Choosing to ignore that last comment, she lifted the nine-pound camera from the bottom of the burlap bag and situated it as close to the edge as she dared so that it encompassed both the view of the eagle’s nest and that of the valley below with the mountain range in the distance. She looked around for small rocks and placed them beneath the camera to balance it on the uneven ground.
Since she couldn’t carry over all of her supplies, she had prepared the camera’s wet glass plate beforehand and already had it inserted into its light-protective holder. Which meant only a short time remained for her to take the photograph, return to the other side, and develop the glass plate before the light-sensitive chemicals dried on the surface. It was a tedious process when she was in a darkroom, but was even more so in the field. If the glass plate dried out, or got the slightest crack, it became useless.
She lay flat on the cliff, arranging her skirt over her legs, and worked to get the image focused in the glass viewer.
When Josiah had met her with the horses outside the boardinghouse this morning, darkness had ruled the predawn skies. They’d tethered the mounts at the base of the mountain an hour ago, and with the aid of lanterns, they’d started their trek. Then the eastern horizon had begun to stir, showing its intent, until finally dawn rose to reveal the before-hidden crevices and canyons, and the mountain peaks rising so high they disappeared into the pinkish-purple clouds.
“I’m bettin’ you done real good in your schoolin’, ma’am.”
She smiled at his phrasing. “I did well enough, I guess.” She lined up the viewer, making sure the North Maroon Bell showed clearly off to the right. The varying distances of objects would give the frame its needed depth. Splendid. “But one of my teachers, a Mr. Ainsworth . . . he shared the same opinion as the boys I was telling you about. He didn’t encourage my athletic prowess.”
“I take that to mean he didn’t like your ridin’ and climbin’?”
She chuckled. “No, he didn’t like it one bit. He said I was . . . boyish and that my assertiveness was unsuitable and unattractive. Not qualities becoming of a young lady.” Funny how she remembered Ainsworth’s exact wording and could still hear his irritating nasally tone. The audacity of that pompous, overconfident—
“Don’t sound like somethin’ wise for a teacher to be sayin’ to a young girl. ’Specially to one who prob’ly coulda whupped his hide.” Josiah gave a high-pitched hoot, and his laughter echoed against the canyon walls.
Laughing with him, Elizabeth slid the protective holder into the camera slot and removed the exposure panel. She then uncapped the brass cover from the lens and let science work its wonder.
Her stockinged foot kept rhythm on the cliff as she silently recited the oft-remembered words from a speech given at an event her father had insisted she attend years prior. “Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth upon this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty and dedicated to the proposition that . . .”
It was a speech considered a disappointment by most in attendance that day, but not by her. Twenty years old at the time, standing hushed beside Tillie, her Negro nanny—whose full name of Aunt Matilda had been cast aside somewhere during childhood—she remembered every detail of that solemn gathering on the battlefield at Gettysburg, and would as long as she lived.
“The world will little note nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here . . .”
The wind caught the feathers in the nest, and she wished she could capture this moment in a truer sense of time, so people would actually see those feathers moving and could hear the wind as it whistled low over the mountain and dove deep into the canyon below. An idea came for an article to accompany this photograph when she mailed it to Wendell Goldberg at the end of the week, and she tucked the thought away, hoping to remember.
When enough time had lapsed, she carefully replaced the lens cap and hurriedly repacked her camera. Now to get the exposed plate into the dark tent Josiah had set up across the ridge. She arranged the pack on her shoulders, checked the rope again, and shot him a quick glance before taking the first step.
The deep furrows lining his forehead stayed foremost in her mind as she made her way back across. The stocking on her right foot caught on a piece of bark, but a quick backward tug freed it. She stepped onto the opposite ridge and felt another sense of triumph. So much for Mr. Ainsworth and his assessment of her boyish skills!
She worked quickly in the tent—her makeshift darkroom—pouring a developing solution of iron sulfate and acetic acid over the photographic plate. The procedure turned the light-sensitive grains into a metallic silver that glistened in the half glow of the stubby, wax-skirted candle.
Witnessing this part of the process never lost its allure, and the image was stunning. She gave the glass plate a final water rinsing, which rendered it safe to the light again, and she reemerged from the tent.
As Josiah set to packing the equipment and loading it on the mule, she pulled out her notebook and recorded the date, hour, minute, location, and lighting of the picture she’d taken, along with a description. Keeping this information aided her understanding of how the various conditions influenced the success of her photographs.
She put her notebook away and bent to help Josiah pack, when her breath caught in her throat. Not much of a catch—just enough to gain her attention. She straightened and slowly inhaled, testing her lungs.
The doctors had made no claim there was a cure for her ailment, but they had encouraged that this territory’s dry climate and mountain air should lessen the stress to her lungs. Their foremost recommendation—soaking in the region’s hot springs—was a practice she looked forward to experiencing. In the past, she’d sought deliverance through physician-prescribed arsenic and chloroform remedies, and pungent mustard poultices. All hideous regimens that had brought no healing. On the contrary, they only seemed to have weakened her constitution and worsened her condition.
She breathed in and out again, beginning to think she’d overreacted. How she hated this weakness. Her health was excellent but for her lung ailment. She wanted to push on but didn’t want that desire to blind her to her body’s limits. Perhaps she should try and take the photographs she needed from the current vantage point.
“Are you certain, Josiah, that the view ahead holds more promise than this?”
He tied the last bundle onto the mule and pulled the strap taut. “This here’s pretty, ma’am, but it ain’t nothing compared to what’s up ahead.”
She nodded and, when he resumed the climb, fell in step behind him, trusting her own body’s stubborn resolve as well as Josiah’s judgment. So far he’d been right about everything—not that she would remind him of that.
Navigating the steep ribbon of switchback trail, she was grateful he’d insisted they travel this portion of the journey afoot. Shale dotted the path and made the ascent more difficult.
The weighted pack on her back grew more pronounced, and she paused for a few seconds to stretch and readjust the load.
“No need for you to tote that, ma’am. I can strap it on Moonshine, or I can tote it for you myself, if ’n you let me. Like I said before, I be gentle with it.”
She waved him on ahead. “It’s not a bother, really. I just need to pace myself.”
“Pace yourself . . . ? Sounds like you back there pacin’ yourself right straight to death.”
She laughed, despite the truth in his statement. “You haven’t told me . . . why did you name that stubborn animal Moonshine?”
Josiah rubbed the bridge of his mule’s nose. “I named him after somethin’ my mama used to tell us kids when we was young. She used to say to us . . . that if ever we was to get parted from the other, we was to look up at the moon come night, and that no matter where she was, or where any of us was, we’d be together. Cuz we be lookin’ at the same moon God hung in His heavens.”
Elizabeth envied him that memory. What stories might her own mother have shared if she’d
lived long enough to have the chance?
Josiah continued the uphill hike, and it took her three generous steps to equal his every two, her heeled boots and long skirt hindering her efforts. Her split skirt was in a trunk of clothing that still hadn’t arrived from Washington, but she looked forward to the freedom and practicality it would allow.
Walking behind Josiah, she again noted the broadness of his shoulders, and the raised welts on the back of his neck. Once deep wounds, now long healed by the looks of them, the scars extended above his coat collar and blended into his hairline, giving insight into his past. Josiah Birch’s physical strength was impressive, and he was proving himself an able assistant on these mountain treks. And quite entertaining.
But no matter how capable an assistant he might be, she always shouldered her own pack. Especially when it contained something so valuable. She’d saved for months to buy her camera, and it held the key to her achieving her dreams.
“Townsfolk don’t much use this path.” His deep voice carried to her over the plod of the mule’s progress. “Too narrow and steep for ’em. Mostly the Ute who pass this way.”
“The Ute . . . I’d like to meet—” Cold air prickled her windpipe as it fed down and filtered into her lungs. The higher they climbed, the thinner the air became and the more difficult to breathe. Studying the effects of higher altitude back east and now actually experiencing them were turning out to be two very different things. “I’d like to meet some of the Ute. If”—a painful stitch in her left side staccatoed her breath—“you could . . . arrange that.”
“Only one man I know has any contact with the Ute, Miz Westbrook, and he ain’t easy to find. I ain’t seen him in a while, and he only makes hisself known when he has cause to. Which don’t happen too frequent.”
Massaging a pain in her side, Elizabeth skirted a larger rock in the path, aware of the loose shale close to the edge and of how unaffected Josiah seemed by the altitude. “This man . . . he sounds peculiar. Like . . . some sort of hermit.”
“No, ma’am, he ain’t no hermit. Just keeps to hisself. Likes it best that way is how I figure it.”
A spasm started in her upper chest, forcing Elizabeth to slow her pace. It was a small one this time, and she managed to coax some breaths past the tangle at the base of her throat. She fixed her gaze to the trail and continued to climb. “How do I . . . contact this gentleman?”
“You don’t. More like he finds you, if he has a mind to. Which he most often won’t.”
“And . . .” She breathed slowly, in and out, as physicians had instructed since her youth—advice more easily followed when one wasn’t hiking up a fourteen-thousand-foot mountain. “Why is that?”
When he failed to answer, she looked up to find him halted on the trail, his arm raised, his rifle drawn.
She went absolutely still, grateful for the chance to gain her breath but with senses at alert. Crackling noises sounded from deep within the wooded ridge. Then the breaking of twigs, the faint rustle of branches. Wind whistled through the low-bowered pines and stalwart spruce, masking sounds that might otherwise have been detected.
She slipped a hand into her pocket as she scanned the wooded rise to their left—unsure whether her shortness of breath stemmed from her ailment or from whatever was out there . . . or perhaps both. Gripping the curve-handled derringer, an indulgent purchase she’d made before departing New York City, a measure of courage rose within her. Its .41 caliber ball would hardly deter a large animal, but it was better than facing one completely defenseless.
Josiah cocked his head to one side as though listening for something.
The first time he’d done this on the trail three days ago, she’d questioned him. After spotting the mountain lion, she’d swiftly learned to keep her silence. He’d shot at the animal and missed—by a wide margin if the splintered bark held truth—but his actions had apparently convinced the lion that they were unworthy prey.
It was unrealistic, she knew, but one photograph of that sleek, muscular predator would have all but guaranteed her the much sought-after position at the Chronicle. But in the flick of a second hand, the cougar had disappeared, taking her opportunity with it. And they’d spotted no wildlife since, other than the occasional bird and furry marmot—hardly prey capable of enticing travelers and game hunters west.
Josiah gradually lowered his arm and murmured low, a sound she’d heard from him before. “Felt somethin’ on the breeze.” His focus remained on the shadows beyond the trees. “Don’t no more.”
Elizabeth tried to respond but couldn’t. A familiar ache wedged itself inside her throat, lodging like a fist in her windpipe.
Josiah looked her direction. His eyes narrowed. “You all right, ma’am?”
Elizabeth shook her head and groped at the high collar of her shirtwaist. The first two buttons slid free, but the effort earned her no relief. Each attempt to breathe ended in a pathetic wheeze, and her world took on that strange spiraling sensation she knew only too well.
She clenched her eyes tight—as if surrendering the ability to see might persuade her lungs to function. Stay calm . . . steady breaths . . .
“It be happenin’, miz?” The deep cauldron of a whisper sounded close beside her.
Frantic, she nodded, furious at her body’s betrayal. She’d warned him about this, just in case it happened while they were together. She hated being seen as weak; people treated her differently. She’d pushed too hard this morning. She’d known better.
Strength left her legs. . . .
Josiah eased her to the ground and pulled the pack from her shoulders. “Tell me what to do, ma’am! You got that medicine? One you told me ’bout?”
She shook her head, unable to answer. It was back in her room, and only a little remained. She’d been rationing it, waiting for a new shipment. No matter how many times she’d experienced this, it still terrified her.
He eased her onto the ground, her throat closing by the second. She stared into the sky, trusting God could see. She didn’t doubt that. She only wondered if He would intervene. He had every time before, but it didn’t mean He always would. She’d learned that early in life—when her mother died.
Her throat felt the size of a rye grass straw, and what little air she could inhale and expel hung in anemic wisps in front of her face. Elizabeth squeezed Josiah’s hand and felt his flesh give beneath her nails. Yet he never let go. The panic in his eyes mirrored hers, and her body jerked as she fought for breath.
2
A moment passed. Maybe less, maybe more. Elizabeth couldn’t be sure. But it felt like an eternity. Then the thinnest, most precious ribbon of air slid through the knot in her throat, loosening its hold.
Second by second, the spasm lessened.
Gradually, her throat relaxed and the sweetest rush of cool air trickled down into her lungs. Like a field hand parched from thirst, she was tempted to gulp it in but knew better. She filled her lungs slowly, deliberately, still suspended in that dreamlike state somewhere between consciousness and having been pulled under.
Josiah gently patted her hand. “This one don’t seem to have hung on like the others you told me ’bout.”
She nodded, his voice sounding far away. She couldn’t speak, but he was right. This episode had been bad, but not as severe as the ones she’d endured on the journey west, the travel exacerbated by soot and ashes from the train and swirling dust from the stagecoaches.
For several heartbeats, she simply delighted in her lungs’ obedience. And, as always in these moments afterward, there lingered the uninvited question of whether she would suffer the same fate as her mother, and at nearly the same age. Pushing away the thought, she indicated she was ready to stand.
Josiah offered assistance and held her steady for a moment, then retrieved her canteen from the mule. “Didn’t I say you looked a mite peaked this mornin’, ma’am?”
She took a long draw of water, choosing to ignore him. The western territories were more uncivilized than she�
��d anticipated, but the water here . . . She’d never tasted anything so cold and clean. She smoothed her shirtwaist and took another drink, choosing to leave the top two buttons at her neckline unfastened.
She dabbed at the corners of her mouth. “How much farther before we reach the ridge?”
Josiah shook his head. “It be just round this bend, ma’am.”
He bent to lift her pack, but she motioned for him to leave it.
“You’s the stubbornest white woman I know, Miz Westbrook.”
She laughed. “So I still have some competition in that area, is that what you’re saying?”
He scoffed and turned, mule in tow. She retrieved her pack and followed him around the corner, and found her breath nearly stolen away again. But this time for an altogether different reason. He had been right. . . .
The Rocky Mountains’ renowned twin sisters, the Maroon Bells, rose like ethereal monuments against the pale azure sky. Capped in snowy brilliance, the north and south peaks splintered the morning light into a thousand sparkling prisms. Standing there, taking it in, she wished she could thank Wendell Goldberg again for giving her this opportunity, and for letting her choose this destination instead of sending her to California or to the Wyoming Territory, where the other two candidates for the position had been sent.
A lake, clear and smooth, filled the valley’s floor, acting as the mountains’ footstool and perfectly mirroring their splendor. If only her camera lens could capture the riot of nature’s colors instead of portraying them in dull shades of gray.
She busied herself with helping Josiah unload the equipment from the mule. Then heard something in the distance . . . a rushing noise. It rose above the wind and their shuffling as they unpacked. She searched, and spotted it across the canyon—a waterfall cascading over boulders, some the size of a small house, down into a pool at least five hundred feet below. Gorgeous . . .
Tamera Alexander - [Timber Ridge Reflections 01] Page 2