I am speaking of the Ophir country in the interior Nome waste. The description that always accompanies the story of how thoughts flash through the brains of a drowning man is a mild comparison to the ever present feeling that one has up in this God-forsaken country, that is as utterly apart from anything human as can be imagined. I had just come from down the Ophir river a few miles, where I had cut some frozen willows to bake out for firewood. The night was the very worst that had come upon us in the winter of 1900. The wind was howling like the mill tails of hell it was dark with the desolate darkness of an Alaskan night, and not a sound could be heard but the whistling gale, with an occasional yelp of a Siwash or MacKensie river huskie, as they cried for admittance into some miner’s tent or dugout. Jack Bell – Death of “Dad” Rose, Liberty magazine, Denver Post, August 10, 1902 In one winter and partake of the hardships that are cheerfully endured by the Americans that have made the far NorthernĬountry famous – by far the most famous – and yes, the richest placer mining country on earth. Talk about hellish parallels! Go up there and put The soul-chilling blizzards that are incessant in their shrieking fury.
Of twilight in the Arctic circle zone from the middle of November until the middle of March. You must understand that there is no such thing as daylight or gleams There were about twenty of us wintered up there in theīlackness of each twenty-four hours of every night. Rich placer diggings as the incentive for risking their lives. I could write volumes on the heart-breaking conditions of this awful country where hardy men go, with Allĭestitute of timber of any description – nothing but a few bunches of low, water-soaked, red willows, that are the onlyįuel obtainable. High spurs of hills break in every direction, with sugar loaves cut out here and there by little valleys and draws. To get up there one must take a slow sailing craft from Nome and go down the coast to Golovin bay then up the Neukluk river to Council City and then “mush” over the big range of hills – a short cut of sixteen miles – to the camps on Crooked creek, the richest diggings on the peninsula. The aqueous chords are pretty enough, but the contorted synth drone is a bit "Erotic Discourse." Without the tension of opposing forces, the whole structure falls just a little flat.The wind was howling like the mill tails of hell it was dark with the desolate darkness of an Alaskan night, and not a soundĬould be heard but the whistling gale, with an occasional yelp of a Siwash or MacKensie river huskie, as they cried for admittance into some miner’s tent or dugout. Gingy instrumental "VSCUS," meanwhile, struggles to match its partner. The effect is pretty full-on-you may well flake out before the track's eight minutes are up-but compelling all the same.Ĭlone's own Serge & Tyrell turn in a "Dub" version of the track, enhancing the original's utility by stripping out most of its interesting aspects. Rather than roll with it, though, Gingy just intensifies his percussive barrage. When the requisite organ stabs enter, soon followed by the gorgeous silken tones of Azari & III's Starving Yet Full, the sudden shift in gear is disorienting.
For the first few minutes it's a zonked broken-beat techno tune, its hollow, drifting chords suggesting that warmth and soul are but distant post-rave memories. As it happens, "RAPT" is vocal house done Gingy-style. So it's a touch puzzling to see the Torontonian pop up on Clone Royal Oak with a vocal track in tow. Turbo regular Gingy, alongside partner-in-crime Bordello, is typically known for various shades of piledriving peak-time techno.
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