“I’ve got to be going. You’ll have to take care of it somehow.
the doctor
Far from their homes in the South, three young prospectors mushed their team through the crackling cold. They had covered 30 miles that day over a narrow trail and had but three miles to go to reach their cabin on Eldorado Creek in the Klondike. It was Christmas Eve, 1897.
They suffered from the cold and, in spite of the time of year, wanted only to light a roaring fire to thaw their bones and relieve the searing pain in their chests. They paid no heed to the northern lights that had dropped a dancing curtain of ghostly colours over the frozen valley.
Then, in an open space to the right of the trail, they saw a lonely cabin almost enveloped in frost; the frost itself reflected the colours of the aurora borealis until cabin and sky were joined in a mystical scene, a scene that caused the young men to stop and stare. A faint wisp of smoke drifted from the stovepipe, as if to declare there was life within the cabin; but it was a life that was feeble and quiet.
“Let’s go in and warm up,” said Johnny Lind. They must have gone into Dawson for Christmas and we can get that fire going in no time.”
They unlatched the door and tramped in. Dave Mitchell took a candle from his pocket and lit it in order to find the source of piteous moans coming from the bed in the corner. In the flickering candlelight he, Johnny Lind, and Bill Wilkinson beheld a sight they would remember for the rest of their lives.
A young woman lay on the bed with a newborn baby clutched to her breast. She stopped her faint cries to smile at Dave, who quickly kneeled at her side. Her eyes, pain-filled yet satisfied somehow, opened wide for a moment, fluttered weakly, then closed in death.
The three young men stared at each other, stunned into silence, a silence the baby finally pierced with its shrill, life-filled cry.
While Johnny Lind built up the fire, Bill Wilkinson stripped off his many layers of clothing and even removed his new woollen underwear he had bought in Dawson that day. Quickly he wrapped the baby in the underwear and whatever blankets he could find. Just then the door burst open and another young man ran to the bedside.
“Jen! I’ve got the doctor!” He collapsed on the floor beside the bed and the doctor strode into the crowded cabin. He immediately checked the woman on the bed and the young man on the floor.
“Both dead. He froze his lungs with all the running he did today; it’s 45 below outside; and the mother… goddammit, these people should never have come north! Is there a woman around here you can take the baby to?”
“No,” said Bill, who still held the baby in his huge arms. “Not close by there isn’t.”
“Well,” said the doctor, “I’ve got to be going. You’ll have to take care of it somehow.”
He packed his case and went out and the miners never saw him again.
They made a tiny bed from a packing box, tucked the baby into it, and dashed over the trail to their own cabin. Using a whiskey bottle and the finger from a leather glove, they fed the squalling child its first earthly meal: bear-stew broth with a tiny portion of brandy mixed in. The baby fell asleep in its box while the young men sang Christmas carols and gave thanks to whatever god they believed in.
But that isn’t the end of the story.
Dave Mitchell set out the next morning to find a mother for their Christmas child. The news spread quickly and soon a dozen women arrived at the cabin; each was willing to adopt the baby, and the young miners faced a difficult decision. A Mrs. Brock stood back from the crowd, listening to the arguing. Finally, she could stand it no longer.
“You’re all a bunch of fools!” she exclaimed. “Give me that baby! You, Dave, take up a collection and get going into Dawson for some canned milk. Bring some clean blankets and some diapers too.”
She picked up the baby and held it with such a natural air that the boys knew the right decision had been made. Later they found out Mrs. Brock had lost a baby back in Nova Scotia; here in the Klondike, by a miracle of events, she had found another.
For the rest of the winter the baby stayed in Mrs. Brock’s cabin and it became the centre of attention on Eldorado Creek. The miners found a minister to baptize it in the spring and, after many suggestions, a name was chosen for the child; she was to be called Edna Eldorado. She was christened in an outdoor ceremony with gold nuggets and pokes of dust piled up around her. It was said that the toughest men in the north cried like babies on that spring day in the Klondike.
That is how the story has come down to us – through magazine and newspaper accounts and personal re-telling – how three gaunt young prospectors were led by the northern lights to the side of a newborn babe on Christmas Eve in 1897.
Note: Johnny Lind’s grandson is Phil Lind, former vice president of Rogers Communications. His lawyer/writer friend Robert Brehl, searched all available records to see where Edna Eldorado ended up – to no avail. I, too, have scoured old newspapers and records from the Yukon and Nova Scotia, but nothing turned up.
Bob Brehl says the last trace of Edna petered out in Edmonton. They have agreed that this version of the Edna Eldorado story is pretty close to what happened that day.
Johnny Lind left the Klondike with enough gold to start a successful concrete business in Ontario, partnering with a member of the Rogers family.
Phil Lind, died in 2023 and had donated his huge Klondike memorabilia collection (valued at $2.5 million) to the University of British Columbia.
