Sad Story

I saw this moose as I was driving by

Some wore pants for the Arctic Dip

Day 4 - Deadhorse back to Coldfoot Great Day with Sad Ending
Perfect weather. Mac and I left at 6:30, the rest left at 8AM. The roads were dry, only one road crew. No problems mate! Shirt off at the riverbank, sunbathing North of the Arctic Circle. Today is Thursday. On Tuesday night, when we stopped in Coldfoot on the way up, I met a Brazilian on an a large old Harley Davidson. His name is Moro 'like tomorrow' he said with a smile and a Latin accent. He’d ridden here from Fort Lauderdale, FL, nearly 8,000 miles. His old Harley had 98,000 on the speedo, I saw it. He too was heading for Deadhorse in the morning. When I saw him at the Deadhorse Hotel that evening he said he had dropped the Harley twice on he way up. Once on Atigan Pass and once at some road maintenance. He said 'I'm on the wrong bike with the wrong tires'. He decided he was going to leave a 4AM the next morning in hopes of missing the treacherous road crews. Today on our trip back down from Deadhorse, Mac and I were stopped by a guy in a camper who said a Harley was down in a ditch at Galbraith Lake. By the time we got there Moro had been airlifted by chopper to the hospital in Fairbanks. Those that were there said he was unconscious and/or paralyzed. Rest well Moro, at least you made it to the top of the Americas!

Deadhorse not Prudhoe Bay
Since the pipeline was built it has been common to call this outpost of oil wells and driller support facilities Prudhoe Bay. Hell that might technically be its political name. But the true name for this piece of Alaska is Deadhorse. That's what everyone here calls it proudly. It's the name on the only post office up here, and the name has a great story. In fact, several stories. Nobody can be sure which one is correct (or most nearly correct).
Here's the one my research supports:
Here's the story that my research supports:
At the height of the Alaskan Gold Rush thousands of miners/con artists/whores/retailers/etc. came up here in an attempt to either strike it rich finding gold, or make a good living off of the gold seekers. Augustus McDermott was one of the latter. He coupled his ample imagination with his flexible moral code and made a lavish living off the increasingly desperate miners. Gold it seems was tremendously difficult to find. Most of those looking found nothing and either returned from where they came from or froze/starved to death in the brutal winters here. Augustus’s last con was his most successful.
It went like this- He teamed up with an attractive squaw and sold gold sniffing dogs to the gullible. At each miner’s camp they found the Indian would seek out local tribes until she found one with a dog and a litter of pups (it was food for the Indians here after all). She’d trade tobacco or gin for the mother and all of the pups. Next Augustus would take three leather pouches and fill two with small stones, and the third with small stones and a few gold flakes. In that one bag he would also place a stone that had been rubbed on a fresh steak. Not enough so a man could smell it, just enough for the dog’s nose. He’d then go into camp without the pups, but with the bitch, the Indian, and the pouches. He would find a large group of miners, usually drinking in a communal tent or saloon. After he’d had a few drinks with the boys they’d ask about the dog and the squaw. He’d tell them he’d just found her a week ago and that she’d offer him the dog in return for food and protection. Then he’d tell them about the dog. ‘The Indian says the dog can find gold’, he’d tell them. ‘Show us’, they always begged. Of course, the mother dog would always find the pouch with the gold flakes. The desperate miners would fight each other to buy the dog. But Augustus would never sell. This caused them to believe him even more. Finally he would tell them about the pups.
He’d tell them he’d not been able to test if they had the same ability since they were too young, but as he only needed one for his use he would sell the others. Miners paid amazing sums for McDermott’s pups. He did fine until he reached Coldfoot in ’07. There he played the same con without noticing a miner who’d bought a pup two years earlier from him. By now the squaw had perished and McDermott was travelling with only his horse. It was a huge Morgan. Rare in this part of the world (because of their high cost) the Morgans were fast for a work horse and famous for their stamina. They could travel for days, over the frigid tundra, better than any other breed. That’s why McDermott had him. He took off as soon as he got wind that he’d been discovered. He rode that horse straight North as fast and as long as he could. The miners formed a posse and gave chase with a sled and a team of huskies. It was a furious race but McDermott’s Morgan was always an hour or two ahead. When the miners and their dogsled reached the waters of the Arctic they found the horse, in the snow at the edge of the sea. The horse’s big heart had finally given out and there was no sign of McDermott. There weren’t even his tracks in the snow. Only a Deadhorse. Hence the name.
Now you can call this place Prudhoe Bay like the politicians or you can call it Deadhorse – It’s your choice.