Buried in the Snow

While traveling north from Alaska to Yukon during the Klondike Gold Rush in the spring of 1898, a prospector and his dog make a bone-chilling discovery in the wake of an avalanche along the frozen trail.

Created & Produced by Samuel Weston Evans

Written & Directed by Samuel Weston Evans

Sound Designed & Edited by Samuel Weston Evans

Vocal Performances by:

Michael Stafford as Tom

Samuel Weston Evans as The Keeper

Cover Art Illustrated by Mongemanuk.std

Website: https://aloneintheattic.buzzsprout.com/

Instagram: @_aloneintheattic

Transcript

Hello again.

I’m glad you’ve come back to help and hear more. Shall we begin?

Alright then. Let’s listen.

Which story will it be today?

Hmmm. The dog collar you have in your hand belonged to Tom Buchwald, a prospector who ventured north with his canine companion in search of gold, but discovered something sinister instead. This is the account of...“Buried in the Snow.”

You know what to do: close your eyes, open your ears, and journey back to that frightful evening.

It was April 3rd, 1898, in Dyea, Alaska, just south of the Canadian border.

Just eight months earlier, a large steamship had docked in Seattle, hauling back three tons of gold from an area near the Klondike River in northwest Canada. News quickly spread of this great discovery and sparked a massive gold rush in the Yukon. Thousands of hopefuls, including myself, heard the call of adventure and headed north for a chance to strike it rich. Converging on the area like a herd of charging animals, we became known as “stampeders.”

There were multiple ways to get to the Klondike, depending on how much you were willing to pay and risk. The “all-water” route, which went around Alaska and up the Yukon River, was the easiest but most expensive way of travel, which is why it was known as the “rich man’s route.” Most stampeders opted to take the “poor man’s routes” which were cheaper and more direct, but also more dangerous. These paths involved hiking many miles through the mountains along either the White Pass or Chilkoot trails, and then journeying 500 miles north along the Yukon River to reach Dawson City.

Since I couldn't afford the "rich man’s route,” I took a steamship from Seattle up the Inside Passage to Dyea, where the Chilkoot Trail began. Rather than docking in Skagway and taking the 45-mile White Pass Trail, I chose Chilkoot because it was just 33 miles long. The only trouble with the Chilkoot Trail was that it was more treacherous, having steeper inclines and a higher summit.But if the shorter distance meant getting there faster, I was willing to take the risk.

I arrived in Dyea two weeks after leaving Seattle, and had been transporting my gear from the port to Sheep Camp over the previous few days. It was only a 12-mile distance between the two stops along the trail, but it took multiple trips back and forth because of the amount of goods I’d brought with me. The Canadian authorities required each stampeder to pack at least a thousand pounds of food so that no one died of starvation on the year-long journey. The North West Mounted Police checked each prospector’s provisions at the border and would turn away those who did not bring enough.

It was a large amount to manage on my own, so I banded together with fellow stampeders and we helped carry each other’s gear, portions at a time. Some had pack animals, such as horses or mules, to aid in the transport of goods as well. I brought my dog, Jack, a large and strong St. Bernard. He was able to drag hundreds of pounds of supplies on a sled and was a great companion to have on the trek.

Along with thousands of other stampeders, we stayed at Sheep Camp, which was a couple-mile stretch of cabins and tents around the base of Long Hill. At the summit was Chilkoot Pass, the highest point along the 33-mile trail. This was regarded as the most challenging section of the Chilkoot Trail due to its steep incline. Just below the pass, there was a small basin called “The Scales,” which was the encampment where the North West Mounted Police would check and weigh our goods before climbing the peak and crossing the border into Canada.

We had planned to head up toward Chilkoot Pass that morning, but stayed put after hearing about a few small snow slides that happened in the Scales overnight. A couple hundred stampeders evacuated the Scales and descended back toward Sheep Camp in the late morning. As they made their way down Long Hill, a larger avalanche came crashing down the slope.

From the camp, we all could hear the loud rumble in the distance, but were unaware if any stampeders had been caught. It wasn’t until an eye-witness came running in soon after that we heard of the disaster. Immediately, hundreds of us hurried up the trail to help rescue the stampeders who were caught in the slide.

When we arrived on the scene, there were bodies being dragged from the snow by those who were unhurt and had dug themselves out. We all joined in and spent the entire day digging through the deep snow. Some stampeders had been buried 50 feet beneath the surface. We were able to save many, but dozens had been crushed and smothered to death or were still missing.

It started getting colder and we began losing visibility as the sun went down, so we headed back to camp, having done our best to save as many stampeders as we could.

We were all pretty shaken by the catastrophe, including Jack, who had sniffed out and dug up a few people that were trapped. It was unsettling seeing those bodies and knowing that could’ve happened to us if we had gone up to the Scales earlier that day. The thought of freezing or suffocating to death beneath the snow terrified me. I didn’t want to dwell on that, so I went back to my tent with Jack and tried to get some rest.

I was in and out of sleep for a while, and was eventually awakened by the sound of Jack barking. He was outside the tent, so I threw on my boots and coat to go check on him. It was quite dark, so I couldn’t see where he was. I had a box of matches and a couple candles in my coat pocket, so I lit one to illuminate the way. I followed the sound of his barking and quietly made my way through the outskirts of the camp until I saw him.

“Jack, what are you woofing at? You’re gonna wake everyone up.”

He stopped barking when he heard me, but kept staring in the same direction. I gazed out that way, but didn’t see anything in the darkness. His eyes were locked on whatever was out there and he started growling.

Suddenly, he took off and bolted into the night. “Jack, wait!” I called out, but he was gone. I quickly ran after him, holding the candle out in front of me. I crunched through the hard snow, searching as far as I could see in the light from the flame.

I soon heard the sound of growling again and caught him. “Jack! Why did you..." But I stopped in my tracks when I saw what was in front of him.

Sticking out of the snow was a frozen hand. It was discolored, frostbitten, and clawed, as if still trying to get out. We must have missed him on our search earlier that day, but now it was too late. The avalanche had buried him in an icy grave.

“We can’t save him, Jack. Let’s head back to camp to get a shovel and sled for the body.”

I turned and began walking, but then Jack barked. “What is it now, boy?”

When I came back to him, he was still staring at the hand.

“Come on, boy. Let’s go.”

But as I looked at it again, I noticed something strange. The fingers appeared flexed, but I could’ve sworn they were bent before I turned around. I slowly creeped toward it to get a better look. Jack went ahead of me, stalking the protruding limb. Now seeing the frozen flesh right up close, the discoloration made it seem inhuman.

Suddenly, the hand grabbed onto Jack’s collar and pulled. I quickly sprang to action and attempted to pry the fingers off, but they were cold and solid as ice. Jack was barking and whimpering, so I unlatched his collar to set him free.

He immediately ran off into the night and I fell backward from the struggle. I dropped my candle, which snuffed out in the snow, leaving me in darkness.

I scrambled to my feet and dug into my pocket to grab another match, but stopped when I heard movement. It sounded like something was emerging from the snow. I quickly lit the other candle I had in my pocket and held it toward where the hand had been.

But it was now gone. All that remained was a body-shaped pit in the surrounding area of snow. I lifted the candle and searched all around, but there was nothing in sight. My blood ran cold. Where did it go?

I heard a noise coming from a distance. When I turned in that direction, I could see something crawling toward me, but it was too dark to make out what it was. “Jack? Come here, boy!” I called. But then I heard his bark from the opposite direction.

Whatever was crawling toward me slowly stood up, froze for a moment, and then started charging. In a sheer panic, I turned to get away, but I fell into the empty grave behind me and my candle went out again. I floundered in the darkness and sank, as the snow slid in around me. “Jack! Help!”

I could hear his barks and bounding paws getting closer, but I also heard footsteps quickly approaching in the snow. The cold powder was smothering me and spilling into my coat. I suddenly felt a sharp chill sting my neck. Like icy fingernails digging—

Tom Buchwald was lost in the snow that night and never seen again; Another prospector who perished on that treacherous trail. But now his tale has been told and his spirit has been released.

It’s almost time for you to leave, but I owe you more information about the Attic since you returned to help another ghost.

Last time I told you that my brother and I are quite different, but I have not explained how. We each possess various capabilities that help us keep the Attic alive. While I am bound within its walls, my brother is free to leave, which is why you have never seen him here. And though I cannot venture through the portal, I am able to communicate with the outside world and welcome guests inside, which is how I called out to you and brought you here.

That is all we have time for tonight. Come back again to help the spirits and hear more secrets of the Attic.

I will welcome you back soon. The ghosts and I thank you for your service. Stay safe out there...and don’t venture through deep snow alone.

Thank you for listening to Alone in the Attic. Tonight's episode was written, directed, and edited by Samuel Weston Evans, with vocal performances by Michael Stafford as Tom and Samuel Weston Evans as The Keeper.

Join us next week to hear the ghostly tale of “A Frightful Fight.” In the East End of London in the winter of 1879, a bare- knuckle boxer accidentally kills his opponent during a match and finds himself haunted in the ring.

Find out next time...Alone in the Attic.