To the Bright Edge of the World

  Much appreciated,

  Walt

  Lieut. Col. Allen Forrester

  April 7, 1885

  Like a salve to me, her letter. I waited as long as I might, but after this hard day of travel, I needed the comfort of her words.

  For two long months, I have carried this letter unopened in my breast pocket, yet I swear the pages are still touched by her fragrance. To read those words, written in her hand. ‘Our child.’

  I have aimed not to think on it. A commander will make poor decisions when hampered by thoughts of home. Yet now, with it fresh in mind, I think of nothing else. If I had been alone, I would have danced around camp like a fool & celebrated anew. Instead I fold the letter, unfold it, read the words again & again.

   — What is it? Tillman asked.

  He had put a hand to my shoulder. Perhaps he thought the news was bad.

  I saw no harm in telling him. She is far into her maternity now. Likely the child will be born, half-grown even, before we return home.

   — My wife will have a baby, I announced.

  Tillman whooped, boxed me in the ribs, nearly sent me sprawling into the flames.

   — A papa! Our Colonel is to be a papa! We need a toast.

  He took a flask from his coat pocket. The men had been told to leave the liquor at home, especially in light of the sergeant’s reputation for violent intemperance, but I was not surprised to see it. We each swigged. Tillman cuffed me in the shoulder. He called out for Pruitt, but he had gone for firewood. This didn’t stop Tillman, for he again raised the flask, drank on his behalf.

  When Pruitt returned with his armload of driftwood, Tillman told him my news. He gave a polite nod, but not as joyous as Tillman. They are two very different men. The sergeant boisterous, strong tempered. Pruitt brooding, thoughtful, quick to retire to his tent. The Indians went to their lean-tos, paired up as they do. Just Tillman & I remained by the fire.

   — This’ll be your first, then? he asked.

  I nodded. I asked if he has any children.

   — Probably left a few here & there, but none that’ve owned up to me yet. Probably for the best. My bent doesn’t fit much with a family. It’d put a damper on my spirit, knowing others needed me, even time to time.

  I cannot fathom such sentiments. The thought of Sophie bearing our child overpowers me with joy.

  It would have been better if she could have returned to Vermont. The Washington Territory is yet too wild a place for a woman alone. I am all the more pressed to return within the year. I have no desire to spend the winter with Indians. We must make it up the river before the ice breaks, but our pace so far is lacking. I had thought to be through the canyon already.

  My dearest Allen,

  I wonder where you are now as you read this letter? Have you encountered the Wolverine tribes yet, and are they peaceable, or are you alone with your men in some icy wilderness? Are the mountains as grand as I imagine, and the land as wild? Are you warm and safe? Oh how I wish I could be there with you, to see what your eyes see.

  Just now as I write this letter to send with you, the steamship is in the harbor, and you briskly pace the house and check off lists. Your shirt sleeves are rolled to the forearms, an intent furrow to your brow, and you speak quietly to yourself. It causes me a spark of mischievousness, this stalwart manner of yours, so all the more I want to kiss you on the ear and wrap my arms around your chest, to distract you from your work and tempt you into our bed.

  How is it that your leaving is suddenly upon us? So much has occurred these past days — you go off to Alaska without me, I will not see those northern shores, but instead I begin a different adventure. I am dizzy with it all. Can you imagine, Allen? When you return, I will greet you with our child in my arms.

  I dread these coming months of separation. Filling pages with such unhappy thoughts will bring relief to neither of us, however, so I must search out words that might cheer you when you are far away.

  Let me write this instead: do you know the precise moment when I fell in love with you? You would probably think it was the evening of the military ball, when you first escorted me in your dress uniform. You looked striking that night, and I was smitten, I assure you. I had never attended such a grand affair on the arm of such a man. I was dazzled by it, the officers and ladies swirling around me, your sure steps, the splendor of it all.

  Yet what of love? That is another, more solid thing; it is not tricked by fine lights or spirits. It is more of earth and time, like a river-turned stone.

  It began with a walk. Do you remember? New England seems so very far away, yet that day with you I can still recall like a clear sky. You came to the schoolhouse at the end of the afternoon and asked me to follow you to the pond. I hesitated, not knowing your intentions, but the sunshine and breeze beckoned, and I yearned to be free of the musty, shaded room where I had been sorting books. I closed up the school and followed you along the path. You said you had a gift for me. I asked why you could not have given it to me in the schoolroom, but you kept your secret.

  When we came to a poplar sapling at the water’s edge, you stopped and went to one knee. I will confess to you now — I thought you meant to propose to me, and I am ashamed to say that my mind spun like a top and I did not know how I would answer. You see, I wasn’t yet sure of my feelings for you. I enjoyed your attention, and I admired your strong bearing, but long ago had I passed the girlish age when that alone could charm me.

  You surprised me and slapped at your knee, as if you wanted me to sit down upon it. I must have frowned in confusion, because you explained that I should step up, and you pointed into the branches of the tree.

  “There is something you must see,” you said.

  I worried I would injure your leg or embarrass myself by toppling to the ground, but you held out a hand, and I trusted you. I knew it suddenly and surely. I took your hand and stepped upon your knee.

  “What am I to look for?” I asked, and you said, “There. In the crook of that branch.”

  I took hold of the trunk of the small tree and peered into its lowest branches, where at last I saw it. The smallest, most precious thing — the nest of a ruby-throated humming bird. The nest was not much larger than a child’s cupped hand, and cradled in its thistle down and fern were two white eggs the size of peas.

  Days before I had mentioned to you how I had once seen a humming bird near the schoolhouse. I had watched it hover among the jewelweed and blue phlox, such a tiny, feathered burst of life. As it turned in the sunlight, it flashed crimson and velvety purple, so much light and movement concentrated in its small form. More than anything, I told you, I wanted to see the nest of this tiny bird.

  I could have remained there for hours, studying the fragile curve of egg-shell and the intricate weave of thistle down and spider silk. But I heard a muffled groan, and I knew my weight and the hard heels of my boots were taking their toll after all.

  “No, no,” you insisted. “I’m perfectly fine. Look as long as you want.” I stepped to the forest floor and looked down into your kind eyes.

  Never before had I felt such wonder and magnitude — I told you I wanted to see a humming bird nest, and you heard me, not just my words, but my longing.

  Was there such a moment for you, when you knew for certain? I cannot imagine it was that same afternoon — as I recall, I advised that we should take a shortcut through the forest, and I managed to walk us into a marsh where I was forced to pick up my skirts and our boots were traipsed through mire and muck. Yet I was too elated to give it any care. I had found your love in a humming bird’s nest.

  Come home safely to me, my dear Allen.

  With all my heart’s love,

  Sophie

  Kings Glacier, April, 1885

  Lieut. Col. Allen Forrester

  April 9, 1885

  At last some evidence of progress! We stand at the base of Kings Glacier, with Stone Glacier in view upriver. Even through the sleet
y haze, they are a grand sight. Having many times read Lieut. Haigh’s account of this section of the river, I recognize the landscape. Near the delta, the Wolverine is a wide plain of braided channels, but here it narrows to a deeper flow, bordered by these glaciers. Haigh reports that in spring the water rises 40 feet, overturns boulders weighing half a ton. In this season we see little sign of this impending force but for thick slabs of ice jammed into piles along shore.

  Kings Glacier is a wall of ice with a vertical reach of at least 300 feet. There are rough fractures where, in warmer months, large sections must break away, crash to the river. Some cracks stretch higher than a city building. Such a falling mass would surely sink a row boat, kill a man.

  The shades of the ice hypnotize — Tillman & I stood beside each other, stared, speechless for some time. Even from this opposite shore of the river, a man is pulled into the blue of the deepest fissures. Within are the hues of cold itself. The sight chills me, yet I thirst for more. I wish Sophie could see it.

  Pruitt measured width of river & height of glacier using sextant. He then quickly assembled camera tripod. He curses the weather. Even in sunlight, I suspect the colorless photograph could never capture this grandeur.

  We camp tonight in the lee of giant boulders near Stone Glacier. The boulders number more than a dozen, some taller than three men standing on shoulders. Without our tents, we are grateful for the shelter they provide. The size, scope of these rocks is an oddity set down in the middle of this vast riverbed. Tillman conjectured they rolled a long ways from the mountains. Pruitt says it is the work of the glaciers, carrying the rocks down valley thousands of years ago, then dropping them as the ice melted out from beneath. Tillman is skeptical. It is a wondrous truth to be sure.

  April 10

  We are shut in an ice fog. This morning we left our boulder field, pressed on through Haigh Canyon where waterfalls of ice rupture from the cliffs. We then emerged onto a wide flat section of the river. The fog is settled in the lowlands so that we can see only a man’s length in front of our own feet. More than once I bumped into the sled in front of me. I believe had I closed my eyes, turned thrice, then tried again to find my way, I would not have known upriver from downriver, left from right. Only a white nothingness in all directions. Pruitt keeps compass in hand.

  Difficult enough to find our course, but added is the problem of Boyd. Based on Indian reports, Samuelson believes his partner’s cabin should be near. But which side of the river? It is doubtful that he would build on the river’s plain, as spring flooding would threaten any structure. Hills rise at some distance on either side of the river. None of us would be able to spot a clearing or cabin.

  Samuelson advises us to watch for any sign of a trail, as Boyd should be coming down to the river to run traps. We do not speak it, but must consider it the same: if Boyd is dead, there will be no tracks to find.

  Such icy stillness. Our breath turns to hoarfrost in our beards, hair. Our eyelashes stick together in clumps of frost. Our lungs ache with cold. The others look to me like creatures with fur of snow; no doubt I to them as well. The harder we work, the more our sweat & breath encase us in ice. The Indians at times lag far behind, so appear like phantoms trailing us up the river. Our voices become lost to the fog; we cannot tell who is speaking or from where. It adds to our disorientation.

  Though it is several hours until sunset, I have decided to halt, set camp. Perhaps overnight the fog will dissipate or be blown down the valley.

  April 11

  My hope was unfounded. We woke this morning to the same conditions, if possible even more chill & impenetrable. Tillman fried flapjacks & bacon. Pruitt has estimated our location as best he can with no ability to track stars, sun, horizon. The men would like to wait out the fog, but I think we had best pack up. The Indians, too, are reluctant. One of them would not leave his fire until I put it out with snow.

  We have found Boyd, though not in any good condition. We are at his cabin & for the first night in nearly a month, we will sleep indoors.

  We remained at our riverbed camp until near mid-day. The fog was unchanged, so we loaded sleds. Travel was difficult. We stayed near the river’s main flow to keep our bearings, but then had to traverse open creeks, decaying ice. Our snowshoes were soon coated in a frozen slush. We stopped to remove them, struck them against each other to break free the ice.

  Just then came the blast of a gunshot.

   — That’ll be him, Samuelson said.

   — He’s northwest, Pruitt read from compass.

  For the next hour, we made our way in the direction.

   — Sure wish he’d fire off another round, Samuelson said.

   — That would be a help, Tillman said. — Also hoping he’ll have supper on us when we find him.

  But there were no more gunshots. In the fog we could not make out hillsides, but at last we spotted a snowshoe trail that came out of the trees, led to a square cut out of the river ice.

   — His water hole, Samuelson said.

  The track was deep-set in snow, so had been used often during the winter, but Samuelson was grim as he made note of the fresh snow filling it in.

   — He’s not been down here in some time.

  The trail led away from the river & quickly turned steep. We left the Indians & sleds to retrieve them later. Even without the weight of the sleds pulling at us, at times we had to grab tree branches to keep from slipping down the slope.

  Tillman observed that he wouldn’t want to haul water up such an incline.

  After a strenuous climb, we reached a bench land of large spruce. Samuelson spotted a cabin through the trees.

  A ghost of a man stood outside the door. Tall, gaunt, so weak he could hardly stand so he leaned on his rifle like a crutch. Boyd’s cheeks & eyes are sunken so that his face appears a skull. As he led us indoors, he showed us the many notches in his belt where he had tightened.

   — I suppose it was folly to think you might have supper for us? Tillman said.

  Boyd pointed to bare shelves, empty pots.

   — I’ll go fetch the grub, Tillman said.

  Pruitt said he would split kindling so as to build a fire in the woodstove.

  Boyd did not seem to know what to do with himself or our company. He grinned, stared. Again & again he clasped Samuelson’s arm.

   — Jesus on high, I’ve never been so glad to see you.

   — Why the hell didn’t you fire another shot? We could have used help in finding you.

  Boyd had been reduced to his last round of powder. He saved it, in case help came & he needed to alert someone to his whereabouts.

   — Or in case help never did come, he added.

  Samuelson asked why he didn’t travel downriver before now. Boyd’s answer was cryptic.

   — She wouldn’t leave. She said she’d already come down too far out of the mountains.

  When asked of whom he was speaking, Boyd said that he has a wife, that while there was no preacher to do the work, they are married before God all the same.

   — I never would leave a wife, he said.

  Samuelson became impatient, demanded to know who he was talking about. I advised we should get food in him as his thinking may be clouded by hunger.

  The cabin is warming with the heat of the woodstove. We have boots, socks, wool underwear, drying along a beam. Tillman is cooking ham & rice, a kindness to share the last of our meat. Out of doors, the Indians have built a lean-to of boughs against a spruce tree & cooked their own meals beneath.

  Once we have eaten, I will be curious to hear how Boyd met this fate.

  I will here do my best to capture Boyd’s story.

  He was hunting ptarmigan up in the hills behind his cabin when he first spied her. He claims she was the most beautiful woman he ever put eyes on.

   — There was a mist, hard to make anything out, so I thought I was seeing things. She was moving over the rocks just like an angel. I holle
red out to her, but she didn’t make that she’d heard me. Before I could catch her, she was gone.

  Boyd returned to the mountainside again, again, in hopes of seeing her. He was going to look for her forever if need be. — Head over heels like a wounded bear, he says.

  At last, one day he saw her through the fog. He approached her gently, so he wouldn’t spook her off.

  She didn’t speak English, but with hand gestures & his smattering of Midnoosky, they were able to communicate. Over the next weeks, they met each day high on the mountainside. Boyd would bring pemmican to share. They would sit together, watch the mist move across the hills.

   — I couldn’t get my fill of her, Boyd said. — She was like a little trickle of cold water from a mountainside that you just want to drink & drink, but you’re only getting a sip. I begged her to come on back home with me. She kept pulling away. I told her straight out — if you don’t love me, just say so. I’ll leave you be. She said it wasn’t that. She said she liked me fine, that’s why she shouldn.’t come. There was no sense to it.

  While he talked, Boyd ate three helpings of supper, then smoked a pipe with a bit of Samuelson’s tobacco. I suspect it will take several meals for him to regain his strength.

   — Gave her a pair of beaver mittens I’d stitched myself, he went on. — Promised her I’d keep her warm & dry in my cabin. I just wanted to wake up to her face every morning. Finally won her over, I did. One day, she followed me back home.

  Boyd stared glassy-eyed at nothing for some time. — The fog was like nothing I’d seen before, he said. — It came that night & hasn’t left since.

  He was nearly out of provisions, as he had planned to leave before spring. He always could rely on his hunting skills. During the winter he had eaten rabbits, porcupine, a moose now & then. With this fog, though, he couldn’t see but six inches in front of his nose to hunt.