To the Bright Edge of the World

by Eowyn Ivey

  If only we had known to go there from the first! When I entered Redington’s, I could scarcely bring myself to ask for negative varnish. Instead of a mocking reply, however, the soft-spoken gentleman said, “Making pictures, are you?”

  What glad relief! Not only did he know the items I sought, but he possessed the knowledge and supplies to simplify the process for me. It seems that the book Mr Pruitt lent me, published just two years ago, is already out of date, and that the manufacturers of dry gelatine plates now include their own developing solutions. I had already spent so much money on this piecemeal of chemicals! Even on that account, Mr Redington set my mind at ease, saying that I will need them, as very soon I will prefer to mix my own solutions in order to achieve better results. The prepared developers, he said, are best for beginners.

  In less than an hour, I had my Cramer’s Extra Rapid Dry Plates, my chemicals, even a ruby lantern for my dark room.

  “And do you have your dark room trays? The old books will tell you to use porcelain, but then you must worry about breaking them. We can order rubber pans from back East, but they won’t be here for some time.”

  I could not bring myself to tell him that I had picked out two porcelain platters that nearly emptied my pocketbook, then reconsidered and returned them to the shop where I had purchased them, and instead bought an outlandish amount of paraffin wax and inexpensive fabric with hopes of sealing a container of some sort.

  “Whatever you have will be fine, I’m sure. But you know what has worked wonders for me? I cut up an old rain coat and used the India rubber cloth to line several wooden trays. They aren’t pleasant to look at, but the solutions don’t damage them, and they practically bounce if you drop one by mistake.”

  He was nothing short of a godsend! Everything about him was gracious, and even his shop was cool and quiet, with the fresh aroma of lilacs in a vase. (While I do not usually concern myself with such superficialities, I admit it was a welcome change from the dust and roughness we had encountered most of the day.) Along with his practical advice, Mr Redington gave me a photography catalogue, from which I can order a vast array of products and tools.

  “And might I ask what kind of camera you have?”

  A pitiful photographer I must have seemed — I have yet to set eyes on my camera, and could not recall the manufacturer’s name. I had purchased it through Bradstreet Mercantile, as it was the only place I could find a camera that could be delivered within the week, and I could not bear the thought of waiting for one to come all the way from San Francisco. All I could say for certain is that it takes four by five plates, and I was regretting the small size. I confessed all this to Mr Redington.

  “No, no, you don’t strike me as a studio photographer. I suspect a field camera such as that will suit you perfectly. They are lighter to carry and quicker to set up. And the truth is, Mrs Forrester, a camera is nothing more than a shrinking box with a glass lens. All the difference comes from the eye that looks through it.”

  (I did have to wonder later how Mr Redington could be so sure I preferred the out of doors to the portrait studio. My pondering caused Evelyn to laugh out right. “Good Lord, Sophie, do you ever look at yourself in a mirror?”)

  My only disappointment is that I have allowed Evelyn to convince me to stay in the city for the night. We are at the Quimby House, a pleasant enough hotel from what I have seen of it. Evelyn is of course in the dining hall, socializing, while I have already bathed and put on my sleeping gown. My head aches from all the talk with strangers, and I long for solitude.

  I would so much rather be at home now. I fear how quickly the season slips away. Many of the fruit trees are dropping their petals. The flower gardens around the city are in full bloom. Time has become suddenly precious and fleeting.

  May 24

  I save all such notes for my field books, but I must mark this everywhere I can. A male Rufous humming bird! I was granted only the briefest look at it this afternoon, yet I am fairly certain. It passed by the front porch of our house in a quick dart, so close to me that I could hear the furious thrum of its wings. My eyes followed it beyond the honeysuckle, where it paused for a moment at the budding wild rose bush. I ran down the steps then, as I did not want to lose sight of it, but it flew off toward the parade ground and out of my sight so quickly. Yet for an instant, perfection reigned — the way it hovered in the brilliant afternoon sunlight, dark wings a blur, the red feathers of its throat set afire. It positively glowed.

  May 25

  I do not strive to be mysterious. It is not that I am unwilling to share my purpose, but more that I am ill-equipped to put it to words, and I am afraid the other women read into this an unkind secrecy. Yet how can I describe something so specific yet ethereal? If I could describe it perfectly, there would be no need for the pursuit. Isn’t the service of art to bring into focus something that cannot otherwise be defined? So that a sculpture does something words cannot, and, dare I hope, so too a photograph.

  Mrs Connor came to the house just as Charlotte and I were unpacking the crates of supplies I had brought back from Portland.

  “My dear woman, you do yourself ill gadding about.” (As if I spent my hours in dancehalls!) “You must be worried sick for your husband, and your heart broken from the loss of the baby. Shopping in Portland! Rearranging the pantry! You should rest, and make peace with your condition.”

  I said nothing. What Mrs Connor does not understand, and I am unable and unwilling to explain, is that my love and loss are precisely what I am about.

  I am not even sure I will know it when I see it, yet I possess in my mind a scene. The gentle, warm light of early evening. A slender branch. The promise of an unbroken egg-shell; life aquiver in feather and flesh. Yet it is the light that holds my desire.

  May 26

  It is this time of night, when the house is quiet, that I miss Allen most painfully. During the day, I am wholly diverted by my search for birds, and I work late into the evening to mark my bottles of solutions and organize my dark room, but inevitably I must go to bed, and here is where I find my loneliness.

  I’ve taken to sleeping in one of his night-shirts. Excessively sentimental, I know, but it still smells of him. I wonder if it does more harm than good, to indulge myself in this way, for even as it comforts me, it causes my heart to ache all the more.

  I am afraid, Allen. I am afraid my barrenness will become a dead weight that will drag upon our marriage. I’m afraid my condition will mark me as incomplete or, more terrible still, repulsive to you. And deeper in my heart, in a place that is dark and unrecognizable, I am afraid that you will no longer love me.

  Lieut. Col. Allen Forrester

  May 25, 1885

  We wait while the Midnooskies finish packing up their village. I have done as much as I can to repair my clothing & pack. I mostly pace about the camp in boredom.

  Samuelson & Tillman have pulled out playing cards, resort to hands of poker to occupy themselves. They have persuaded Nat’aaggi to join them. They have explained the rules to her as simply as they can. Samuelson advised that they switch to betting pebbles, so as to not take advantage of the novice.

  Samuelson’s raucous laughter just drew my attention. When asked what was so amusing, Tillman grumbled something to the effect that Nat’aaggi has clearly played this game before. In front of her was a sizeable heap of pebbles.

  May 26

  If this were my troop, we would be well on our way. We were to leave this morning. Yet still the Midnooskies cook meals, gather their children. It is most painful for me to watch the disorder. I am near tempted to march down the shore with my men, leave the boats. For now, I wait.

  Tillman says he is in no hurry to go. Most of the morning he has tried without success to provoke Nat’aaggi into another hand of poker. It seems being beaten so soundly yesterday did not sit well with him.

  He admits, too, that he fears throwing himself at the mercy of the river.

   — Have you cast your eye on t
hose rapids? he asked.

  I had. Though not as impressive as the vast, gray sweep of the Wolverine River, the Trail River flows swiftly over boulders so that in places the water churns into a white froth. The Indians’ skin boats are but crude structures — odd-shaped moose hides stitched with sinew, stretched taut over a flimsy pole frame. They are impressive in dimension, each of the three boats being more than 25 feet long, five feet wide, two deep. Every part of the frame, from keel to gunwale to ribs, was carved with knife & ax, then assembled with rawhide & willow sprout. These Indians accomplish a great deal with the little they can scrape from this country.

  It’s as if we prepare to take to the river in a giant hollowed animal corpse. Let us hope they carry us safely.

  I have just come to understand how this village in its entirety will make the journey to the Wolverine River. The baidarras will be filled with the heaviest supplies, & only the men will board! The women will go by foot with loads upon their backs, leading the pack dogs.

  I asked Samuelson to relay my disapproval to the tyone. He advised against it.

   — It’s how they do things, Colonel, Samuelson said. — We’re just along for the ride.

  A dispute then arose when Nat’aaggi indicated she would ride along with us in the boats.

  The tyone spoke sharply to her, but she held firm.

   — He says our slave woman must walk with the others, Samuelson translated.

  She does not belong to us, I said. She travels with us. If we are to ride, she does too.

  The tyone at last agreed. Several of village women observed the disagreement with much interest.

  At long last. Word that we will launch.

  61°30’ N

  144°23’ W

  46°F, exposed bulb

  39°F, wet bulb

  Dew point: 27

  Relative humidity: 47

  Night cool.

  Let me keep to that skin boat. Let me ride the roar and swell. Alive, at the bow, in the face of sun, wind, and freshwater spray. Carry me on and on to the edge of the earth, with children’s laughter like a wind-full sail, then carry me beyond. Bent willow boughs and moose hide. Wild ways, bear me well.

  Deliver me. I am in your hold. “Make me to know mine end, and the measure of my days; that I may know how frail I am.”

  Lieut. Col. Allen Forrester

  May 27, 1885

  An exhilarating ride! Yet no easy chore. During our boat ride yesterday, we were thrown against boulders, doused in icy spray, then suddenly grounded by shallow waters. Often we leapt into the river, waded, towed the boats over rocks, until the river channel abruptly fell off into deep, quick current. There we all scrambled back on board to enjoy the run downriver.

  All but Tillman. He cared neither for the wading or the riding. Amidst the most exciting stretch of river, he was seized by terror, stood with a wild look to his eyes.

   — I can’t swim a stroke! he bellowed. — I’ll drown!

  His towering weight nearly capsized the baidarra. I ordered him to sit & stay so. He was a sickly, miserable fellow before our journey was out.

  The young tyone commanded our craft with much pride & skill. We men were armed with long poles to aid steering. Our captain would variously shout ‘To Kwul-le!’ (Shallow water!), ‘To Keelan!’ (Deep water!), or ‘A-to!’ (Paddle!) to which we would respond obediently. He evidently knew the river well, so navigated us through narrow turns, turbulent whirlpools that could have easily been the end of us. The light, bendable nature of the boats also showed its worth. I have no doubt that any Army row boat would have been sunk at the first run of boulders.

  Most surprising, Pruitt proved an enthusiastic white-water man. At the bow, he paddled with a vigor I did not think his bearing would allow. When we collided with rising waves, Pruitt could even be heard to let out a high-pitched hoot. This caused the two Indian boys in our boat to laugh & cheer.

   — I believe that is my preferred method of travel, sir, he said when we had landed.

  Tillman did not share his opinion.

   — I plan to walk with the women from here on, he said.

  Samuelson translated this to the tyone, who laughed for some time after.

  With such a swift current, we made good time. Had we left when the sun first breached the mountains, I have no doubt we could have arrived at the Wolverine River within the day. Instead we floated but for an hour or two, then pulled into shore just below the fork. Here we set camp, waited for the rest of the Midnooskies.

  Samuelson was correct about the Indian women. They are strong & enduring. Their pack loads rival anything my men & I carried up the river. As small-framed as they are, they trudge along steadily. They arrived at the camp only a few hours after us, in time to prepare the evening meal.

  This morning we once again wait for the Midnooskies to ready themselves. Tillman assists the women, secures a large load on his pack that he will carry when he walks with then. This has provoked taunts from the men, but Tillman displays a rare stoicism.

  Nat’aaggi has indicated that she will join them on foot.

  May 28

  Confluence with Wolverine River

  The Trail River wrung us out yesterday. More than eight hours at it. Much of that time was lost when we floated down a channel that ran dry. We worked to drag the skin boats back up to the main river, but the current in places was too strong. We were forced to unload all the boats, portage to another part of the river. Pruitt & I considered that Tillman had not chosen badly after all to walk instead with the women. They reached the Wolverine nearly at the same time as the boats & looked in better shape than the rest of us. We did not make camp until midnight.

  Sophie Forrester

  Vancouver Barracks

  May 27, 1885

  Oh, it has arrived! And even sooner than I expected!

  During these many months since Allen left for Alaska, the infrequent sound of a wagon or horse approaching the house has caused my heart to seize with dread and anticipation — is there some word of him? Can it be that he has returned so early? Please let him be safe and no bad news delivered this day.

  It was therefore a most pleasant change these past few afternoons to have my thoughts occupied instead by the small, benign and pleasant hope that my camera might be delivered. And today, the carriage from Bradstreet came with my package!

  I suppose Mr Redington is correct — at its most basic level, it is only a box with a glass lens, yet I think I am in love with it. It is not so heavy or cumbersome as I feared, and I am able to handle it with relative ease, but there is an agreeable, substantial weight to its polished mahogany, fine leather bellows, and brass knobs. Indeed, it has the gravity of a well-crafted weapon or tool of cartography, masculine and sophisticated, so it seems something of a wonder that it should belong to me.

  (And never again will I be so ignorant as to not know the maker of my own camera: “American Optical Co.” is stamped on a brass label, and the name will be so etched in my brain.)

  Now that I have removed all the contents of its carrying box, and admired every screw and knob and latch, this afternoon I will set myself the task of understanding its mechanism.

  I feel now as if the work can truly begin!

  How is it that no one, not Mr Redington nor Mr Pruitt nor the author of this photography manual, ever thought to mention such a peculiar occurrence? Everything is on its head! It is embarrassing to admit, but for some time I had the irrational thought that I must have attached the lens incorrectly, or somehow inverted the camera when I put it on the tripod, but no matter how I turn the camera, the image on the ground glass remains the same — upside down!

  It was only after a ridiculous amount time that it occurred to me that, of course, it does not matter, for once the exposed plate is developed, one might turn it any way one desires. Yet it is a unique and vexing challenge to try to align the scene before me with that which appears on the ground glass. When I want to include more
of the ceiling, for example, I find myself adjusting the camera downward, for that is where the ceiling lies on the image before me!

  It is perhaps best that Charlotte is gone these few days (her mother is preparing to have another child), for the quiet and solitude allows me to sort through some of the mysteries of this apparatus. It was great trouble just to determine how to unlatch the tailboard, unfold the camera, attach the lens, also put the tripod upright and secure the camera. I assembled it in the sitting room, pulled the black cloth over my head, and focused the image of our sofa onto the ground glass, and then pretended to take the picture of the sofa, but only by sliding in an empty plate holder.

  All this does not seem like much, written on the page, but in fact it took me most of the day. It is unfortunate that all daylight vanished before I could move out of doors and take my first photograph, but there is tomorrow.

  May 28

  It has been one of the most extraordinary days of my life!

  In the shadowy, red glow of my dark room, a tree revealed itself to me, stark white branches against a black sky, like an otherworldly ghost of a once living tree.

  I confess that when I lowered the glass plate into the developing solution, I had no faith that anything would transpire. I gently rocked the tray, the liquid washing around the glass. And then, where there was nothing before, there appeared the poplar tree, and I do not exaggerate when I write that it felt to me a revelation.