Samuel Alexander White, The Camps of Chaos — His Own Salvation
“ The frost of the late autumn night bit keenly against their fire-warmed faces as they emerged and descended the hill, their moccasins crunching crisply in the six inches of snow that covered the slope. Below them on the flat at the base of the hill glittered the thousands of lights of Dawson and across the Klondike River the thousands more of Klondike City. Between, like ivory foam on a summer stream, surged the mush ice which the Klondike was throwing into the Yukon, and down the Yukon itself great, grinding floes ran a ghostly race. ”
