The Passing of the Prospector

WHEN I was a boy I walked into Fairbanks in 1905. I was but a soft chechako, and arrived with blisters covering my feet, as a result of "mushing" the 400-mile trail on foot. Because of them, the display windows of the trading posts were first to catch my eye-dog and horse collars, harness and sled parts! And because of my enthusiasm for things adventurous, I looked long upon the prospectors' gold pans, shovels, rifles, camp equipment, and what not. Today those windows are filled with motor car accessories, tires and repair parts; yes, even thermos bottles and vacuum cleaners! There were many chance meetings with little parties of prospectors in my youth, and it always set my blood to tingling. Sometimes it was a 70-year-old sun-baked son of the Arizona desert, wrangling his stubborn, faithful jenny away from some outfitting store, at others a shovel-ended poling b0at in northern Canada, \vith the partners and the dogs towing upstream along the bank, or an old sourdough, with tug-rope around neck and hand on the spruce sapling gee-pole, mushing along behind his two or three old, plodding malamutes, dragging a little Yukon sled piled high with rusty sheet-iron stove, pick and shovel, cross-cut saw and axe, rifle, bales of dog salmon, and other paraphernalia. These meetings envisioned the panning of old creek beds and draws in the search for as yet undiscovered pay-channels; they meant the toughest kind of work sinking a hole to bedrock in some far-away valley of promise; they suggested wood fires to thaw the frozen muck and gravel and crude windlass and hand-made tub to hoist the water and the mud; but loudest of all they spoke of Adventure.