The Cremation of Sam McGee

Mile 4369. Gold Rush Campground in Dawson City, YT. 165 miles south of the Arctic Circle.

We found ourselves on the road yesterday trying to “get ahead of it” again. This time trying to break free of smoky unhealthy air from a fire SE of Dawson City that grew considerably larger since our arrival in Whitehorse. A fire season similar to ours didn’t occur to us, but it makes sense given all the trees and a high frequency of thunderstorms. The sky in Whitehorse grew progressively worse during our three night stay, but there was nothing else to do but continue north as planned and hope for the best. Turns out the worst of it was still ahead of us. The visibility got so poor on the drive there were only suggestions of mountains on the horizon.

A moose walked across the road. Mark stopped and rolled down the window to get some photos (instead of through the windshield) and the smell was so bad he immediately rolled it back up. Windshield photos are good enough given the conditions.

So like before, when we escaped the slow moving storm over Jasper, we pushed further north than planned making for a very long driving day and landing us at a very primitive campground last night, but one where we could at least breath the air. Today, under better skies, we drove north to Dawson City, our last town before entering Alaska.

Not too far out of Whitehorse we stopped at another “famous cinnamon bun” place in the middle of nowhere, our third so far on this trip. The largest buns to date and 2nd in our ranking of the three.

Shortly after we had our best black bear sighting. Mark spotted one off in the distance strolling towards the highway. A lack of traffic allowed us to stop and watch as it proceeded to use a nearby telephone pole as a back scratcher. Sorry the photo isn’t better, I’m only now realizing the camera doesn’t auto focus well through the windshield. And only after this sighting did it dawn on me to either manually focus OR better yet, hang out the passenger window with my camera and eliminate the window all together. But you get the idea. 

We’re in Gold Rush territory now, on the Klondike Highway instead of the Alaska Highway. It’s a popular detour. The Klondike Gold Rush was the largest gold rush of the century. And George Carmack’s 1896 discovery of gold on Rabbit Creek, a tributary of the Klondike River in Yukon, was the richest gold strike ever in North America. It is estimated that more than 100,000 gold seekers headed for the Klondike when news of the gold strike reached the outside world in the spring of 1897. Dawson City exploded and became the capital of the Yukon and Whitehorse was the transportation hub. But not to worry, we’ll catch the section of the Alaska Highway that we’re missing on our way home. 

Me, being the avid reader that I am, have to share with you the many famous authors that lived here and wrote of the Gold Rush. Jack London, an American novelist, set several of his books in the Yukon during the Gold Rush, the most famous being Call of the Wild and White Fang, which I’m reading now, and Robert Service, a British-Canadian poet (and banker), often called the “Bard of the Yukon” his words captured the spirit of the place, people, and time so accurately. Service thought of himself more as a rhymer than a poet, as Mark and I learned today listening to a young man tell us about Service’s life outside the cabin Service lived in while in the Klondike.

His poem, the Cremation of Sam McGee gained him notoriety and eventually helped him to become a millionaire. Sam McGee is a real person, but not the person that Service actually talks about in the poem. Service obtained permission from the real Sam McGee to use his name, because the name McGee afforded more rhyming opportunities than the name of the person on whom the story is based.

My mom commented in my last blog that Service, whom she knew wrote about the area in which we were traveling, was a favorite of my grandfather. So for my grandfather and any lovers of poetry out there – The Cremation of Sam McGee.

But wait, before I wax poetic, I have to ask – did I tell you that a ferry crossing was required on this trip? We must cross the Yukon River on a ferry boat to proceed north from here. Mark and I walked to the ferry dock this evening because we couldn’t believe what we’d heard. There is one small ferry that carries everyone back and forth, reminding us very much of the ferries at Balboa Island, except at Balboa there are three ferries going back and forth and here, only one. One small ferry that takes land yachts (as Alaskan’s call Class A RVs), other RVs, semis as you can see in this photo, and cars across. We’ll see how that goes for us the day after tomorrow.

And now, The Cremation of Sam McGee, by Robert William Service ~

There are strange things done in the midnight sun by the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales that would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights, but the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge I cremated Sam McGee.

Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the South to roam ’round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he’d often say in his homely way that he’d “sooner live in hell”.

On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka’s fold it stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we’d close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn’t see;
It wasn’t much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.

And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o’erhead were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and “Cap,” says he, “I’ll cash in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I’m asking that you won’t refuse my last request.”

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn’t say no; then he says with a sort of moan:
“It’s the cursed cold, and it’s got right hold till I’m chilled clean through to the bone.
Yet ’tain’t being dead — it’s my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you’ll cremate my last remains.”

A pal’s last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.

There wasn’t a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,
With a corpse half hid that I couldn’t get rid, because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say:
“You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it’s up to you to cremate those last remains.”

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows — O God! how I loathed the thing.

And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;
And I’d often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.

Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the “Alice May”.
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;
Then “Here,” said I, with a sudden cry, “is my cre-ma-tor-eum.”

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared, and the furnace roared — such a blaze you seldom see;
And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.

Then I made a hike, for I didn’t like to hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don’t know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.

I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: “I’ll just take a peep inside.
I guess he’s cooked, and it’s time I looked”; . . . then the door I opened wide.

And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: “Please close that door.
It’s fine in here, but I greatly fear you’ll let in the cold and storm —
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it’s the first time I’ve been warm.”

There are strange things done in the midnight sun by the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales that would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights, but the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge I cremated Sam McGee.