Klondike Quotes

Are you waiting for someone to come and get you?” I whisper. I sound small and thirsty. He doesn’t answer. Instead, he bends his head and kisses me, just once, then let’s me go. When Connor would kiss Angelie in the halls last spring, he did it like he was trying to suck the chocolate off the outside of a Klondike bar. It could last for hours. This is more like seeing a star fall - thrilling and soundless and then over.

There’s a land—oh, it beckons and beckons, And I want to go back—and I will.

The concept of barroom shoot-outs and duels in the sun have no part in our tradition either, possibly because we have had so few barrooms and so little sun. (It is awkward to reach efficiently for a six-gun while wearing a parka and two pairs of mittens.)

Some miners’ wives take in washing and make more money than their husbands do. In every gold rush from this one to the Klondike, the suppliers and service industries will gather up the dust while ninety-nine per cent of the miners go home with empty pokes.

In six years, Hoover circled the globe five times. He lived through the Boxer Rebellion in China, hacked through the jungles of Borneo, rode camels across the red emptiness of Western Australia, rubbed shoulders with Wyatt Earp and Jack London in a Klondike saloon, camped beside the Great Pyramids of Egypt. He had experiences as rich and memorable as any young man has ever enjoyed, and was moved by none of them. In

Oh, anche se non fosse diventato ricco, vostro zio sarebbe stato un papero veramente speciale! Credetemi! Vedete, era già ricco quando arrivò nel Klondike! Si possiede una vera ricchezza se si ama il proprio lavoro e se si hanno amici leali e parenti affettuosi come voi! Paperone è veramente ricco di ricordi! I ricordi... sono un po' come questi cioccolatini: sono rimasti inalterati nel tempo... sono intatti, ma... ancora dolci, dolcissimi, nonostante siano trascorsi tanti anni!

Word of advice - never ask a terrorist the question 'What would you do for a Klondike bar?'.

The old-timer had been very serious in laying down the law that no man must travel alone in the Klondike after fifty below. Well, here he was; he had had the accident; he was alone; and he had saved himself. Those old-timers were rather womanish, some of them, he thought. All a man had to do was to keep his head, and he was all right. Any man who was a man could travel alone.

In 1897, still in his early twenties, Hoover was hired by a large and venerable British mining company, Bewick, Moreing and Co., and for the next decade travelled the world ceaselessly as its chief engineer and troubleshooter – to Burma, China, Australia, India, Egypt and wherever else its mineralogical interests demanded. In six years, Hoover circled the globe five times. He lived through the Boxer Rebellion in China, hacked through the jungles of Borneo, rode camels across the red emptiness of Western Australia, rubbed shoulders with Wyatt Earp and Jack London in a Klondike saloon, camped beside the Great Pyramids of Egypt.

In northwest Seattle, there is an immensely popular 'old-fashioned' ice cream parlor. It is modern, spotless, and gleaming, bursting with comfortable looking people on a warm summer evening. The parlor is dedicated to nostalgia, from the old-time decor to the striped candy, the ragtime music, the costumes of the smiling young waiters, the Gibson-girl menu with its gold-rush type, and the open-handed hospitality of the Old West. It serves sandwiches, hamburgers, and kiddie 'samiches,' but its specialty is ice-cream concoctions, all of them with special names, including several so vast and elaborate that they cost several dollars and arrive with so much fanfare that all other activities stop as the waiters join in a procession as guards of honor. Nobody seems to care that the sandwiches and even the ice cream dishes have a curious blandness, so that everything tastes rather alike and it is hard to remember what one has eaten. Nothing mars the insistent, bright, wholesome good humor that presses on every side. Yet somehow there is pathos as well. For these patrons are the descendants of pioneers, of people who knew the frontiers, of men who dared the hardships of Chilkoot Pass to seek gold in the Klondike. That is their heritage, but now they only sit amid a sterile model of the past, spooning ice cream while piped-in ragtime tinkles unheard.

One long night that winter, lying on his hard bunk in the endless darkness, body failing him, London made a decision, a resolution even. No more jute mills or coal yards. No more pickle factories or dollar-a-day jobs. No more slaving for another man’s capital. He would do what he had long dreamed of. He would set his own way. London pulled out a pencil and, standing awkwardly on his weakened legs, wrote a message on the icy log next to his bed: “Jack London, Miner, author, Jan 27, 1898.” From then on, he was determined to be a writer. He had staked his claim.

She turned as he got closer and pasted a phony-looking smile on her face. “Well, Mr. Hawkins. How nice of you to come over for another neighborly chat.” “This isn’t a neighborly chat, sweetheart, and you know it. What the hell is happening over here? I thought I told you I liked peace and quiet.” “Yes, I believe you did. Unfortunately for you, I like being able to use my bathroom for something other than a place to hang wet towels and I prefer to cook my meals without rainwater dripping into my food.” He’d seen her walking back and forth to the outhouse in her rain slicker. He’d wondered if she’d ever even seen one before. He glanced up at the sagging cabin roof. He figured it would start leaking sooner or later. “That bad, huh?” He tried to keep the satisfaction out of his voice, but he could see by her pinched expression she had heard it. “Let’s just say Mr. Flanagan had good reason to move.” “How long till they finish the repairs?” “Since the men seem to be working on ‘Klondike time,’ I have no idea. I guess it depends on whether or not the sun comes out.” He ignored a flicker of amusement, clamped down on his jaw instead. “Well, the sooner they get done, the better. All that hammering is driving me crazy.” Her smile remained frozen in place. “Maude tells me you own quite a lot of property along the creek. Perhaps you should think of relocating your house someplace farther back in the woods.

In the evening, after work is done, they visit around or remain indoors reading papers and books. One finds all sorts of books, from a cheap novel to Gibbon’s Roman Empire and Shakespeare, in the cabins of Bonanza and Eldorado.

They were very sad at this and tried to persuade me to remain. If I had known what was before me, maybe I would have. But as they say, God gave no faculty of foresight even to His Mother; and maybe, all things considered, it's just as well that none of us have that gift.

But isn't everything like that in our uncertain world? We spend our time pinching and scraping and searching for comfort and all kinds of good things and they usually arrive when you're not able to get any good out of them.

Soon word began to filter south that the whole enterprise was a fool’s errand, that all the gold-rich territory had been claimed, that the only people getting wealthy in the Klondike were the early stakeholders and entrepreneurs who had established businesses catering to the gold rush hordes. One of these was Frederick Trump, Donald Trump’s grandfather, an immigrant who had dodged the draft in Germany, fled to the United States, and made a small fortune opening hotels in the Yukon riverbank towns of Bennett and Whitehorse.

One is reminded of Madame Roland’s exclamation on the scaffold: ‘Oh, Liberty, how many crimes are committed in thy name!

At about this time David hit on a scheme to end their financial problems. With his growing family, their limited income must have been the cause of constant worry to him. Stories of the rich strikes in the Klondike a decade earlier, perhaps bolstered by his spell of active service in South Africa, seem to have persuaded him that gold-mining might be the answer. On hearing that a new goldfield had been discovered in Ontario, he staked several claims to forty acres near the small township of Swastika, in the Great Lakes area. Only small quantities of gold had been found there so far, but a big seam was believed to exist. ---- Over the next twenty years or so, David would travel to Ontario many times to work the claim. He had already been there alone when, in the spring of 1912, he and Sydney decided to go together and – the biggest treat — they were to sail on the maiden voyage of the Titanic. Fortunately, something happened to make this impossible, and their departure was delayed until autumn of the following year. ---- It is not difficult to see why David remained keen, although the mining project eventually came to nothing. Furthermore, he and Sydney were at their closest in the shack at Swastika through the winter in that inhospitable climate, and it was one of the happiest times of David’s life. It was there that Sydney conceived their fifth child. ---- The parents, still hoping for a second boy, were disappointed, but soon came round. There was time for another boy. In David’s absence Sydney called her Unity after an actress (Unity Moore) she admired, and then Grandfather Redesdale said that she must have a topically apposite second name so they added Valkyrie, after Wagner’s Norse war-maidens. Almost from the time of her birth she was known in family circles as ‘Bobo’, but with hindsight, Unity Valkyrie’s unusual name, combined with the place of her conception, Swastika, seems almost like an eerie prophecy which the fifth Mitford child had no alternative but to fulfil.

With one hundred miles left to go in the Klondike 200 I began imagining how amazed people would be at the finished line. Entering the Klondike, my sights had been set on merely finishing.

What are you? A mac and cheese connoisseur?” Jenna asks and rolls her eyes. “I’m just a pasta slut okay? Add some cheese to it, and you don’t even know what I would do, okay? It’s kinda like what would you do for a Klondike bar, but with pasta.” We all burst out laughing. Leave it to Will to always be able to make everyone laugh.

America’s Gilded Age was always rotten at the core. Glittering estates and palaces of commerce for the Vanderbilts and the Carnegies, the squalid tenement and factory floor for the masses. Two entire generations of workers had been sacrificed to that grinder to make the Rockefellers rich. But when the gleaming veneer cracked, the whole system fell apart, and the country lapsed into a stupor like it had never known. The Panic of 1893 was the worst depression the United States had yet endured.

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Many horses, alleged to be pack horses had ribs like the sides of a whiskey-cask and hips to hang hats on. Why, some look as if a good feed of oats would make them sag beyond remedy.

Wherever the world is heading, head the other way.

Here, from his perch on the very summit of the mountain wall, high above forest and river, far from the tinny cacophony of Skagway, Steele, the iron man, could gaze down, godlike, on the insect figures striving to reach his eyrie—on the whimpering horses and the cursing men, and on the women bent double beneath man-sized loads. It was a scene that was almost medieval in its fervor and in its allegory, and it was enacted against a massive backdrop: the cloud-plumed mountains in the foreground, the rolling hills in the middle distance, and far below—as if in another world—the bright sheen of the ocean and the tiny outlines of shuttling boats disgorging, endlessly, more human cargo, and, glittering wetly in the pale sun, the flats of Skagway, where William Moore had once reigned as a lonely monarch. And hanging over the whole, like a encompassing pall, the sickly-sweet stench of carrion, drifting with the wind.

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Dennis and I followed the slippery eel of I-5 and listened to the trees: the moan of a madrone, the counsel of a Douglas fir, the shimmer of a cherry tree, the whine of a whitebark pine, paper birches, dogwoods, and oaks and maples and sweet gums and cedars and elms. Some shared memories of things that had occurred many, many years before on the land around their trunks, slow stories of fights between lovers, the massacre during the lumber industry boom, the Great Seattle Fire, and the Klondike gold rush. Trees are super nostalgic. Others recited soothing poems in sotto voce—oral balms learned as seedlings. Some spoke of when the bison and the wolf roamed this land; they talked of change and whispered about a predestined event, repeating the word “renaissance” in harmony. I had no clue what all this had to do with Michelangelo, but you don’t argue with a tree.

a 1.8-mile-long tunnel through Stampede Pass in the Cascade Mountains. With gravity defied, distance mattered. When the tunnel opened in 1888, Northern Pacific trains no longer had to divert south through Portland and north to Tacoma. They could steam over the pass about 40 miles east of Tacoma and north into Seattle.59 Seattle was now back in the game for economic dominance, and by 1910 (with the help of the Klondike Gold Rush in the 1890s), surpassed Portland in population.

London pulled out a pencil and, standing awkwardly on his weakened legs, wrote a message on the icy log next to his bed: “Jack London, Miner, author, Jan 27, 1898.” From then on, he was determined to be a writer. He had staked his claim.