Olaf Skye
Born in Larvik, Norway
October 15, 1872

Married Mathilda Thorson
November 7, 1900

Mathilda Thorson
Born in Scandinavia, Wis. (Elm Valley)
January 16, 1870

From Norma (Skye) Stromberg

ALONG THE TRAIL OF ‘98
As told by OLAF SKYE

The Klondike gold rush was on. People everywhere talked of little else but the fabulous wealth of the newfound gold fields where fortunes were said to have been made in just a few months. People from all walks of life left their tasks in a feverish rush to get north. The tales told of the Klondike rivaled those of ’49 when prospectors crossed the Great Plains and the Rockies with oxen, and California had generously responded with pay dirt yielding on the average from fifty cents to three dollars a pan.
As a boy, I had been thrilled by these stories of adventure, wishing I might have had a part in them. When the Klondike strike reported pay dirt yielding from $10 to $200 a pan, I knew my chance had come. I left my forge and anvil and together with Nick Egeland, Jake Tollefson, Magnus Danielson, Ezra Townsend, and S. Stjernholm, our village doctor, took leave of the little home town of Scandinavia, Wisconsin, which had been so hart hit by the gold fever. We left the 7th of February, 1898 and a few days later were in Seattle, where we secured our miner’s supplies, tools, clothing, and provisions. To Dr. Stjernholm we owe our deepest gratitude, as he it was who planned our food supply, that all important item on such a trip. He insisted on a variety of foods including dried fruits and evaporated vitamin foods, many of which, to us, seemed unnecessary luxuries, but he had his way and after we had left civilization behind and were face to face with the grim interior of that unknown country where such supplies were not to be had, we more fully appreciated out well chosen larder. The Canadian government would let no one into the interior without at least nine month’s provisions. To play safe, we packed enough for fourteen months and when our outfit was complete, it averaged 1600 pounds per man, as fine and complete an outfit as we saw anywhere along the trail.
The dealer who sold us our woolens laid claim to being a good salesman. I decided he was a better story tell. He told us a great deal about the intense cold in the North. One man who had wintered up there seven years said it got so cold in January that they froze the flames on their candles and sold them for strawberries. The cows all gave ice cream till they froze to death, smoke froze in the chimney until the fire wouldn’t draw, and one way they had of keeping their fires overnight was by putting them out in the air to let them freeze and then thawing them out in the morning. It gave me the chills to hear these wild tales so I put in another necktie and an extra pair of shoestrings.
Leaving Seattle by boat, we headed up the Inside Channel, generally know as the most beautiful long waterway in the world. For 1,000 miles it winds through clusters of islands, straits, and bays, with an occasional glimpse of the open sea to the west and the unspeakable grandeur of the rugged shoreline to the east. It all reminded me of the lovely fjords of my native country, Norway. However, the overcrowded condition of our boat, the noise and confusion, the yapping of dogs and the general hustle and bustle on board left little chance for any meditative appreciation of beautiful scenery. We were not tourists, we were prospectors with gold dust in our eyes. This boat and this waterway were only the means of accomplishing our aim.
Shortly after entering Canadian waters, we stopped at Victoria, B.C. to secure our miner’s license. (Remember we were bound for the Klondike which is in Yukon territory, a British possession and not in Alaska as it is often supposed.)
Four days later we landed in Dyea, southern Alaska, just across the bay from Skagway and about 50 miles north of Juneau. From Dyea our trail led across the Coast Range, through Chilcoot Pass which is 3,500 feet above sea level, on the British Columbia-Alaska boundary. An epidemic of Spinal Meningitis was raging in Dyea at that time and many deaths were reported daily so we made all possible haste to get out into the clear fresh air of the trail. Dr. Stjernholm seemed to have an aversion for congested places and was always urging us to “get away from the crowd”, but that was impossible as there were thousands of people on the trail, coming and going. We hired a team to haul our provisions up to Sheep Camp, at the timberline. Here we pitched our tent and made camp for the time it would take us to pack our outfit up to the summit. We had no dog team so had to pull our own sleighs. We cached our loads along the trail while we went back for more. (It was a happy circumstance that all along the trail, men respected each other’s rights and they could safely leave their caches anywhere until they could return and move them on.) At times we had our caches strung out for 20 miles and never lost a pound. At the various camps, however, there were those who made a thriving business of exploiting the people. Among the most notorious of these was Soapy Smith and his gang. Outwardly, Soapy looked the gentleman, always well-dressed and courteous, but there was nothing he would not stoop to do for money.
Slowly the living stream of men moved on up, past a camp called Stonehouse to Scale, just one thousand feet below the summit. This last lap of the climb was by far the most dangerous of all, as it was an icy incline of 45 degrees. Looking up from below, it looked like a human ladder resting against the side of the mountain. It was a single track but here and there along one side were places where one could step out of line to rest. That was also a matter for grave consideration, for when once out of line, it became difficult to get in again. Everyone was in such a hurry there was not much time for courteous gestures.
Once to the top, the return trip was not so slow. Parallel to the upward trail had been worn a deep groove where one would slide down at terrific speed, standing up until a jump-off was reached. From there on down, one’s position was never determined. It all seemed like one huge ski scaffold with a constant stream of people, slowly and painfully ascending, then perilously, though thrillingly, descending. “Scale” not only denoted the perilous ascent of the trail, but here outfits were divided and weighed. “Packers”, mostly Indians, could be hired to carry loads to the summit for so much a pound. These packers found that a few trips sliding back would soon wear out their pants. As a safeguard, someone conceived the idea of flattening an empty tin can and attaching it at the two upper corners across the place of most frequent contact with the icy trail. This presented a rather grotesque appearance as the men walked. These “protectors” flopped about at every step, but were an effective means of accelerating the downward trip.
From the camp at timberline, known as Sheep Camp, we were confronted with the decision of which pass to ascend. We had built camp on a glacier, digging 6, 8, and 10 feet in the snow to set up camp and the trickle of water below us gave us an eerie feeling. Chilkoot Pass was the shortest route but also the steepest. White Pass 2,888 feet high was an alternate route. (1) Our party chose a route longer but not so steep as Chilkoot Pass, which joined “the ladder” just beyond the summit. Always the pace became that of the weakest man. A total of 72,000 people went over these passes during the mass entry into the Klondike. Even the pass we chose was plenty steep in places. One day we watched a pack mule as he braced himself for an extra effort then lost his balance and fell sprawling backward until help came.
We were at 2,500 feet above sea level, at Sheep Camp, with 1,000 feet of the hardest climb still to go. The farthest we could advance in one day was 500 feet. For the time it took us to reach the summit, a distance of three miles, we would deposit our caches then mark them by two points on two opposite mountain peaks, then go back to our tent at Sheep Camp for the night.
With our belongings at the summit, we moved down the other side, again as far as timberline, where we set up temporary camp until we could bring out outfit down and move ahead once more. It was a slow, tedious process but the only method possible in the mountains. On a trip back to the summit for provisions, we found them completely covered with new snow. We had provided for such an emergency and so found them easily, but many caches were lost along the trail in this way and not found until spring when the snow melted.
Just beyond the cache we were digging out that day, some Chinese boys were digging out their restaurant tent where they sold coffee. It had been so completely submerged that another cache had been parked on top of it. This had to be removed first, much to the aggravation of its owner. Finally the Chinese were in business again and coffee was served. The wood they used for cooking the coffee had to be packed up to them at the cost of 2 cents a pound, which made a cup of coffee rather expensive.
One of the more serious dangers on the trail was the snow slide. The warm winds would thaw the snow and as it moved downward, everything in its path would be buried. We had just crossed the summit when 61 people were buried by a snow slide on the Chilkoot Trail. That was but one of the tragedies of the trail of ’98. We met many people on the trail who, tired and discouraged, had turned their faces homeward and who told us weird stories of the hardships ahead of us. Having conquered Chilkoot Pass, we felt equal to face most any obstacle, so we pressed on.
Just beyond Chilkoot Pass we arrived at the boundary between Alaska and Canada. Here were stationed the Northwest Mounted Police who collected duty and made sure we had the required amoung of provisions. We were in Canadian territory and the Canadians would avoid a famine among the prospectors if possible.
On this side of the Coast Range the descent is not so abrupt and travel was easier. We were soon in the lake region which is the source of the Yukon River. From here stretches a winding water course through lakes and rivers for 600 miles to Dawson in the heart of the gold fields. We crossed Crater Lake and Long Lake to Lake Linderman, on the ice, a distance of 15 miles from the summit and drop of some 1,300 feet. Out on Lake Linderman things went merrily. We hitched two sleighs together, put up a sail and with a good, stiff breeze to our backs, we fairly flew along. Our partner Nick Egeland, a husky young chap with a quick cheery smile and a keen sense of humor, was steering at the rear. Rather short of limb and inclined to stoutness, he could hardly keep pace with the outfit and when we who were at the gee-pole, looked back, he was riding in high glee on top of the rear sleigh.
We often wondered how some would survive because of their poor equipment. Sometimes we would see a lone man struggling along, his only companion a poorly trained dog who had to be coaxed along in the traces, by a bait of meat tied to the end of the gee-pole, where it dangled enticingly but always just out of reach. An occasional spill would evoke a bit of mirth and lucky was the man who could see the funny side of life in that hard and austere land.
It was getting on toward spring and time to begin building boats. On Lakes Linderman and Bennett, parties scattered here and there, wherever they found a comfortable site and timer for boats. Soon was heard all around the ring of the axe felling trees, the buzz of the saw cutting lumber and the pounding of hammers as the boats gradually took form. In sawing the lumber by hand, the peeled log was laid on a staging, then two men with a whipsaw, one standing on the top, the other under the log, would push or pull in turn, sawing through the log lengthwise. The desired width of the boards would be even. It was said that the whipsaw wavered more partnerships than anything else in the life of the prospectors. The man on top was often left to wonder what the one below was really doing, pushing or pulling, and inquiry would often lead to hot words. Sawdust in the eyes of the “under man” did not help any and at times resulted in either a walk-out or a fight.
We had made our camp nine miles down on Lake Bennett. So far hours had been a happy, unbroken party. As things go on the trail, we considered we had fared real well. Now by some irony of fate, our doctor partner was taken seriously ill, and in this condition could not survive the rigors of the trail. When I had said good-bye to Mrs. Stjernholm back in Wisconsin, she whispered a request that I look after the doctor, so naturally I felt somewhat responsible for his welfare. We made him comfortable on a sleigh and together, he and I, retraced our steps over the trail, some thirty miles to Dyea where he took passage for home.
With a depressed sense of loss and a heavy heart, I turned once more to the formidable Chilkoot Pass. On this trip back, I carried a huge cook book which our camp chef had requested I get for him. He had felt that plain miner’s fare was getting rather monotonous and that a cook book would improve the menu. Consequently I was returning now with the best cook book available north of Seattle. My one cheering thought as I went to join the boys was that we could expect some fine meals from now on. As time went on, we still hand only plain miner’s fare, good as that was. When we finally asked our cook if he found the new book helpful he told us bluntly that the book did him no good. The recipes called for fresh eggs, butter, spices, cream and other ingredients which we did not have and had to get along without. In the days that followed, we learned to be thankful for the very simplest of food, indeed, for food at all. We learned what I meant to go hungry, when on the trail, we would be cut off from our provisions for days at a time.
Back at the camp on Lake Bennett the boys were busy building boats. There were two large river boats and a small life saver ready to be launched to take us further inland when the time came. During the ice breaking period, the wind blew continuously in the same direction as that of the current, causing great ice jams in places. Some who launched out too soon were caught in these jams and were lost. This had happened at Caribou Crossing between Lake Bennett and Lake Tagish shortly before we arrived there. Our policy was to “make haste slowly”. Our outfit was too large to move fast, but even so, we often overtook some for whom speed had meant delay. At the foot of Lake Tagish we again encountered the Mounted Police and the custom officials. We entered Lake Marsh which is nineteen miles long and very narrow, in fact, all of these lakes are more or less, a broadening of the streams that connect them.
Twenty-five miles below Lake Marsh is Miles Canyon. Here the waters of the wide stream above are forced through an opening between high basalt rock walls, which are a mile in length and only 80 feet apart. This causes the water in the canyon to raise two feet or more and produced a “razor-back” through the middle of the stream. To navigate here, it is necessary to keep the boat on top of the razor-back and to row at a speed faster than the current or the boat will be caught in the eddies on the sides and be dashed to pieces against the canyon walls. To add to the danger, the stream is winding so one cannot see many feet ahead. Two miles below the canyon are the White Horse Rapids, a half mile of wild, racing, foaming, white water, hence well named.
We left our outfit in still water above the canyon and spent a whole day along the shore watching the boats come through. Some outfits landed safely. Some of the boats capsized, the men barely escaping with their lives. Some went under completely. I talked with a man that day on the shore, who had lost his entire outfit. He had nothing left but the clothes he wore and a bit of oatmeal he was cooking in a tin he had found. He was stirring it with a stick, then when he was ready to eat, he used the stick for a spoon. He later joined another party of men. Men on the trial learned to sympathize and to share with each other even to the last crust, at least that was our experience. There were many who suffered and many who died, but I am happy to say that in the three years I spent on the trail, I never saw a dead man.
The time had come for us to make our way down Miles Canyon. After what we had seen that day, we wondered what our fate would be. There were men who would help take boats through the Canyon and Rapids for $20.00 and $30.00 a trip. We were fortunate in securing an experienced man for $5.00 to steer our boat. He put four men at the oars and told us to row for our lives. How each man felt in the secret recesses of his heart for those next few moments, only God knows. I hardly knew what did take place except that we landed safely four miles below and we had come through in twenty minutes. We had another boat to bring down so we had the same experience again. I would never ask for a greater thrill than what I experienced that day.
I later met a Mounty who told me a gripping story of what he witnessed one day. He said a lone miner had come down stream as far as the canyon, but seeing the nature of the waters ahead, he had no desire to go through. Another man who was building a tramway along the shore, offered him free transportation if he would help him complete the job. The miner agreed and worked faithfully for some time but felt he could not wait until the tramway was completed. He insisted however, that the tramway man get his outfit through as he had promised. The latter keenly felt his obligation and offered to pay any oarsmen a good price to take the boat through but there was not available. He told the miner he himself would take it through but would not be responsible for the outcome. He stepped into the miner’s boat, swung into the current, took off his hat, bowed his head, folded his hands between his knees and sat in this attitude while the boat rode the razor-back on down where so many had disappeared. The Mounty, whose name was Hilyer, said that he was at this time putting a roof on his cabin up near the canyon when he saw the man step into the boat. Before he could stop this perilous venture, the boat was well on its way. He and the miner walked to the end of the rapids and there found their man had landed safely. I have too often experienced the Guiding Hand of an all powerful Providence, to doubt the truth of this Mounty’s story.
Below the Rapids was Lake LaBerge, another freakish body of water, 44 miles long and nearly surrounded by mountains from which the winds swept down from all directions, causing great swells and making it hard to navigate. Leaving Lake LeBerge, we entered Lewes River, known to us at that time as the Thirty Mile River. Much of it was very swift and also crooked as a ram’s horn. With its occasional sand bars, shallows, and hidden rocks, it was a river to be taken seriously. We were warned to look for the Three Crosses which marked a danger zone where three miners had gone under when they had struck a huge rock in mid-stream.
We went on down, past the Hootalingua and Big Salmon to the Little Salmon River where ther were a great many boats tied up indicating a stampede. We were told that an Indian guide had taken a party of twenty-five miners across the mountains to Pelly River where a rich gold strike had been reported. This was what we were looking for but then we did not want to join a wild goose chase either. We had waited three days for news when the report came that the guide had deserted the men as no gold had been found. We moved on, panning here and there along the numerous creeks that feed into the Lewes.
Where the Pelly and Lewes rivers join to become the mighty Yukon River, stood the ruins of Fort Selkirk, an old Hudson’s Bay trading post. It was now the headquarters of the Northwest Mounted Police Reserves. Right here let me say a word in appreciation of the Northwest Mounted Police. They were our friends. By canoe in summer and by dog team in winter, these men patrolled the trails, enforcing the laws, fighting forest fires, and hunting down criminals. It is said that sooner or later, they always get their man. Always kind, courteous, and on the job, they are men of whom Canada can well be proud.
I had a very personal experience with the “Silent Force” the following spring of ’99. While making up our outfit in Seattle, we had included four window panes. The care of these fell to me and I guarded this carefully wrapped package all along the way. For six months we had been moving constantly, except for the time it took to build the boats, but on Upper Selwyn Creek, below Fort Selkirk, prospects looked good and here we sank our first shaft. We prepared to spend the winter so built our cabin well, even installing a window light, a luxury few miners had. In the spring we moved down to the water front, as it was called, on the Yukon River. Our window as frozen in its frame so we left it, expecting to bring it later. Going back for it, I found the window gone. That evening I told my experience to one of the Mounties at our new location. I expressed a desire to contact the suspect although he was forty miles away, but the Mounty advised in rather a disinterested way, that I not bother. The next morning I saw the Police dog driver pull out of camp with his team. ON the following morning I was called to the Police Barracks. When I stepped in, there sat the very man I had suspected. (I had not told the Mounty who the man was.) Court opened, the window identified and returned to me, and the guilty party was given thirty days of hard work at the barracks. The Mounty knows no law but justice. Somehow my heart went out to that dog driver who, with his faithful huskies had braved the perils of an eighty mile trail for only a cabin window.
Two of our partners, Ezra Townsend and Jake Tollefson, had turned back from the hardships of the trail and so our party was reduced to three. To fill the void left by these good men, we found two others, Snodgrass and Bennett, both from Springfield, Missouri, who became our close friends.
In the fall of ’98, I shared an experience with Snodgrass that I’ll never forget. What started out to be a venture in a stampede, turned out to be an extended journey. He had heard of a “rich rind” at Thistle Creek on the other side of the Yukon. We took with us provisions for three weeks, starting out on a clear day but found the river a mass of ice drifts further on making the going slow. We staked our claims then went on to Stewart to make the recording, sixty miles on this side of Dawson. Snodgrass, who had had no word from his family in the ten months he had been away, had an urge to go on to Dawson in the hope that he might have mail there and wished for me to go with him.
Mail into the interior in those days was a rare thing. Occasionally a dog driver would come along the trail with a bunch of mail he had picked up at a coastal town, if anyone could claim mail belonging to him, he would have to pay plenty to redeem it. I remember calling for mail at a place which could hardly be called a post office. The person in charge looked through some letters and reported, “No mail”. For a tip, one could go in and look the mail over for himself, but government regulations soon put a stop to such exploits.
News of any kind was at a premium. One day after being in the Klondike for a year, as aI stood in the door of my cabin, a man came along the trail on a bicycle with a package of newspapers, on his way from Seattle to Dawson. I asked him the price of a paper and he said, “fifty dollars”. Well, that was a little more than I cared to pay but as he ate dinner with me, I asked about news on the outside and I remember him telling me the Spanish-American war was over. And I had seen a newspaper but didn’t read it.
The trip to Dawson and back proved to be a hard one. The Yukon was now frozen so we left our boat and packed our outfit on a hand sleigh. Our provision ran out and the cold increased steadily as we neared Dawson, situated only eighty miles below the Arctic Circle. We slept (?) nights on top of the snow in sleeping bags, at 72 degrees below 0. (This recording was verified by writing the postmaster at Circle City). Our thermometer froze at 61 degrees below 0. Travel on the river was very slow because of the ice flows that had piled up and my partner, being an elderly man, was spared as much of the burden as possible, but I felt the effort would be worth while if there only was mail for us at the end of the trail. There was mail for me, but not for Snodgrass.
Knowing Dawson only by hearsay, we decided it would be interesting to see the town. Approaching it from the river, it appeared a city of tents stretching along the river bank and up the gentle slope of the mountains which rose in the background. The business places were wooden structures but the residents, for the most part, lived in the tents or otherwise hastily erected shelters. One man had sawed his boat in two, setting the pieces up on end and together with a bit of canvas, had made himself a temporary home.
Much as been written of the vice and corruption of Dawson, and true, gold made it what it was. Before the rush, Dawson had been a humble little village of log cabins. With the gold strike came saloons and immense gambling halls open twenty-four hours a day, with women who rivaled the “Gold diggers of Broadway”. We found the “night life” everything that was even claimed of it. Prostitutes lined the streets and filled the dance halls. Gambling halls were fifty to sixty feet long with car tables three deep, the entire length, and roulette wheels and every game of chance abounded. Here fortunes were lost and won in a single night. Men were at the ‘bar’ and others were so drunk they were dead to the world. The hot, smokey foul air was fairly charged with the vile oaths of men, furious over some unfair or underhanded deal. As for us, we preferred the clear, sparkling beauty of the Arctic night outside, with a full moon riding the blue expanse of a cloudless sky, and air so still and clear that for a mile or more, along the trail could be heard the cry of the Yukon musher calling to his dogs, “Mush, you Malamutes, Mush!”
When we reached our own camp at last, 85 miles up the river, we had been gone thirty-nine days, during which time we had suffered untold agonies from cold and exposure, as well as from poor food which we sometimes at frozen. Two or three days before we reached camp, one of my limbs was so cramped, I could only walk on the toes. The knee would not bend and when I pressed into the flesh, the dent remained. Later my gums became swollen and inflamed and began to bleed. These were some of the symptoms of that most dreaded of diseases among miners, scurvy, and I knew I was a victim. We had had no fresh meat for a long time so when the boys learned of my condition, Bennett, one of the boys from Springfield, volunteered to go to Ft. Selkirk, a distance of thirty-five miles, and here he secured a quarter of beef for $50.00. Fresh meat became a very necessary part of our diet and every day each of us had a small ration of meat as long as the quarter lasted. To supplement the regular meals, I made tea from cottonwood bark and chewed or “foraged” on cranberry vines or anything I could dig out from under the snow that would provide me with the much needed vegetable matter. Spruce boughs were part of the diet. The first time we had potatoes, the blessed, humble potato, I ate mine raw and relished it as if it were the choicest apple. Thanks to an iron constitution, I soon recovered although I lost a perfect set of teeth in the ordeal. By this time I was no longer a “cheesecake” or tenderfoot, but a full-fledged sourdough. (2)
It has been said, “Gold is where you find it”, however, the best prospects were in the valleys along the creek beds and on the benches wherever there was washed gravel. Anyone who first discovered gold in such a valley, could stake a claim 500 feet long, up and down the creek bed, and his right would extend clear across “from rim to rim” regardless of the width of the valley. All other claims, above or below “Discovery” measured only 250 feet in length but all extended across the entire width of the valley. Ten such claims constituted a “block” and every tenth “block” was reserved for The Crown. When a new discovery had been made, the news soon spread and when we saw a man with a pack on his back, sneaking through the bush, trying to keep under cover, we knew he was wise to something. Soon someone would follow him and then another, and before long there would be a stampede.
The air was charged with adventure as we prepared to join a stampede. When making camp at night, we organized a crew, one would cut wood and start the fire, one would begin the meal, another would make camp. During the day on the trail, we carried with us beef extract which we added to melted snow to give us warmth and nourishment. There were those who, in the wild rush to get to a “find”, would be so tired at the end of the day, that they didn’t bother to make camp but would sit all night on their sled and perhaps eat frozen flap-jacks.
While waiting for the activity that came with the spring thaw, I found other jobs to occupy the time. I tended the dogs and cut wood for a man running a lodging house on Thistle Creek at the Yukon. A trapper came by who set up traps on the creek opposite. A marten was worth ten to fifteen dollars apiece so I began setting some traps. I would go ten or twelve miles after I was through with the day’s work, to check the dead falls left along the creek. I carried a crudely fashioned lantern and also a revolver for protection against the wolverines that howled on all sides, but I never had to use the weapon. Often the traps would be robbed which made the tip discouraging. On one such trip I found nothing along the way, then with three traps left to check, I was tempted to turn back. I went on however, the first produced a marten, also the next and the last.
The North abounds in fish and game but it took some time to learn how to hunt wild game with any degree of success. There were hunters who made a good living selling meat to the miners, however, not at $50.00 a quarter. Exorbitant prices were charged for all commodities and exploiters were on hand to relieve us of our gold, lest it become a burden to us.
There was a trustworthiness among the friendships made that was worthy of note. Cabin doors were never locked but instead bore scribbled invitations to “Come in”, “Help yourself”, “Welcome”, or “This is for you”. Anyone was always welcome to any comforts the cabin afforded. Many times we found our food supplies had been “borrowed” but never had any of our gold been touched. I have cherished over the years many friendships that began in the Klondike.
I packed my belongings to leave the Klondike in the fall of 1900. It was no longer necessary to travel by sleigh. Large river boats now plied the waters of the Yukon and made connections with the White Pass – Yukon railroad. This trip had plenty of thrills as we went over the numerous “switchbacks”, through “Dead Horse Canyon”, and past the “Seven Sisters” and mountain scenery that defies description. It was good to get back to the comforts of home. I returned, not loaded down with wealth, but rich in experience and in the knowledge that there are greater and better things in this world than gold. I have always said that I would not exchange my experiences along the trail for any material possession.

* A small, leather Bible went with him to the Yukon and no doubt was a source of strength and inspiration to him.
(1) It is not definite which Pass this group chose to travel. In recorded notes, Mr. Skye speaks of “72,000 people going over three passes.” Being they chose not to go the steepest pass, they might have gone by way of White Pass or another trail that joined the Chilkoot Trail.
(2) A Sourdough was also one who stayed long enough to see the ice go out of the Yukon. Conventions of Sourdoghs have continued over the years
The word “sourdough” originated from the everlasting yeast used for making bread, flapjacks, and biscuits while on the trail. A part of the fermenting element was always saved and kept “working”.

Grand Forks, Y.T.
October 2, 1901

Dear Skye:

I suppose you thought that I had forgotten you entirely now since I had not wrote to you for such a long time, but it is not so, very very often I am thinking how nice it would be to go back to old Sc. And see our ex-partner Olaf again. Now wouldn’t we have lots to talk about and tell one another if we had the chance.
You have had some new experience since you left the well known Y.B.B. (Yukon bean band) and I have also had some more experience in scar to running road house to we would have lots to talk about don’t you know. It is only a short time ago since I made up my mind for sure to stay another year and that is the reason that I did not write to you before. I received your letter of June 17 also of August 24 and lots of clippings for which please accept my thanks.
I got good and sick of the camp this spring as I could not see that there was any show of ever making a dollar there so I left Dawson June 9 and got work at once on Magnet Hill. The pay was $5.00 a day and board. I only worked there a week because they were lay me (?) and I did not feel sure of my pay.
The day after I quit Magnet I went to work on No. 1 Eldorado and worked there steady until Sept. 20 and got ½ oz. a day and boarded at a boarding house paying $2.50 per day and they just put up O.K. chuck, no Fox Gulch board. Harry Johnston also worked here on No. 1 this summer it was him that helped me to get work.
Ed. Came down here the first part of August and Johnston got him a job here too so Ed. Also worked here until Sept. 20.
Magnus came down about 2 weeks ago he has been staying up the river all summer tending to the wood business.
I worked hard this summer and earned about $500.00 since I came to Dawson, but what good is it? I was mixed up in the wood business and there we went to deep in the hole that I am financially worse off now than when you left last fall. I saw old man Davis the later part of August he was then going out taking with him 50 oz. of dust which he had earned in about 14 months and e was feeling just as happy as a little boy who has earned his first dollar.
Davis done very well, it was good dust which and it will bring him more than $800.00 at themint, and as careful as Davis is that will keep him for a long time.
When I came to Dawson this spring Weigan was in the hospital and very sick. I went to see him several times. Poor Weigan he suffered lots and how he did wish that he might live long enough to see his family again. Shortly after I seen him they sent him out, but he died in Skagway.
Jimmie and Newman are back in Dawson again. George Wilson went out this fall. Ed. And Johnston has taken a together this winter on No. 1 Eldorado. I have also taken a on the same claim together with a big Swede. We are now sinking holes and next time I write I may be able to tell you if we have struck pay or not.
I shall try to be more prompt to write this winter than I have been. Give my best regards to all who inquires for me. Ed. Magnus and Johnston sends their best wishes and the same from
Your ex-partner P.N. Egeland
Bonanza Pr.
Yukon Territory

(postmarks)
Bonanza Yukon Oct. 3 ‘01
Dawson N.W.T. Canada Oct. 4 ‘01
Scandinavia, Wisc. Oct. 21 ‘01

Excerpt from We Remember
By American History Class 1955

I REMEMBER
Donated

Mr. Olaf Skye was a resident blacksmith of Waupaca for thirty years. His shop was the favorite stopping place for children as he loved them, wiped noses, warmed and dried little wet feet and fastened overshoes and tied scarfs before they went out into the cold again. He devoted much time to the Boy Scouts, telling stories that were character building, and he was a perfect camping companion, as he knew and loved the outdoor life.
The accompanying story is one of his experiences that he liked to tell, and he never lacked audience attention from old or young.
Chilkoot Pass – I was working at the Elais Gottchalk blacksmith shop when tales came out of the Yukon of untold wealth to be made within a few months. I eagerly joined four farmers and the village doctor to become a part of the Klondike gold rush of 1898. We left Scandinavia, Wisconsin, February 7, with great hopes of digging pay dirt that was reported to yield $10 to $100 per pan.
We bought tools, clothing and food at Seattle, Washington. While the Canadian government would allow no one to enter the interior without nine months provisions, we bought enough for fourteen months, and each man averaged 1600 pounds of supplies and equipment.
Leaving Seattle, we traveled by boat up the Inside Channel to Dyea, Alaska. We were quickly off on the trail as there were many deaths from spinal meningitis reported daily at Dyea. As our lead dog, bought at Seattle, had been stolen, we hired a dog team to haul our supplies to the mountain timber line. From then on we hauled the sleighs by hand. We pitched our tent as treacherous Chikoot Pass was not far distant. We could not haul everything at one time, so we cached the loads along the trail, moving one cache ahead at a time. Reaching “Scale”, 1000 feet below the summit, we found the last lap to the top an icy incline of 45 degrees. It was called “The Ladder”, for the steady stream of climbers stepped a single lane stairway or ladder into the snow. At Scale, packers, mostly Indians, could be hired to ‘pack’ supplies on their backs to the summit.
The return trip was, no doubt, more hazardous but far more thrilling. Parallel to the upward trail a deep groove had been worn by the packers who stood and slid down until a jump-off was reached. From there, each slider’s position was scarcely determined. After a few trips, the packer’s pants were worn through. To protect the wearing, some one conceived the idea of using a thin piece of board or tin – a flattened tin can – attached at the upper corners so it hung across the place of most frequent contact with the icy trail. While this protected the wearer, it greatly accelerated his downward speed. Sometimes a slider would jounce another, who would strike back and lose his balance, then followed a melee.
Some prospectors set a stake with a single pulley attached, at the summit, ran a rope over the pulley, and tied a sleight at each end of the rope. Then they loaded the lower sleight with supplies, and when packers rode the upper sleigh down, the supply-sleigh had to go upward. If a tope tangled or broke, men and supplies were spilled into the deep snow; often some of the latter never to be found.
Our party chose a nearby trail which was a little longer, but not as steep, and joined The Ladder just over the summit. However, it was so steep that I saw a pack mule lose his balance, fall backward, and sprawl in the deep snow until he was helped upon his feet.
There was no place to camp on the summit, so we marked our cache by two points of the opposite mountain peaks, and went back to the tent for the night. Next morning deep snow covered the cache, but we easily found it. It was not unusual for a cache to be buried so deep under a heavy snowfall that it was not found until the spring thaw. But, the greatest danger to cache and man were the heavy snow slides caused by warm thawing winds, that buried everything.
Now, we were meeting many who were discouraged and going home, that told weird stories of hardships they had endured. We had conquered Chilkoot Pass! We were ready to meet any obstacle! We did encounter hardships, bitter cold, improper and frozen food and sickness among other things. But, I have never forgotten the miner’s hospitality. Their cabin doors were never locked, and the words, “Welcome”, “Come in”, “Help yourself”, or “This is for you”, was printed where the trail traveler could plainly see it, no matter whether the owner was at home or not.
At the end of two years, my companions, one by one, had returned home, but, I stayed on another year. Though I did not become wealthy, I was rich in experiences, and the knowledge that there are better thinks than gold in this world.

Note: In the Hutchinson Museum on the south end of Main Street in Waupaca there is a dog sled made by Olaf Skye after he returned from Alaska for the area children to play with.

Excerpts from: TALES OUT OF SCHOOL
By Edwin Emmons

During grade school in the 1920’s, I always enjoyed going home after our 3:30 dismissal. One reason, of course was the freedom-until-tomorrow feeling. Another was that the walk from the east end of Badger Street to West Fulton took me across downtown, and any choice of routes provided things to look at, perhaps to wonder about.
At Hansen’s machine shop (now Doran’s Hardware), a circular sawblade sign hanging out from the brick wall (it is still there) made a resounding target for snowballs; on Main Street, in the corner widow of the Old National Bank, a mystery clock kept time with no pendulum, springs or wires to make it go. High in the elms of the courthouse lawn there were chains placed years before to prevent the trees from splitting. Sometimes I would venture up the steps of the bandstand, just to walk around where the band members played their summer Thursday night concerts. On the north side of West Fulton, I might visit Jake Campell’s sport shop, with the huge stuffed moose head on the back wall. And very often, at the northwest corner of Fulton and Washington, attracted by the ringing anvil of Olaf Skye’s blacksmith shop, I would go in to watch the forge – and perhaps find Mr. Skye at the exciting task of installing steel rims on wagon wheels. If he were not too busy , he might even show me his Alaskan dog sled and tell one of his experiences in the gold rush of ’97.

Excerpt from: THE PALACE THEATER OF THE 20’s
By Edwin Emmons

Even before it was built, Waupaca’s Theater captured my imagination. It did so at a bad time, too. There I was in fourth grade, having trouble with long division and kept at the blackboard after school to work out the next day’s arithmetic assignment.
Arithmetic! All I could think of was the accident Allen Scott had told me during recess. Remembering it now, I can still see Allen’s plump hands describing the rise and drop of the boulder (Allen called it a boulder) that crashed into Olaf Skye’s blacksmith shop. “My dad said it happened this morning. A big one, bigger than both you and I could lift. Fell right through the roof and the floor. Could have killed Mr. Skye, but it missed him.” With such news churning in my head, I found more than usually difficult keeping my mind on arithmetic.
That was during the spring of 1920. Prominent businessman A.M. Penney had plans “too elaborate to be well described” for building an imposing new opera house seating 744 people. It was to be located on the southeast corner of Washington and Franklin, where the Farmer’s State Bank is now. The theater would have a commodious lobby flanked by cloak rooms and ticket booth and six doors opening into an auditorium measuring 132 by 61 feet. The 744 “opera chairs” would cost $6,000. The front facing Fulton street would be the most artistic in Waupaca, adding greatly to the appearance of the street and the city. According to the weekly County Post, the entire outlay for construction, heating and lighting of both the new opera house and changes to the buildings already on the lot would be large, probably in excess of $40,000.
Mr. Skye’s blacksmith shop was situated right across Washington Street. On that April morning, inside the high board fence where excavation for the theater was in progress, workmen were using blasting powder to remove tree stumps – a common practice in those days. To deal with a particularly stubborn stump they had tapped in extra powder. The fuse was lighted, the crew scampered for cover at a respectable distance – then noted with considerable alarm that someone had placed a good sized rock atop the stump.
Standing at the blackboard in Mrs. Johnson’s fourth grade room, I thought I would never arrive at the correct answers to the five long-division problems. I kept imagining the deep boom of the explosion, flinging dirt and dust and wood every which way, and that boulder streaking skyward – how high? A hundred, two hundred feet? – arching westward, away from the fenced enclosure, over Washington Street, to fall who could tell where. Did Mr. Skye have any warning? Was there a second or two between the powder blast and the tremendous crash and thud of the building? Did the ground shake? I could scarcely wait to view the damage.
As it turned out, Mr. Skye had little to say. He had been visited by many people all day and was shoeing a horse when I stopped by. He only swung his arm toward the back room where I beheld a hole in the roof, another in the floor, and half-buried in the earth a rock the size of a volleyball.

Note: There is a John Skye family in Weyauwega Wis in 1875 census.

THE WAUPACA COUNTY POST
September 06, 1990

WHEN THEN WAS NOW
By Wayne A. Guyant

Jens Hansen, an extensive wagon and carriage manufacturer of Waupaca, was born in Boesholm, near Helsigor, Nort Sjeland, Denmark, in July of 1838. He was the son of Hans Christian Rasmussen and his wife, Meta Marie Larson Monk. The father, Hans Christian Rasmussen, was a blacksmith with the reputation of making the best wagons and carriages in all of that part of Denmark. Young Jens learned the skills of a blacksmith and wagon maker from his father. (His last name was different from his father’s due to Danish custom.)
In 1864, Jens enlisted in the services of his native country. He served for 14 months, and retired with the rank of corporal. After he returned home he assisted his father in his shop until 1869 when he emigrated to the United States, and Waupaca. Here he found employment with Henry D. Prior, and on November 5, 1869 he bought out Mr. Prior. He paid him $400 for the west 60 feet of out lot 38, in the village plat.
In 1870, Jens Hansen returned to Denmark to bring his father back to Waupaca. His father returned with him and worked with his son until his death in 1879.
Jens Hansen’s blacksmith and wagon shop was located where the old Kruenen Implement building was, now the Flying Kernels. The original shop had his motto, “Live and Let Live,” painted in big letters on the front.
He employed 12 men and they manufactured wagons, carriages and sleighs, besides doing general blacksmith work and handling farm machinery of all kinds.
Jens Hansen’s half-brother, Albert Martin (A.M.) Hansen, came to Waupaca when only ten years old, supposedly with his father and Jens. At the age of 17, young A.M. Hansen started his training in his half-brother’s shop. Here he had excellent training under Jens and his father, Hans Christian Rasmussen.
A.M. Hansen opened his own business after seven years, and ran it for the next 10 years, when he ventured into the sawmill business. More about A.M. Hansen in Waupaca will appear in future articles.
In 1890, Jens Hansen built a new and much-improved building on the same location. His original shop was of wooden construction, two stories high with three windows on each side of a large display door in the middle of the second story, and one window on each side of the two large, double doors on the ground floor.
The new building that stands today was of brick construction with a lower, or basement level, and at the same time it has the same basic design right down to the two big double doors to permit a team of horses to enter to be shod, or room for a wagon or carriage to enter to be repaired or painted. There is also the large door in the upper story. Mr. George Frieberg told me that this was used as a display door to show models. Both buildings first had hand-operated freight elevators, but later was mechanized with a large electric motor. The freight elevator was approximately 10 by 10 feet.
Jens Hansen married Johanna M. Person. She was born in Sweden, March 19, 1851. They were married December 25, 1869, and she died April 6, 1908 here in Waupaca. Jens Hansen passed away January 16, 1902.
Warranty Deed Volume 117 page 100, dated August 15, 1906, shows that Johanna Hansen sold out to Herman, Thorvold, Albert and Carl C. Nelson on January 13, 1910; Carl C. Nelson sold to Matilde Ekstrom in 1911; Matilde Ekstrom sold to Thorwold and Albert Nelson on April 15, 1920; Thorwold Nelson and his wife Anne Nelson, and Albert Nelson sold to Kreunen and Skinner. They were partners until January 26, 1924, when George Skinner and Gaywood A. Skinner, his wife, sold his share to Cornelius Kreunen, who died April 17, 1932.
From 1920 until 1924 the business went under the name of Kreunen and Skinner, but since that time it has been known as the Kreunen Implement Company. After the death of Mr. Kreunen the property went to Bernice Kreunen, his daughter, and George Frieberg, her husband. They sold John Deere machinery and had John Deer Days held in the Palace Theater. George Frieberg began selling Pontiac cars at this time.
In 1973 George E. Frieberg sold out to James and Gerald Cook, and the Cooks in turn sold to Bill Marek in 1986. This is now the empty building of the Flying Kernals. What next is in store for this old historic building?
At some time in the past, someone stated that Olaf Skye used the building for his blacksmith shop. This is not the case. Olaf Skye worked for Jens Hansen before he went to Scandinavia to open a shop. In 1898, he went to the gold rush in Alaska. He remained there for three years, then he homesteaded in Canada from 1908 until 1921. When he came home to Waupaca he started to work for Claude Knight on the corner of Washington and Fulton Streets. He purchased a place for himself at the corner of West Union and Washington, where he operated until he became sick in his own shop and died February 19, 1951.

WAUPACA COUNTY POST
October 13, 1898

BACK FROM THE KLONDIKE

J.L. Tollefson of Scandinavia, who was one of the party which went to the Klondike gold fields from that village last spring, returned home on Saturday last. He was forced to come by sickness, having had several attacks of stomach trouble. He was in the city with Halvor Thorson on Tuesday, and to a POST reporter stated that the other members of the party, Olaf Skye, M. Danielson and Nick Peterson, were still on claims they have near the Selwin river, which is a branch of the Yukon, and that all were well. He says that their prospects are of the best, and that there was gold and lots of it in the country there. His party has not yet got down to bed rock on account of the high water which has been prevalent during the summer, and do not expect to do so until winter sets in and the ground freezes up. Mr. Tollefson expects to return in the spring, if his health will permit.

Waupaca Republican
June 10, 1898

OUR ALASKA LETTER

Lake Bennett, May 3, 1898

DEAR WIFE AND CHILDREN:
Yesterday Tollefson wanted me to cook and let him work outside for a change, so I was installed as chief cook, but do not like it very well. Set bread last night and baked my first bread today, and it was very good. The boys are sawing and it is very warm, mercury standing at 62 degrees. The snow is going fast, the side of the mountain is getting quite bare, it grows more picturesque every day. Our bill of fare for breakfast was pancakes, bacon, beans, cold biscuit, oatmeal and coffee; for dinner, beans, bacon, new bread, tea and rice; for supper, whole wheat flour, biscuit and no butter, they were very light and nice, bean soup with pork in it, dried beef, peach sauce and tea.
May 4th – Am still cook. The boys finished cutting lumber at noon, and commenced building a boat after dinner. We saw a snowslide this afternoon it made a noise like thunder, but was not a very big one; was in front of us across the lake, came clear to the waters edge. It looked grand.
May 5th – Little spring birds were singing this morning and our bobtailed red squirrels were giving us lots of music. Olaf went to Bennett to get the mail, has been before too but got none. What can be the matter? Supper over and dishes washed; was just out after a pail of water, it was 8:30 and could see the sun shining on the top of the mountain; it is quite light at three a.m. What would I give for today’s Inter-Ocean, so we could learn something of the outside world. We pay two bits for a paper and then it is ten days old. There is not much travel on the trail, just a little in travel on the trail, just a little in morning. The most have stopped to build their boats.
May 7th – The boys have one boat nearly completed, think it will carry between two and three tons, it is 24 feet long, 4-1/2 feet wide at bottom and 6-1/2 feet at the top; runs to a point at bow and the stern is two feet at bottom and four on top and three feet high. It is warm and bright – mercury 45 degrees.
Sunday, May 8th – It snowed a little this morning and rained this afternoon. Boys all went hunting on the side of the mountain, but did not get anything except some very pretty flowers. I will send some in this letter.
May 9th – It continues warm and the ice is rotting fast. We have commenced our second boat, it is not as large as the other. Made my first Johnny cake for supper.
May 12th – I’m cook this week also and am beginning to like it pretty well. The boys are getting along finely with the boat. They cut a hole in the ice and set a fish net, caught two yesterday, a white fish and a sucker, and four more today, so we had a fine mess for dinner. It is reported that a man and two women were drowned down at Cariboo crossing, and Tuesday just below us here two men and their dog teams were driving along when all at once the ice gave way and they were not seen again. Skye has just returned from Bennett, no mail.
May 14th – yesterday two of the boys started the mill again to saw lumber for a small skiff. Caught three fish last night, had them for dinner, they were fine. Wish you folks at home could have had a taste.
Sunday, May 15th – I will have a chance to send this letter out by one of our neighbors. He is sick and the doctor tells him he had better go home. Thinks he will start tomorrow if he can get rid of his outfit. He cried like a baby when he found he had to go. There are lots of mourning doves and little spring birds and squirrels here. We have plenty of neighbors, one tent within 30 or 40 feet of us.
We will have to stop here until the ice gets out, which will probably be ten or twelve days. Have our boats nearly completed. I am enjoying tip top health and hope you are as well at home. It is a long time since have heard from home; there must b e letters for me somewhere, suppose you are sending them as I directed you, to Lake Taggish, shall expect some sure when we get there. There may be some between here and Dyen, but perhaps we will never get them. We have chances to send letters out every day or two.
As ever yours with much love to all.
Ezra Townsend.

Waupaca Republican
September 9, 1898

FROM ALASKA
Ezra Townsend Tells of his Trip Homeward

Dawson, July 25, 1898
DEAR WIFE AND CHILDREN:
Am getting ready to leave here. Sold my boat and buckskin suit.
July 26. This morning I sold my tent and some other small truck. We expected the boat to go at 12 o’clock but it did not start until 3. The scenery below Dawson is fine, but the river is like a mud hole. Have enjoyed the ride very much this afternoon.
July 27, 5 p.m. We have stopped for a little while at Circle City. Seems good to be once more under the grand old stars and stripes. We passed a boat today, the Bella, going up to Dawson and one yesterday, the Lear.
July 28. Stayed all night at Circle City and started at three this morning. Run down the river fifteen or twenty miles and pilot gave out. Could not pilot us through the innumerable islands and channels without pocketing us. They are very numerous below Circle, so had to come back for a new pilot. We make a new start and run till three p.m., when we run into a bar and at 7:30 we are still there, doubtful about getting off till morning. Thirty miles from Fort Yukon.
July 29. We got off the bar last night about 8:30. Traveled nearly all night and have made splendid time. The country is low and level, one vast plain with considerable timber, largely spruce and pine, some birch, poplar, balm, gilead and alder bush along banks. Low mountains stretching way to the east. As I write I hear the crack of a rifle and the crowd below helloing, look out, and there running along the bank is a black bear. Six or seven shots are fired, but poor bruin got off without a scratch. We just passed another boat called the Linda B. She had a large barge in tow called the Bear. There is a range of mountains appearing in the south. Saw a little cub just run down to the river bank. It is very picturesque along the river and lots of game.
July 30. We have passed two steamers this morning. The country is more rolling here. We passed the mouth of the Tanana river about seven o’clock this morning. Am not feeling well today at all. There is over three hundred passengers aboard and nearly all are troubled the same, with diarrhea and can not get rid of it. Another steamer just went by, the nicest one we have been going up to Dawson called the Susie. We are now 664 miles from Fort Michaels. It is mountainous on north side of river and patches of snow in places, while on the other it is low and level, covered with timber.
July 31. It has rained most of the day. Getting nearer the coast, river is growing wider and is less hilly to north. Have passed a number of Indian villages yesterday and today. The Indians are catching fish and drying them in the sun for winter consumption. Passed a number of steam tugs today and three other large boats.
Aug. 1. it is rainy today but it is lovely traveling by water. The river is a beautiful sheet of water if it was not so muddy; there are not so many islands. At two o’clock we passed the last foot hills on the north and now is one vast, low plain. River is getting very wide. It has been cloudy all day. Have passed as usual a number of steamers and tugs. Five o’clock and the first table have just sat down to supper, we have four tables.
Aug. 2. Last night was a most beautiful sunset. It set at just 10 o’clock. We are going very slowly and there is a man taking soundings all the time. Water very shallow, five and one-half or six feet deep. On one side of us we can not see land. We have had a nice day and at 5 o’clock we were out on Behring Sea. We will eat supper on the river boat, then we will be transferred to the steamer, Rival, that will convey us to Seattle. St. Michaels is not much of a place. Quite a number of vessels in harbor.
Aug. 3. Went on board the Rival last night about 6 p.m. We expected to sail this afternoon. Am a good deal better since coming near to salt water. Have not felt well for over a month. It is now 6:30 and we are not out of sight of land yet. Started at 3 o’clock. I did not land for we had to anchor quite a way from shore and there was no dock at St. Michaels. No timber around the town. Looked like a rolling prairie. It is situated on an island.
Aug. 4. Have kept my berth all day today for I have been sea sick. The sea is pretty choppy. There was a beautiful sunset.
Aug. 5. Still sea sick, worse today. Sea very rough last night, so it came on top of vessel. Two or three whales sighted during the day.
Aug. 6. Am better today, so ate my breakfast and dinner, although lay in may berth a good deal.
Sunday, Aug. 7. Have not made much progress today it has been so foggy. We sighted some island so now we know we are near Dutch Harbor, but the captain is afraid to run on account of reefs and fog. Saw more whales and the boys caught some codfish. Was terribly rough last night.
Aug. 8. Lay outside Dutch Harbor all night and this morning run in for provisions and water. Left about 1:30. Was on shore and picked some flowers and shells. Left Dutch Harbor and passed through Unsvak straits into the Pacific ocean. The sun has shone this afternoon but it is cold, fair wind and we are making ten knots an hour.
Aug. 9. It has been a pleasant day and most of the passengers spend the time on deck. Fair wind all day and had sail set. The Rival is a staunch vessel and is a steam schooner.
Aug. 10. The same routine, nothing new. We go on deck a while then turn in for a while, then dinner. The afternoon is pent nearly the same. We ran close to some large whales, can see them spouting in all directions.
The 11th and 12th are about he same and it is getting dull and tiresome. Some say we are getting short of grub, but they are the ones that are always finding fault with things.
Aug. 13. Think we will sight land tomorrow off Cape Flattery. Nothing of note.
Sunday, Aug. 14. There has been some wind but sea has been smooth. Saw a large whale. At noon we were in latitude 46 north and 136 west longitude.
Aug. 15. Just came up from supper and according to cook’s report we are getting pretty short of grub. No land in sight. Something has gone wrong with machinery and have stopped. The sea is beautiful and calm and has been all day. The condenser gave out and we were detained two hours, when we got fixed up again and proceeded.
Aug. 16. Beautiful morning and have sighted upper end of Vancouver island. We are probably running twenty or thirty miles from land, which is mountainous. As we get nearer the lower end of island there is timber along the shore. Saw a lot of whales basking and playing in the sun. They are not of the sperm kind. We rounded Cape Flattery this evening about 10 o’clock.
Aug. 17. We are all jubilant over the nice weather we have had on this trip and the prospect that we will be in Seattle tonight. We are in the straits of Juan de Fuca, and out next sort will be Port Townsend. Food is getting scarce for we had only mush and a cup of coffee for breakfast. We stopped at Port Townsend one and one-half hours. Steward purchased grub for our dinner, had a very good one. We will be in Seattle in half an hour. So ends this chapter.
Seattle, Aug. 18. It is with pleasure and gratitude that I write to tell you I am once more in Seattle. Arrived yesterday at 4 pm. The trip was nice all the way except we were detained a little by fog near Dutch Harbor. I telegraphed John as soon as I arrived. Hope to hear from you at Portland. My health is not very good but think will recruit now I am where can get fruit and vegetables. I weigh one hundred and fifty pounds. I look rather thin. Shall stay here two or three days and get some laundry done. If do not hear from you to contrary will stay and visit two or three weeks. Will keep you posted. With these few words will close.
As ever your loving husband and father. EZRA TOWNSEND

WAUPACA RECORD
January 6, 1898

OFF FOR KLONDIKE

We left Waupaca on the midnight train, reached St. Paul in the morning, and waited there until 4:30 p.m. to take the through “Pacific Mail,” which leaves at that time, over the Great Northern Railway and the Northern Pacific. Of the two routes the traveler can choose whichever way he prefers. We chose the Northern Pacific on account of the scenery, but we were told that the other road gave the best accommodations for the money. I cannot say which route is preferable, but shall try the Great Northern route next time, then I can tell. The Northern Pacific road is doing a good business, as we left St. Paul with a heavy train of twelve cars, and much of the way had two engines and a special engine for the mountains, and until we reached Cascade Range we were only forty-five minutes late. This was considered very good time for winter travel.
After crossing the Missouri River, which was frozen over, we came to the “Bad Lands of Dakota,” which area series of high, sandy and gravel land unfit for pasture or cultivation. We next come to an undulating prairie with here and there a sharp, upright gully over which, no doubt the cowboys, on their swift ponies, have taken many a headlong plunge in rounding up their cattle. The shanties and farm buildings are not more than a mile or so apart; cattle are numerous and are herded by a genuine cowboy. Wild horses roam the treeless prairies. We pass a large flock of sheep which are feeding on the bunch grass, which is covered by a heavy white frost, heavier than any we have in Wisconsin. It looks as if there had been very little snow west of the Missouri River, as the stock was all feeding out of doors on the prairie grass and were in good condition, while in Wisconsin snow and frozen ground had kept stock housed for two or three weeks.
From Medora to Glendive are the famed “Bad Lands.” Here they are in pyramids, in groups and palisades. They rise singly and in groups, being round, oval and oblong in shape at the top, rising to a height of 200 to 500 feet. A red sand encircles the tops of many of them. In the distance we seem to see a purple haze, reminding one of the famous “Palisades of the Hudson River,” only these seem higher, more diversified, more grand, more numerous and larger, and more beautiful in every way. There was not a tree in sight for miles.
The second morning out from St. Paul brings us to the high table lands of Montana, which we have traversed all night, and the Rocky Mountains. A day of sunshine with very little snow on the mountains, enabled us to see the grandest mountains in the world. We all spent one day in sight seeing and almost forgot to eat, so absorbed were we in seeing all there was to be seen. They are grand beyond description and I leave to abler pens than mine, a special mention of them. Butte Mont. is considered one of the most prosperous places in the mountains at present.
At night, for a little diversion, two tramps entered the car, and crawled under the lower berth; unseen by the trainmen and concealed by the drapery, they intended to take a ride. One of the passengers happened to be awake, and reported them, and they were ejected.
Eastern Washington was covered by from two to six feet of snow, and a snow-plow crossed the Cascade Range, from the west, before our train could get through, as it was snowing heavily and very cold. Once over the summit and descending, we can run out of the snow in a couple of hours, and here we met our first “Washington rain,” a deluge, some of the passengers thought. The scenery along the Green and other rivers in the mountains is simply grand, beautiful. – PERSIE A. GARDNER.

GOING TO THE KLONDIKE

The Scandinavia Prospecting Company have made arrangements to send three representatives in their interest to the gold fields of Alaska, the party consists of Dr. S.B. Stjernholm, Olaf Skye, and J.L. Tollefson, who will leave Scandinavia Feb. 10, and sail to Seattle Feb. 23.

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