To the Bright Edge of the World

by Eowyn Ivey

  There are some great stories about the Raven character in Alaska. In one of my favorites, Raven coaxes his friend Whale into beaching himself in the mud. When Whale is stranded, Raven eats him, the entire whale. The people in the nearby village are angry at Raven because he was so greedy. The hunters begin shooting arrows at him and chasing after him. But Raven is too fat with blubber and can barely flap off the ground. Since he can’t fly away, Raven starts turning every arrow into a spruce tree. Even as the arrows fly, the trees grow and grow, and so Raven is able to hide away until the end of time.

  On a more practical note, I think it’s important that we get these materials into digital form. The journals and letters have been subjected to a lot through the years. I worry about damaging them as I read through them now, but I’m trying to handle them as carefully as I can. Because I’m already doing the work of translating the Colonel’s shorthand as I read it, I’ve started to convert the diaries into a transcript.

  I noticed that many of the clippings from newspapers, books, and greeting cards look as if they were once pasted to other backing paper. Do you know where they came from?

  And do you know who gathered the medical information — the photocopies in the manila envelope? Some of them have to do with field medicine, others with obstetrics.

  The more important question I have to ask, though, is about the official reports. I was able to track them down through the consortium library in Anchorage. I’m reading them at the same time as I read the private journals, comparing them as I go, and it’s just as you said — the reports don’t reflect his journals. Why do you think he left out so much? In the report he sent back to Vancouver Barracks, the only mention of the man named Boyd is of his cabin, and the Colonel states that they slept there for several days. There’s nothing about the man’s wife or the fog or the caribou. Never once does he mention the "Old Man" in his reports. Since you are so familiar with these papers, I’m curious to know what you think.

  Oh, and I’ve enclosed a picture for you. That’s the Wolverine River, looking down toward the canyon that the Colonel is traveling through. Is? I guess I should say “was.” You can see where my mind is — April 1885.

  Best wishes,

  Josh

  Part Two

  Victorian Silver Hair Comb.

  Circa 1880.

  Unmarked silver with decorative hand-chasing, fern fronds. Heavily tarnished, missing two teeth. Measures 4 inches long, 3 inches wide.

  Lieut. Col. Allen Forrester

  April 20, 1885

  Once, as I traveled through desert country years ago, I spurred my horse up a scree slide. The rocks crumbled & fell away behind us as we climbed & I heard the clatter far below. I could not stop to rethink my approach. If I pulled back on the reins, the horse could lose its footing & tumble us backwards. It was a fall neither man nor beast would likely survive. I did not know what I would find at the top of that gorge, if it would be terrain that I could negotiate, but I was certain of this — there would be no going back the way I had come. I was fixed to my path, lock, stock, & barrel.

  I don’t care to be in that position. Much less when I lead others. Yet it is where I find myself now.

  We are passing through a most remarkable, treacherous landscape. It is only through luck & will that our losses are not greater so far. Yet whatever lies ahead of us, we are now wholly committed. Our only way home is north, farther into the mountains.

  It was late morning when we left our cliffside camp two days ago & bade farewell to the one I called Skilly, with the knowledge that our reports & letters had been jeopardized. However, as we set out, the coastal sleet was gone for sun & bright sky. That change in weather alone would have lightened our spirits. Then, too, the Wolverine River at last gave us easy travel. The ice was smooth, snow no deeper than our boots, just enough to give us foothold but not to slow us. Our sleds for the first time worked as intended & glided as if weightless. Tillman dashed ahead, whooped at his own speed. Soon we were all sprinting up the river with the sun on our heads. Even Pruitt gave up his sulk. The dog took to running circles around us, barking sharply, as if to say, ‘Now you’ve finally got it!’

  Then, without warning, Pruitt seemed to fall to his knees. As I neared, I saw that in fact he had broken through the ice & had come to a stop only a few feet down. By his expression, he was as stunned as the rest of us. His boots sloshed in in a few inches of water.

   — But shouldn’t he be drowning? Tillman asked. — Thought it was nigh on 20 feet deep.

  Samuelson said he had not fallen clean through, but rather the real ice was still below him.

  It was the overflow Samuelson had warned about, when water flows on top of existing ice, freezes, & forms a new, thinner layer of false ice. If the water level drops, a pocket of empty space is left. This overflow ice accounted for our easy travel, but also proved to be thin & unreliable.

   — Heart in your throat, eh Pruitt?

  Tillman laughed as he helped Pruitt climb from his hole.

  From then on, we were wary. We found, however, that if we did not dawdle, the ice held us. It became a kind of race. We ran all the faster. The Indian woman held her own despite the substantial load on her back, & she even outraced Tillman for a short distance. For the first time since she joined us, I saw her smile.

  Our exuberant travel came to a halt, though, when we entered the mouth of the canyon. A shadowy cold descended on us & our voices turned eerie against the slate walls.

  Gone, too, with the sunshine & cheer was the effortless travel. The canyon binds the Wolverine so that when, over the course of the winter, the ice moves, it is crumpled violently. Great blocks three feet thick & as much as 20 feet high had been torn asunder & turned sideways. It seemed an impassable range of buckles & ridges & upended slabs of ice pressed up against the canyon walls, which are vertical rock the color of lead. They would not allow for any climbing or even a foothold perch if the river ice were to give way.

  Tillman asked how far we would travel through the canyon. I estimated three, five, maybe 10 miles.

   — If it’s three miles, we might make it through in one go, Tillman said. — Much more & we’ll be sleeping the night in the canyon

  Samuelson warned us to travel on the crowns & ridges where the ice is the strongest.

  He pointed towards a pond-sized dent, where the river ice sunk low & turned a dense shade of blue.

   — Avoid that like the plague, he said. — It’s too weak to hold you.

  Samuelson led. The dog, for once, brought up the rear. Tillman said he did not like the way the animal hesitated to follow, as if it knew more than us.

  No one spoke after that.

  As much as the canyon invokes fear in us, I think our silence was one of reverence. It is truly a feat of Mother Nature. The slate walls rise hundreds of feet. In places, thick waterfalls of ice cascade down the rock. Beyond, to north, east & west, are vast, stony mountains & glaciers that stretch miles into the distance. One such glacier reached down into the canyon & to the river’s edge, so that we were able to touch the extraordinary blue ice as we passed by.

  The Wolverine cuts tightly through the rock, so we can never see more than a few hundred yards ahead or behind to the next turn. We entered one section that was so closely bound, it was like a cavern, with one wall entirely encased in ice to a height of at least 100 feet. Scant daylight entered through the narrow opening to the sky overhead.

  There is little sign of flora or fauna in this landscape. Far up on the rocks, small, hardy evergreens cling to nothing but cliff & air. Once, a bald eagle flew down through the canyon & over our heads, its wingspan impressive. Otherwise, we saw no sign of life.

  Tillman broke the silence by saying he would prefer to travel along more quickly, to be rid of this God-blasted deathtrap. — We’re like mice scurrying into a cat’s maw, he said.

  Yet I have come to a new respect for Samuelson’s plodding approach. We cannot afford
to blunder along for it would be all too easy to walk ourselves into a corner, trapped by either giant slabs of ice or one of those perilous low spots. We’d then be forced to attempt the crossing or backtrack to safer ground. We proceeded at a slow, careful pace.

  The sleds that had worked so well earlier in the day now became an encumbrance over the rough terrain. Often the sleds overturned; at other times two of us would have to pick up one, carry it beyond uneven ice, then go back for another. The ice, too, was beginning to show signs of spring thaw; large sections detached & moved beneath our feet. I stepped on what looked like stable ground, only to have the ice block turn beneath me so that I was like a logrolling lumberjack. I just managed to jump to solid ground as the slab bobbed beneath me.

  After several hours, below us in the canyon we heard the rumble & grind of ice on the move. No one mentioned it, but no doubt we all heard it.

  Tillman began to whistle, perhaps to serve as a distraction. He started with snippets of soldier tunes, but then fell off into the mournful ‘Bury Me Not on the Lone Prairie.’ Against my will, I found myself humming it, until my brain tripped over the words

   . . . Death’s shades were slowly gathering now,

  He thought of home and loved ones nigh.

  I called out for him to put a stopper in it.

  Tillman was offended, but I was glad to have an end of it.

  None of us noticed when the dog first became separated from our group. There was a sudden, sharp bark & we all stopped to look behind. The animal was several hundred yards downriver & against the far canyon wall. We could see its quandary — the animal was separated form us by a large fracture in the ice that began farther down river than we could see. The dog had been traveling near the cliff & was now cornered. The break looked to be at least 10 yards across, too far to leap. The animal seemed to consider it. It trotted back & forth.

  I followed Tillman & the Indian woman downriver to where we could see more clearly. Earlier in the winter the ice must have caved to create an icy pit, with sides more than six feet down. In the depths of the fracture, we could see the flowing water of the Wolverine, so dark surely it was deeper than anything a man or beast could survive.

   — If Boyo goes for it & doesn’t make it, we won’t be able to fetch him out of there, Tillman said.

  I agreed. The sides were too steep, the ice too unstable.

  At the sound of our voices, the dog became more animated & approached the edge.

  With the most expression I have seen the young woman display, she shouted at the animal, waved her arms as if to gesture it away from the pit. Tillman, too, was distraught.

   — Go back on down, Boyo. Go back!

  For a time the dog paced, then began to whimper.

  Tillman volunteered to call the dog, lead him down the river until he could find a safe crossing.

  I said nothing. The sergeant understood. We were fortunate to have made it so far without one of us falling into the Wolverine. He would backtrack half a mile, perhaps farther, before finding a safe route.

  We would leave the dog to its own devices. I advised that we should walk away quickly, ignoring the animal so that it would not try to follow us directly. Its best hope, if it has the intelligence, is to retrace its own steps down the river.

  As we turned our backs, the dog let out a long howl.

  The woman turned her back on us & made as if to walk downriver.

   — I think she’s going to help Boyo, Tillman said.

  It is too dangerous, I told her. She should remain with us.

   — Boyo, she said, pointed towards the dog.

  I stepped forward to take her arm. Her look was quick & alarmed, then angry. But she did as told & walked with us back to join the others.

  We explained what had happened, that we had lost the dog, but I had ordered the girl to remain with us.

   — Wouldn’t have thought she would listen to you, Samuelson said, & I agreed.

  The journey through the canyon stretched on through hours. Occasionally the cliffs would offer up a small alcove or a tumble of rocks that met the shore. But for that, the canyon walls were absolutely vertical & unbroken.

  Tillman asked more times than he ought how far we had come.

  Two miles. Three. Not quite four. Pruitt did his best to estimate each time Tillman asked.

   — Makes no difference how far we’ve come, Samuelson finally grumbled. — Only how far we have to go, & not one of us can tell you that.

  Tillman stopped with his question.

  It was disquieting when dusk arrived & still there was no sign of an end to the canyon.

  The trapper said we would soon lose our light. We had best set camp at the next heap of rocks we found. At least it would get us off the ice for the night.

   —& try to sleep in this deathtrap? Tillman asked.

  Just as cold night closed in on us, we found a bay in the cliff. When the Wolverine flows, I suspect water eddies in a deep pool here, but now it provided us with large blocks of slate which we could climb upon & set camp. There was no comfort — no campfire, no forgiving ground, no way to sleep but hunched against the rocks. I worried for Boyd, thin & weak. He shivered in the cold. The Indian woman crouched atop one of the higher rocks, as if she watched for something on the river.

  Through the night, the black canyon groaned & heaved & gurgled, as if we slept in the belly of a coldblooded beast. I slept little, & when I dozed I dreamt that I drowned or was shoved beneath the ice of a clawing glacier. Even Samuelson, whose sleep is never disturbed, was restless.

   — What if we wake to open water, & we’re trapped here? Tillman whispered into the dark.

  No one answered.

  Later, I thought I heard someone mumbling prayers, but it may have only been a dream.

  At first gray light, we found that the river was still frozen.

  The Indian woman was gone.

   — Wondered if she might take off like that, Samuelson said.

   — She’s gone for Boyo, Tillman said.

  I asked why she returned with us at all, if she intended to go for the dog in the end.

   — Probably thought it would be easier to leave under cover of night than argue.

  She had left the supplies from her pack, but taken her personal belongings.

  Contrary to every other day before, Tillman was first ready. Boyd was wrapping his feet in animal hide, his boots long since deteriorated to scraps. The rest of us were eating cold bits of rabbit meat.

   — Come on! Let’s go then, Tillman urged. — I won’t sleep another night in here.

  There was no way to have known we were so near, but Tillman will not forgive me for making us sleep in that canyon. Less than a quarter mile ahead, beyond the next turn in the river, we came to the end. It was marked by a slow opening & lightening of the sky. The rock walls eased into steep hills of blue-gray spruce trees. The river widened, its ice now laced with channels of open water. The sun was just above the mountains. Pruitt checked his watch. It was not yet 11 in the morning. It had taken us 1 day & 1 hour to pass through the canyon.

  I am much relieved. From first contemplating this expedition, I believed this to be our most significant obstacle. The canyon stopped Haigh, & many of the Russians before him, if only because they falsely believed they could navigate its open waters. Only over ice can it be traveled. Even then it is no easy chore.

  I have taken a short break to eat the hardtack Tillman has distributed to us & also to rest my hand from writing in this cramped journal. Now I return to my entry, for I fear that if I do not get all of this down, the sharp details will be forgotten.

  As we have safely passed through the canyon, I have decided to take a day, possibly two, to rest. We have chosen a stand of aspen not far from shore. Farther up the hillside, we can see bare ground where the snow has melted, but the climb is beyond our diminished strength. We are too worn from our long march & cold sleepless night t
o do much more than strip off our wet boots & climb into our sleeping bags, though it is yet the middle of the day.

  Boyd said he is much relieved to not be sleeping on the ice in the rocky narrows.

   — Amen to that, Tillman said.

  He spoke for us all.

  We have slept most of the day, just now woke to warm sunlight & a grinding, steady roar.

   — Look, there! Boyd said.

  A hundred yards downriver, the Wolverine had come alive; the ice collapsed, churned. We all scrambled from our sleeping bags, pulled on our boots, walked along the shore until we were at the break. Down into the canyon, we watched as slabs of ice buckled & overturned. An impressive sight. From here to Alaska’s coast, the Wolverine is a deluge of floating ice blocks, slush, roiling water.

   — Nattie!

  Tillman ran past us, shouting.

  It struck us all then. The woman & the dog were somewhere down in the canyon. A somber quiet descended on us all as we returned to camp.

  Pruitt set to calculating his survey & meteorological readings. Samuelson fed the fire to dry our wet boots & garments. Boyd was preparing yet another meal of stewed hares with a handful of flour thrown into the broth.

  Tillman, however, remained agitated. He paced the river, much as the dog had done when separated from us. He watched as another large slab of ice broke from the edge. His eyes followed it down into the canyon. He marched with determination from camp until he neared the canyon walls. There he cupped his hands to his mouth, shouted. — Boyo! Here, Boyo! Then, — Nattie! Can you hear me? Nattie!

  He called until his voice was hoarse & broken.

  Boyd suggested that they might have made it through somewhere, or at least found higher ground.

  Tillman ran his fingers through his wild hair.