me.”
The man looked up at Adrik with lifeless eyes. “Letter to children.” With that he closed his eyes and stopped breathing.
“He’s gone,” the surly man announced. “Take him to the morgue.”
Adrik looked at the dead man and then to the letter in his hand. Stuffing the pouch and pipe into his own pocket, Adrik opened the letter.
1898, 2nd of April.
Jacob and Leah
Barringer, in care of Miss Karen Pierce, lately of Dyea.
The very breath left his lungs, and Adrik found himself almost gasping for air. Was it possible? Was the dead man Bill Barringer? “Wait!” he called. “I might know who that fellow is.”
The workers paused. “Friend of yours?”
“Not exactly.” He stuffed the letter into his pocket. Taking a better look at the dead man, Adrik scratched his jaw. It could be Barringer. He’d only met him twice, though, and there had been so many other men just like him.
“I’ll take him down.” Adrik could only pray the man wasn’t Barringer.
He grabbed the end of the plank from the man who held it. “You can borrow my shovel. Name’s Adrik Ivankov. Nearly everybody in Sheep Camp knows me. You can leave my shovel at the Summit Meat Market. They know me real well.”
The man said nothing. He seemed surprised by Adrik’s rapid instructions. Adrik motioned to the man on the other end of the plank. “Let’s go.” He couldn’t help but think that he would once again bear bad tidings to Karen Pierce. It wasn’t a job he wanted, but obviously God had given it to him for a reason.