The Ghost of the Titan

There is a reason the boats on the Yukon are sternwheelers. Not so the Titan. She was built a sidewheeler, a noble boat that had plied her trade hauling ore, supplies, and people deep into the wild depths of the North.

The captain knew the river well, which is to say as well as anyone could know this wild and untamed river. The Yukon at places is only a couple of hundred yards across while at others the river stretches wide, it's swift flowing current separating the two shores. The season for boats on the river was from ice out, usually in April but sometimes not until mid to late May, to September or October depending on the whim of old man winter. When the Fall was warm men knew to take heed - winters following autumn warmth were often especially brutal. Either way, woe to the captain and good vessel pushing their luck too late in the season. Getting caught in ice up would mean being trapped and only luck and pluck would determine if Spring would see them still draw breath.

The Yukon drains a huge swath of land from its headwaters 25 miles from the Pacific. Born of glaciers it then flows generally North through the interior before turning west towards the Bering Sea spitting itself out across a wide delta of meandering channels 1,900 miles away. A powerful river it's murky water hides what it carries and what lies below. It's silt filled waters hide their secrets well.

In Spring huge rafts of ice chase each other downstream churning, crashing, and gnawing at the shore gouging and tearing at the slowly awakening earth. It scours whatever it touches - earth, rock, and tree are no match for its clawing hand. The earth colors the water, the boulders roll along on the river bottom unseen, but the fallen trees move at the currents pace crashing into each other and anything in their path.

Captains and their boats dutifully wait out the flow of ice downriver. Wooden hulls, no matter how stoutly made, are no match for the power of the still semi-frozen river. Even after the ice had passed the conveyor belt of  floating and submerged trees remained a menace. Sternwheelers, with their paddles mounted behind the hull, we're specifically designed to minimize the risk of riverborn debris snagging the great turning paddles. Thus the Titan was an exception. Either out of stupidity or arrogance it's paddles were on either side of the hull. Granted a side wheeler could turn on a dime. With its port paddle full ahead and the starboard side full reverse the Titan could dance across the surface like a spinning top. The captain  needed only to see obstacles to easily avoid them and thus far the Titan's captain had guided her fair and true with nary a single mishap to bruise her keel.

It was a bright sunny morning. Passengers had been fed and we're looking forward to another lazy day on the river as they made their way slowly but steadily upstream toward Dawson City. Still days away from her goal the Titan was pushing six knots through the water but only 3 of those moved her forward against the current. Fully loaded she drew only four feet of water while her twin paddles swooshed, swooshed, swooshed steadily to the drum of her powerful steam engines.

Far upstream the river current undercut the bank at the outside curve of one of its many meanderings. Gnawing away, slowly but steadily, the earth gave way to the hungry waters. On top of that earth was an outcrop of mighty trees. Imperceptibly they began to lean before one by one they toppled of their own weight with a mighty splash. Some caught on other debris as they fell, their trip down river quickly curtailed. Some however, due to the angle of their fall, drifted right out into the current where, mostly submerged and barely visible, they silently glided along in the roiling waters.

The river brought life and death depending on how it caressed each bank. Silt deposited on the inside of bends where the current slowed allowing new Earth to be born and colonized first by plants and then by trees anxious to spread roots in the fertile soil. Where the current was strongest was on the outside bend and here, no matter how long established, the forest was no match for the river's patient attack.

As logs made their way downstream they slowly became waterlogged almost doubling their weight to the point that many barely broke the surface. Such trees became the river's battering rams, silent torpedoes waiting to find their mark.

Trees and Titan made their unknowing way towards one another that day. The smallest change in course by either would allow calamity to be avoided. Peaceful journey or oblivion weighed in the balance.

At six knots the Titan's port paddle just clipped one of the massive logs as it swept by yet such was the impact that the entire boat shuddered and a chill ran through each one of the crew. Both passengers and crew felt, as well as heard, the massive paddle blades splinter and crackle as they tried to roll over the unseen log. The log, for its part, barely budged in acknowledgement of the impact, dipping just slightly deeper such that no one aboard the Titan quite knew what they had hit.

Spilt tea and shattered crockery was giving the first class passengers purser fits while up above in the wheelhouse the captain's face went pale as he feared in his heart that the Titan had been dealt a mortal blow. The unknowing engines continued  to churn full ahead. The pitman arm that drove the paddle wheels, much like the cranks of a bicycle, on the port side was suddenly out of balance as the big paddle, or what remained of it, finally cleared the log. The Titan lurched and then tilted precariously to port as the starboard side paddle, undamaged, propelled the boat in a circle.

The tilt of the deck  was sever enough that it was suddenly awash as fast flowing  Yukon water cascaded over the rail so fast that to the crew at least it was clear their beloved Titan was doomed. The order to abandon her never came. It was clear that it would be each man for himself. Lowest bred to noblest gentleman found themselves equal as they pleaded for mercy from the chilling waters. The starboard engine drove the Titan in a tighter and tighter spiral waiting for that moment when ice cold water would embrace steaming hot boilers. If the boilers blew there would be no hope for the Titan and the explosion would take care of any man left aboard.

Crew and passengers leapt for their lives into that turbulent stream and we're swiftly swept clear. As they bobbed downstream they expected the Titan to quickly lose its battle with the unforgiving river. To their amazement they saw the Titan continue to circle, round and round as a bee might circle a summer flower. They could still hear the starboard paddle wheels swoosh, swoosh over the din of the torrent. Some were lucky enough to reach shore and as they clambered up the muddy banks they watched their comrades and the good ship Titan sweep around the river bend until they were lost from sight never to be seen again. Lucky, or cursed, were those on shore for there was no one but them that knew of the calamity that had befallen the Titan and they were yet a long, long way from salvation.

Now this all happened a long time ago in the days that even your grandad's dad would struggle to remember. Yet to this day the fishing charter captains swear that at a certain point on the Yukon still, when they shut down their motors to let their paying customers cast a line, if the wind is just right and you listen very carefully  you can hear it, the swoosh, swoosh, swoosh as the mighty Titan continues to make her eternal rounds.