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Updated: May 12, 2025
So far so good, but the only way to travel in this country is, if possible, to shove right through somehow, and recuperate when the ultimate goal has been gained. Together with two others who were making the trip to Council, I made terms with "Ed" Trundy, a freighter, to carry my ton and a half of stuff the remaining twenty-five or thirty miles for three cents a pound.
The plan of travel was to proceed only a few miles that evening to a temporary encampment where Trundy had arranged to pick up some additional freight, and where we should spend the night, making an early start in the morning. Arrived there, I imposed upon the good nature of some agreeable fellows, lugging my blankets into their tent and spending the night with them, packed like sardines.
As we poked and added to the fire, and dodged the drip, the would-be sleepers showed their disapproval of the noise and heat by moving and muttering, and the semiconscious, but unrivaled, Trundy rounded out a series of epithets which left no doubt as to his exact sentiments. One of the figures raised itself and basted the head of a snoring Yukoner.
His equipment for transportation consisted of a long, shallow, forty-five-foot boat, two river poles, an assistant, "Louis," five dogs, and a swearing vocabulary which was universally recognized as being the most replete, ornate, and frequently employed in that section of the country which is saying a great deal and paying a very high compliment to Mr. Trundy.
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