The Pacific Steam Whaling Company purshased the old sailing vessel, Valencia, and converted her to steam. Photo by Neal Benedict a member of Margeson's party. From the Messer Collection courtesy of the Cook Inlet Historical Society.
Despite the howling wind and the sub-zero chill factor, hundreds of anxious prospectors crowded the decks of the Valencia as she steamed through the Narrows and into Port Valdez on March 18, 1898. Bracing themselves against the icy blasts, they strained for a first glimpse of the glacier that was extolled as a highway to the fabled gold fields of the Copper River region. As they rounded Entrance Point, the scene that greeted them was one of awesome beauty yet harsh portent. Bathed in the dazzling light of the late winter sun, jagged snow-clad peaks glistened a full 5,000 feet above the blue and white, storm-whipped waters of the sound. Snow reached from these lofty heights down to the very water's edge. Snow plumes trailed in the lee of the towering peaks while furious gusts issuing from the glacier's terminus swept sheets of spray, sheathing the iron-hulled steamer in ice. The wind howled in the ship's rigging like a thousand screaming demons from hell. In Seattle they had been promised there would be a dock at Port Valdez. However, passenger Joseph Bourke surveying the scene observes: "Arriving at Valdez, we found no wharf nor storehouse or any other convenience, nothing in fact but a snow bank (Bourke, Journal, p. 4)." Four of the ship's passengers were so intimidated by the scene that they immediately booked passage back to Seattle on the return voyage.
Indeed, the outbound voyage of the Valencia had been a hard one. The Pacific Steam and Whaling Company had purchased the steel-hulled, sailing vessel in New York and hastily converted it into a passenger steamship. The company had only recently entered the lucrative, gold rush passenger trade. As operators of the Prince William Sound salmon cannery at Orca (near present day Cordova), it began promoting the Valdez Glacier route as an easy, All-American trail to the interior gold fields. This made good economic sense - for the shippers at least. Rather than run empty vessels to Alaska to fetch the salmon pack, the company could now carry paying passengers.
Bound round Cape Horn from the east coast to Seattle, the Valencia called at various ports along its route boarding eager stampeders for the Klondike and Alaska gold fields. By March 6, 1898, when the Valencia departed Seattle for Port Valdez, she was grossly overloaded carrying over 640 passengers, plus a large number of horses and cattle, several oxen and a number of dogs. The crowded, second-class accommodations between decks consisted of straw mattresses laid side by side over hastily hewn, rough planks. The food was predictably awful. Joe Bourke remarks that the Valencia was "better adapted for carrying cattle than human beings." Bourke further complains: "The Pacific Steam Whaling Co of Seattle should be shown up in their proper light in the East with people cautioned to keep clear of them. It is a complete swindle. People pay seventy dollars for what they term second class passage, and when they are on the boat are treated like hogs (Bourke, Journal, p. 1)."
Crossing the Gulf of Alaska, the heavily laden steamer encountered an awful three-day storm. The frightened passengers rolling in their stuffy, dark, dank and crowded quarters suffered acutely from seasickness. The livestock on deck were tossed about so badly that many were crippled and had to be thrown overboard. The advertised five day trip occupied a full eleven excruciating days. Thus, it is little wonder that the captain on arriving in Port Valdes had a major mutiny on his hands. Because of the severe winds, the captain anchored the steamer on the south side of the bay at the protected anchorage of Swanport. The prospectors, who had no means of conveying themselves or their supplies the four miles across the open water to the head of the glacier trail, forced the captain at gun point to order tenders from the company's Orca cannery. The cannery tenders then transported the prospectors and their year's supply of goods to the tent town on the opposite shore known as "Copper City." Some of the new arrivals perceived immediately that maintenance of law and order on this remote frontier was bound to create problems; even before stepping ashore, they duly elected a constable and deputies. (Chapter 1, pp. 1-2.)
These headlines of the Seattle Post-Intelligencer of July 17, 1897 suddenly broke the dams of despair. For the next nine months, scores of thousands of people from all walks of life and from all parts of the nation boarded trains for the west coast ports of Seattle and San Francisco. Here hastily salvaged hulks waited to transport them to the gold fields of the Klondike, the Copper River and later Nome. Most were urban dwellers who knew absolutely nothing about conditions in Alaska or the Yukon or about wilderness survival, or about geology and gold mining; but news of the Klondike strike had touched a national nerve. Over fifty thousand people were inspired to leave businesses, jobs, homes, family and friends risking everything in hopes of striking it rich in the Klondike gold fields. The popular perception was that all one had to do was make the arduous journey to the Klondike and once there scoop up the gold which lay waiting on practically every gravel bar. Ignorance of Pacific Northwest geography was so great that most did not even know that the Klondike was in Canada and, in fact, used the term to refer to all of interior Alaska and northwest Canada.
Certainly, most were victims of their own gullibility. Undoubtedly, the desire to better their economic circumstances during difficult times led many to dream unrealistic dreams of instant wealth and success. However, the American press was largely responsible for successive waves of misinformation that swept across the country. The telegraph, teletype and transoceanic cables had all recently revolutionized communications so that rumors published in the San Francisco Chronicle would appear almost simultaneously in the New York Times and the Times of London.
No matter how far-fetched or unreliable, the nation and world were hungry for news of the Klondike. The very atmosphere was alive with this magic word. If a merchant wanted to sell his wares, he merely need attach the word "Klondike" to his product and it would sell-out immediately. One could buy Klondike glasses, Klondike boots, Klondike sleeping bags - even Klondike soup.
Outfitting stores across the nation soon depleted their stocks of outdoor gear while woolen mills could not keep pace with the demand for woolen blankets. It seemed that every able-bodied person was heading for the Klondike to gather up the gold.
Reliable information about Alaska and the Klondike was very much in demand and short in supply. However, this did not deter newspapers of the day which were just beginning to discover that bold faced, sensational headlines grabbed the attention of the reader. Newspapers were fiercely competitive, and most soon realized that sensationalism unquestionably increased circulation. Unnamed sources were often quoted, and editors were not very critical in chasing down the sources of rumors that might have great reader appeal. Returning prospectors, a promoter from the Seattle Chamber of Commerce and a shipping company employee were all accepted uncritically as authorities and reliable sources. For example, the reporter for the Seattle Post-Intelligencer article headlined above enthuses: "Conservative men who have just been in the country (the Klondike) . . . . admit that all the fields in the vicinity of the Clondyke have been taken, but every river in Alaska is, in their judgment filled with gold which can be secured if the men are willing to risk the hardships (7/17/97)." By the winter of 1897, maps (many of them bogus) and Klondike guidebooks, supposedly by reputable authorities, suddenly appeared on the newsstands.