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Skagway, Alaska
The Klondike Gold Rush.
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Skagway, Alaska
By the fall of 1897,
as news of gold
discoveries in
northwestern
Canada's Yukon
region spread
worldwide, the
glacier-shaded
harbor of Skagway,
Alaska, became so
congested with boats
carrying would-be
prospectors that new
arrivals had to
anchor up to a mile
offshore. Overloaded
scows then shuttled
men, women,
children, and their
provisions to the
town's gravel beach.
On the beach, owners
protected their
piles of belongings
with scattershot
curses and the rapid
cocking of pistols.
A decade before, not
a single cabin had
marred the forested
triangle of
southeast Alaskan
flatland that would
become Skagway (its
name derived from a
Tlingit Indian word
meaning "home of the
north wind"). But
after steamships
bore tons of
Klondike riches to
San Francisco and
Seattle in July
1897, the town began
taking shape. Within
three months, it was
littered with tents
and rickety wooden
structures housing
4,000 people. Over
the next two years,
tens of thousands
more would land at
either Skagway or
the neighboring
hamlet of Dyea, from
which a pair of
parallel trails—the
White Pass route and
the more popular one
through Chilkoot
Pass—led north
across Alaska's
Coast Mountains.
From there, miners
rode the Yukon River
another 550 miles to
the remote Canadian
boomtown of Dawson
City, adjacent to
the gold fields.
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One observer
groused that
Skagway was
"little
better than
hell on
earth." No
wonder
everyone who
came to
Skagway back
then seemed
merely to be
passing
through. As
quickly as
they could. |
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The gold rush
briefly made Skagway
the largest city in
Alaska, with a
population that
fluctuated between
10,000 and 20,000.
Its main street,
which some wag had
dubbed "Broadway,"
was a mud rut
bordered by
campsites,
blacksmiths shops
and fly-by-night
restaurants. There
were as many as 80
local saloons where
a cheechako
(Alaska newcomer)
could gargle down
strong spirits
before embarking for
Dawson. Among the
sidewalk throngs
were bogus
preachers, circus
performers, and even
a trained dancing
bear named Alexis.
Scarcely less
visible were
cardsharps and
harlots, grifters
and gunmen—a
contingent that gave
Skagway a distinctly
anarchical repute.
One observer groused
that Skagway was
"little better than
hell on earth." No
wonder everyone who
came to Skagway back
then seemed merely
to be passing
through. As quickly
as they could.
Even now, Skagway
hosts far more
transients than
residents. At last
count, only about
700 people lived
here year-round. Yet
from late spring
through early fall
(the usual Alaskan
tourist months), up
to five cruise ships
a day dock at
Skagway, disgorging
8,000 or so
travelers to flood
the vintage business
buildings along
Broadway, sample
beers at the raucous
Red Onion Saloon
(once a prominent
bordello), and point
their video cameras
in wonder at the
Arctic Brotherhood
Hall, its quirky
1899 facade
decorated with
10,000 pieces of
driftwood.
Skagway has found
its future as a
relic of the past.
After 1899, when the
Klondike stampede
cooled, the town
lapsed into a
quieter role as a
shipping port for
the Yukon Territory.
With little in the
way of community
development funds,
it left its
turn-of-the-century
public architecture
standing. Over the
last two decades,
the U.S. National
Park Service has
spent more than $11
million restoring
Skagway to the way
it looked in the
1890s, when
honky-tonk and
gunshots were the
common music of its
streets.
Furthering the
illusion that time
has failed to pass
here are the men and
women who on any
given summer morning
can be spotted
marching down
Broadway on their
way over the Coast
Mountains, just as
their
great-grandfathers
might have done. The
difference is that
in 1897 and '98,
gold seekers left
Skagway on the White
Pass Trail, a
45-mile course of
switchbacks and deep
mud holes that
proved perilous to
overburdened pack
horses (thus
inspiring its
nickname, the Dead
Horse Trail). Parts
of that path now lie
beneath the
narrow-gauge tracks
of the White Pass &
Yukon Route railway
(completed in 1900),
which runs from
Skagway to Fraser,
British Columbia,
and has become as
much a tourist
attraction as it is
a means of
transport.
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The Skagway
Museum at
the Arctic
Brotherhood
Hall
features an
engaging
selection of
memorabilia
and
photographs
that portray
what life
was like
here in the
1890s. |
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Hikers who dream
today of re-creating
the stampeders'
pilgrimage instead
follow the Chilkoot
Trail, which starts
nine miles from
Skagway at what used
to be the town of
Dyea (since reduced
to a memory and some
canting cemetery
markers). Some 4,000
trekkers a year
continue to use the
trail, although they
usually reach its
end in three to five
days, rather than
the months that an
encumbered Klondiker
might have taken.
Even without scaling
peaks, however,
visitors can
appreciate Klondike
stampede history.
The Skagway Museum
at the Arctic
Brotherhood Hall
features an engaging
selection of
memorabilia and
photographs that
portray what life
was like here in the
1890s. And the Park
Service and the
Skagway Street Car
Company conduct
heritage tours
through the two
dozen blocks of
downtown several
times a day. Crime
and licentiousness
are always favorite
topics for the
guides, who at every
opportunity invoke
the name of
Jefferson Randolph
Smith—more familiar
as "Soapy," thanks
to his fondness for
a confidence game
that involved paper
money wrapped around
bars of soap. His
felonious reign
ended when, in the
summer of 1898, he
tried to crash a
meeting of
vigilantes opposed
to his activities
and wound up
exchanging fatal
gunshots with Frank
Reid, the town
surveyor. "Only
three people came to
Soapy's funeral,
including the
teamster hired to
haul his body away,"
says Steve Hites,
president of the
Skagway Street Car
Company, who
dramatizes for his
tour guests the
details of the
town's most famous
gunfight. "But,"
Hites adds, "two
thousand people
showed up to
eulogize Reid—it was
the largest funeral
Skagway had ever
seen." The pair are
buried within 100
feet of one another
at the Gold Rush
Cemetery, about two
miles north of
downtown.
Jeff Smith's Parlor,
an oyster bar that
served as Soapy's
headquarters, can
still be seen on
Second Avenue, just
off Broadway, where
it sits dark, cold,
and uncared-for
behind a cyclone
fence. People talk
about refurbishing
it, but so far, it
hasn't happened. And
maybe that's for the
best. There's
something oddly
reassuring in the
fact that a building
which once could
have properly been
called the center of
hell on earth is
closed for repairs.
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