GREENER THAN SPRUCE
“Maybe greener men have hit Alasky—but I doubt it!”
The speaker, a rheumy-eyed, old veteran of the trails, spokethus disparagingly of young Harris Benton. The old-timer’sperpetual “sun-grin” expanded visibly as he watched Benton’sparka-clad figure disappear around a bend in the rivertrail.
“Wonder how long he’ll last,” the old fellow speculated,turning to the group on the river bank. “I’ll bet I’ve showedhim a dozen times how to tie his snowshoes to his feet, an’ I’vetold him little things about pitchin’ his tent and makin’ camp,till I’m black in the face. It’ll be three-four weeks yet beforemushin’ll be any good, but I’ve got a right good notion to loadup the old Yukon sled an’ take out after that youngchechahco.”
“An’ why?”
The old-timer had paused for that query.The question certainly gave pith and point to the clever thingon the tip of his tongue. The remark would have lost its savorin the telling; the retort, however, was pungent.
“An’ why?” he repeated. “I’lltell you for why. I’ve been snow-blind twice, so my eyes ain’twhat they used to be. Nowadays, when I ain’t wearin’ snowglasses—an’ blast the dang things, I hate ’em!— I’ve got tokeep my eyes clamped on the spruce.
“Spruce is dang restful to the eyes.It’s restful because it’s green, but to keep on lookin’ at it, aman’s got to twist his head from one side the river to theother, an’ there’s times when I think I’m li’ble to twist myhead plum off—like a screech owl. Now, instead of takin’ allthat trouble, I couldstart out an’ foller after this young Benton.Instead of lookin’ at the spruce then, I could keep my eyesfastened straight ahead on him. He’s greener thanany spruce that ever growed.”
If young Harris Benton could have heardthis sarcastic speech, he would have been rudely made aware ofthe withering contempt in which he was held by the general runof Alaskans with whom he had come in contact. Had he been awareof the feeling which existed, he would not have been offended inthe least; he would have been amused. He was green but, unlikemany greenhorns, he realized the fact and was anxious to learn.Moreover, he was willing to accept the hard knocks—a part ofthe curriculum of Alaska’s trail school—and come up smiling.For Harris Benton, although he was probably the greenestchechahco in the North, had not been raised a pet.
At noon, young Benton hauled his sled tothe river bank and, with considerable difficulty, dropped a deadspruce tree and built a small tea fire. After his noon meal heunloaded his Yukon sled, inverted it so that the steel-shodrunners shone like twin mirrors in the rays of the sun;then—and this is almost past believing—he proceeded to smearthe steel shoes of the sled runners with lubricatingoil.
The dealer who had sold him theoil—either unscrupulous or a practical joker—had seriouslyinformed him that “greased sled runners makes mighty easyslippin’ on the trail.” Harris Benton had innocently bought fivegallons of the lubricant.
Where a musher pulls without dogs, asyoung Benton was doing, every pound of excess weight is anadditional check to his progress. And besides the five gallonsof lubricating oil, Harris Benton was hauling othernonessentials. He had more clothing than he really needed; abouttwen