The Yukon Expedition

Robert H. Bates

Have you broken trail on snowshoes? Mushed your huskies up the river?

—Service.

YUKON TERRITORY, Canada’s most westerly province, is bounded by the watershed of the Mackenzie River on the east, the bulk of continental Alaska on the west, the Arctic Ocean on the north, and British Columbia and a bit of Alaska in the south. But although the province nowhere reaches the Pacific Ocean, its southern boundary for 300 or 400 miles is near the Alaskan Panhandle, that coastal strip running southeast along the British Columbia border ; thus it is through Skagway alone that a convenient southern entry to the Yukon can be made. About 70 miles north of Skagway (northernmost port of the Inside Passage) and 150 to 200 miles to the west, in the extreme southwest portion of the territory, lies the heart of the “Yukon Corner,” explored by the National Geographic Society's Yukon Expedition in 1935.

Before our entry into the Yukon, it was generally admitted that this region was mountainous, but beyond that and some strange rumors of men who had tried to float down the Alsek River, we had nothing to go on, for the International Boundary Survey had only dealt with the peaks of the St. Elias Range as seen from the coast, and not with the problems on the other side of the chain.

The expedition was organized and led by Bradford Washburn, who had previously led four other expeditions to Alaska, and whose abilities are well known. Andy Taylor, veteran exploratory mountaineer, was his right-hand man, together with Adams Carter who had climbed Mt. Crillon with Washburn in 1934. Hartness Beardsley of Springfield, Vermont, Ome Daiber of Seattle, and the writer completed the party.

Our plan was to enter the territory in February, using the great glaciers as avenues for exploration, and “get out” in late May before melting snow caused treacherous cracks to appear, making travel either impossible or too dangerous to risk.

Our equipment was carefully organized and proved efficient in every way. Such things as cold weather ski boots with extra high toes, long parkas with protruding hoods, and dry tan moccasins were invaluable, although we missed most of the cold weather— the temperature never dropping below —45°.

However, our first difficulties were not with the weather but with the Canadian Government, for we wished to use American planes in our reconnaissance and photographic flights. According to Ottawa, this was a difficult matter to arrange, for there was much red tape to go through, but we were told to go right ahead with our plans with the assurance that full permission would be granted us as soon as possible. We did go ahead and most satisfactory arrangements were made with Pan-American Airways, one of whose new, radio-equipped planes, with pilot, was to be at our service as long as we wanted it. Gas was flown in to Kluane Lake where we expected to have our air base, and our preliminary plans seemed completed.

Repeated wires to Ottawa had brought no change in the official communications : we were to go ahead ; in a little time permission would be given us. In fact, it was not until one of the party was already at Carcross (Caribou Crossing), our Yukon base on the White Pass Railroad, that one more wire came, saying that our wishes could not be granted and we would have to use Canadian planes.

We could not reverse this decision and there were now only two alternatives before us : either give up the expedition entirely, or work with Canadian planes. The youngest of the two available planes was seven and a half years old. Neither had radios; both were badly equipped for photographic flying ; and each was serviced out-of-doors in weather from 30°-40° below zero.

A note in the government communication had told us to take no unnecessary risks. We ground our teeth when we thought of it, for without radio what chance would there be of finding a grounded plane in an area of over 10,000 square miles of mountainous country? As Bob Randall, the pilot, once jokingly said, “If we have to make a forced landing west of the Alsek, I might just as well nose her straight down. It would be much more simple.”

But we felt we had to use these planes, and accordingly we took every possible precaution in telling where we expected to go, and in carrying emergency equipment. The pilots and mechanics were fine men and we had great confidence in them—otherwise we could not have gone. However, once in March, the engine of the Fairchild stopped when Washburn and I were high over the black water of Yakutat Bay. Randall primed her vigorously and she caught again, but as we flew eastward, with a missing engine, over the rugged masses of ice and rock, we were thinking of the Canadian Government !

Our party was united for the first time on February 27th, when Carter, Beardsley and I arrived at Carcross, 70 miles north of Skagway. We learned that Washburn and Taylor had made a reconnaissance flight the day before and had discovered three new glaciers from 40 to 60 miles long, running east and west right through the region we wished to explore. They had also found that Hubbard Glacier was nearly twice as long as any maps showed it, and that the intervening region between Mts. St. Elias, Lucania and Hubbard was full of peaks averaging about 9000 ft. In addition, they had stopped at Kluane Lake and arranged to hire John Haydon, a dog driver, and his six-dog team, to help us with our transportation along the glaciers.

It was decided that we should fly supplies in and establish a base camp on the most northern of the three previously unknown glaciers, which run through the backbone of the range. The eastern end of the glacier came to the Alsek River; the western end we thought might connect with another glacier, by which we might later cross the range and come out on the coast near Yakutat.

For a while things went smoothly. A few loads of equipment were flown in to the glacier, 150 miles west of Carcross, by planes equipped with skis ; and on March 5th, Taylor, Carter, Beardsley and Daiber were left at a base camp some six miles west of the Alsek.

Two days later, Brad and I flew in to them at the camp and continued on an exhaustive photographic survey of the whole area. This was the first airplane flight made through the interior of the St. Elias Range. Flying largely at 18,000 ft., with the door off in order to take pictures, the temperature averaged —20° all day, and the wind was not gentle. We flew directly between Mts. Logan (19,850) and St. Elias (18,000), and had nothing but respect for the Duke of the Abruzzi’s party and the members of the Mt. Logan expedition. We had close views of Mt. Vancouver (15,700), which appears a dangerous if possible climb, and Mts. Cook (13,760) and Augusta (14,070), which look nearly as difficult. The sheer south face of King Peak, with its strange quartz veins, was most impressive, and our sight of McArthur Peak was almost too intimate as a sudden downdraught hurled us toward a corniced ridge. Hubbard (15,000) and Alverstone (14,500) to the east, and some unnamed peaks, were also noteworthy, but nothing could compare with the gigantic bulk of Mt. Logan with its long plateau—mile after mile of it over 17,000 ft. high.

We landed at the base camp, wearied by the rare atmosphere, and climbed out of our heavy clothes, for it was only —5° on the ground. (I would not have missed that flight for anything, but I hope never again to have such a long, cold ride.)

After lunch, Andy Taylor and Bob Randall flew to Kluane Lake, and brought back John Haydon and his dogs—three men, six dogs and a dog sleigh crowded into a small cabin plane.

Soon afterward, Washburn and I were returning to Carcross with a blinding sun setting directly behind Mt. Hubbard, and all the peaks from Crillon and Fairweather in the south, to massive Logan, bathed in a ruddy alpine glow. It was dark when we again taxied along the rough surface of Lake Bennet and swung stiffly from the plane.

We had planned for another trip the next day, but the weather was against us and a series of furious storms held us up until March 22nd, when we took a chance and, by flying over a layer of clouds, managed to get in to the camp. As we had expected, the dog food was used up and the dogs had been eating our rations for the last three days.

We found the dog team had moved part of the equipment twenty miles up the glacier to a more central point, where camp had been established. Despite the cold weather everyone was in good health, and we returned to Carcross in much lighter spirits.

Again bad weather held us (for three more days we chewed moose meat), and it was not until the 26th that we were able to get away on our last photographic flight, trying to solve the problem of where the Alsek River went and to learn definitely whether we could get out through the range to Yakutat on the coast. This latter route was beginning to look feasible from the air when our trip was suddenly curtailed by a badly missing motor. Pilot Randall landed us at the upper base camp, and was off for Carcross in a shower of blowing powder snow. We were together again.

For the next two weeks we measured a base-line, occupied survey stations, explored in all directions from our main camp, and learned how to be perfectly comfortable in slightly sub-zero weather. Not the least of our blessings was the “Empire State Building,” a five by six by eight-foot beaverboard shack to house the instruments, which had been cut to measure during our enforced stay in Carcross. Its walls, futuristically decorated when a frozen bottle of ink exploded, literally bulged when all seven of us crowded into it on cold evenings to listen to the radio or hold a council of war.

When Beardsley and Haydon had finished mushing the supplies from the lower to the upper camp, we began to explore the upper valley of what we called the Lowell Glacier, an ice highway leading at right angles from our main glacier close to the base of Mt. Hubbard, 25 miles away. From our airplane views of Hubbard we very much doubted whether we could climb it, but we certainly wanted to take a “whack” at it. Therefore we made several long reconnaissance trips 11 miles or so up the Lowell Glacier toward Hubbard. But as a plane was coming in on the 23rd of April (or the first clear day thereafter) we did not dare get too far from the main base camp.

So it was agreed that Haydon, Taylor and I should explore a glacier running northeast from the Lowell Glacier, and try to get some fresh meat, as well as poles for survey markers. Meanwhile the others were to connect the parts of the ground survey.

Ours was a most interesting trip. We left on April 20th, and made rapid progress skiing ahead of the dogs. The second day out was Easter Sunday, and after we had covered about 12 miles, Johnny saw two large grizzlies. He and I went for one of them, and after a two-mile stalk got an excellent shot at 150 yards. But I made a serious error—firing at the bear when he was on a steep snow slope almost directly above us. Though he was badly wounded, he rolled down to within 50 ft. of Haydon and me, snarling and growling, but fortunately too severely hurt to come for us. The finale was brief yet exciting, but in a few minutes he was dead and we were starting to skin him.

The next day we ate bear steaks, and followed on to the end of the glacier where we found timber, cut some poles, and noticed many signs of game. In two more days we completed our work, and on the morning of the 24th started for the base camp with snowflakes sifting down around us. Unfortunately this storm continued, and though we fought it mile after mile, it was not for three days that we reached the main camp, low on food and ready for a rest.

We learned that the plane had come in on the 22nd, Brad had made the final photographic flight, and, joy of joys, there was a pile of mail for each of us. That day we feasted on bear meat hamburger (put through the meat grinder) and made plans.

It was agreed to take a flying crack at Mt. Hubbard before leaving the base camp on the trip to Yakutat. Good weather favored us, and for the next week we worked from dawn to dark, breaking trail on snowshoes for the dogs and man-hauling sledge loads in relays 20 miles up the Lowell valley to a camp at 8300 ft. This spot was a belvedere : across from us great avalanches fell from the sheer 6500-ft. cliffs of an unnamed peak (I hope it will be called Mt. Washburn), which from the east bears a close resemblance to famous K-2.

We were now ready to attack Hubbard on May 2nd, but on May 1st, Washburn, Beardsley and Haydon made a survey and reconnaissance trip along the Alverstone shelf. This was our only possible route toward Hubbard, due to the time at our disposal ; and indeed, from the air, it was the best appearing route up the mountain.

But the reconnaissance party, returning in a bitter wind, crushed our hopes. Washburn had accomplished a noteworthy piece of surveying at over 12,000 ft., probably the highest station ever occupied in Canada, but Hubbard and Alverstone were reported out of the question for us to climb. The route we had hoped to take proved to be an avalanche trap, and even the shelf the others had followed was swept by falling seracs and infrequent snowslides, which tumbled from the high cliffs above.

All of us were bitterly disappointed, but there was nothing we could do. We had taken our flying “whack” at the mountain and lost.

The following day the weather turned definitely for the worse, and it was through spasmodic gusts of snow that we pulled our sleigh into a lower camp, with Andy masterfully “riding herd” on the gee pole. The storm continued, but the next day three of us worked our way down to the lower camp with the dogs, trying to use what we could of the old trail ; and a couple of days later we were all together in the “Empire State Building,” getting news over the radio from Berlin and Bordeaux.

The time had now come for us to finish up the last odds and ends of our surveying and to start preparations for the trip to Yakutat. But while we were doing this, an accident occurred that nearly had serious consequences. As we were taking the unhitched dogs up over an icefall to where we had left the dog sleigh, Monkey —not 10 ft. from the trail—stepped on some loose snow covering a crevasse and disappeared. Fanny and Brownie ran to see what had happened and fell likewise. The other three dogs were held and tied, and we crept cautiously to the edge. Below, the light faded away to blackness—not a sound came up to us !

As fast as possible, we got ropes and Washburn rappelled off— a nasty job with that overhanging snow above. Fifty, 60, 70 ft. he went down, a projecting ice block shielding him from sight as we peered worriedly after him. No loose snow fell, however, and at last he called up to us, “They’re here on a ledge just below me, but they look in bad shape.” In a moment he had tied them on another rope. We wanted Washburn out from under the loose snow first, and pulling carefully we soon had him blinking in the sunlight beside us. It was the dogs’ turn now, and again we pulled, but Monkey’s harness broke and only Fanny and Brownie reached the surface. This time Ad Carter went down, and he and Monkey in turn were triumphantly hauled from that dismal crack.

As each dog emerged, we felt him swiftly for injuries, but, wonder of all wonders, none of these dogs were harmed. They had fallen 70 ft. sheer onto rough ice (the ledge saving them from a drop of several hundred feet more), and except for the loss of a toenail were entirely unhurt, surely a tribute to the exceptional toughness of the husky dog.

The next day we started to move supplies toward Yakutat, and for ten days we sledged and hauled, surveying as we went when the weather permitted.

But on May 17th another unforeseen accident occurred. Andy was the only one in camp at the time, and was cooking dog food outside one of the tents, when without warning the cook tent collapsed on top of a lighted stove. The top of the tent, weakened by many storms, had given way to a gust of wind, causing the tent pole to shoot up through the roof. In a moment the tent was a blazing mass, but there was valuable equipment inside and without a second thought Andy rushed to it. How he got out what he did I don’t know, but when we next saw him we found his hat destroyed, most of his hair burned off, and great gaping holes in his coat and pants. Yet he had saved a great deal.

Washburn’s sleeping bag, air mattress, and some extra clothes were ruined, but at least Andy was safe. We found later that a can of gasoline inside the burning tent with Andy, had turned black all over but had not exploded !

Fortunately we were able to double up in sleeping bags and get along without the missing articles.

The next day the party broke up. We were now over 30 miles from the base camp and about 25 miles from tidewater. Washburn, Taylor, Carter, and Beardsley were to try to get through to the coast at Nunatak Fiord, where Washburn and Taylor would begin a 40-mile row to Yakutat in a little rubber boat, getting a fishing smack to come back for Carter, Beardsley, and the equipment.

As a check, in case anything proved wrong with the Yakutat route, it had been decided in April that a plane should meet some members of the party on June 3rd at Bates Lake, the last mapped lake on the government map, some 20 miles east of the Alsek River. Ome Daiber, John Haydon and I were the members of this party.

Accordingly on May 18th, Ome and I, after apparently casual handshakes and “good lucks” all around, started on our long 80-mile trek to Bates Lake. Johnny was to follow us the next day.

That night we spent at Black Tooth camp, and the next morning we were just preparing to leave when we heard cries of “Whoa —mush gee—whoa now.” Johnny had made an early 22-mile run with the dogs and our little party was now together. We found heavy going that day and made the base camp with the flurries of an oncoming storm blowing into our faces. Then for two days we rested up imprisoned by a whining wind but thankful we had not been caught elsewhere.

On the 22nd we started on the 25-mile trip down the glacier. Johnny and the dogs had a difficult load while Daiber and I man-hauled 300 lbs. on a sledge made of skis. We made 12 miles that morning before the softening surface made us halt and put up the tent.

The following day I shall not soon forget. We had made only a few miles, winding through interminable cracks, when a hail came from Johnny who was following us. We looked back and saw that the rear end of the dog sleigh was jammed in a crevasse. Fanny, the wheel dog, had broken through and been towed out by the motion of the team, but the sleigh was jammed. I hurried back, and while breaking away the crust to see the extent and direction of the crack, had a most unpleasant scare. Without warning, I heard hollow sounds of snow cracking directly under my feet, and jumping to one side found that I had been standing directly over a three-foot wide crevasse. This ran at right angles to the large one, but positively no sign of it was visible on the surface.

We unloaded the sleigh carefully and removed it from the crack, but as the crust was very weak that morning we decided to camp. There were cracks all around us. The tent, in the best place we could find, was over a tiny one; there were little ones at the edge of the tent ; and Ome later went into one up to his waist not 10 ft. from the door.

How we longed to get off that treacherous snowfield ! The day slowly passed, the dogs whinning restlessly from time to time, and at ten in the evening we skied cautiously out to reconnoiter a route through this evil sector. The going was nasty—such ugly crevasses as we saw that night I hope never to see again—but after an unpleasant trip we eventually found a safe route through them.

Back to camp we came for a moment or two of sleep, and at 2.30 a.m. we were away again, this time sliding over the cracked surface on a rock-hard crust. Late that morning we got off the glacier, and by supper time had established a camp on the sand of a small lake shore, at the foot of the ice, and not three miles from the swift-flowing Alsek. We were thankful that part of the trip was over.

Two days later we were camped by the river, eating pintail duck for supper and wondering how to cross this turbulent stream, some 100 to 150 yards wide. There was no timber within five miles of us and not a bit of driftwood on the west bank, but we solved the problem by making a raft of our two air mattresses, bracing and stiffening them with two pairs of skis, and paddling across with a ski used as a double paddle. On the opposite shore we found scattered driftwood, and with the axe formed a small, wobbly but serviceable raft, made of skis, driftwood and the air mattresses. Six hours later, despite difficulties with floating ice, the current, and small rapids, we stood successful on the eastern shore, our second major problem now behind us.

But the week ahead of us turned out to be worst of all—backpacking 4000 ft. up along stream beds filled with water or bridged with knee-deep slush, or fighting through devilish alders and buckbrush that pulled and dragged us back. Every evening we recon-noitered ; every morning we rose early to get the crust ; and finally at 10.30 p.m. on the 1st of June we reached the shores of Bates Lake—now a reality, no longer a mirage, but frozen tight from shore to shore.

This lake is the most beautiful spot I saw in the Yukon, and for many days it was our hunting ground. Not knowing how long we might be iced in with no plane able to land, we chose to increase our diminutive supply of food with bear roots or whatever we could find or shoot ; so, for a day or two, porcupines formed the staple portion of our diet.

However, luck was with us, and two days after reaching the lake shore a plane flew in and dropped us food, mail, and a note from Washburn. The note told us that the Yakutat party had reached the coast, but as we afterward learned, only after following a dangerous and highly unpleasant route through a region guarded by sudden rock slides and falling seracs. The passage through the range had been successful !

Three minutes after the plane was gone, we sat reading our mail, eating the new food ravenously, and talking all at once with our mouths full. As one package of food had landed on a rock, the largest piece of cracker we found was the size of a silver dollar, and the butter was impregnated with coffee grounds, rice and beans.

But still we had no meat for ourselves, or more important for the dogs, and it was not till Johnny and I shot a large bull moose that the larder was in good shape again. A choice of meat (liver, heart, tenderloin) made life brighter, and we had not tired of resting when a few days later the ice went out enough for a small plane to come in and pick us up. So it was that by the 11th of June, the last member of the Yukon Expedition was investigating the benefits of civilization in Whitehorse.

Our trip was over. All materials were on hand to make a first rate map and fill in the blank space on other charts. We had discovered some large new glaciers and many stunning peaks, two of which were named for King George and Queen Mary in honor of their Silver Jubilee. We had found a new route from the interior to the coast through the heart of the St. Elias Range, and we were all returning in excellent health, although some of the men had spent ninety consecutive days on the ice.

Except for transportation problems, the country we visited is a paradise for the climber, and I am sure it will not be many years before parts of it will be revisited. The great distance of our base camp from Mts. Vancouver, Lucania, and the other big peaks was unfortunate, for we should have liked to examine them more closely, but ours was a mapping expedition, not a climbing one.

Summing up the trip, I find that three factors operated in our favor : the unmentioned but helpful attitude of the Royal Mounted Police and the Canadian people as a whole ; the wonderful coöperation and confidence that the National Geographic Society extended us; and above all, the unselfish determination of a group of real men. I can pay no higher tribute to Bradford Washburn and the group that worked with him shoulder to shoulder.