"And I am twenty-seven years old and a man," he privately assured himself many times in the days that followed.There was need for it.At the end of a week, though he had succeeded in moving his eight hundred pounds forward a mile a day, he had lost fifteen pounds of his own weight.His face was lean and haggard.All resilience had gone out of his bodyand mind.He no longer walked, but plodded.And on the back-trips, travelling light, his feet dragged almost as much as when he was loaded.
He had become a work animal.He fell asleep over his food, and his sleep was heavy and beastly, save when he was aroused, screaming with agony, by the cramps in his legs.Every part of him ached.He tramped on raw blisters, yet this was even easier than the fearful bruising his feet received on the water-rounded rocks of the Dyea Flats, across which the trail led for two miles.These two miles represented thirty-eight miles of travelling.He washed his face once a day.His nails, torn and broken and afflicted with hangnails, were never cleaned.His shoulders and chest, galled by the pack-straps, made him think, and for the first time with understanding, of the horses he had seen on city streets.
One ordeal that nearly destroyed him at first had been the food.The extraordinary amount of work demanded extraordinary stoking, and his stomach was unaccustomed to great quantities of bacon and of the coarse, highly poisonous brown beans.As a result, his stomach went back on him, and for several days the pain and irritation of it and of starvation nearly broke him down.And then came the day of joy when he could eat like a ravenous animal, and, wolf-eyed, ask for more.
When they had moved the outfit across the foot-logs at the mouth of the Canyon, they made a change in their plans.Word had come across the Pass that at Lake Linderman the last available trees for building boats were being cut.The two cousins, with tools, whipsaw, blankets, and grub on their backs, went on, leaving Kit and his uncle to hustle along the outfit.John Bellew now shared the cooking with Kit, and both packed shoulder to shoulder.Time was flying, and on the peaks the first snow was falling.To be caught on the wrong side of the Pass meant a delay of nearly a year.The older man put his iron back under a hundred pounds.Kit was shocked, but he gritted his teeth and fastened his own straps to a hundred pounds.It hurt, but he had learned the knack, and his body, purged of all softness and fat, was beginning to harden up with lean and bitter muscle.Also, he observed and devised.He took note of the head-straps worn by the Indians, and manufactured one for himself, which he used in addition to the shoulder-straps.It made things easier, so that he began the practiceof piling any light, cumbersome piece of luggage on top.Thus, he was soon able to bend along with a hundred pounds in the straps, fifteen or twenty more lying loosely on top the pack and against his neck, an axe or a pair of oars in one hand, and in the other the nested cooking-pails of the camp.
But work as they would, the toil increased.The trail grew more rugged; their packs grew heavier; and each day saw the snow-line dropping down the mountains, while freight jumped to sixty cents.No word came from the cousins beyond, so they knew they must be at work chopping down the standing trees, and whipsawing them into boat-planks.John Bellew grew anxious.Capturing a bunch of Indians back-tripping from Lake Linderman, he persuaded them to put their straps on the outfit.They charged thirty cents a pound to carry it to the summit of Chilcoot, and it nearly broke him.As it was, some four hundred pounds of clothes- bags and camp outfit was not handled.He remained behind to move it along, dispatching Kit with the Indians.At the summit Kit was to remain, slowly moving his ton until overtaken by the four hundred pounds with which his uncle guaranteed to catch him.
