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NEW STAMPEDE FOR GOLD 285<br />
mouth of the Yukon River, the gold<br />
seeker leaves the ocean liner and boards<br />
a river boat. He goes up the river to<br />
the nearest point to the district and then<br />
the "mush" overland begins. Everything<br />
in the way of transportation facilities is<br />
being pressed into service. Even angora<br />
goats are used to haul the sleds over the<br />
snow-covered ground. Dog teams are<br />
in big demand. But hundreds must travel<br />
on foot or take small boats and paddle<br />
up the creeks.<br />
There are no accommodations for comfort.<br />
Everything is in the rough, rougher<br />
in fact, than anywhere else in the world.<br />
The country is wild and rugged. Railroads<br />
have not penetrated the fastnesses.<br />
Even roads are unknown and only trails<br />
lead to the creeks from which the gold<br />
must be wrested.<br />
Resides the hundreds of gold seekers<br />
from the outside world who are hurrying<br />
to the Iditarod, the Alaskans themselves<br />
are flocking to the new diggings. It was<br />
predicted that summer would see many<br />
of the famous camps of Alaska deserted.<br />
This has proved true. The celebrated<br />
city of Fairbanks is doomed. Every one<br />
is leaving for the richer fields. Newspapers<br />
are preparing to move their plants<br />
from Fairbanks to the Iditarod district.<br />
In fact, one of the greatest stampedes<br />
for gold the world has ever seen is<br />
ending only with the coming of winter.<br />
Every steamship on the Pacific Coast that<br />
could be pressed into service carried<br />
argonauts to the far north. On June 2<br />
the first boat for St. Michaels left Seattle.<br />
Others followed in rapid succession at<br />
intervals of one and two days. Some of<br />
them were caught in the ice fields off the<br />
mouth of the Yukon and compelled to<br />
wait several weeks before landings could<br />
be made.<br />
^ 'TheOld ail by^lhe ruok,<br />
OWN to the vale this water steers;<br />
how merrily it goes!<br />
'T will murmur on a thousand years, and flow as now it flows:<br />
And here, on this delightful day, I<br />
How oft, vigorous man, I lay beside this fountain's brink.<br />
My eyes are filled with childish tears, my heart is idly stirred,<br />
cannot choose but think<br />
For the same sound is in my ears that in those days I heard.<br />
— Wordsworth.
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