At the Mountain's Edge

by Genevieve Graham

  She looked away. “They died.”

  “What?” He must have misheard.

  “They died,” she repeated, facing him again.

  “I . . .” What should he say? What could he say? He had seen a lot of loss on this trail, but her hardships seemed to outweigh them all. He cleared his throat. “I am so sorry. I can’t imagine how you’re feeling right now.”

  An uncomfortable pause stretched between them. He was about to go when she said, “I’m leaving soon.”

  “You are? Can I help you send your things back to your home?”

  “No, thank you,” she replied, raising her chin with determination. “I’ve decided to go on to Dawson City.”

  He’d seen that look before, back at the summit when she’d charged up to him and challenged the one-tonne rule. Back then he’d thought she had grit. After everything that had happened to her since, he hoped she still had that fight in her. He scratched his cheek, wondering how to tell her what he was thinking.

  “You should know, Miss Peterson, that the journey ahead is—”

  “Difficult. Yes, I imagine it is. But it can hardly be worse than what we just survived.” She started to turn back to her tent, then stopped as if she’d just remembered something. “Constable Turner,” she said, her voice softening slightly, “there may be something that you can help me with, if you have a moment.”

  “Of course,” he said without thinking. “How can I help?”

  “I’m wondering if you might be able to help me sell some of my things. I’ll still bring most with me, but since I’m on my own now, I need money to pay for packers.”

  He was impressed by her plan. She might be young, but from the sounds of it, she was quite experienced. That made him wonder who she’d been in her life before all this.

  “We can’t sell them for you,” he replied, “but we can let people know you are looking for buyers.”

  “Do you think that will take very long?”

  “It depends upon what you are selling, but I’ll start making enquiries right away.”

  “Thank you.”

  Her face broke into the loveliest smile Ben had ever seen. Captivated, he started to return it, then realized her greeting wasn’t for him. She was focused on someone behind him. Ben turned and saw a tall, slender man approaching.

  “Hello, Mr. Dexter,” Miss Peterson said, then she gestured towards Ben. “May I introduce you to Constable Turner?”

  “Ah!” Mr. Dexter held out a hand. “A member of the venerable North-West Mounted Police. An honour to meet you, Constable. Keeping the public safe, are you?”

  “I do what I can,” he said, shaking Mr. Dexter’s hand and studying his face. It had become second nature to Ben, trying to figure out the character of a man through his eyes.

  “Mr. Dexter and I met on the climb up here,” Miss Peterson explained, “and I’m indebted to him for all his patience of late.”

  “I was indebted to her first,” the man replied amiably.

  The comment piqued Ben’s curiosity, but he didn’t ask. For the first time since he had met her, Miss Peterson seemed almost happy now that she was chatting with Mr. Dexter. There was an easiness to their conversation that Ben envied.

  “I thought you’d like to know that I’ve made a decision,” she was saying now.

  “I was hoping as much, seeing you out here in the sunshine. Will I be continuing my journey with or without your company?”

  “With,” she said.

  Dexter’s narrow face split into a grin. “Wonderful! We shall have a time of it, Miss Peterson. You’ll see. This part of the journey will be entirely different.” He glanced cheerily at Ben. “At least we won’t feel as if our lives are in danger this time.”

  Ben opened his mouth to offer a warning, but Miss Peterson spoke first. “I hope not. But I’m afraid I must ask you for a little more time, if that’s possible.” She filled him in on her plan to sell some of her things. “Constable Turner has graciously agreed to help get the word out.”

  “Very pragmatic,” Dexter agreed. “Certainly I can wait. And I shall help as well, of course.”

  He seemed genuine, Ben thought, stepping back. Miss Peterson clearly trusted the man, and from what he’d seen, she appeared to have good instincts.

  “I will let you know if I hear of any buyers, Miss Peterson,” he said, then he nodded at her travelling companion. “Nice to meet you. I’m glad you’ll be with her on this trail.”

  “As am I,” Miss Peterson said. “I cannot imagine making the rest of this journey all by myself.”

  Ben flinched inwardly. She hadn’t been looking at him when she said it, but he couldn’t help wondering if that had been a pointed remark aimed at him, about what had happened to her brother. Whether she’d meant it that way or not, Ben burned with shame as he walked back to the outpost. No matter how hard he tried, Liza Peterson would always remind him of how he had failed. As he trudged through the snow, he heard his father’s voice in his head, reminding him that he would never amount to anything. If only he could be sure the man was wrong. He flexed his fists, wishing there were a nearby fence post he could hit.

  Liza

  NINETEEN

  Liza crouched by a stream, filling her canteen for the second time in a row. The water was so cold it hurt her teeth to drink it, but it was clear and clean and felt wonderful on her throat. She drank all she could, then filled the canister again and headed back towards George, who was sitting on a log a few feet away. Despite taking slow, cautious steps, she still managed to slip on the muddy riverbank and fall completely into the muck with an inelegant splash.

  She struggled upright with a groan. “I am surrounded by water, but I keep getting dirtier. I beg you, Mr. Dexter, please tell me that at some point in my life I will be able to properly bathe. I cannot stand my own filth.”

  “Soon,” he said, and she could see he was trying to contain a laugh. “For both of our sakes, I truly hope it is soon.”

  A burly young man tromped through the grass behind them, covered head to toe—and beard—in mud, and George gave her a wink. “You and I are not the dirtiest here, but I’ll allow we are not much better.”

  George, Liza, and her hired packers had come a good distance, journeying down the mountain towards Lake Lindeman. The spring warmth played wicked tricks, making untrodden paths hazardous and deep, and the frozen lakes were unpredictable, but at least the snow had given way to grass and thick forests had sprung up around them. With each step, the sadness that had threatened to crush Liza became less of a burden, and her grief gave way to a new sense of purpose.

  With a groan, George slung his bag onto his shoulder, and Liza gave him a sympathetic smile.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask,” she said as they returned to the trail. “What’s in there that’s so heavy?”

  “My camera,” he admitted, “though I shouldn’t complain. It is more cumbersome than heavy. You see, I had promised my darlings I would take photographs of my experience and send them along with my first gold nugget.”

  “What a lovely idea,” she said.

  With a pang of self-pity, she realized that she would probably never have need of a camera. No one was left to ask for photographs of her.

  “It was, wasn’t it? Although I must admit it is somewhat awkward to carry all this way.” He gestured towards the discarded trunks and bags that still lined the trail. “I imagine all these things seemed necessary at first to every traveller.”

  Liza glanced blankly over the field but felt no urge to search the bags for treasure. Since Happy Camp, her heart just wasn’t in it anymore.

  “But there must have come a point when they decided they could carry them no farther.” He seemed to consider the option, but then he shook his head. “I cannot cast this aside. I couldn’t bear to let Olivia down.”

  “Of course not,” Liza replied, and though the mere mention of family hurt, she was sympathetic. “I’m sure Olivia and the children would love to see those photogra
phs. But might I make a suggestion?”

  “Certainly.”

  “You and I have both seen photographers along the trail. Why not ask one of them to take your photo? Or you could simply purchase photographs of the area when we get to Dawson.”

  “Yes, yes. You’re right, of course. It’s just that my dear Olivia gave the camera to me as a gift before I left, and I told her it would be safe with me.”

  “Do you think she’d mind terribly if you left the camera here?” Liza asked. “I imagine she would be happy just to have you home again. That is how I would feel, anyway.”

  “I suppose you’re right.” He squatted by his pack and removed a leather-wrapped box camera from within. He set it reluctantly beside the path, then lifted the pack again. “Much better.”

  Liza picked up the camera, sorry for him. She knew what it felt like to leave things behind. “I have another idea. Before we go, I shall take your photograph. How would that be? Then we can send the film to Olivia along with your first nugget, just as you’d planned.”

  “That is an excellent solution!” George scouted their location, more animated than she’d seen him in some time. “All right,” he said, pointing. “If I stand there, you will be able to photograph the mountain behind me.”

  “You’ll have to show me how.”

  “Of course. Come, we’ll use a tree to stabilize the camera.” He led her off the path, and once he figured out where he wanted her to stand, he peered down through the top of the camera. “Yes, this will do just fine. All right, Miss Peterson. Beside the handle here you can see three things. This is the hole through which you will look at me.” He tapped a small silver key beside the hole. “You don’t need to worry about this bit. That is what I will use afterwards, to wind the film and prepare the camera for any photographs yet to be taken. Now, this small lever in front of the winder key is what you will use to actually trip the shutter and take the photograph. Look down that hole, do you see?”

  “Yes, but . . .” She glanced up and studied the mountain again. “It’s backwards.”

  “Yes. It works with the mechanics of a mirror. The photograph itself will not be backwards.”

  She’d heard about that before somewhere—probably Stan—but had never seen it for herself. “Fascinating. All right, Mr. Dexter. I am ready. You go stand over there.”

  After she had taken the photo, she held the camera out for him. “There you go. Now what?”

  “These Kodaks make it so much easier,” he said almost to himself, striding towards her. He examined a window in the camera’s back, then said, “I see there is only one exposure left on the film. Wait here a moment, would you, please?”

  Camera in hand, George approached a passing traveller, and the two carried on a brief conversation. After a moment, the other man took the camera and George sauntered back to Liza.

  “Now I shall be able to send my family a likeness of me with my closest friend from this adventure,” he said.

  “Oh no. I can’t—I’m in trousers, for heaven’s sake!”

  He chuckled. “Come, come, Miss Peterson. That makes it even more unique. Let us show them a lady in trousers, shall we? My wife has surely never seen the like.”

  “Well, if we’re going to do that, let’s make it even more interesting for her,” she suggested, hoping to take the focus off her. She waved at the half-dozen packers waiting nearby, and they took up position behind George and her.

  “Excellent idea, Miss Peterson,” George said.

  Once the photo was taken, the prospector returned George’s camera, and the packers moved back to their loads. George carefully removed the spool of film then placed the empty camera on the side of the trail.

  “You know,” he said, picking up his own pack, “I believe Olivia would be in complete agreement with my decision. I feel lighter in every way.”

  “I am happy for you.”

  “I can see that. I must say, it is a true pleasure to see you smile again.”

  Guilt tingled through Liza. “I never thought I would be able to do that ever again, but it is getting a little easier.”

  “They would want you to be happy,” George said gently.

  She nodded, knowing it was true. Somewhere along the route towards Dawson, a spark of hope had ignited within the ashes of Liza’s heart, and though it was weak, it was keeping her warm. This journey had worn her down in every imaginable way, but it had not killed her. And though it had taken so much, it had also given back by making her more resilient than she’d ever thought she could be. The closer she got to her destination, the more she dared believe that maybe, just maybe, her father’s dream could become hers.

  The Earth, she knew—even without Stan’s lessons—was forever spinning on its axis, its place in the universe set. But within those boundaries, nothing ever remained the same. Running water cut a continuously changing path; the seeds of flowers rode winds to populate new ground. She, too, felt herself changing, growing, adjusting. And as long as she could bend and grow like the feather-soft heads of grass dancing in the breeze all around her, she would thrive. And even flourish.

  Ben

  TWENTY

  Ben stopped short, astonished by the sight of Lake Lindeman’s long, narrow banks. What had once been thick acres of dense forest was now stripped of trees, replaced by a crowded city of stained canvas tents rippling under a smoky sky, and the air reverberated with the crack of axes, the banging of hammers, and the songs of hundreds of saws. Thousands of prospectors who had been stranded there before the deep freeze were building boats and rafts, readying themselves for when the ice broke—which would be soon. Already Ben could see a number of large, dark patches showing through the lake’s thinning surface.

  Thompson, Ben, and Keitl followed the beaten trail towards the strange new shipyard, making no attempt to be heard over the noise. Ben was struck dumb by the mayhem going on around them, and the more he saw, the less confident he felt. Thousands of prospectors were living here, and there were only a handful of Mounties.

  “How are we supposed to do anything about this?” he asked Thompson. “Won’t matter how many of us come, it’ll never be enough to manage them all.”

  Thompson said, “Steele will have a plan. Mark my word.”

  They continued towards Lake Bennett, where they discovered a slightly smaller but still overcrowded version of the camp at Lindeman. At least there was a Mountie outpost at Bennett and, subsequently, some semblance of order.

  They were greeted by the enthusiastic, mustachioed Constable Cassius Baxter, who had been examining the partial skeleton of a boat before Ben and Thompson arrived. Spotting them, he clapped Ben on the shoulder. “You got here just in time, boys.”

  Ben and Thompson introduced themselves, then listened to Baxter’s overview of the ragged shipyard. When he led them to a nearby raft, Ben ran his hand carefully over its rough planks, hesitating over the uneven joists. He knew nothing about boats, but he’d seen enough boards hammered together to know when it hadn’t been done right.

  “The builder’s a bank clerk from Boston,” Baxter confided. “Him and his son came up here together. The man can barely lift a hammer, he’s so slight. Never built a thing in his life before now.”

  The sense of helplessness Ben had felt at Lindeman swept through him again. Spring would open the floodgates both metaphorically and physically, and from what he could see, most of these gold seekers would cast off in vessels that barely floated. If the rapids ahead were as bad as the ones they just passed, the prospectors would never make it.

  Baxter chuckled. “You call those ones rapids? You ain’t seen nothing yet. Just wait a bit and we’ll introduce you to some real whitewater. Last year we lost over two hundred crafts, and there wasn’t nearly as many people then as there are now.” He gave Ben a sympathetic smile. “I know what you’re thinking, but don’t let it get to you. We do what we can out here, and that’s all anyone can ask. Come on inside. Superintendent Steele is expecting you, and we’ll get s
ome chow soon.”

  They met others in the dining hall, and everyone straightened at Steele’s entrance. Just like the last time Ben had seen him, the Superintendent studied every face in the room before he began to speak, his expression strong, solid, and confident. Considering the chaos Ben had just left outside, he couldn’t help but wonder if Steele ever got worried. At a time like this, it seemed the fate of the entire Yukon depended upon this one man.

  Steele got right down to business and outlined the plan of action. Before any of the travellers could set sail, the Mounties would have to approve and register every single watercraft, and that included jotting down the names of everyone on board—as well as their next of kin. They had to move quickly, because the ice was due to break up any day now.

  “With God’s help and the new rules I am imposing,” Steele finished, “I believe we will not experience as unfortunate a season as the last one.”

  Thompson jabbed his elbow into Ben’s side. “I told you he’d have a plan.”

  Steele’s plan entailed a lot of detail work, but every man did his part, and when the ice finally cracked at the end of May the resounding noise was followed by eager shouts along the banks of the lake. Still, the mighty Yukon River would not be rushed. Solid sheets of ice followed the current, twisting in a slow, gradual dance, then colliding and smashing again, their bulk both lethal and unpredictable. Ben shook his head ruefully at the prospectors who hadn’t been patient enough to wait for the river to be completely clear before setting sail. There was nothing anyone could do when the powerful plates of ice swung around and crushed their fragile crafts.

  By the time the ice had fully melted and the bulk of the boats had set sail, Ben, Thompson, Baxter, and most of the other Mounties had already begun hiking the banks of the river towards Dawson City. From their path along the shore, they monitored the advancement of the boats, noting the obligatory serial numbers Steele had ordered be painted on each craft.