A telegram received in Seattle just before going to press brought the sad
news of the death of Bernard H. "Casey" Moran at Maracaibo, Venezuela, says the Alaska Weekly of December 1, received in Whitehorse on the last mail. Continuing, the Alaska Weekly said: Death occurred November 22 of diabetic coma, an ailment that had been afflicting the deceased during the past half dozen years. The news came in a cable from Dr. Cook, old-time friend of the Moran family, addressed to Captain H. B. Moran, eldest son, who is wintering in Seattle.
"Casey" Moran was one of the old-time newspaper men who have made journalistic history in the North, and from the days of the Klondike rush down to the present, the country has produced no writers to compare with William F. "Wrong Font" Thompson, Elmer J. "Stroller" White and Bernard H. "Casey" Moran. They were pioneers in that field and never a group of writers get together but call to mind the exploits of one or all the trio.
B. H. Moran was born in California in the year 1873. Of an Irish-Catholic family, he was destined for the priesthood, but the bloistered cell of a monk could never hold the future scribe of the North and after a trip over the fence of the Brothers School he landed in Juneau. For a time the lure of the drama held his attention, and that
drooping financially, Casey next turned his attention to the marts of trade - he went into the ice business, and his first advertisement of "ive, by the pound, ton or berg," and the reception it received, convinced him that he should write for a living. He tried it in Juneau but the now capitol city not being in a sympathetic mood, he went to Circle City in 1896, and when the Klondike was struck, on August 17 of the same year he joined the rush and his next bid for fame was in Dawson where his tales of the North rapidly became classics.
His journalistic discovery of Noah's Ark was a masterpiece - it startled the Christian world - almost resulting in an expedition to Dawson to secure the precious relics. Then with Dawson waning, Casey journeyed on to Fairbanks, where for several years he toiled on the Fairbanks Times and other publications ofthe Tanana valley metropolis.
When the excitement died down there he joined the stampede to the Porcupine distriet of Ontario, where he published a newspaper for a short time. He was for a time on the Seattle Times and the Post Intelligencer but the wanderlust had him and we next hear of him writing Northern "stuff" for the New York World and the New York Sun.
A stampeder from birth, he followed the lure of Black Gold, and the Texas
oil fields next knew him, then Mexico, and the tropics from then on was his home. For a time he edited a newspaper at Tampico, then on to Monterey and finally down into South America, where he lived until his death.
He was in turn owner and editor of the Midnight Sun, the Tropical Sun and finally his last and possibly prophetically named Setting Sun, published at Maracaibo, Venezuela.
Several years ago someone started the story that Casey Moran had died in South America, and this was soon indignantly denied - at least as soon as Casey heard of it. He wired this paper that, like the tale of Mark Twain's death, "it was greatly exaggerated."
"Casey" Moran left a family of three children and a former wife, now Mrs. William Wixon, of Auburn, Wash. His eldest daughter, Mrs. H. D. Locheradge and a granddaughter live at the same place. His eldest son, Captain Bernard H. Moran, is now skipper of the Campbell Church vacht, Caroline, plying in Alaskan waters. His youngest son, Albert Moran, also a marine officer, at present in California, makes his home at Auburn, Wash. A brother, with the U. S. customs, is located at Newport News, Va., and as
far as can be learned, he had no other surviving relatives.
It's a far cry from the Midnight Sun of Dawson in the far North, to the Setting Sun of Maracaibo, in the tropics, but from thousands of cabins that dot the shores of the Yukon and the Tanana, and from many an isolated placer camp in the North to the sun-kissed shores of the Gulf, where the thundering stamp of the oil drill sounds, will go a wave of sincere sorrow at the passing of one of the most beloved characters that the North has ever known.
We know that wherever he was, he made and held friends, and that never a printed or uttered word of his carried the barbed dart of envy, malicious gossip or ridicule - but always a message of optimism and cheer. He had the often longed for "nose for mews," and if news was lacking or the "wire was down," he had the ability to make news
that was far more readable and interesting than the greatest story the A. P. ever enabled.
Casey Moran is gone - but while a pine tree grows along the Yukon or a palm tree waves in the South - the oldtimers of either place will never forget him, and kindly tales of his genius will ever keep his memory green.
Death to Casey Moran was not a tragedy - it was just another stampede,
a glorious adventure.
