Hitachi Telescopic Arm ZX210LC-5B

ZX330-5 Class WDDD-EN-OP-00

Workshop Manual
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Hitachi Telescopic Arm ZX210LC-5B ZX330-5 Class WDDD-EN-OP-00 Workshop

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"ukala" and for other provisions. These are everywhere known as
"caches."
The Innuit's summer home is very different from his winter home. It is
erected above ground, of small pole frames, roofed with skins and
open in front—somewhat like an Indian tepee. There is no opening in
the roof, all cooking being done in the open air in summer.
These natives were once thrifty hunters and trappers of wild animals,
from the reindeer down to the beaver and marten, but the cannery life
has so debauched them that they have no strength left for this
energetic work.
Formerly every Innuit settlement contained a "kashga," or town hall,
which was built after the fashion of all winter houses, only larger. There
the men gathered to talk and manage the affairs of their small world. It
was a kind of "corner grocery" or "back-room" of a village drug store.
The men usually slept there, and in the mornings their wives arose,
cooked their breakfast, and carried it to them in the kashga, turning
their backs while their husbands ate—it being considered exceedingly
bad form for a woman to look at a man when he is eating in public,
although they think nothing of bathing together. The habits of the
people are nauseatingly filthy, and the interiors of their dwellings must
be seen to be appreciated.
Near the canneries the natives obtain work during the summer, but
soon squander their wages in debauches and are left, when winter
arrives, in a starving condition.
The season is very short in Bristol Bay, but the "run" of salmon is
enormous. When this district is operating thirteen canneries, it packs
each day two hundred and fifty thousand fish. In Nushagak Bay the
fish frequently run so heavily that they catch in the propellers of
launches and stop the engines.
Bristol Bay has always been a dangerous locality to navigate. It is only
by the greatest vigilance and the most careful use of the lead, upon
approaching the shore, that disaster can be averted.
Nearly all the canneries in this region are operated by the Alaska
Packers Association, which also operates the greater number of
canneries in Alaska.
In 1907 the value of food fishes taken from Alaskan waters was nearly
ten millions of dollars; in the forty years since the purchase of that
country, one hundred millions, although up to 1885 the pack was
insignificant. At the present time it exceeds by more than half a million
cases the entire pack of British Columbia, Puget Sound, Columbia River,
and the Oregon and Washington coasts.
In 1907 forty-four canneries packed salmon in Alaska, and those on
Bristol Bay were of the most importance.
The Nushagak River rivals the Karluk as a salmon stream, but not in
picturesque beauty. The Nushagak and Wood rivers were both closed
during the past season by order of the President, to protect the salmon
industry of the future.
Cod is abundant in Behring Sea, Bristol Bay, and south of the Aleutian,
Shumagin, and Kadiak islands, covering an area of thirty thousand
miles. Halibut is plentiful in all the waters of southeastern Alaska. This
stupid-looking fish is wiser than it appears, and declines to swim into
the parlor of a net. It is still caught by hook and line, is packed in ice,
and sent, by regular steamer, to Seattle—whence it goes in refrigerator
cars to the markets of the east.
Herring, black cod, candle-fish, smelt, tom-cod, whitefish, black bass,
flounders, clams, crabs, mussels, shrimp, and five species of trout—
steelhead, Dolly Varden, cutthroat, rainbow, and lake—are all found in
abundance in Alaska.
Cook, entering Bristol Bay in 1778, named it for the Earl of Bristol, with
difficulty avoiding its shoals. He saw the shoaled entrance to a river
which he called Bristol River, but which must have been the Nushagak.
He saw many salmon leaping, and found them in the maws of cod.
The following day, seeing a high promontory, he sent Lieutenant
Williamson ashore. Possession of the country in his Majesty's name was
taken, and a bottle was left containing the names of Cook's ships and
the date of discovery. To the promontory was given the name which it
retains of Cape Newenham.
Proceeding up the coast Cook met natives who were of a friendly
disposition, but who seemed unfamiliar with the sight of white men and
vessels; they were dressed somewhat like Aleutians, wearing, also, skin
hoods and wooden bonnets.
The ships were caught in the shoals of Kuskokwim Bay, but Cook does
not appear to have discovered this great river, which is the second in
size of Alaskan rivers and whose length is nine hundred miles. In the
bay the tides have a fifty-foot rise and fall, entering in a tremendous
bore. This vicinity formerly furnished exceedingly fine black bear skins.
Cook's surgeon died of consumption and was buried on an island which
was named Anderson, in his memory. Upon an island about four
leagues in circuit a rude sledge was found, and the name of Sledge
Island was bestowed upon it. He entered Norton Sound, but only
"suspected" the existence of a mighty river, completely missing the
Yukon.
He named the extreme western point of North America, which plunges
out into Behring Sea, almost meeting the East Cape of Siberia, Cape
Prince of Wales. In the centre of the strait are the two Diomede
Islands, between which the boundary line runs, one belonging to
Russia, the other to the United States.
Cook sailed up into the Frozen Ocean and named Icy Cape, narrowly
missing disaster in the ice pack. There he saw many herds of sea-
horses, or walrus, lying upon the ice in companies numbering many
hundreds. They huddled over one another like swine, roaring and
braying; so that in the night or in a fog they gave warning of the
nearness of ice. Some members of the herd kept watch; they aroused
those nearest to them and warned them of the approach of enemies.
Those, in turn, warned others, and so the word was passed along in a
kind of ripple until the entire herd was awake. When fired upon, they
tumbled one over another into the sea, in the utmost confusion. The
female defends her young to the very last, and at the sacrifice of her
own life, if necessary, fighting ferociously.
The walrus does not in the least resemble a horse, and it is difficult to
understand whence the name arose. It is somewhat like a seal, only
much larger. Those found by Cook in the Arctic were from nine to
twelve feet in length and weighed about a thousand pounds. Their
tusks have always been valuable, and have greatly increased in value
of recent years, as the walrus diminish in number.
Cook named Cape Denbigh and Cape Darby on either side of Norton
Bay; and Besborough Island south of Cape Denbigh.
Going ashore, he encountered a family of natives which he and Captain
King describe in such wise that no one, having read the description,
can ever enter Norton Sound without recalling it. The family consisted
of a man, his wife, and a child; and a fourth person who bore the
human shape, and that was all, for he was the most horribly, the most
pitiably, deformed cripple ever seen, heard of, or imagined. The
husband was blind; and all were extremely unpleasant in appearance.
The underlips were bored.
These natives would have evidently sold their souls for iron. For four
knives made out of old iron hoop, they traded four hundred pounds of
fish—and Cook must have lost his conscience overboard with his
anchor in Kuskokwim Bay. He recovered the anchor!
He gave the girl-child a few beads, "whereupon the mother burst into
tears, then the father, then the cripple, and, at last, the girl herself."
Many different passages, or sentences, have been called "the most
pathetic ever written"; but, myself, I confess that I have never been so
powerfully or so lastingly moved by any sentence as I was when I first
read that one of Cook's. Almost equalling it, however, in pathos is the
simple account of Captain King's of his meeting with the same family.
He was on shore with a party obtaining wood when these people
approached in a canoe. He beckoned to them to land, and the husband
and wife came ashore. He gave the woman a knife, saying that he
would give her a larger one for some fish. She made signs for him to
follow them.
"I had proceeded with them about a mile, when the man, in crossing a
stony beach, fell down and cut his foot very much. This made me stop,
upon which the woman pointed to the man's eyes, which, I observed,
were covered with a thick, white film. He afterward kept close to his
wife, who apprised him of the obstacles in his way. The woman had a
little child on her back, covered with a hood, and which I took for a
bundle until I heard it cry. At about two miles distant we came upon
their open skin-boat, which was turned on its side, the convex part
toward the wind, and served for their house. I was now made to
perform a singular operation upon the man's eyes. First, I was directed
to hold my breath; afterward, to breathe on the diseased eyes; and
next, to spit on them. The woman then took both my hands and,
pressing them to his stomach, held them there while she related some
calamitous history of her family, pointing sometimes to her husband,
sometimes to a frightful cripple belonging to the family, and sometimes
to her child."
Berries, birch, willow, alders, broom, and spruce were found. Beer was
brewed of the spruce.
Cook now sailed past that divinely beautiful shore upon which St.
Michael's is situated, and named Stuart Island and Cape Stephens, but
did not hear the Yukon calling him. He did find shoal water, very much
discolored and muddy, and "inferred that a considerable river runs into
the sea." If he had only guessed how considerable! Passing south, he
named Clerk's, Gore's, and Pinnacle Islands, and returned to Unalaska.
 CHAPTER XLI
A famous engineering feat was the building of the White Pass and
Yukon Railway from Skaguay to White Horse. Work was commenced on
this road in May, 1898, and finished in January, 1900.
Its completion opened the interior of Alaska and the Klondike to the
world, and brought enduring fame to Mr. M. J. Heney, the builder, and
Mr. E. C. Hawkins, the engineer.
In 1897 Mr. Heney went North to look for a pass through the Coast
Range. Up to that time travel to the Klondike had been about equally
divided between the Dyea, Skaguay, and Jack Dalton trails; the route
by way of the Stikine and Hootalinqua rivers; and the one to St.
Michael's by ocean steamers and thence up the Yukon by small and, at
that time, inferior steamers.
Mr. Heney and his engineers at once grasped the possibilities of the
"Skaguay Trail." This pass was first explored and surveyed by Captain
Moore, of Mr. Ogilvie's survey of June, 1887, who named it White Pass,
for Honorable Thomas White, Canadian Minister of the Interior. It could
not have been more appropriately named, even though named for a
man, as there is never a day in the warmest weather that snow-peaks
are not in view to the traveller over this pass; while from September to
June the trains wind through sparkling and unbroken whiteness.
Mr. Heney, coming out to finance the road, faced serious difficulties and
discouragements in America. Owing to the enormous cost of this short
piece of road, as planned, as well as the daring nature of its
conception, the boldest financiers of this country, upon investigation,
declined to entertain the proposition.
Mr. Heney was a young man who, up to that time, although possessed
of great ability, had made no marked success—his opportunity not
having as yet presented itself.
Recovering from his first disappointment, he undauntedly voyaged to
England, where some of the most conservative capitalists, moved and
convinced by his enthusiasm and his clear descriptions of the northern
country and its future, freely financed the railroad whose successful
building was to become one of the most brilliant achievements of the
century.
They were entirely unacquainted with Mr. Heney, and after this proof of
confidence in him and his project, the word "fail" dropped out of the
English language, so far as the intrepid young builder was concerned.
"After that," he said, "I could not fail."
He returned and work was at once begun. A man big of body, mind,
and heart, he was specially fitted for the perilous and daring work.
Calm, low-voiced, compelling in repressed power and unswerving
courage and will, he was a harder worker than any of his men.
Associated with him was a man equally large and equally gifted. Mr.
Hawkins is one of the most famous engineers of this country, if not of
any country.
The difficult miles that these two men tramped; the long, long hours of
each day that they worked; the hardships that they endured,
unflinching; the appalling obstacles that they overcame—are a part of
Alaskan history.
The first twenty miles of this road from Skaguay cost two millions of
dollars; the average cost to the summit was a hundred thousand
dollars a mile, and now and then a single mile cost a hundred and fifty
thousand dollars.
The road is built on mountainsides so precipitous that men were
suspended from the heights above by ropes, to prevent disaster while
cutting grades. At one point a cliff a hundred and twenty feet high,
eighty feet deep, and twenty feet in width was blasted entirely away
for the road-bed.
Thirty-five hundred men in all were employed in constructing the road,
but thirty of whom died, of accident and disease, during the
construction. Taking into consideration the perilous nature of the work,
the rigors of the winter climate, and the fact that work did not cease
during the worst weather, this is a remarkably small proportion.
A force of finer men never built a railroad. Many were prospectors,
eager to work their way into the land of gold; others were graduates of
eastern colleges; all were self-respecting, energetic men.
Skaguay is a thousand miles from Seattle; and from the latter city and
Vancouver, men, supplies, and all materials were shipped. This was not
one of the least of the hindrances to a rapid completion of the road.
Rich strikes were common occurrences at that time. In one day, after
the report of a new discovery in the Atlin country had reached
headquarters, fifteen hundred men drew their pay and stampeded for
the new gold fields.
But all obstacles to the building of the road were surmounted. Within
eighteen months from the date of beginning work it was completed to
White Horse, a distance of one hundred and eleven miles, and trains
were running regularly.

A legend tells us that an old Indian chief saw the canoe of his son
upset in the waves lashed by the terrific winds that blow down
between the mountains. The lad was drowned before the helpless
father's eyes, and in his sorrow the old chief named the place Shkag-
ua, or "Home of the North Wind." It has been abbreviated to Skaguay;
and has been even further disfigured by a w, in place of the u.
Between salt water and the foot of White Pass Trail, two miles up the
canyon, in the winter of 1897-1898, ten thousand men were camped.
Some were trying to get their outfits packed over the trail; others were
impatiently waiting for the completion of the wagon road which George
A. Brackett was building. This road was completed almost to the
summit when the railroad overtook it and bought its right of way. It is
not ten years old; yet it is always called "the old Brackett road."
At half-past nine of a July morning our train left Skaguay for White
Horse. We traversed the entire length of the town before entering the
canyon. There are low, brown flats at the mouth of the river, which
spreads over them in shallow streams fringed with alders and
cottonwoods.
Above, on both sides, rose the gray, stony cliffs. Here and there were
wooded slopes; others were rosy with fireweed that moved softly, like
clouds.
We soon passed the ruined bridge of the Brackett road, the water
brawling noisily, gray-white, over the stones.
Our train was a long one drawn by four engines. There were a
baggage-car, two passenger-cars, and twenty flat and freight cars
loaded with boilers, machinery, cattle, chickens, merchandise, and
food-stuffs of all kinds.
After crossing Skaguay River the train turns back, climbing rapidly, and
Skaguay and Lynn Canal are seen shining in the distance.... We turn
again. The river foams between mountains of stone, hundreds of feet
below—so far below that the trees growing sparsely along its banks
seem as the tiniest shrubs.
The Brackett road winds along the bed of the river, while the old White
Pass, or Heartbreak, Trail climbs and falls along the stone and
crumbling shale of the opposite mountain—in many places rising to an
altitude of several hundred feet, in others sinking to a level with the
river.
The Brackett road ends at White Pass City, where, ten years ago, was
the largest tent-city in the world; and where now are only the
crumbling ruins of a couple of log cabins, silence, and loneliness.
At White Pass City that was, the old Trail of Heartbreak leads up the
canyon of the north fork of the Skaguay, directly away from the
railroad. The latter makes a loop of many miles and returns to the
canyon hundreds of feet above its bed. The scenery is of constantly
increasing grandeur. Cascades, snow-peaks, glaciers, and overhanging
cliffs of stone make the way one of austere beauty. In two hours and a
half we climb leisurely, with frequent stops, from the level of the sea to
the summit of the pass; and although skirting peaks from five to eight
thousand feet in height, we pass through only one short tunnel.
It is a thrilling experience. The rocking train clings to the leaning wall
of solid stone. A gulf of purple ether sinks sheer on the other side—so
sheer, so deep, that one dare not look too long or too intently into its
depth. Hundreds of feet below, the river roars through its narrow
banks, and in many places the train overhangs it. In others, solid rock
cliffs jut out boldly over the train.
After passing through the tunnel, the train creeps across the steel
cantilever bridge which seems to have been flung, as a spider flings his
glistening threads, from cliff to cliff, two hundred and fifteen feet above
the river, foaming white over the immense boulders that here barricade
its headlong race to the sea.
Beautiful and impressive though this trip is in the green time and the
bloom time of the year, it remains for the winter to make it sublime.
The mountains are covered deeply with snow, which drifts to a
tremendous depth in canyons and cuts. Through these drifts the
powerful rotary snow-plough cleaves a white and glistening tunnel,
along which the train slowly makes its way. The fascinating element of
momentary peril—of snow-slides burying the train—enters into the
winter trip.
Near Clifton one looks down upon an immense block of stone, the size
of a house but perfectly flat, beneath which three men were buried by
a blast during the building of the road. The stone is covered with grass
and flowers and is marked with a white cross.
At the summit, twenty miles from Skaguay, is a red station named
White Pass. A monument marks the boundary between the United
States and Yukon Territory. The American flag floats on one side, the
Canadian on the other. A cone of rocks on the crest of the hill leading
away from the sea marks the direction the boundary takes.
The White Pass Railway has an average grade of three per cent, and it
ascends with gradual, splendid sweeps around mountainsides and
projecting cliffs.
The old trail is frequently called "Dead Horse Trail." Thousands of
horses and mules were employed by the stampeders. The poor beasts
were overloaded, overworked, and, in many instances, treated with
unspeakable cruelty. It was one of the shames of the century, and no
humane person can ever remember it without horror.
At one time in 1897 more than five thousand dead horses were
counted on the trail. Some had lost their footing and were dashed to
death on the rocks below; others had sunken under their cruel burdens
in utter exhaustion; others had been shot; and still others had been
brutally abandoned and had slowly starved to death.
"What became of the horses," I asked an old stampeder, "when you
reached Lake Bennett? Did you sell them?"
"Lord, no, ma'am," returned he, politely; "there wa'n't nothing left of
'em to sell. You see, they was dead."
"But I mean the ones that did not die."
"There wa'n't any of that kind, ma'am."
"Do you mean," I asked, in dismay, "that they all died?—that none
survived that awful experience?"
"That's about it, ma'am. When we got to Lake Bennett there wa'n't any
more use for horses. Nobody was goin' the other way—and if they had
been, the horses that reached Lake Bennett wa'n't fit to stand alone,
let alone pack. The ones that wa'n't shot, died of starvation. Yes,
ma'am, it made a man's soul sick."

Boundary lines are interesting in all parts of the world; but the one at
the summit of the White Pass is of unusual historic interest. Side by
side float the flags of America and Canada. They are about twenty
yards from the little station, and every passenger left the train and
walked to them, solely to experience a big patriotic American, or
Canadian, thrill; to strut, glow, and walk back to the train again. Myself,
I gave thanks to God, silently and alone, that those two flags were
floating side by side there on that mountain, beside the little sapphire
lake, instead of at the head of Chilkoot Inlet.
There are Canadian and United States inspectors of customs at the
summit; also a railway agent. Their families live there with them, and
there is no one else and nothing else, save the little sapphire lake lying
in the bare hills.
Its blue waves lipped the porch whereon sat the young, sweet-faced
wife of the Canadian inspector, with her baby in its carriage at her side.
This bit of liquid sapphire, scarcely larger than an artificial pond in a
park, is really one of the chief sources of the Yukon—which, had these
clear waters turned toward Lynn Canal, instead of away from it, might
have never been. It seems so marvellous. The merest breath, in the
beginning, might have toppled their liquid bulk over into the canyon
through which we had so slowly and so enchantingly mounted, and in
an hour or two they might have forced their foaming, furious way to
the ocean. But some power turned the blue waters to the north and set
them singing down through the beautiful chain of lakes—Lindeman,
Bennett, Tagish, Marsh, Labarge—winding, widening, past ramparts
and mountains, through canyons and plains, to Behring Sea, twenty-
three hundred miles from this lonely spot.
This beginning of the Yukon is called the Lewes River. Far away, in the
Pelly Mountains, the Pelly River rises and flows down to its confluence
with the Lewes at old Fort Selkirk, and the Yukon is born of their union.
The Lewes has many tributaries, the most important of which is the
Hootalinqua—or, as the Indians named it, Teslin—having its source in
Teslin Lake, near the source of the Stikine River.
After leaving the summit the railway follows the shores of the river and
the lakes, and the way is one of loveliness rather than grandeur. The
saltish atmosphere is left behind, and the air tings with the sweetness
of mountain and lake.
We had eaten an early breakfast, and we did not reach an eating
station until we arrived at the head of Lake Bennett at half after one
o'clock; and then we were given fifteen minutes in which to eat our
lunch and get back to the train.
I do not think I have ever been so hungry in my life—and fifteen
minutes! The dining room was clean and attractive; two long, narrow
tables, or counters, extended the entire length of the room. They were
decorated with great bouquets of wild flowers; the sweet air from the
lake blew in through open windows and shook the white curtains out
into the room.
The tables were provided with good food, all ready to be eaten. There
were ham sandwiches made of lean ham. It was not edged with fat
and embittered with mustard; it must have been baked, too, because
no boiled ham could be so sweet. There were big brown lima beans,
also baked, not boiled, and dill-pickles—no insipid pin-moneys, but
good, sour, delicious dills! There were salads, home-made bread, "salt-
rising" bread and butter, cakes and cookies and fruit—and huckleberry
pie. Blueberries, they are called in Alaska, but they are our own
mountain huckleberries.
No twelve-course luncheon, with a different wine for each course,
could impress itself upon my memory as did that lunch-counter meal.
We ate as children eat; with their pure, animal enjoyment and
satisfaction. For fifteen minutes we had not a desire in the world save
to gratify our appetites with plain, wholesome food. There was no
crowding, no selfishness and rudeness,—as there had been in that wild
scene on the excursion-boat, where the struggle had been for place
rather than for food,—but a polite consideration for one another. And
outside the sun shone, the blue waves sparkled and rippled along the
shore, and their music came in through the open windows.
Here, in 1897, was a city of tents. Several thousand men and women
camped here, waiting for the completion of boats and rafts to convey
themselves and their outfits down the lakes and the river to the golden
land of their dreams.
Standing between cars, clinging to a rattling brake, I made the
acquaintance of Cyanide Bill, and he told me about it.
"Tents!" said he. "Did you say tents? Hunh! Why, lady, tents was as
thick here in '97 and '98 as seeds on a strawberry. They was so thick it
took a man an hour to find his own. Hunh! You tripped up every other
step on a tent-peg. I guess nobody knows anything about tents unless
he was mushin' around Lake Bennett in the summer of '97. From five to
ten thousand men and women was camped here off an' on. Fresh ones
by the hundred come strugglin', sweatin', dyin', in over the trail every
day, and every day hundreds got their rafts finished, bundled their
things and theirselves on to 'em, and went tearin' and yellin' down the
lake, gloatin' over the poor tired-out wretches that just got in. Often as
not they come sneakin' back afoot without any raft and without any
outfit and worked their way back to the states to get another. Them
that went slow, went sure, and got in ahead of the rushers.
"I wisht you could of seen the tent town!—young fellows right out of
college flauntin' around as if they knew somethin'; old men, stooped
and gray-headed; gamblers, tin horns, cut-throats, and thieves; honest
women, workin' their way in with their husbands or sons, their noses
bent to the earth, with heavy packs on their backs, like men; and gay,
painted dance-hall girls, sailin' past 'em on horseback and dressed to
kill and livin' on the fat of the land. I bet more good women went to
the bad on this here layout than you could shake a stick at. It seemed
to get on to their nerves to struggle along, week after week, packin'
like animals, sufferin' like dogs, et up by mosquitoes and gnats, pushed
and crowded out by men—and then to see them gay girls go singin' by,
livin' on luxuries, men fallin' all over theirselves to wait on 'em,
champagne to drink—it sure did get on to their nerves!
 Copyright by F. H. Nowell, Seattle
Council City and Solomon River Railroad—A Characteristic
Landscape of Seward Peninsula
"You see, somehow, up here, in them days, things didn't seem the way
they do down below. Nature kind of gets in her work ahead of custom
up here. Wrong don't look so terrible different from right to a woman a
thousand miles from civilization. When she sees women all around her
walkin' on flowers, and her own feet blistered and bleedin' on stones
and thorns, she's pretty apt to ask herself whether bein' good and
workin' like a horse pays. And up here on the trail in '97 the minute a
woman begun to ask herself that question, it was all up with her. The
end was in plain sight, like the nose on a man's face. The dance hall on
in Dawson answered the question practical.
"Of course, lots of 'em went in straight and stayed straight; and they're
the ones that made Dawson and saved Dawson. You get a handful of
good women located in a minin'-camp and you can build up a town,
and you can't do it before, mounted police or no mounted police."
I had heard these hard truths of the Trail of Heartbreak before; but
having been worded more vaguely, they had not impressed me as they
did now, spoken with the plain, honest directness of the old trail days.
"If you want straight facts about '97," the collector had said to me, "I'll
introduce you to Cyanide Bill, out there. He was all through here time
and again. He will tell you everything you want to know. But be careful
what you ask him; he'll answer anything—and he doesn't talk parlor."
"The hardships such women went through," continued Cyanide Bill,
"the insults and humiliations they faced and lived down, ought to of set
'em on a pe-des-tal when all was said and done and decency had the
upper hand. The time come when the other'ns got their come-upin's;
when they found out whether it paid to live straight.
"The world'll never see such a rush for gold again," went on Cyanide
Bill, after a pause. "I tell you it takes a lot to make any impress on me,
I've been toughenin' up in this country so many years; but when I
arrives and sees the orgy goin' on along this trail, my heart up and
stood still a spell. The strong ones was all a-trompin' the weak ones
down. The weak ones went down and out, and the strong ones never
looked behind. Men just went crazy. Men that had always been kind-
hearted went plumb locoed and 'u'd trample down their best friend, to
get ahead of him. They got just like brutes and didn't know their own
selves. It's no wonder the best women give up. Did you ever hear the
story of Lady Belle?"
I remembered Lady Belle, probably because of the name, but I had
never heard the details of her tragic story, and I frankly confessed that
I would like to hear them—"parlor" language or "trail," it mattered not.
"Well,"—he half closed his eyes and stared down the blue lake,—"she
come along this trail the first of July, the prettiest woman you ever laid
eyes on. Her husband was with her. He seemed to be kind to her at
first, but the horrors of the trail worked on him, and he went kind of
locoed. He took to abusin' her and blamin' her for everything. She
worked like a dog and he treated her about like one; but she never lost
her beauty nor her sweetness. She had the sweetest smile I ever saw
on any human bein's face; and she was the only one that thought
about others.
"'Don't crowd!' she used to cry, with that smile of her'n. 'We're all
havin' a hard time together.'
"Well, they lost their outfit in White Horse Rapids; her husband cursed
her and said it wouldn't of happened if she hadn't been hell-bent to
come along; he took to drinkin' and up and left her there at the rapids.
He went back to the states, sayin' he didn't ever want to see her again.
"She was left there without an ounce of grub or a cent of money.
Yakataga Pete had been workin' along the trail with a big outfit, and
had gone on in ahead. He'd fell in love with her before he knew she
was married. He went on up into the cricks, and when he come down
to Dawson six months later, she was in a dance hall. Dawson was wild
about her. They called her Lady Belle because she was always such a
lady.
"Yakataga went straight to her and asked her to marry him. She burst
out into the most terrible cryin' you ever hear. 'As if I could ever marry
anybody!' she cries out; and that's all the answer he ever got. We
found out she had a little blind sister down in the states. She had to
send money to keep her in a blind school. She danced and acted
cheerful; but her face was as white as chalk, and her big dark eyes
looked like a fawn's eyes when you've shot it and not quite killed it,
so's it can't get away from you, nor die, nor anything; but she was
always just as sweet as ever.
"Two months after that she—she—killed herself. Yakataga was up in
the cricks. He come down and buried her."
It was told, the simple and tragic tale of Lady Belle, and presently
Cyanide Bill went away and left me.
The breeze grew cooler; it crested the waves with silver. Pearly clouds
floated slowly overhead and were reflected in the depths below.
The mountains surrounding Lake Bennett are of an unusual color. It is
a soft old-rose in the distance. The color is not caused by light and
shade; nor by the sun; nor by flowers. It is the color of the mountains
themselves. They are said to be almost solid mountains of iron, which
gives them their name of "Iron-Crowned," I believe; but to me they will
always be the Rose-colored Mountains. They soften and enrich the
sparkling, almost dazzling, blue atmosphere, and give the horizon a
look of sunset even at midday. The color reminded me of the dull old-
rose of Columbia Glacier.
Lake Bennett dashes its foam-crested blue waves along the pebbly
beaches and stone terraces for a distance of twenty-seven miles. At its
widest it is not more than two miles, and it narrows in places to less
than half a mile. It winds and curves like a river.
The railway runs along the eastern shore of the lake, and mountains
slope abruptly from the opposite shore to a height of five thousand
feet. The scenery is never monotonous. It charms constantly, and the
air keeps the traveller as fresh and sparkling in spirit as champagne.
For many miles a solid road-bed, four or five feet above the water, is
hewn out of the base of the mountains; the terrace from the railway to
the water is a solid blaze of bloom; white sails, blown full, drift up and
down the blue water avenue; cloud-fragments move silently over the
nearer rose-colored mountains; while in the distance, in every direction
that the eye may turn, the enchanted traveller is saluted by some
lonely and beautiful peak of snow. It is an exquisitely lovely lake.
We had passed Lake Lindeman—named by Lieutenant Schwatka for Dr.
Lindeman of the Breman Geographical Society—before reaching
Bennett.
Lake Lindeman is a clear and lovely lake seven miles long, half a mile
wide, and of a good depth for any navigation required here. A
mountain stream pours tumultuously into it, adding to its picturesque
beauty.
Sea birds haunt these lakes, drift on to the Yukon, and follow the
voyager until they meet their silvery fellows coming up from Behring
Sea.
Between Lakes Lindeman and Bennett the river connecting link is only
three quarters of a mile long, about thirty yards wide, and only two or
three feet deep. It is filled with shoals, rapids, cascades, boulders, and
bars; and navigation is rendered so difficult and so dangerous that in
the old "raft" days outfits were usually portaged to Lake Bennett.
During the rush to the Klondike a saw-mill was established at the head
of Lake Bennett, and lumber for boat building was sold for one hundred
dollars a thousand feet.
The air in these lake valleys on a warm day is indescribably soft and
balmy. It is scented with pine, balm, cottonwood, and flowers. The
lower slopes are covered with fireweed, larkspur, dandelions, monk's-
hood, purple asters, marguerites, wild roses, dwarf goldenrod, and
many other varieties of wild flowers. The fireweed is of special beauty.
Its blooms are larger and of a richer red than along the coast. Blooms
covering acres of hillside seem to float like a rosy mist suspended in
the atmosphere. The grasses are also very beautiful, some having the
rich, changeable tints of a humming-bird.
The short stream a couple of hundred yards in width connecting Lake
Bennett with the next lake—a very small, but pretty one which
Schwatka named Nares—was called by the natives "the place where
the caribou cross," and now bears the name of Caribou Crossing. At
certain seasons the caribou were supposed to cross this part of the
river in vast herds on their way to different feeding-grounds, the
current being very shallow at this point.
There is a small settlement here now, and boats were waiting to carry
passengers to the Atlin mining district. The caribou have now found
less populous territories in which to range. In the winter of 1907-1908
they ranged in droves of many thousands—some reports said hundreds
of thousands—through the hills and valleys of the Stewart, Klondike,
and Sixty-Mile rivers, in the Upper Yukon country.
Miners killed them by the hundreds, dressed them, and stored them in
the shafts and tunnels of their mines, down in the eternally frozen
caverns of the earth—thus supplying themselves with the most
delicious meat for a year. The trek of caribou from the Tanana River
valley to the head of White River consumed more than ninety days in
passing the head of the Forty-Mile valley—at least a thousand a day
passing during that period. They covered from one to five miles in
width, and trod the snow down as solidly as it is trodden in a city
street. A great wolf-pack clung to the flank of the herd. The wolves
easily cut out the weak or tired-out caribou and devoured them.

Caribou Crossing is a lonely and desolate cluster of tents and cabins

huddling in the sand on the water's edge. Considerable business is
transacted here, and many passengers transfer here in summer to
Atlin. In winter they leave the train at Log-Cabin, which we passed
during the forenoon, and make the journey overland in sleighs.
The voyage from Caribou Crossing to Atlin is by way of a chain of blue
lakes, pearled by snow mountains. It is a popular round-trip tourist trip,
which may be taken with but little extra expense from Skaguay.
Tagish Lake, as it was named by Dr. Dawson,—the distinguished British
explorer and chief director of the natural history and geological survey
of the Dominion of Canada,—was also known as Bove Lake. Ten miles
from its head it is joined by Taku Arm—Tahk-o Lake, it was called by
Schwatka.
The shores of Tagish Lake are terraced beautifully to the water, the
terraces rising evenly one above another. They were probably formed
by the regular movement of ice in other ages, when the waters in
these valleys were deeper and wider. There are some striking points of
limestone in this vicinity, their pearl-white shoulders gleaming brilliantly
in the sunshine, with sparkling blue waves dashing against them.
Marsh Lake, and another with a name so distasteful that I will not write
it, are further links in the brilliant sapphire water chain by which the
courageous voyagers of the Heartbreak days used to drift hopefully, yet
fearfully, down to the Klondike. The bed of a lake which was
unintentionally drained completely dry by the builders of the railroad is
passed just before reaching Grand Canyon.