14 THE CARIBOO TRAIL

pushed their way, the coarser grew the gold
flakes and grains. Would the golden lure
lead finally to the mother lode of all the yellow
washings? That is the hope that draws the
prospector from river to stream, from stream
to dry gully bed, from dry gully to precipice
edge, and often over the edge to death or
fortune.

Exactly fifty-six years from the first rush
of ’58 in the month of April, I sat on the banks
of the Fraser at Yale and punted across the
rapids in a flat-bottomed boat and swirled in
and out among the eddies of the famous bars.
| | A Siwash family lived there by fishing with
| 4 clumsy wicker baskets. Higher up could be
7 seen some Chinamen, but whether they were
fishing or washing we could not tell. Two
transcontinental railroads skirted the canyon,
one on each side, and the tents of a thousand
construction workers stood where once were
the camps of the gold-seekers banded together
for protection. When we ‘came back across
the river an old, old man met us and sat talk-
ing to us on the bank. He had come to the
Fraser in that first rush of ’°58. He had been
one of the leaders against the murderous bands
| of Indians. Then, he had pushed on up the
i river to Cariboo, travelling, as he told us, by

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