A Tale of Gold by Thelma Hatch Wyss

Author:Thelma Hatch Wyss
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Margaret K. McElderry Books
Published: 2007-10-08T04:00:00+00:00

CITY OF GOLD

Tip and I spent several days at the White Horse Rapids repairing our raft. We found two oars and a pole that had washed ashore, possibly our own, but we had to trade twenty-five pounds of bacon for a steering oar.

We made a new mount for the steering oar from wreckage strewn about, but we did not replace the mast and sail. We would depend upon the river’s current for the remainder of the journey.

Daily we checked the beach for our stove, but if it washed ashore, we never found it. We traded our last bottle of eucalyptus oil for a stove from a man who had three.

“No doubt our own,” Tip said, sighing.

I did not complain, however, because our supplies were intact.

“I knew a man once,” I told Tip, “named Feathers.” I smiled, remembering. “He would love it here. This is his kind of place.”

We pushed off for Lake Laberge, the last of the Yukon lakes, after which rivers flowed all the way to Dawson City and on to the Bering Sea.

“Any more rapids?” Tip asked.

“Just a couple of little ones,” I said, checking my worn map. “About a hundred miles from here. Five Finger Rapids and Rink Rapids. Nothing to worry about.”

On Lake Laberge, as on Lake Marsh, we spent a lot of time on gravel bars. We talked about the gold, and we fished for grayling. I was glad when Tip said she was sick of fish, as it gave me an excuse to go hunting again. One morning early we poled the raft over to the shore. I wrapped myself in mosquito netting, grabbed my rifle, and took off into the woods.

“I will return with game,” I said.

There were animals in the woods—moose, bear, caribou, and rabbits. I had seen them from the raft. Now I could see only their tracks in the damp earth.

Finally, I sat down under a clump of quaking aspens with my rifle cocked, and I waited.

After a while a red squirrel ran down the trunk of a spruce tree, darted in front of me, and scampered up another tree. I fired once.

I ran back to the raft, spattered with mud and pursued by hordes of mosquitoes. But victorious. At least I was smarter than a red squirrel.

Because of the mosquitoes, we pushed offshore and floated slowly down the clear green waters of Lake Laberge. While I had been hunting, the queen had again decorated the raft with woodland flowers. And as we rowed out, a trail of fragrant blossoms followed in our wake.

“I’ll cook supper tonight,” I said proudly. “You just putter around in the garden.” I skinned and cleaned the squirrel, and I put it to soak in salted water.

Tip eyed it suspiciously as it soaked in the frying pan. “Do you know how to cook squirrel?” she asked.

“Of course,” I answered, hoping Pa’s old Wyoming rabbit recipe worked with Yukon squirrel. I rummaged through our supplies, looking for a can of evaporated onions.

That evening, drifting with the current down Lake Laberge, I cooked my first wild game—squirrel smothered in onions.

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