May 3, 1884
Dearest Mother,
Our plans are final. We arrive in Boston the morning of May 19. At last you & father will meet my lovely Sophie, and I think I will ask her to marry me.
You will be surprised to see how happy we are together. She brings out the very best in me. You know how you said when I visited at Christmas that I have become too serious, even severe? Sophie has changed all that. She is so full of joy & wonder, & I am hopeful that these virtues somewhat rub off on me. If only you could see us together when we stroll together arm in arm, laughing & talking of all things. You would never guess that I could be so carefree.
Even before we arrive, I want you to have some sense of her. The photograph is a poor representation, as she is not best shown in a stodgy atmosphere. Hers is an uncontrived nature, a beauty in her eyes & laugh, a kind of light that shines out of her very being.
In ways she reminds me of Olivia Stephen. Do you remember her? Maid Becky’s niece. She came to stay one summer when I was a boy. Sophie has her same kind of quiet humor, as if she is secretly enjoying everything about the world, but is too humble & shy to tell you all she knows. Also there is something of Aunt Jane’s eccentricity, the way Aunt Jane will pick up a book even as someone is having a conversation with her & begin to read it, falling silent. At times Sophie is so intent on her own thoughts or observations that she does not notice anything else around her, & she can be forgetful. She is always misplacing her field glasses, notebooks, or gloves.
I suspect the only reason Sophie is not married yet is because her head is elsewhere — occupied with kestrels & ruby-crowned kinglets (she will have me learn the names of these birds yet). There have been other suitors, I am sure, but they probably mistook her distraction for aloofness. She would not have paid me any mind either, if I hadn’t kept returning to her schoolhouse & pestering her. In truth, I won her over not by good looks or distinction, but rather dogged determination.
You are right of course about our age difference; it is significant. Yet I think you will see what I mean when you meet her in person. She is no silly girl. She is witty & kind & settled in some way that I have not yet achieved myself.
I have been thinking that we could have the wedding in Boston & maybe honeymoon at the Nantasket cottage, if you would not mind. Of course I want you & Father to meet her first. I am sure you will love her as I do.
Please don’t tell Father of my plans. He will get it in his mind that she does not come from good enough family or that she does not suit me in some way, even before he has had the chance to meet her. I want him to be taken by surprise by her beauty & intelligence. Without even trying, she will win him over.
Do you think she might have the blue guest room? I think it will suit her well, as it is just down the hall from the library & is cooler than the other rooms in this hot weather.
Your affectionate son,
Allen
Part Four
U.S. Army Tin Cup.
Model 1874 Army Tin Cup.
Allen Forrester Collection.
Indian War–era Army tin cup of regulation issue, measuring 4 inches in diameter and 4⅛ inches high. Block tin with soldered seams. Handle stamped with letters “US” and fastened to cup with iron rivets. Some scattered rust and pitting, but otherwise little sign of aging.
Dear Walt,
I am so sorry to hear that you were in the hospital. I hope you’re continuing to feel better.
I also wanted to write to you about the last check you sent — it is incredibly generous. Before I accept it, though, I want to make sure you’re not sending too much. It really is a lot of money. Are you sure you’re keeping enough to live comfortably? Do you have any family to leave it to? Don’t get the wrong idea — I can definitely put it to use here at the museum, and I’m not trying to second-guess your financial decisions. But there is no reason to rush. Our budget is set for this fiscal year, and I’m going ahead with the transcribing. Just think about it, and let me know if you are sure. I’ll wait to hear from you before I deposit the check into the museum account.
Thank you so much for the brass button. It fascinates me how an object so small and everyday can be transporting, the way it brings you into direct contact with the past. I put it here on my desk beside my computer screen, and I like seeing it there as I go through the Colonel’s diaries.
Sometimes it still surprises me that I ended up as a museum curator because I always thought history was boring. It was just this litany of meaningless dates and places I had never seen. I knew I should probably care about Civil War battles, and I’d try to focus on the textbook, but it put me to sleep. And then one summer when I was in high school, I was hiking down by the river with my brother and we came across the old railroad bed. I think landslides in recent years have made it impassable now and property owners have put up “no trespassing” signs in other places, but back then you could follow it for miles along the Wolverine. Sometimes we would find the actual tracks, rusted and half-buried, or sections of railroad ties poking up through the ground, other times we were just able to see the grade of the land and know we were still on it. We were making our way through a particularly brushy area when we looked off the bank. Down by the river were several old train cars on their sides, as if they had been shoved off the tracks.
It wasn’t any great discovery, but I think because we had stumbled on them by ourselves, it was like we’d found King Tut’s tomb. There were trees growing up through the train cars, and inside there were old tin cans and whiskey bottles. I also found a railroad spike. When I picked it up it occurred to me that it was really old, probably older than anything I had ever held before. I brought it home with me, and I asked mom when the railroad was built. 1905. It was almost a century old, and by Alaskan standards, that’s ancient. That was when I started asking more questions, and reading books about the mine and the river and how my mother’s ancestors lived here before. What surprised me the most, though, is how little I could find to read. We hadn’t written down much of our own history, and a lot of the old stories had been lost. I think that is what motivates me in my work here at the museum. I don’t want to just find and preserve history — I want to keep it alive for Alaskans.
On a separate note, you asked about Isaac. He has as little to do with the museum as he can manage. He’s a graphic designer and illustrator (but I still haven’t been able to talk him into doing the museum’s website pro bono). And he’s my life partner. I met him while I was going to graduate school in Seattle, and then I talked him into moving back to Alaska with me. Even though he never stops complaining about the dark and cold every winter, I think we’re here for a while.
Warm regards and best wishes for your health,
Josh
Lieut. Col. Allen Forrester
June 8, 1885
Our steady pace of travel towards the mountains is wearying. 15 or so miles each day, with little time or strength to gather food. As the Indians warned, we have seen no salmon since we began our travels up the west fork of the Wolverine.
Nat’aaggi spotted a moose on a far hillside. Tillman wanted to hunt it, but it would require a day, possibly more, with no guarantee of success. As hungry as we are, I am keen to arrive at the lake. I believe we are within a few days march.
The valley has opened onto a wide plain, the mountains steadily moving away from us east & west. The Wolverine River increasingly becomes rocky & fast moving. In the distance, the land is dotted with bogs & small ponds. Everywhere wild flowers are in bloom. I wish instead for berries, fruit of any sort. We take our doses of acetic acid in hopes that it will stave off scurvy.
It is midnight, yet nearly daylight. We stopped walking an hour ago to set camp, cook supper. We now rest beside the fire, look towards the mountains & a glacier to the northeast.
It seems that her long talks with Tillman have continued to sharpen Nat’aaggi’s English. I believe she will be increasingly helpful with translation.
This night she recounted a story she heard told about a nearby mountain — long ago a woman was looking for her people. She had somehow become separated from them. She walked & walked. She carried her baby on her back. She walked many miles up the river. The summer sun was hot & she was thirsty, but she kept walking. When she reached a glacier, it was cool. She drank from a stream. She laid down on the tundra beside the glacier, her child cradled in her arms. There the two fell asleep. They never woke up. She & her infant had turned to stone.
— I see it. Don’t you, Colonel? Tillman said. — See, that valley is the curve of her arm, that lower cliff her child. Her face, her long legs.
It took me some time. I could not see what they described. Finally, though, they appeared in the shape of the mountain. A sleeping mother, with child in her arms.
June 9
Boyo found a dead goose this morning. Nat’aaggi skinned it, roasted it over a fire.
Pruitt said he was not as hungry, & he did not touch the goose meat.
The rest of us ate, but I admit my stomach turned when I thought of the feathers at the slave’s wrist. If you believe a woman can take such form, how can you ever again eat goose flesh without some distress?
This afternoon we met a man who Ceeth Hwya described as the greatest chief of the Wolverine Valley. They say as a young man he led one of the massacres of the Russians. Now he is old & blind, lives alone except for a woman who cares for him. He wept often during our visit. Nat’aaggi says he was ashamed not to have more to offer in hospitality.
He is one of the oldest men I have ever seen. I suspect he does not have much longer on this earth. Tillman shared with him a small bit of Boyd’s tobacco.
June 10
The mosquitoes are incessant. Our first encounters this spring were not so troublesome — the insects large, slow & easy to swat. The Indians, however, warned us of what was to come. With summer, new varieties appear. Small, aggressive, & numerous enough to be a menace. Pruitt claims to have counted 65 mosquitoes on Tillman’s back at one time. This annoyed the sergeant.
— You ought to do less counting & more killing, he said.
We stay to the riverbed, where the sand & wind drive back the insects. When we must cross into wooded areas, however, we are besieged. I chose a poor route today so that we found ourselves in the middle of wet land. A dark cloud of mosquitoes surrounded us, attacked any exposed skin & swarmed our eyes, mouths & ears. . All the while a sandpiper of some type swept down on us & screeched without stop. It was a maddening, unpleasant scene, one that I thought would break Pruitt entirely. At night we sleep with our heads pulled all the way into our sleeping bags. Nat’aaggi burns a smudge fire of green leaves. Boyo snaps at the air.
June 11
Mid-day. Sunny, much warmer than one would ever expect this far north. We rest against driftwood logs on a sandy stretch of riverbed. No mosquitoes in this heat, so we will sleep for a few hours in blessed peace. We need not worry about wasting daylight. This far north & into summer, we travel through the night if we choose, as true darkness never comes.
It is remarkable, the transformation of this land. We arrived to snow & ice & gray. When I call this to mind, the landscape before us seems impossible. It has become a verdant, lush place, nearly jungle-like. Swaths of alder roll down off the mountains. The lowlands are thick with cottonwood, birch, & willow, all in foliage. When we enter the forest, we walk through stinging nettles, wild raspberry bushes. There are, too, giant leaves with stalks as tall as a man & barbed with spines that cause welts to the skin. The trapper calls them devil’s club. The name is well earned.
We observed a small group of caribou at sky-line this evening, some half mile away. The animals behaved unpredictably, prancing, running in all directions as if they bolted from invisible enemies.
— Mosquitoes, Tillman explained. — Nattie says the poor beasts are trying to outrun them.
June 12
No rabbits in Nat’aaggi’s snares today. Ate the last of the salmon two days ago, though it was well turned to mush in our packs. Flour paste for breakfast. Anxious to find the village on the lake.
X. Scurvy (Scorbutus)
Definition. — A constitutional disease characterized by great debility, with anaemia, a spongy condition of the gums, and a tendency to haemorrhages.
Symptoms. — The disease is insidious in its onset. Early symptoms are loss in weight, progressively developing weakness, and pallor. Very soon the gums are noticed to be swollen and spongy, to bleed easily, and in extreme cases to present a fungous appearance. The teeth may become loose and even fall out. The tongue is swollen, but may be red and not much furred. The skin becomes dry and rough, and ecchymoses soon appear, first on the legs and then on the arms and trunk.
Palpitation of the heart and feebleness and irregularity of the impulse are prominent symptoms. The appetite is impaired, and owing to the soreness of the gums the patient is unable to chew the food.
There are mental depression, indifference, in some cases headache, and in the latter stages delirium.
Prognosis. — The outlook is good, unless the disease is far advanced and the conditions persist which lead to its development.
— From Principles and Practice of Medicine,
William Osler, M.D., New York, 1893
Lieut. Col. Allen Forrester
June 13, 1885
Kulgadzi Lake
A formidable body of water indeed.
Just as Ceeth Hwya described, it stretches broadside east to west, but is much larger than I anticipated. Nothing like the serene clear ponds we have seen so far. It is at least five miles across to the northern shore. Pruitt estimates 15 miles to the glacier that borders it to the east, most likely just as far to its western end. The waters are cloudy, dark gray, with sizeable white caps. Knee-high, choppy waves wash ashore. The rocky beaches are littered with driftwood.
During the heat of the day, as we neared the lake, Pruitt & I talked of taking a dip. Upon arriving, we are dissuaded.
— That there water would freeze a man’s valuable parts right off, Tillman said.
It is indeed frigid. I only cupped water in my hands to splash my face & was chilled.
Tomorrow we search the shore for the village.
I do not sleep well. The wind off the lake stirs the trees, cuts through my sleeping bag. I hear Tillman & Nat’aaggi still awake talking to one another. I long for home.
June 14
We have located the Indians only a mile or so to the west. They speak yet another dialect of Midnoosky so that we have much difficulty in communicating, even with Tillman & Nat’aaggi working together. My Trail River jacket, however, needed no translation.
— Ceeth Hwya! they said.
From then on, we have been treated as royalty. We are offered sleeping quarters in their huts, provided with a feast of caribou meat, trout of some kind from the lake. Without salmon, these are their primary foods.
We have managed to secure two canoes as well as supplies, although it cost us a great deal in gun powder. In retrospect, I believe the Indians’ reluctance was not one of bargaining but instead of disbelief. When we told them they would have to retrieve their canoes, as we would be leaving them on the far side, they would not accept the terms. Surely we would be returning, they said. We explained that we would continue on to the north, to cross the mountains.
They wanted to know if I was a shaman. Nat’aaggi said that might explain my behavior. Why else would I come all this way only to lead my men into the land of the dead?
We tried in several ways to explain that we know our direction, that we will travel through the mountains & continue on to the Tanana & Yukon Rivers.
There is little to eat in the mountains, they said. There is no firewood, no good place to camp. Even if we were to find a place out of the weather, they said it is not safe to fall asleep in the pass. They said we could wake to find ourselves lost to a snowstorm or surrounded by dangerous spiri
ts.
The wind from the glacier has ceased this evening. The lake is calm.
Pruitt paddled one of the canoes a few hundred yards out from shore to measure the depth using Indian fishing twine with a rock tied at the end. He had marked the length in five-foot increments. At 100 feet, he ran out of twine but still had not struck bottom.
I suspect it is the fear of the open water that keeps these Indians close to shore — the canoes are not designed to navigate white caps. However, with mild weather such as this, we could paddle hard, be to the far side within hours.
I put forth the plan this evening as we ate. Nat’aaggi, who listened nearby, protested.
— It would cut our journey to the far side well in half, I said. — Why not go straight across?
She endeavored to tell several of the Indian men of our plans. They understood enough to disapprove. An elder in the group came to sit beside me. He spoke earnestly, that much I could see, but we had difficulty comprehending his words. He tried gestures. He pointed towards the lake, then slid one arm smoothly from one side to another, indicating its surface. With the other hand he formed a mouth, brought it chomping up from the depths.
We came to understand that some creature lived in the lake.
— Slook? (Is it a fish?) Animal? What is it?
He pointed to the distance from where we sat to a nearby hut. He indicated that length again & again. He nodded towards the lake.
— Is he saying the thing is that long? Nigh on 20 feet? Tillman asked.
— Yes, Nat’aaggi said. — Udjee.
— Caribou? I don’t understand, he says it is a caribou?
— No, sir, Tillman said. — They’re saying it eats caribou. Grabs them when they try to swim the lake.