On August 16, 1896, George Washington Carmack and two Indian friends in the Yukon pried a nugget from the bed of Rabbit Creek, a tributary of Canada's Klondike River, and set in motion one of the most frenzied and fabled gold rushes in history. Over the next two years, at least 100,000 eager would-be prospectors from all over the world set out for the new gold fields with dreams of a quick fortune dancing in their heads. Only about 40,000 actually made it to the Klondike, and precious few of them ever found their fortune.

Swept along on this tide of gold seekers was a smaller and cannier contingent, also seeking their fortunes but in a far more practical fashion. They were the entrepreneurs, the men and women who catered to the Klondike fever.

George Carmack, the man who began it all, was neither a die-hard prospector nor a keen businessman. The California native was simply in the right place at the right time. Not that this son of a Forty-Niner had anything against being rich. But, like most of the white men who drifted north in the 1870s and '80s, he came as much for the solitude as for the gold.

There had been rumors of gold in the Yukon as far back as the 1830s, but little was done about it. The harsh land and harsher weather, plus the Chilkoot Indians' jealous guarding of their territory, effectively kept out most prospectors–until 1878, when a man named George Holt braved the elements and the Indians and came back with nuggets impressive enough to make other prospectors follow his lead. By 1880, there were perhaps 200 miners panning fine placer gold from the sandbars along the Yukon River.

In 1885, gold was found in paying quantities on the bars of the Stewart River, south of the Klondike River. The next year, coarse gold was found on the Forty Mile River, and a trading post, called Fortymile, then sprang up where the river joins the Yukon River. In 1893, a little farther down the Yukon, in Alaska, two Russian half-bloods hit pay dirt that produced $400,000 a year in gold, and spawned the boom town of Circle City. Known as 'The Paris of Alaska,' it boasted two theaters, eight dance halls, 28 saloons, a library and a school. But when news of the strike on Rabbit Creek (soon to be renamed Bonanza Creek) reached the citizens of Circle City, they decamped in droves. Only a year before Carmack's lucky find, Canada had created the Yukon District as an administrative subunit within the Northwest Territories, and construction had begun on Fort Constantine (across from Fortymile), the first North-West Mounted Police post in the Yukon. So law enforcement was in place just in time to greet the droves of prospectors who would soon be stampeding to the Klondike region of the Yukon District, which would become a separate territory on June 13, 1898.

Like his Indian friends, George Carmack believed in visions. Shortly before his dramatic discovery, he had a vision in which two salmon with golden scales and gold nuggets for eyes appeared before him. So lacking in mercenary impulses was he that he interpreted this as a sign that he should take up salmon fishing. And that's just what he was doing, along with his friends Skookum Jim and Tagish Charley, when a determined prospector named Robert Henderson floated down from upriver and, in keeping with the prospector's code, told George about the 'color' he'd found on a creek he dubbed Gold Bottom Creek. But, he warned, glaring at Jim and Charley, he didn't want any 'damn Siwashes' staking claims there.

The three friends didn't like Henderson's attitude, and for two weeks they ignored his lead. Then, with nothing better to do, they meandered over to check out Henderson's claim. Henderson insulted the Indians again by refusing to sell them tobacco. Indignant, George, Jim and Charley left and set up camp on Rabbit Creek. While cleaning a dishpan, one of the three unearthed the thumb-sized chunk of gold that set the great rush in motion. Probably because of the insults, Carmack didn't bother to hike the short distance back to Henderson's diggings to tell him of the strike. Instead, he headed downriver the 50 or so miles to Fortymile to record his claim, and Jim's and Charley's. On the way, he bragged to everyone he saw of his good luck.

Most of the old-timers just scoffed. Carmack had made'strikes' before that amounted to nothing, earning him the nickname 'Lying George,' so they put little stock in this new bonanza of his. But a few cheechakos (newcomers) went to investigate, and the word spread. Within five days, the valley was swarming with prospectors. By the end of August, the whole length of Bonanza Creek was staked out in claims; then an even richer vein was found on a tributary that became known as Eldorado Creek.

If all this had come about early in the year, the news would have reached civilization within a few weeks. But winter was already closing in. Once the rivers froze and the heavy snows fell, communication with the outside was nearly impossible. William Ogilvie, a Canadian government surveyor, sent off two separate messages to Ottawa, telling of the magnitude of the strike, but both were lost in the bureaucratic shuffle.

So it wasn't until the following July (1897), when steamships from Alaska docked in San Francisco and Seattle–disgorging 68 ragged miners carrying more than 2 tons of gold in suitcases, boxes, blankets and coffee cans–that the outside world caught the Klondike fever.

The fever quickly reached epidemic proportions. Like a worn-down body that's susceptible to any disease that comes along, the country was particularly susceptible just then to gold fever. The amount of gold in circulation had dropped, helping to cause the deep economic depression that had been eating at the United States for 30 years. The Pacific Northwest had been hit especially hard. People were tired of being poor; many who had jobs quit them for the promise of greater rewards. Streetcar drivers abandoned their trolleys; a quarter of the Seattle police force walked out; even the mayor resigned and bought a steamboat to carry passengers to the Klondike.

Those who had no jobs mortgaged their homes or borrowed the $500 or so needed to buy an 'outfit'–a stove, tent, tools, nails and enough supplies to last a year. A proper outfit tipped the scales at nearly 2,000 pounds–though one fast-talking salesman began hawking a valise that he claimed contained a year's worth of desiccated food and weighed only 250 pounds!He was just one of a growing number of enterprising citizens who realized there was a fortune to be made right here at home, simply by selling a product, however dubious in value, with the name Klondike attached. There were Klondike medicine chests, Klondike electric gold pans, Klondike mining schools, a Klondike bicycle, even a portable Klondike house purported to be 'light as air' when folded up–a doubtful claim, considering it featured a double bed and an iron stove.

Inventors dreamed up devices that promised to make the task of digging gold positively pleasant. Nikola Tesla, one of the pioneers of electricity, promoted an X-ray machine that would supposedly detect precious metals beneath the ground without all the trouble of digging. A Trans-Alaskan Gopher Company proposed to train gophers to claw through frozen gravel and uncover nuggets. Clairvoyants touted their abilities to pinpoint rich lodes of gold. Several ventures were underway to invade the Klondike by balloon.

Even as all these cockeyed schemes and services were being offered, there was one crucial commodity that was in desperately short supply–transportation. There weren't nearly enough ships in the Northwest to handle the stampede of gold seekers–2,800 from Seattle alone in a single week. Everything that floated was pressed into service–ancient paddlewheelers and fishing boats, barges, coal ships still full of coal dust. All were overloaded, and many unseaworthy; they were dubbed 'floating coffins,' and all too often they lived up to the name.

A few ships sailed around the Aleutians and through the Bering Sea to St. Michael, Alaska, on Norton Sound. The passengers could then take riverboats upstream from the Yukon River delta to the gold fields, a 1,600-mile trip on the winding Yukon. But not many Klondikers could afford the $1,000 fare. Most boats went only as far as Skagway in the Alaska Panhandle, where the passengers and their outfits were unceremoniously dumped on the mile-wide tidal flats. If the Klondikers weren't ready to turn back by then, there was plenty of adversity ahead to change their minds. Skagway itself was no beach resort. It was, in fact, a grimy anarchic tent town that a visiting Englishman described as 'the most outrageously lawless quarter I have ever struck. ' There was a saloon or a con man, or both, on every corner, and gunfire in the streets was so commonplace as to be mostly ignored. The most famous of the con men was Jefferson Randolph ('Soapy') Smith, the 'Uncrowned King of Skagway,' who ran the town's underworld until he died in a July 8, 1898, shootout.

But even in this chaotic setting, legitimate businesses flourished. What the would-be miner needed by now was some way of getting his outfit to the gold fields, so anyone with a wagon and a team or a few mules could do well for himself–or herself. Harriet Pullen, a widow with a brood of children, arrived in Skagway with $7 to her name, but parlayed it into a fortune by driving a freight outfit all day and, at night, baking apple pies in pans hammered out of old tin cans. She became the town's most distinguished citizen. Joe Brooks, one of the most successful 'packers,' owned 335 mules and raked in $5,000 a day–far more than most men earned in a year. In keeping with the nature of the town, he wasn't overly scrupulous; if he was hauling equipment for one customer and got a more tempting offer, he'd simply dump the first shipment alongside the trail.

In addition to the boat passage up the Yukon, there were at least five trails being touted as the best route to the gold fields. But three of those were so long and hazardous that only a few men ever succeeded in reaching the Klondike alive on them. The two most heavily traveled routes began in Skagway and the neighboring town of Dyea.

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