My first journey into the interior of the Yukon has been a motor trip of a hundred miles on the overland trail that runs from here to Dawson. The car was of American make, the chauffeur was “Caterpillar Ike,” and the time was yesterday from midday to midnight. We dashed through virgin forests, climbed mountains, flew around dizzying curves, and skidded along narrow cliffs until my heart was in my throat but my soul was full of thrills. The overland trail begins at White Horse and runs through the wilderness for a distance of three hundred and fifty miles to Dawson at the mouth of the Klondike. It is more than one hundred miles shorter than the river trip to the gold mines, and it is used to carry mail, passengers, and freight during the cold winter months when everything in this region is locked tight by Jack Frost. The road through the forest climbs over ranges of mountains, winds its way through the valleys, and crosses swamps, bogs, and sloughs of mud that sticks like cement. In many parts of its course it twists about like a corkscrew, as though the surveyors had laid their lines along the trail of a rabbit, and a drunken rabbit at that. Here it is bedded on rock, and there it half floats on a quicksand covered with corduroy logs. In the spring of the year the six-horse teams of the mail stage are often mired to their bellies, and have to be lifted from the waxy clay by a block and tackle attached to the trees. My ride over the trail took me as far as the crest of the range beyond Little River, whence I returned to White Horse to go down the Yukon by steamer. The motor trip was a moving picture of the wonders of nature. On each side of the roadway the country is the same as it was when Columbus discovered America; it is the same as when the Scandinavian navigators drifted down our coast about 1000 A. D.--yes, I venture, the same as it was when old Cheops built his great pyramid on the banks of the Nile. With the exception of several log huts where meals are served to travellers, there were no signs of human habitation, and aside from the roads, old and new, not one mark of human labour. We were in no danger of meeting other machines or farm wagons, although we might have run down a covey of birds instead of the usual chicken, or a fox or a bear in place of a dog. At one time a lynx leaped across the trail in front of our machine, and later a great flock of grouse passed over our heads with a whirr. I am told that hunters sometimes bag a good lot of birds on this route by shooting them from automobiles.