by Eowyn Ivey
Vancouver Barracks
June 21
I wonder if peaceful sleep will ever find me again. Late last night, I developed the last of the plates with hopes that I could then go to bed to rest comfortably. However, the images proved to be greatly distressing.
The first photograph was of a group of Indians standing and sitting outside of a bark hut. There are several small children and women. One Indian man wears an Army cap, which I suppose was gotten in trade. They all appear quite hungry and poor.
Two other photographs are rather unremarkable. One is of a dog, and it is marked “Boyo.” The other shows a cliff face, of which I see nothing particular except a black spot in the trees that I cannot make out even with magnifying glass.
The last, however, became more and more disturbing to me as I came to understand its contents. It is a picture of an Indian man standing on one foot, perhaps in a kind of dance, as he leans on a wooden staff or crutch, his arms spread wide. He wears a top hat, a black vest, and a great assortment of decorations about his neck. All this I could see easily enough on the plate, yet it is an oddity of a negative that all that is black appears white, so that there was something nearly angelic about the image when it first revealed itself in the solution. I rinsed it and fixed it and set it out to dry so that I could make prints in daylight.
Of course, all that appears white in negative is truly black, and now that I have a print, I can see that he is in shadows and wears dark clothing, while behind him the background is quite bright. He is very near to the camera, his head is cocked at a strange angle, and he peers directly into the lens. Of course, I have never met this Indian or seen his countenance before, yet I sensed a familiarity in his appearance that took me some time to pinpoint, and then it occurred to me. His shadowy form, with lame leg and odd tilt of the head, recall the raven that plagued me in the spring.
All this was unnerving enough, but then I recalled that I had not found any notation on the plate itself, and I went in search of the sleeve from which it came. There I found it: “Man Who Flies on Black Wings, Wolverine River”
I have since studied the print with magnifying lens for perhaps longer than was good for me. It is the eyes that chill me the most.
Lieut. Col. Allen Forrester
June 18, 1885
A visitor this afternoon — welcomed by some, though not all of us.
Nat’aaggi spotted the canoe coming across the lake directly as if from the north side. Several of the Indians gathered at the shore to watch its approach. A lone figure, only a dark outline at that distance. As it neared, though, Pruitt took out field glasses.
— It’s your friend, Colonel.
He handed me the glasses. Through them I made out the black hat & bronze face.
The Old Man paddled with quick efficiency, though the lake was choppy. At times it looked as if his vessel floated just above the waves.
Several of the Indians waded out when it was near enough, helped pull it to shore. I was surprised to note, then, that the canoe was in fact heavily loaded with fish nearly to overflowing. They were freshly caught, gleaming wet & clear-eyed. A few even flapped about in the pile. Mostly whitefish, as well as large lake trout, grayling. Cheers went up from the Indians as it became clear that the Old Man intended the fish as a gift to the village.
I wondered aloud how he could have gathered so many fish without being attacked by the same creature that nearly killed us.
The Old Man turned to us then, removed his black hat, bowed his head in my direction, then laughed. He spoke, but I could not make out any of the words.
I asked for Nat’aaggi to translate, but she refused. When I asked why, she answered that she knows I don’t like ‘kay-yuni’ stories — spirit stories.
I admitted that was true.
The Old Man then pointed from me to the mountains on the north side of the lake.
I said yes, we would travel that way once Sgt. Tillman has healed.
— He goes there, too, Nat’aaggi said. — You will see him, but you will not know him.
I asked what he meant by that.
She shook her head & said no more, then returned to Tillman’s hut.
June 20
Tillman is healed enough to resume travel. The sutures are holding. He said he is able to walk with little pain. I have insisted that we go by canoe, both to speed our progress as well as give Tillman more rest. We will, however, remain near to shore.
June 21
We have made good progress. Even paddling near shore, all of us were on high alert. Boyo’s ears were always perked forward. When a splash went up behind Tillman’s canoe, the dog woofed & we all startled, then laughed, for it had only been a small trout. We never did see sign of the creature. We camped last night on the northern side, rose early this morning. I believe we were all glad to leave behind Kulgadzi Lake.
During these first hours of the day, we have already climbed several thousand feet in elevation. What appeared from the distance as grassy hillsides, upon closer inspection have proven to be thick with alder & devil’s club. We made our way on game trails through the brush, but often they disappeared out from beneath us or ended abruptly so that we were left in a tangle. At one point, we startled a small black bear but were unable to shoot it before it was lost to the dense brush. It is unfortunate for we could have used the additional meat.
Now at last we are above tree line. The heat fatigues us, so we have stopped to rest beside a mountain spring where we can drink, soak our feet. The dog laps water, pants endlessly.
The view below, as we look down upon Kulgadzi Lake & across into the Wolverine River Valley from where we have come, is most stunning. The mountains to the east are lofty & shine white with snow in the sun, their glacial fingers reach down to the river. To the west, the Wolverine River basin spreads flat & wide, a vast green dotted with small lakes & ponds that reflect the blue sky.
Dear Walt,
I wanted to give you an update on my progress — I just finished transcribing the portion of the diaries from Kulgadzi Lake. It’s interesting because I remember my mom telling me that when she was a little girl, all the kids believed a monster lived in the deepest water.
I have to admit, I wish there were a giant, mysterious creature in that lake. It would make a better story than the ones we tell about it now. The public access is littered with junk cars, broken glass, syringes, and old trash fires. Every year there is at least one drowning there, usually with alcohol involved. Last summer, two teenagers who were partying overturned their canoe. They weren’t wearing life jackets. One managed to get to shore, by some miracle — it’s a glacial lake so the water is unbelievably cold. The other boy died. And then last winter, state troopers found out that a man from Anchorage had been killing young Native women, driving them out and dumping their bodies into the lake through holes in the ice. He had a fishing tent, so everyone just thought he was ice fishing. Needless to say, you won’t catch me going for a swim in there.
You’re right what you said in your last letter, that it might be easier for me and Isaac to live somewhere else. The people here aren’t always the most tolerant, and Alpine copes with some difficult social problems. Isaac says I’m too much like Pollyanna sometimes, that I only want to see the good. When it’s 20 below zero, I say, “Yeah, but the sun is shining.” When the wind picks up on the river and the air is hazy with glacial silt, I say, “Sure, but at least it’s warmed up some.” And when a kid on a four-wheeler shouts a nasty comment at us while we’re out for our evening walk, I say “That’s Wesley. His mother is so sweet.” I don’t mention the fact that his father died in a motorcycle accident five years ago, or that Wesley has been in and out of rehab for meth and heroin since he was 14, or that a lot of people think he’s the one who has been burglarizing the summer cabins.
It is tough here, in a lot of ways — the weather, the people, the history, but somehow that’s why I love it so much. It’s like when I go for a walk by
the Wolverine River. The riverbed here is wide and the channels are lined with gray sand and boulders, and there is a cold wind that comes down from the glaciers. Out there among the boulders and silt, there is a plant called dryas that blooms these small white flower with translucent petals. It seems so fragile and beautiful and unexpected, all the more because it survives in such a harsh place.
I do sometimes wonder what would have happened if the Colonel had never traveled up the Wolverine River, had never broken the trail for the miners and all that came with them. I’m sure someone else would have come along eventually. It doesn’t matter what draws explorers — wealth or fame or military power, or even genuine curiosity — they alter a place just by traveling through it and recording what they see. Within 20 years of the Colonel’s expedition, largely because of his reports, the mining companies and fur traders had moved into the Wolverine Valley, and by the 1920s, the Wolverine tribe was hit hard by tuberculosis, influenza, and alcoholism. For example, I am fairly certain that the man the Colonel calls “Ceeth Hwya,” died in the 1918 flu epidemic. And those who survived were in a fast-changing world where they had little say over their own fate. Where their fish camps had been, trading posts were built. Families were drawn into a cash economy that did not serve them well, and their children were sent off to government schools. But until 1924, the only way Alaska Natives could earn citizenship and the right to vote was to “sever all tribal relationships” and “adopt the habits of civilized life.” According to family stories, when my great-grandmother was a little girl, she used to secretly speak Indian words with her sisters, but if they were caught, their dad would punish them.
It is a paradox, though. Where can we go to learn about Alaska’s people, how they lived and worshiped and dressed and spoke before living memory? The explorers are witnesses to the before. The Colonel’s diaries, like the writings of Meriwether Lewis and Captain Cook, are a kind of cursed treasure. I have to say, when I read the Colonel’s description of the men’s copper earrings and the red dye on the faces of the women, it was an incredibly moving experience. It’s ironic that such details would be preserved by the very man who would set off so much change.
On a separate note, you seem surprised that I mention Isaac in my letters, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. I’ve come to think of you as a friend, Walt, and that means learning more about each other. You shared with me some of your own life, so it seemed natural to tell you something about myself. And of everything, I think the people we love are the most important.
Warm regards,
Josh
Dear Josh,
The rules keep changing around me so damned fast that I can’t keep up with it anymore. More times than not, it seems like a bunch of hooey, people worrying about labels and arguments instead of just going about their business. I guess I’ve always liked what the Colonel wrote: “All that matters is how a man lives in this world.”
But every now and then, I come out a fool, and I know it. Of course you’re right. Friends talk about their loved ones. I wouldn’t have it any other way either. I hope that’s enough said on the matter.
I’ve thought a lot about those diaries. As I told you, I liked to read them when I was a boy for the sheer excitement of it. Years later, after the wife and I went our separate ways and I found myself fumbling around in life, I took them up again. I don’t know exactly what I was looking for, except maybe I liked the idea that we don’t have it all figured out and buttoned up just yet, that maybe there’s something out there that can still rattle us. I always wished I’d been around when there was still new country to be seen, or that I’d had the gumption to seek out an adventure of one kind or another when I was young enough to do it.
Your last letter got me to thinking, though, about what these documents mean to you — they must be bittersweet. You’re living the long repercussions of the Colonel and his men. I suppose you’ve got to feel some loss and mourning over that.
Nothing is as simple as we’d like to make it out.
I do like the idea of that dryas flower, though, blooming along the river.
Your friend,
Walt
Lieut. Col. Allen Forrester
June 22, 1885
An unexpected respite: the dog found a narrow break in the mountainside today, with tall rock faces on either side. In this shaded ravine were hard drifts of snow & ice. Boyo took to rolling in it to cool himself. The rest of us broke off chunks to put to our sunburned foreheads & cracked lips. Tillman tied a piece of it to the top of his head with his neckerchief to keep himself cool, though I cannot think it will last long in this heat.
Pruitt has made an interesting discovery.
As we near the pass through the Wolverine Mountains, a distant saddle between two slopes, we travel in high country along alpine heather with tiny blooms, lichen-covered rocks. No trees or bushes impede us, so the walking is easy.
This afternoon we came to a group of huge boulders. It appears the rocks, some larger than a horse carriage, had many years ago toppled from the nearby cliffs.
Upon reaching them, Tillman & Nat’aaggi climbed atop one with some difficulty for a better view. Pruitt walked between the boulders, inspecting their surface. It was then that he noticed the Indian petroglyphs.
The images are crudely etched into the stone & weathered, but as we identified more of them along the rocks, I had a growing sense of familiarity. Many are simple, geometrical designs. Spirals, patterns of dots. But then, an indication of a mountain. A tebay. A star. A bird.
It occurred to me — these are the same pictures the Midnoosky children made with their strings on the Trail River. To see them again here, miles into the mountains, I cannot explain it, but it strikes me as an uncanny echo.
If these people consider the mountains ahead of us a place where the dead roam, then what do these symbols mean? Are they a caution of some sort, or simply a signpost?
June 23
Whatever the source, human or beast, it seems we have suffered at their tricks.
They made their presence known while we dozed in the shade of the boulders. We had removed our packs, used them as rests. I was soundly asleep when Tillman woke me.
— You hear that, Colonel? Some kind of whistle pig or something, he said.
Though my ears are not as keen, I caught the sounds then. From above us on the rocky mountainside — chirps, whistles, then came low chuffs & growls.
Tillman suggested we could eat the animals, though we did not even know its type yet.
At the urging of our empty bellies, we grabbed rifles, Nat’aaggi her bow & arrows. None gave thought to the packs we left behind. We scattered across the hillside in pursuit of the sounds. Boyo leapt from rock to rock, barking excitedly.
The chase went on for too long, our judgment impaired by the promise of fresh meat.
Pruitt at last called out, asking if there were any sign.
— Not hide nor tail, Tillman answered.
I did not trust my ears at first. The chirps & huffs along the mountainside had taken on the cadence of human speech. There were words then, unintelligible but words all the same, & more unnerving, laughter & shouts.
Nat’aaggi began to run back towards the boulders. We followed.
Pruitt noticed my pack was gone. Because of his weakness & Tillman’s injuries, I had carried the most provisions, including a good supply of dried fish & tallow from the Kulgadzi Lake Indians.
With Pruitt & Nat’aaggi at guard with the remaining supplies, Tillman & I followed what appeared to be drag marks across moss & heather. After a half mile or so, we came to my pack.
Its contents were strewn about on the tundra. All the food was gone, as was my tin cup. The loss of provisions is a serious concern, but I feel the loss of the cup, too. It has been with me through many battles, countless marches.
June 24
It has become an all too common woe on this journey, but we once again face near starvation. The wild
berries on these slopes are hard & green, though we try to eat them. Nat’aaggi snared several chipmunk-like animals. Pruitt says he is unable to stomach the meat. His lack of appetite is concerning.
Nat’aaggi found my tin cup in a mound of dirt & rock that had been recently scraped. She then pointed out the animal tracks in the mud.
— Nothchis, she said. Wolverine.
62°56’ N
143°22’ W
Clouds early in the morning.
Does He smile to see His work?
With His shoulder, & His art, He twisted the sinews of my heart.
In this forest, in this night
I am the tyger, burning bright.
Sophie Forrester
Vancouver Barracks
June 23, 1885
I must endeavor to put these dark fears out of my brain. Since developing the plates from the expedition, I find it impossible to eat or sleep. My worry becomes agonizing. I have made myself a pest to the General’s secretary, visiting the department headquarters twice in as many days to ask if there isn’t some word of Allen. Is he safe? Does the General have any word as to whether the men made it through the canyon, and will they be home before winter comes? Are there any reports as to the character of the Wolverine tribes? Is there a plan to send someone up the Yukon River in search of the party if a report does not arrive soon?
Of course, there is no answer, except to say that we must wait.
Charlotte is impatient with being kept indoors, and so I will allow her enthusiasm to propel us. The fresh air and light may do me some good. We have packed a picnic lunch, along with our photography supplies, and I have promised to see if we can find any pied-billed grebes, for Charlotte has never heard their calls.
And I vow that tomorrow, I will attend the women’s tea. Perhaps I will bring cake, or the lemon meringues that Charlotte makes so well, to make amends for my inattention.
It all seems a shallow distraction, yet I do not know how else to continue on.