I don’t know what might have happened.
The Pacific Lady made the boat basin on July 12. We’d been out for just under a week, and our iced storage hulls were packed with pink salmon. At well over 15,000 pounds, this was about the maximum we could carry. As we tied up the boat at the packer’s dock, a boy met us and said that there was a telegraph for me in the harbormaster’s office.
Hurrying up the dock and the gangways, I reached the office and read Uncle Roy’s simple message:
DATE: JULY 5, 1940
DUTCH CLARKE III
C/O PACIFIC LADY FISHING BOAT
KETCHIKAN, ALASKA
DUTCH SR. DIED JULY 4. FUNERAL ON JULY 9. COME HOME AT ONCE. FAMILY BUSINESS MUST BE RESOLVED.
ROY
Only moments earlier, my life had been fulfilled and happy. Now, a simple yellow piece of paper made me feel uncertain and lost again. Grandfather had only been 72 and had seemed to be in good health; he should have lived forever. While I didn't shed a tear over Grandfather's passing, there was once again a hole in my life, a hole that would have to be filled.
Returning to the boat, I shared the news with Skip and the crew. I didn’t want to leave the boat, for many reasons. Still, deep down, I knew I had to go, if for no other reason than to face Uncle Roy and that "Family Business" stuff.
Luckily, I got a seat on the next day’s flight to Seattle, with connections to Denver and then to New York. Captain Skip, his wife Louise, and the rest of the crew saw me off at the airport, warm and understanding. As I was shaking hands with Skip, he soberly said, "I'll save your berth, mate. You can ship with me any time. Just let me know if I can be of any help."
As the small plane flew out over the now-bustling hamlet, I wondered if I would ever see Ketchikan, the Pacific Lady and her crew again. With over $5,000 in my pockets and facing an unknown future, I vowed I would return. So help me God, I would return.
First Crossing
Late in the afternoon, my small caravan reached the banks of Thunder River, the first of three major water crossings. Having heard the loud roar of the river down trail for the last half-hour, I knew my first obstacle was at hand. At the point where I rode out of the dense forest alongside this river, I found a small ravine with large rocks on the opposite side, some sixty yards away. The water was deep and fast-flowing from the spring runoff. From its looks, I was betting it was bone-chillingly cold, too. The river was deep green, and boulders protruded from the fast-moving water, causing white rapids from shore to shore.
Reining Blaze to the north, I looked for a better crossing point. When I found none, I backtracked and traveled another quarter mile upriver from where I’d first come out of the forest. Finally, I found a place where there was a large logjam being held together by rocks on both sides of the river. This obstacle caused the fast-moving water to pool up and slow a hundred feet back from the logs. From what I could see, the water only looked to be about three or four feet deep at that point. The animals would have to traverse the river here, one at a time, and—because of the fast-moving current—it would have to be without their full, heavy loads. Each mule carried four waterproof trail bags; before crossing, I would unpack two of the bags from each of them. Looking at the river and the other side, I decided that I would cross first with Blaze, while stringing a safety rope from one side to the other. On a snag, I tied one end of my rope and coaxed Blaze towards the roaring river’s crossing point.
With a great deal of caution, we entered the water. Huffing and snorting nervously, Blaze made one tenuous step at a time over the slippery rocks of the riverbed. By the middle of the stream, the cold water was up to my knees, and I could feel Blaze push his weight against the pressure of the moving undercurrent as we stumbled towards the other side. After reaching the other bank, I secured my safety rope to a large tree and took my saddlebags, bedroll, and saddle off Blaze before tying him to another snag. I also took off my backpack, coat, and gun belt, replacing my wet boots with canvas shoes to re-cross the river and retrieve the mules and supplies.
As I approached the riverbank again, I could see Gus in the middle of the stream, swimming towards me. With only his head out of the water, and his strong legs paddling with all their might, he was making good time in the water. It had taken no encouragement from me to get him to swim across, as he seemed to love the water.
After his safe arrival on the new shore, he greeted me with a big shake that flicked huge, cold droplets all over me. That was just a taste of more to come. Quickly, I ventured back into the river on foot. It was numbingly cold! I had to keep moving, as I knew the water could be dangerous. Holding on to the rope and moving hand over hand, I was soon on the other side again. It took me almost an hour and another six trips to get the mules and supplies all safely to the other side. All the while, Gus watched from the riverbank, moving back and forth, barking, almost as if he was shouting out commands to me.
After completing my last load, numb from the waist down, I couldn't believe how cold I was. Because of my fear of hypothermia, I quickly stripped my wet clothes off and dried myself in the late direct sunlight. Searching out some dry wood, I soon had a small fire made in a protected area of log snags. Damn! This was something I should have done on my first trip across. I had a lot to learn. There were dry clothes in my saddlebags, and I quickly changed into them. Wringing the worst of the water out of my wet clothes, I laid them out to dry by the fireside. Next, I searched through my saddlebags until I found the makings for a small pot of coffee, which I placed next to the fire. As the coffee started to brew, I made sure that the animals were fed and tied close to the camp and that all of the supplies were stacked and safe. Famished, I returned to the fireside, warmed a large can of beans, and ate some bread from my saddlebags. The area around my first campsite was breathtaking, from the dense rain forest on the other side of the river to the fast-moving white water and high rocky cliffs on my side. I was dwarfed by the sheer size and splendor of my surroundings.
Within a half an hour, the food and most of the coffee was gone. Once my dinner fixings were cleaned up, I opened my bedroll on a sandy beach area close to the fire and lay back against a large log snag. By then, the light in the western sky was growing dim. Checking my pocket watch, I was surprised to find that it was almost 10 p.m. Because we were so far north, the days were much longer in the late spring and early summer.
Resting there in the faint evening light, with moths dancing around my fire, I reflected on my accomplishments. Not so bad for the first day... dead tired, a sore butt, a lump on my forehead, but it had gone pretty much as I had planned. Other than falling off my horse and getting lost a few times, the first day seemed to be a good omen.
My gaze soon came to rest on the stack of trail bags, full of my supplies.
For the thousandth or maybe even the millionth time, I worried about what I hadn't brought and what I might have overstocked. I remembered the detailed list that I’d drafted while trying so hard to anticipate all my future needs. What kind of weather would I encounter? What tools would be needed to build a cabin? Food: supplies… what to take and what to grow? Plans for the trip in and plans for the trip out, so many details. Despite having gone over and over my list of supplies for the better part of six months, I was still apprehensive. One thing I knew for sure: there would be no stores up in the Nascall Valley.
With the exception of my food, tools and animals, I’d purchased most of my trail supplies from Willis & Geiger,
