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Updated: June 15, 2025
It was a peaceful home life, all the more attractive in that its background was rough-and-ready Skaguay a plain town enough to look at, but one full of thrilling human interest, of tragedy and comedy. Through its streets had passed a motley procession of men some on their way to fortune, some to disappointment, but all battling with the realities of life.
This same body which now crouched basely here before him had belonged to a hero once to the man who, five long years since, had pushed on in spite of defeat, carrying with him by his courage his despairing companion over the deadly Skaguay trail.
Churchill looked blankly at the deserted harbor. "There's a smoke over at Skaguay," the man said. Churchill's eyes were too swollen to see that far, but he said: "It's she. Get me a boat." The driver was obliging, and found a skiff and a man to row it for ten dollars, payment in advance. Churchill paid, and was helped into the skiff. It was beyond him to get in by himself.
Every muscle, every fibre, every cell, was tired, dead tired. And there was reason for it. In less than five months they had travelled twenty-five hundred miles, during the last eighteen hundred of which they had had but five days' rest. When they arrived at Skaguay they were apparently on their last legs.
They could barely keep the traces taut, and on the down grades just managed to keep out of the way of the sled. "Mush on, poor sore feets," the driver encouraged them as they tottered down the main street of Skaguay. "Dis is de las'. Den we get one long res'. Eh? For sure. One bully long res'." The drivers confidently expected a long stopover.
She sold her business and set out for Circle City, in company with a carpenter and his wife whom she had persuaded to go along with her. They reached Skaguay in a snowstorm, went in dog-sledges over the Chilkoot Pass, and shot the Yukon in flatboats.
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