I could no longer resist the call of western Canada'a magnificent lakes. Images painted by Robert Service and Jack London coalesced into an urge that could not be denied. I absolutely had to put my favorite touring kayak onto those waters so historic and beautiful.

"Jeanie, my dear," I proclaimed, "this is something I just have to do on our trip. It's the chance of a lifetime for me and I can't pass it up. We're going Bennett Lake and then Lake Leberge."

My ever-patient wife looked up from her reading and smiled, knowingly, at her husband sitting there on the floor, maps and tourist pamphlets spread all around.

"Well, my kayaking nut, you can paddle all you like, but first we're spending a week with the kids and grandchildren in Seattle." She clearly had different priorities, and continued, "You know we have to be there for the birthdays, and besides you can paddle there too, you know."

"Yes, dear." I knew that, and though I truly loved taking my kayak onto waters around the San Juan Islands, there was something very special I want to do up in British Columbia and the Yukon.

The thought of paddling the very waters that the "Trail of '98" gold seekers plied was compelling. I'd read several books by Pierre Berton, visited Seattle's Pioneer Square Klondike Gold Rush Museum and thought I knew what to expect. I wanted to experience that for myself. And this would be my chance.

In late August we parked our trailer just outside Carcross, the historic hamlet about halfway between Whitehorse, Yukon Territory and Skagway, Alaska. Carcross, formerly called Cariboo Crossing, sits between Bennett and Tagish lakes, headwaters of the Yukon River. It was from this area that gold rush trekkers paddled rafts and crude boats to the Klondike region nearly 100 years ago. I could almost imagine their feverish activities, their haste to get downstream as soon as the ice melted. My paddling would be on much tamer late summer waters.

At eight the next morning I parked next to the remains of a derelict stern-wheeler rotting on the shore next to the Carcross Visitor Information Center. A couple of stray dogs watch the curious sight of my little kayak being lowered from atop the truck. They followed me as I eased my boat into the clear stream connecting the two lakes. The current was not very swift this time of year.

Within minutes I was out into the channel, paddling against the current towards the low wooden bridge, once part of the route of the famous Yukon and White Pass Railroad between Whitehorse and Skagway. The bridge sits unused today, shrowded in memories of the bustling activity only recently faded. In the 1970's one could ride the entire route, but now the train runs only to the western end of Bennett Lake, and then only for tourists on an irregular summertime schedule.

I passed under the bridge, turned right along the eastern sandy shore, and soon came upon a couple walking the beach. A large blond-haired dog bounded beside them. The crystal-clear waters were shallow, perhaps no more than five feet deep, even a hundred yards from the two watching me paddling by. The dog paid no heed.

North I continued towards the rocks on the far shore about half a mile ahead. The small sandy rivulets on the bottom were now interrupted with boulders extending from the cliffs. I hoped to see some fish as I approached likely spots. Nothing, no fish and not even some reeds or water plants could I see. It appeared sterile.

The only wildlife to greet me was a pair of ducks. I surprised them by gliding silently near the shore where they rested, getting to with two boat lengths before they scampered aways towards open water. The lake was as smooth as glass. Paddling was easy.

Upon reaching the rocky north shore I turned westward, staying in the shallows between the boulders as I looked for fish. It surprised me not to find any at all, not even minnows in the warmest shallows. My fishing experience in New England's lakes told me there would surely be fish in the underwater canyons and protected shallows. It was disappointing and puzzling, for there were no signs of pollution. Clear waters permitted me to see the bottom at depths of twenty feet or more, yet not a sign of life. Strange.

That day I paddled about eight miles, mostly around the eastern end of the lake. Several times I paused to take in the scenery, to soak up the beauty of the lake and surrounding hills. It's rugged country. I could almost see those cold, scraggled gold- crazed men of '98 camped along the southern shore where they wintered. Forests once grew to the lake's edge, but succumbed to the axes and saws of cabin and boat builders. Now only a scant second growth hides the past campgrounds. It's still beautiful, but man's impact still shows.

The waters I paddled that day were once alive with craft of every description headed to the Klondike. Some were so poorly made that Canadian Mounties were forced to restrict traffic through the dangerous rapids of the Yukon flowing north and east of Bennett Lake. I could imagine the scene and the chaos upon the lake. But this day it was all mine, quiet, serene and glassy smooth. Tomorrrow I would put onto Lake Leberge for more historical images.

About twenty-five miles north of Whitehorse, along the Klondike highway towards Dawson City, lies the lake made famous by Robert Service in his ballad, "The Cremation of Sam McGee". It's said that the story is based on fact, for Service's roommate one winter was a doctor who described to his companion a trek into the wilderness to treat a man reported to be ill in his remote cabin north of Lake Leberge. When the doctor arrived at the old man's cabin it was too late. The man was already dead, frozen stiff on the cabin floor. The doctor cremated the body in the boiler of a derelict steamboat along the lakeshore. And that story became the inspiration for the famous ballad, so I have been told.

A small provincial park in the lake's southwestern shore became my launching point. I was determined to see what Lake Leberge was like. It held a fascination for me almost as great as Bennett Lake.

Jean and our old Labrador waited in the trailer parked but a few yards from the shore. Here is was not a sandy beach, but gravel and rocks that became my boat ramp. I eased my fiberglass kayak gingerly into the water and climbed aboard. Soon I was paddling along the weatern shoreline, past some cabins and one place with dozens of yapping dogs. Their ruckus echoed across the lake disturbingly. The pristine image I expected was despoiled by that commotion.

The shores are lined with tall trees, not denuded like parts of Bennett Lake yet. Today's scenery, obscured with a fog-like mantle of smoke from northern forest fires, was denied me. I could see across the lake but not further. There were no mountains beyond, merely the grey smoke.

The lake itself is different from Bennett. Here fish jumped and swirled boiling the surface. I glided past grayling and trout that would make a good meal, but fishing was not on my mind today. I wanted to experience more of the other watery trail of the gold rush stampede. This lake too flows into the Yukon toward the Klondike and was part of their highway nearly a century ago.

It's easy to sit quietly on the lake and visualize the flow of desperate men headed north towards gold and riches they believed awaiting. And it's not difficult to imagine their troubles in crossing such a wilderness. There was no Klondike highway, no cluster of cabins to offer winter shelter, and no provincial park with water spigot, stacked firewood or protection from the elements. Those men endured in a much different time and under much harder conditions. Only the lake and the flowing northward current was the same.

Yet I would not have missed the experience of paddling these two historic and beautiful lakes. It provided a kind of closure to my readings, a first-hand visual grasp of what it must have been like. And I had done it. It was terrific.