Free Journey by James A. Michener Page A

rabble, he poked his way about, remaining aloof from the gold-seekers who had been unable to find quarters and were sleeping on the ground, their belongings piled about them. With brief and restrained questioning he satisfied himself that in all this rabble, no one knew anything, and a profound sadness overtook him: They’re fools who have been deluded by fools, and they’re doomed. When he came upon two men from a small Canadian village who were going to attempt the overland route on bicycles, dragging behind them little wheeled carts holding their gear, he stopped to ask them: “What will you use for greatcoats when the blizzards hit?” and they replied smartly: “Oh, we’ll be in Dawson by then.” He did not try to enlighten them, but his depression increased.
    Still moving slowly among them like a recording angel, wise, just and impartial, he muttered again and again: “Doomed! That trio won’t survive even into November,” and he formed a sound resolve that
his
expedition was not going to plunge blindfolded into such folly: We are men of sound sense, dammit, and we’ll not comport ourselves like idiots.
    Just then he saw an older man who seemed to be moving with some purpose, as if he had serious business to attend, even though it was now close to eleven at night, and Luton accosted him: “My good fellow, can you help me bring some reason into this madness?”
    “Madness it is,” the man replied in a heavy Scottish brogue as he surveyed the people sleeping on the ground. “What is it you seek?”
    “Answers, answers. How can I and my party get from here to the gold fields and escape the certain devastation that faces these blundering idiots?”
    “You’ve come to the right man,” the Scot said. “I work for the Hudson’s Bay Company and I’m the only one around here who’s made the trip, and because I could rely upon my company’s various caches of supplies, I traveled extremely light. Almost no gear. And I had Dogrib Indians to help part of the way.”
    “How was it?”
    “Wretched. It’s a crime to send untested men north at this time of year. Many will die.”
    “What would you advise?”
    “You look strong and sensible. What of the others in your party?”
    “Young, able.”
    “If I were you, I’d stay here in Edmonton till next June when the ice melts. Then sail down the Mackenzie, a majestic river if ever I saw one, and stay with it almost till it empties into the Arctic Ocean. But stay out of the delta! It’s a wilderness of interwoven streams and small islands. As the delta begins, you’ll find the Peel River entering via the left bank of the Mackenzie. Paddle up it ten or fifteen miles, and you’ll come to the Rat River, feeding in from the west. Go clear to its headwaters, portage over the mountains, not easy but it can be done. There you’ll find the Bell. Drift down it, easy paddling, and in due course you’ll hit the Porcupine, a grand river. Turn right. Keep going downstream, and with no trouble, little paddling, you’ll reach Fort Yukon. And, as the French say,
‘Voilà!’
you’re on the Yukon River where you catch an upriver steamboat which carries you direct to Dawson.”
    This good man was so eager to correct the errors perpetrated by other Canadians that with his forefinger he drew in sand a map of the many twists and turns he recommended: “It’ll be demanding, but relatively easy doing it this way. Portages, yes, and some paddling upstream, but not excessive.”
    When Luton looked down at the map he scowled: “We shouldn’t care to use the Yukon steamers. We’ve decided to do it on our own. The challenge and all.” Then he pointed to the mark that represented Fort Yukon: “And under no circumstances would I consider entering the gold field through American territory.”
    The Hudson’s Bay man contemplated this rejection, checked his temper, and said quietly: “Sir, you interpose conditions that make no sense in this part of the north. I would accept a