After Sullivan’s was Big Delta, and what I remember of that is the kindness of Mrs. Robertson, the cook, and the big cheery front room with windows looking out across the Big Delta River and the high peaks of the Alaska Range beyond. But even more vivid in memory is Roy cranking the big phonograph and putting on records: “They’ve got some pretty good music at this place. I sure like Alma Gluck’s voice.”
So I heard Alma Gluck singing Tennyson’s “The Brook” and another lovely old thing called “Fiddle and I.” I remember the melodies of both and I remember most of the words, but I have never in all the years since been able to find the records or the songs. “Fiddle and I, wandering by, travel the world together!”
There was a sudden breathless knot in the pit of my stomach when Roy helped me up onto the seat of a little buckboard. I was leaving him here, and for the first time I felt I was leaving home and all the familiar things—yet at the same time eager for the next adventure. Roy took both my hands in his then and smiled and said: “Well, we’ve sure had a time, haven’t we? I’ll always remember this last trip. You have a fine summer, now. Maybe I’ll see you in the fall. Archie here will take good care of you.”
Archie did. He was red-haired, portly, and jovial, and he told me all about the country as we rattled and bumped over the wide gravel bars of countless streams. We were on wheels, but we were very slowly climbing, and coming in closer and closer to the mountains; they were all around us. Late in the afternoon we arrived at Rapids, and there was deep snow all around, and outside the two-story log roadhouse were a great number of dogs, chained and howling at our approach.
“They keep three teams here,” said Archie, “but this will be about their last trip too. Remember, you want to go with French John. Young Hudson and Milo will be disappointed, but John is one you shouldn’t miss. And here he comes now! Hey, John, bo-jour! Gotta real nice passenger for you. Roy says tell you to take real good care of her or he’ll see to you later! Told me to tell you for sure!”
Big strong hands were lifting me bodily down from the seat of the buckboard. Piercing black eyes under thick grizzled brows were looking me through and through. “Hah! Hello, young lady. You traveling all by yourself dis time o’ year, heh? Don’t worry—John take care of you, dat’s a fact. Come now. I got you bag. Here’s Flanagan. He’s gonna cook one hell of a fine dinner for you—pumpkin pie too. Maybe he was tink somebody nice comin’, eh?”
While he spoke he ushered me in, introducing me to round-faced, red-cheeked Flanagan, and then to the two young mushers who stood solemnly by the door. “Dis here’s Ray Hudson, and dis one, he Milo Hadjukovich. Dey pretty good boys too. But you boys don’t stand a chance: da young lady gonna ride in my sled. Roy, he say I gonna take care of her. Takes ole man like me you know to take bes’ care dese young ladies!”
The handsome, prematurely gray Hudson and the equally handsome Montenegrin Milo smiled at me; they said nothing, but looked fiercely at John.
There was caribou stew and pumpkin pie, and a great deal of talk from French John and Archie and Flanagan. Milo gazed at me from big melting brown eyes; Ray Hudson looked at his plate, ate with beautiful manners, and said nothing.
I had a tiny cubicle with clean blankets. After a few hours’ sleep, I was tucked into a big wolfskin robe in John’s basket sled sometime around midnight. For now the snow even high in the mountains was thawing and we must still travel at night.
But not silently, for John poured forth one story after another of the North, of his dogs, even while he struggled to keep the sled on the thawing, sliding trail which led up and around and ever up, with the high peaks glistening above us. Sometimes John talked to his seven beautiful Huskies in French, and I almost drowsed, snug in the furs, in spite of the bouncing and sliding of the sled on the soft trail. Once I roused suddenly with John’s face close to mine; he was crouching under the side of the sled, his shoulder under the rim of the basket, his voice exhorting the dogs. He was fairly holding the sled by main strength from turning over and rolling down the mountainside, for here the way led across a steep mountain face and the trail had thawed away. “Jus’ sit still; don’ be scare. We soon get to Yost’s now; dis place here de worse one. Ah, dere’s de bell!”
Bell? I sat up. We had come onto a level pass, and out in the middle hung a large bell in a framework of heavy timbers. A few yards away there was a black hole in a snowdrift, and above the hole, smoke.
“Funny places in dis worl’, eh?” said John. “You know, snow still very deep up here, roadhouse still mostly covered. Dis is top of Alaska Range—summit. And dat bell, she is save much people since early days. Wind, she blow like son of gun here in winter—roadhouse always cover in snow. Bell, she only ting to tell us where Yost’s is, you see? Wind so strong she ring bell. Whoa, Blackie, don’ you know roadhouse when you right dere?”
Milo had already arrived with his load of mail, and came over to help unload. “You, John, you slow today. You mus’ told plenty stories to young lady on way over.”
“Yes, dat’s right, and I tell her plenny more too, from here to Paxson. Pretty nice for de old man, to have young lady passenger on las’ trip I ever make for N. C. Company!”
They had shoveled the snow away from the windows; the big front room was still cavern-like but warm, and the two old Sourdoughs in charge were at once fussing over me, bringing me hot water to wash in. Was I all right? Was there anything more they could do for me? No pie this time, but fresh sourdough bread and caribou steaks, and four men urging me to eat: “You still got a long way to go, you know!” Young Ray Hudson, a man of mystery, fired my romantic imagination by saying absolutely nothing. I was sure he was a millionaire’s son, disappointed in love, seeking escape, solace, adventure, in the Far North. He showed no sign of wanting any comfort from me!
But John continued in exuberant spirits. “I tell you ’bout one time, big bunch of us mushers here at Yost’s; big storm she snow, she blow like all hell. I have to go see is my dogs all right; put on snowshoes, go feed my dogs just behind roadhouse. Man! She blow and snow so I can’t find roadhouse no more. I try to go, I find nothing. Then bang! I run into stovepipe, up on roof. I bang, bang on stovepipe with snowshoe; old Jim he get out through front shed and open door and holler like all blazes and I come tumble down to door. Dis place, she look good to me dat time! I bet you wonder why we old mushers stick with, eh? Crazy, whole bunch of us, Milo, you too! Now I quit; my last trip. Feel pretty funny. Going mining out Goldstream with my brudder now. I dunno will I like it. Miss my dogs, I betcha—maybe even miss dese fellows, eh? Gonna keep three my dogs.”
He ladled a big spoonful of jam onto a slab of bread, and the black eyes twinkled. “But I think maybe good luck, having young lady passenger my las’ trip!”
Four days had gone. There were to be five more. From Paxson’s I was with Lloyd Becket, and a double-ender sleigh and horses again. Lloyd was tall and blond and twenty-six, and had his passenger ride right beside him at the front of the sleigh. One whole day we were together. Did I think ten years’ difference in ages too much?
Down out of the mountains now, from one broad valley of rushing streams and spruce and birch forest into another. It seemed months since Roy and I had crossed the Tanana River at Salcha.
George Markham was next. At Meier’s roadhouse he stood at the head of the team after I was settled in the seat at the back of his double-ender, and said to Lloyd: “Well, go say good-by to your passenger.”
Lloyd came back, leaned over me, his blue eyes troubled, and took both my hands in his. “Good-by—good luck—remember me.” He turned quickly and was gone.
George was older, serious, educated, of solid opinions. He took wonderful care of me and discoursed on life and love and marriage and Alaska as we dragged along, and then wheeled along in a big wagon, for three days. He was divorced. “She was too young. The man ought to be at least ten years older than the girl. You remember that. Whatever you do, don’t go into it too fast; you want to be sure. See the fellow in as many kinds of circumstances as you can. See how he does in each one.”
He gave me a long look from keen gray eyes. “You’ll be meeting lots of fellows. They all want to get married. Just take your time!”
A few of the so-called roadhouses were usually avoided, but at breakup time one could not avoid any of them. On the second day with George, in a one-room cabin of monstrous untidiness, we had warmed-over fried potatoes and warmed-over moose steak. George made a face at the coffee. But the horror here was lessened by our meeting jolly Beezwanger, another teamster, with merry black eyes and round face, who was always smiling. He loved potatoes; he enjoyed them in any form. He told me that he had once spent two years in the Arctic with never a potato, and he had been crazy about them ever since. “Beez” also brought George the news that the bridge just beyond was out. They were bringing a wagon and team from the south, but we would have to leave our team and sleigh here. The mouse-like proprietor of this strange hostelry had one old horse, also mouse-like, and a small Yukon sleigh. “Beez” set off to meet the oncoming wagon. George and I walked behind the Yukon sleigh, on which the mail and my luggage were piled. It was wet underfoot, but I had my overshoes and the air was warm and sweet. I threw my coat onto the load; the flannel middy blouse was warm enough. Here to the south the birch and cottonwood were already in bud; pasqueflowers and white anemones dotted the slopes.
George suddenly turned and said: “Do you get dizzy easily?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Well, I just wondered, because we’re gonna cross this stream on a whipstick—what’s left of the bridge. Here we are. Think you can make it? I’ll take the old pony through the creek.”
The two logs were about eight inches wide. It was fun.
On the other side the poor old pony was pulling over bare ground. We had left all snow behind. The country ahead, green hills rising to snowy mountains, looked inviting and different. “Well,” said George as we slogged along, “we’ll be in Copper Center tonight, a real nice place. There’s a whole village there, and the Copper River Indians school and store. It’s on the river, real pretty. And tomorrow we’ll be in Chitina and I’ll take you to Mrs. Handy at the hotel and you’ll catch the train to Cordova next afternoon. The train gets into Cordova about midnight, but I bet your dad will be right there waiting for you. So your big journey is about over—nine days of it. Whoa there!”
The old horse was only too willing to stop. George stooped to the ground by the horse’s left hind foot. There in the clod of mud raised by the hoof shone two silver dollars.
“Well, young lady, speaking of luck—here’s ours, yours and mine!”
He wiped the coins off on his trousers and handed me one. “Keep this always. It’s your lucky dollar. I’ll keep the other for mine. Good luck!” I still have that dollar. Every once in a while a grandchild goes through my jewel box, handling, admiring, and always: “Oh, here’s a dollar!”
“Leave it alone. That’s my lucky dollar.”
And the scene comes back. A warm, fragrant spring day near Copper Center, near the end of those nine days “safe as in God’s pocket.”