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Show 22 "Windy. Cold. Ugly. All the buildings are covered with black tar paper, flapping day and night." He pulled a face as if he were seasick. "The Tlingit Indians call it 'Skagus'-home of the North wind." "Winds don't bother me," I said. I was anxious to get there. "There's something in Skagway far worse than the wind," the captain said. "Yes?" I waited impatiently. Captain Hillis did not say more. He just shook his head. At Skagway the Guardian was met by a parade of cowboys, who rode horseback down the long wooden wharf, whooping and hollering. In fact, even the black-clothed minister pranced his dapple-gray horse right up the gangplank and shouted, "Welcome to Skagway!" Beautiful ladies of the evening were also on hand, waving and winking from their horse-drawn carriages. I ducked past the welcoming committee and hurried down the long wharf built out over the tidal flats, where steamers and scows had dropped their freight and animals. Dogs were barking. Horses were rearing and snorting. Men were cussing and dragging their goods through the mud, trying to beat the tide to the high-water line. It was a mad, mad scene. Looking up, the scenery was magnificent-mountains of black cottonwood and Sitka spruce rising thousands of feet above the beach, their lonely peaks somewhere up there above the clouds. |
