Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
A Time Machine Called the Chilkoot Trail
(Part 2)
…almost seventy feet of snow fell on the summit of the Chilkoot that winter…
—Pierre Berton,
The Klondike Fever
FIRST LIGHT AND FEAR
jerked me awake at four-thirty. I woke Sharyn and Rhonda, think-
ing to get a really early start on the day, but Len's group was up before us. The Belgians of
course had already left.
The first three miles were an uphill grind, crossing and recrossing the same creek. Now
we left the tree line behind and were at the foot of the Scales, a steep slide of boulders the
size of minor planets with edges like steak knives. I looked up and thought, “What's a class
four rock scramble, the West Buttress of Denali?”
Some of the boulders were teetery and tippety and some were not and you never knew
which was which until you stepped on or grabbed one. I had a brief, rose-colored vision of
one of those tough, surly Tlingit packers who hired themselves out to the Klondike stam-
peders to pack goods over the pass, who were known to sit down in the middle of the trail
on strike for better wages, usually just before the summit. The Scales got its name because
this was where the packers would re-weigh their loads and jack up their prices.
Whatever they charged, it wasn't enough.
Although…a third of the way up I realized I was kind of enjoying myself. My pack was
still heavy, with a distressing tendency to hit me in the back of the head every time I bent
too far over, but I was moving upward, slowly, steadily, undeniably upward. I had a few
bruises, and one moment of real terror when I got stuck on the wrong side of a patch of
homicidal shale, but came the moment when I realized there were more boulders behind
me than were ahead of me, that the sun was beaming blindingly down, that the view
seemed to go all the way back to the Lynn Canal, and I was about to kick the Scales' butt,
in the best tradition of that long, long line. Only I was doing it in color.
