Rush

Set during the time of the Alaskan gold rush, this is a story of a young man who goes looking for his treasure, and another young man who goes to the same place looking for answers.

Man does not choose his dreams; dreams choose the man.

 

The Cave

“Dare I believe my eyes? If this is not the one and only Mr. Jeff Greenfield himself, in the flesh, ladies and gentlemen!” someone called out so that everyone at the bar turned to look at this certain Mr. Greenfield. Why they should feel honored was not immediately clear, as Mr. Greenfield was not recognized by anyone, except for the loud company of men at the corner-table from whence the hollering came.

 

“Newspapermen,” the barman mumbled under his thick mustache, and he shook his head as he reached for another shot glass to clean with his white kitchen towel. “They think the world revolves around them, because they can string words together. None of them has done a day’s real work in their life.”

 

“Over here, Jeff, the next round is on me, alright?” the same loud voice bellowed. The man to whom this voice belonged was on his feet now, gently swaying from side to side, as his glassy eyes tried to focus on Mr. Greenfield. His speech was slurred, and had a drunken man’s delirious grin on his face. His fellows joined in, and started chanting in unison, “Greenfield, Greenfield, Greenfield!”

 

Jeff Greenfield shot a glance at the men at the table, and quickly surveyed the state they were in: neckties loosened, jackets thrown on the back of their chairs, some onto the ground, thick cigarette smoke billowing in the air, the table full of glasses and bottles - mostly empty.

 

“To what do we owe the honor, Jeff?” another loud voice continued. Boys, can any of you recall the last time Mr. Greenfield graced The Cave Tavern with his presence?”

 

“It must’ve been before his dear wife took it upon herself to manage his timetable for him!” another man said, and this was followed by the loud laughter of the entire company.

 

Jeff knew these men well. The one doing the talking was Clay Smith, and the others were Pete Hamill, Eric Newton, and David Shaw - senior journalists of the New York Times. They were men he used to look up to and admire even - before he himself landed a job at the New York Times. Since then, he often pondered the meaning of the phrase, “One should never meet one’s heroes.”

 

Yes, it’s true that he hardly ever joined the others after work at The Cave. No, Mrs. Greenfield wasn’t managing Jeff’s timetable. She didn’t have to. Young Mr. Greenfield, who exchanged vows with his childhood sweetheart at age 24, had a strong sense of duty, discipline and honor all his life. He always strove to do right, to please, to live up to - perhaps exceed - expectations, and to make everyone around him proud. He was a “good man,” and he played his part so well, so convincingly, that he even had himself fooled.

 

“Show some respect, gentleman! Mr. Greenfield just returned from his very important mission in Alaska,” Shaw said sarcastically. So, what’s the latest news on sled dogs, Jeff? At least give us a weather report - we’re dying to hear all about it!”

 

The rookie Jeff was a last resort when the editor wanted someone to “get up to the north to have a look at” the modern-day Exodus of tens of thousands of people that left behind their “normal” lives and went looking for gold. No one at the office wanted the job. It was too far. It was too hard. It was too cold. It was too much time away from the hustle and bustle of the city, from the tavern, from friends, from wives, from lovers, and from the quicker, easier stories that paid more for less work than this uncertain, unappealing, unglamorous, and potentially hazardous trip.

 

Jeff said yes without thinking it through. He was grateful for the chance to get away, to get out of this city that kept his body imprisoned, and his mind on a loop. He was always drawn to the great outdoors, to the romantic idea of solitude, and to communing with nature.

 

He had been losing a sense of himself lately - of who he was, and of who he was supposed to be. He had grown restless, unsure of…everything. Some days he felt like he had lost sight of the destination in life he was headed toward. Other days, he wondered if he had been blind all his life, and it was only now that his eyes began to see.

 

He ignored the drunken men and their jests and jeers. He longed to sit alone, undisturbed, unseen in some dark corner, but he could only find an available seat at the bar. He sat on a bar-stool and ordered a double whisky. The barman filled a glass and placed it in front of him.

 

“Pay no mind to them, son,” he said in a low voice. It’s just the liquor talking. So, Alaska, huh? I’ve heard it said that a man cannot go there and remain the same. Is that so?”

 

“It is so,” Jeff Greenfield replied, and drank his whisky.

 

The Dream

Jeff was sitting next to a ragged, rough man in a ragged, rough log cabin somewhere outside of Fairbanks, in Alaska. The people in Fairbanks told him to “go and seek out Ernest Newman if he wanted someone to talk to. Everyone else is too busy around here, and ol’ Ernest has a head full of fantastic stories anyway,” they’d say at the inn where Jeff had stayed.

 

He was told that Mr. Newman lived in a cabin about five miles outside of the city. He lived alone, as far as they could tell, but he never had visitors, and so not much was known about him, except that he had a reputation of being either “cracked” or being a “sage.”

 

“So, Mr. Newman, I was sent by the New York Times to report on the gold rush in these parts. Already more than 100,000 men have set out to seek their fortunes here. If you’d be so kind as to tell me your story, sir, I’d be much obliged. The old man waited for a while, studying the young man intently. Then he began:

 

“It was the same dream every night: I saw myself enveloped by thick fog; not a soul to be seen, not a sound to be heard anywhere. I was standing utterly alone, waiting, waiting for something - I knew not what. Then, I’d see a shadowy figure slowly moving toward me, emerging from the fog. It was a young, Native woman. She’d come up to me, real close, and she’d just stare me straight in the eyes. Her face was expressionless, but not unkind. Her long, straight, black hair came down to her shoulders, and it seemed to undulate as if she were under water. Her dark brown eyes penetrated my soul as if they were questioning me, searching for an answer. Then, she reached under her deer skin shirt, retrieved a shiny, luminous object and held it up for me to see. I was not sure what to do; hesitatingly I reached out my hand, and just as I was about to touch it, I woke.”

 

“What is it? What’s wrong?” my wife would mumble, half asleep, groggy.

 

“It’s alright. Go back to sleep,” I’d tell her.

 

“I hadn’t told her about the dream. Perhaps I didn’t understand what it all meant; perhaps I did, and was afraid that it might mark the end of something old in my life - and the beginning of something new. I fought this realization for as long as I could, but I sensed, that the time will come when I will have to act on this dream, or it will eat me up.

 

Yes,” he said, and smiled as he slowly scanned his surroundings with his eyes, as if to make sure that what he was seeing was all real: the rough walls of his small log cabin, the dirt floor, the single bed he was sitting on now, the tiny window, and the immense wilderness of the Yukon beyond it.

 

The Journey

“I come from a family of doctors,” Mr. Newman said, as he busied himself at the small, wood-burning stove where he was making tea. It was natural and expected that I follow the tradition and become a doctor myself. I tried to live up to these expectations, and didn’t question them. If it hadn’t been for that dream, I would never have left. I couldn’t have been older than you are now, Mr. Greenfield. My family protested; many thought I was going mad - myself included. I didn’t understand it, but I couldn’t talk myself out of it. I didn’t know what I was looking for, but I knew I had to get away from it all, and what better place to do that in than Alaska? I just finished my training as a doctor, married a girl my parents chose for me, and seemingly all was well.

 

I had to leave in secret. I knew it was hopeless to explain to my family, to my wife, or to anyone that I have to follow my dream to go and seek that woman, and that treasure.

 

Less than half of those who started the trek to the Yukon arrived; those who got here safely stood little chance of finding gold. Most had no idea where they were going or what they’d face along the way. I’d done some research and so had enough warm clothes and outerwear, blankets and towels, mosquito netting, medicine, candles and matches, soap, food, tools and mining equipment. Getting to Yukon Territory was no easy task. First, we had to get to the town of Skagway from where we had to choose whether to go on the White Pass Trail, or the Chilkoot Trail. The White Pass was not as steep or rugged as the Chilkoot, but it was narrow and clogged and slippery with mud. Many animals became stuck and died, earning the trail the nickname, ‘The Dead Horse Trail’.

 

The Chilkoot Trail was steep, icy and snowy, including 1,500 steps carved of snow and ice known as the “golden staircase.” Daunted, many gave up at this point and headed home. It is impossible to give one an idea of the slowness with which things were moving. The final leg of the journey was also treacherous and slow-going. We had to build or rent boats and brave hundreds of miles of winding Yukon River rapids to reach Dawson City in the Yukon Territory, Canada. Many people died during the river trip.

 

Only about 30,000 weary travelers finally arrived in Dawson City. Most were gravely disappointed to learn reports of available Klondike gold were greatly exaggerated. For many, thoughts of gold and wealth had sustained them during their grueling journey. Learning they’d come so far for nothing was too much to bear and they immediately booked passage home. Those of us that decided to stay set up makeshift camps in Dawson and endured the harsh winter as best we could. Sickness, disease and death from infectious illness were commonplace. Other people stayed in Dawson and attempted to mine gold - they usually came up empty-handed.”

 

“He never found any gold,” Jeff thought looking at the cabin, and the man himself. The old man handed him a mug of hot tea, lowered himself into a rocking chair facing the window, and away from his guest. He started sipping his tea as if he had forgotten about the young reporter, or as if he didn’t want to speak anymore.

 

Jeff looked at his silhouette for a while: the steam rising from the mug enveloped the gray head and gave it a mysterious aura. He looked outside through the small window and noticed that a thick fog has rolled in from the mountains and covered the land outside.

 

Jeff almost dropped his mug when he became aware of something moving outside in the fog: it was a human figure with black hair, wearing a brown garment. It glided weightlessly in the fog, coming close to the cabin. He closed his eyes, opened them again, and the apparition was gone.

 

“Yes,” the old man said still having his back turned to Jeff. “I must go now,” he said. He then stood up, went for his coat and hat that were hanging on hooks by the door.

 

“You are welcome to stay,” he said.

 

“Have you found what you came here for, Mr. Newman?” Jeff asked suddenly. Have you found any gold?”

 

The old man smiled, raised his right hand and patted the pocket above his heart. Then, he smiled once again, stepped outside, and disappeared in the fog.

 

Gold

“Well, did he find gold or not?” the barman, who has been listening attentively to Jeff’s story, wanted to know.  

 

“Perhaps he did - a different kind of gold. He had no regrets, he knew how to smile, and he was at peace. That’s the most one can say about another man’s life. The rest shall forever remain invisible, unspeakable, and mysterious.”

 

“Your dreams will navigate your path,” he had said to me before he left.

 

“A man has got to chase his dreams, or let them go,” the barman said pensively, in a low voice, as if speaking to himself.

 

Jeff Greenfield nodded, continued sitting for a while, then put some money on the counter, got his coat and hat, and stepped outside into the thick fog that descended over the city.

 

The End