At this first look, I bolted back into my seat and stared straight ahead. Sarah hugged Jacob, who had quieted, to her chest, refusing even to peer out the window, but Mr. Harris leaned forward, enjoying the view, and began telling us about the explorer Simon Fraser, the namesake of the river and its canyon.
“He’s noted for saying that he and his men ‘had to travel where no human being should venture, for surely we have encountered the gates of hell.’ ”
Sarah and I both shivered. I could not imagine men in canoes trying to navigate the rapids safely, but I knew it was often attempted, and many died.
Jack Harris was clearly enjoying his role as a guide through the wilderness, and in spite of my resolve to keep my distance, I was drawn in by his storytelling.
“What do you know of the gold rush, Mr. Harris?” I asked when the roar of the water began to subside.
“Lots,” he said with a shrug. “It was in the sandy bars that skirt this shoreline where the first gold was discovered.”
“When was that?” Sarah asked, obviously as interested as I was.
“Only a few years ago. Those miners who chose not to go north to the Cariboo are still here, working their claims by panning the sand.” He pointed out signs along the roadway that marked the claims and spoke of the men who laid them: YANKEE DOODLE BAR, LAST-CHANCE FLAT, KANAKA BAR. “Kanaka is slang for ‘Hawaiian,’ ” he explained.
I felt my heart beat faster, not from the sheer drop below us, but at the dangerous beauty of the scenery. Never before had I seen such a captivating landscape. England was gentle and rolling, but here, the countryside was both stunning and treacherous. The many sad-looking, white wooden crosses along the road were a testament to the perils the gold seekers faced.
I thought about Simon Fraser, George Vancouver, and the men who had been determined to make a path through this great land. This was truly a land of new beginnings, and I began to feel the trauma and grief of the past year ebb away. Here was a place where my past and the shames of my family would not follow, a place where I could listen to my heart and live the life I chose.
Chapter Thirty-seven
As we neared Barkerville, the stagecoach hummed with anticipation. Sarah in particular was brimming with excitement, and understandably so—she was about to be reunited with her father, whom she had not seen in five years, and she busied herself by changing little Jacob into his best clothes, a darling little sailor suit, for his first meeting with his grandpa.
The stage came to an abrupt halt, and we were forced to wait for an endless hour while a group of men on horseback drove a large herd of cattle across the road and into the valley beyond. I fidgeted in my seat and strained out the window, recalling John’s talk of riding with the cowboys.
“The Cariboo’s other big moneymaker,” Mr. Harris said, pointing to the cattle.
“A profitable business?” I asked.
“All these prospectors have to be fed, and many have the money to eat well. Cattle ranchers are as rich as the successful miners.”
“Who controls the ranges?”
“No one. The cattle are free to roam unless a landowner puts up fences. There’s more and more fences now that land is being given away to settlers.”
Given away, I thought ruefully. Not quite. “But people can buy land as well?”
“I guess, but why would they? The land is free to couples willing to settle and work it. All you have to do is be lawfully wedded to get the land.” He held my gaze. If he was flirting, I wasn’t interested.
Outside the coach, the landscape began to change as evidence of prospecting was everywhere. I couldn’t help but think that it resembled a battlefield. Wooden flumes, giant waterwheels, and sluice gates crisscrossed bleak hillsides denuded of trees, and the smell of fresh-cut logs hung thick in the air, the fine particulates of sawdust tickling my throat. Heavy rains had caused washouts at various places, as rainwater rampaged down hillsides unchecked, carrying away with it precious topsoil. Caught up in a feverish quest for gold, these prospectors didn’t seem to care how they left the land.
I remembered John telling me how the gold miners used chemicals like mercury that destroyed salmon spawning grounds, depriving the Natives of food. The decimation had taken just six short months.
We passed a sign carved rather crudely into the shape of a man’s head. Underneath, in white paint, it read, WELCOME TO BARKERVILLE, POPULATION 5,000, THE BIGGEST TOWN NORTH OF SAN FRANCISCO AND WEST OF CHICAGO.
“Who’s the head supposed to be?” I asked Mr. Harris, sure he would know.
“Billy Barker, the town’s namesake. He’s a Brit, like you, and he discovered a rich vein of gold here only a year and a half ago. This whole town has sprung up since then. They say old Billy is spending his gold faster than he’s making it.”
Evening was starting to set in, but there was still enough light to get a view of the town as we entered the main street, and Sarah and I hung out the window, curious to see all we could. Many men and some women were out walking in spite of the chill. They seemed friendly, with several small groups engaged in cheerful chatter.
Along the main street, there were twenty or so commercial buildings, many of which boasted elaborate, two-storey false fronts nailed onto rough shacks, and they were all several feet above road level and connected by wooden boardwalks. The reason for this was soon obvious: Main Street was a mud-filled bog.
There was a creek in the distance, and running along it we could
