I wish I could find the tree where Moses Picea was born. It’s probably not far from my uncle’s old hunting camp, but the journal entries are too vague to be sure. For the Colonel, it was a repulsive and bizarre encounter. He didn’t know that spruce tree or that river valley; he never knew Moses Picea or all that he did for Alaska. And certainly he couldn’t have imagined that the baby might somehow be connected to him and the “Man Who Flies on Black Wings.”
I find it very interesting that once the Colonel and his party cross the Wolverine Mountains and arrive at the Yukon, which by 1885 was already the territory of the Army and missionaries, they never come across another goose woman or lake monster. And during the next few years, when the miners and trappers started pouring up the Wolverine River, not one of them described such occurrences. I’m not saying that other world is gone, because I’m not convinced it is. Maybe we just don’t have the eyes for it anymore. I know I’ve never been so fortunate as to witness it, beyond stories and imagination. As my professors were so fond of saying in college, the paradigm has shifted.
And then my Pollyanna side, the one that tends to annoy Isaac, kicks in and I think, but thanks to you, we have these journals. And we have all our stories. We have the people who live here now, and our history and fate, even our families, are intertwined.
I’ve been thinking more and more about the exhibit and what I want to do with the artifacts. It is incredible that your family kept the Colonel’s leather tunic. There are very few Wolverine River artifacts from that early in history. And of course when an item is so damaged, especially in such a violent way, people don’t tend to hold on to them. The jacket, the artificial horizon (I’ve always thought that was such a poignant name for that instrument), and his tin cup could make one display. I’m thinking we could also show the journals, open to certain pages, in a glass case. And then there are Sophie’s letters, the silver comb, and the baby sling.
There are so many talented artists here in Alaska, working in both traditional and modern media, and I’m wondering if there isn’t some way we could do a related art show. I’m coming up with lots of ideas.
I’m sending you another photograph because it looks entirely different this time of year. This was taken upriver from Alpine, near the pass where the Colonel and his party went over the mountains. Winter is full on now. It snowed last week, and then it cleared up and the temperature dropped to 20 below zero. The water pipes in my mom’s house froze the night before last, and poor Isaac spent half the day in her crawl space thawing them with a blow torch. I’m glad he’s willing to do it because I’m always afraid I’ll burn the place down.
All best wishes,
Josh
Dear Josh,
Your latest photo is in its place on my refrigerator, right next to the other, although I’ve got to say, this one makes me want to go put on my sweater. It gets cold enough here in Montana, but that looks like something else altogether. And those mountains. It’s a magnificent scene.
You’ve given me something new to ponder, too. I can’t say I’ve ever considered the whole idea of culture and loss just the way you described it, and it’s not the first time you’ve turned something upside down for me. I suspect you do my dusty brain good, even more than the crossword puzzles.
I was sorry to read that story about your father. My own dad died when I was in my twenties, and it left me reeling for some time. I can’t imagine how hard it would be if you were just a young boy. My dad was one of those larger-than-life men who I just assumed would always be around. He’s the one who first showed me the boxes with the Colonel’s papers in the attic, and told me I was free to read as much as I wanted, as long as I was careful with the pages. When he could tell how taken I was with the expedition, he got a map of Alaska and pinned it up in the attic for me, and I marked the Colonel’s route. From then on, I always imagined I’d see it in person one day.
I kick myself now that I didn’t do it when I had the chance. When I was still working for the highway department, I had a travel agent look up the information for me. I told her I didn’t want to go on one of those fancy cruises through the passage; I wanted to see the country the Colonel described. She did her best to put together an itinerary for me, but her papers and brochures just sat on the coffee table for a few months and then I must have thrown them away. I had the money to pay for it and could have taken the time off from work, but it always seemed like too much hassle. And I think some part of me was a little afraid of making the trip. That must sound silly to you. Does to me now, too.
At least I had the good sense to send the Colonel’s papers up there. How is your transcribing coming? Are you ready for me to send the artifacts yet? I stopped by a shipping business last week, and it sounds like they can handle delivering them to you whenever you’re ready.
Sincerely,
Walt
Lieut. Col. Allen Forrester
July 20, 1885
Tillman has done his best to keep up with my entries. I am grateful for his attention. Though there is nothing slanderous, only personal & revealing, it makes me uneasy to know he has opened these pages. He was quick to say he could not have made out my handwriting even if he had tried.
These past days are confused in my memory. I have not been that ill since I was a child. I am still weak in the legs, quick to tire. I am very much thankful for the work of the men & Nat’aaggi in keeping us on the path to the coast. They say our encounter with the upper Tanana River tyone was eventful, at times worrying. I recall very little of it.
We are disappointed to learn from Indians camped on shore that the trading post downriver is without supplies.
At noon we arrived at the Yukon, a considerable mark of progress.
July 21
A disappointment. We have reached the trading post, overseen by a young Russian-Indian creole & his wife, yet as reported they are out of provisions & wait for the steamboat to return upriver. However, they treated us kindly. The woman gave us breakfast of fresh coffee & hardtack. After these starving weeks, it was a delicacy indeed. Also, the storekeeper provided Tillman with a pair of much-needed trousers.
I suppose it should come as no surprise. I’ve seen men fall in love with laundry women, Indian girls, other men’s wives, whores. Almost always the spell is broken when the men return to regular society. When Tillman today professed his love for Nat’aaggi, I suggested it might only be a passing fancy, based on circumstance.
— I know all about camp affairs, sir. Lock two animals together in a cage, they’ll either f —— or fight, sure as the devil. I tell you, though, this is something different. I haven’t even asked her to have a go with me & it’s been a while, so I could use a poke.
I suggested that it was her skill with a knife that perhaps stayed him. He insists that it is his high regard for her.
— You’ve seen the way she can hunt & trap. Did you know she can make her own snowshoes?
She is a capable young woman, I agreed. At times I have wondered if she is under our protection, or we under hers.
He went on to list her many other attributes. He said he had never before met a woman who aimed to out-do him with shooting & games. — She has a way, too, of joking about things most women are too shy to discuss.
— But she’s not crude like some of the whores I’ve known, he added.
I observed that they do seem to enjoy each other’s company, but wondered how they could remain together.
— You remember when you said your Mrs. Forrester wasn’t like any woman you had ever come across, that there was something different about her that set her apart? Well, that’s how I feel about Nattie.
I asked if she shared the affection, to which he admitted being perplexed.
— I’m a tomcat, sir. On the rare occasion I get turned down, I don’t waste a minute blubbering about it, he said.
With Nat’aaggi, however, he said he is unsure. They will be conversing, as her English has steadily improved, wh
en Tillman will reach over to take her hand or attempt to sit closer to her.
— She just moves right off, & I follow like a mooncalf.
I suggested that perhaps her unfortunate marriage had made her wary of courtship.
Tillman slapped his knee.
— Well, of course! Why didn’t I see that? She’s gun-shy. I’ve just got to approach her slow, then maybe I stand a chance.
I said no more. It seems to me a doomed affair. Surely he has no intention of remaining with her in the Alaska wilds. I have seen few Indian women adapt to modern civilization; Nat’aaggi does not strike me as such a woman. Would she be prepared to travel to San Francisco, then on to whatever post he is next stationed? It seems improbable.
Later in the day, Tillman spoke up again.
— Just think, Colonel. Soon enough you’ll be seeing your sweet wife & your little one, too.
I could not answer him.
July 22
We have arrived at the missionary’s house, though the man himself is not about. It seemed a mirage to our eyes: a kitchen garden with turnips, cabbages & flowers, a straight little house & several outbuildings of milled lumber. All set down on the bank of this wild river.
— Look at that, even the floor doesn’t have a speck of dirt, Tillman whispered as the wife welcomed us into the house & made us coffee. — Glad I’m wearing britches now at least.
It caused us all some embarrassment to notice our own condition in contrast to her neat appearance & orderly home. We are in poor shape & filthy beyond acceptable.
The missionary’s wife fed us our first real meal in four months, including fried eggs, bread, potatoes, & turnips, all sprinkled with generous amounts of salt. She has welcomed us all, although she serves Nat’aaggi & Boyo their meals outdoors.
The woman also took note of Pruitt’s poor health. She offered to prepare some treatments for him to take. She said it probably would not please him much, but that it would greatly improve his condition.
She later showed us to the bathhouse, with woodstove & a large tub we could fill with water to bathe. We were also given leave to raise one of her husband’s canvas wall-tents for our sleeping quarters. Nat’aaggi prefers to make her own tent of spruce boughs.
July 23
We are new men, clean, well-fed, & rested. Tillman has even shaved his beard, which gave Nat’aaggi a shock.
Mrs. Lowe, as she is called, has her hands full with seven children, the oldest a 10-year-old boy, the youngest still an infant, but still she manages to assist us a great deal.
Already today she has encouraged Pruitt to drink several cups of spruce-needle tea, which he says has a strong, sharp flavor but is not entirely disagreeable. She has also served him the Indian cure of rabbit intestines, just warmed but uncooked.
Pruitt was pale as he prepared to sip all this down, but he did as told.
I mentioned to Mrs. Lowe that he had lost much of his appetite these past weeks, which has only worsened his condition. She seems confident, however, that within a week or two of such remedies, Pruitt will improve.
I remarked to Mrs. Lowe on the hardship of mothering so many children in a remote place such as this, with supplies so unreliable. She admitted that it has often been lonely & difficult. Last winter she lost her second youngest child to fever. It seems that her husband was again away on his mission work, so she faced the tragedy alone.
July 25
We helped Mrs. Lowe with some repairs to the roof of her woodshed, which had been damaged in high winds during the winter. She then cooked us an extravagant dinner of caribou roast, potatoes, carrots. She also served a dessert of biscuits with blueberry jam.
She would not let Pruitt have his, however, until he had drank his usual bowl of rabbit innards. Though he is still gaunt & weakened, he seems to be recovering something of his natural character. He has taken up his journal again & notes the various plants along the river.
I learn more about the Lowes. They are of the Moravian Church, of which I know very little. The husband was assigned this mission in ’80 but they did not arrive until ’82.
Mrs. Lowe has adapted remarkably to the extreme conditions here. She butchers the game birds her oldest son hunts, hauls firewood by sled. In her husband’s absence, she has even shot several caribou when the herd has traveled close enough to their home.
In ’83 the Lowes met Lieut. Frederick Schwatka as he completed his renowned journey down the Yukon River.
She says he was a very different kind of Army man than I seem to be. I asked how so.
— He was not so reserved, & he had little humility.
I remarked that any man who has spent time in Alaska should be nothing if not humble.
Lieutenant Frederick Schwatka, 3rd Cavalry,
Military Reconnaissance in Alaska made in 1883 as reported to Commanding Department of the Columbia, Vancouver Barracks, Washington Territory
Yukon River
We camped at 8:30 p.m. near several Indian graves, about a mile or two above the mouth of the Whymper River, which comes in from the left, and just on the upper boundary of the conspicuous valley of that stream. There were quite a number of graves at this point, forming the first and only burying place we saw on the river that might be called a family graveyard, i.e., a spot where a number, say six or seven, were buried in a row within a single enclosure. From its posts at the corners and sides were the usual totems and old rags flying, two of the carvings representing, I think, a duck and a bear, respectively, while the others could not be made out.
. . . Dr. Wilson tried to get a skull out of the many we assumed were at hand, to send to the Army Museum’s large craniological collection, but although several very old-looking sites were opened, the skulls were too fresh to be properly prepared in the brief time at our disposal.
Lieut. Col. Allen Forrester
July 26, 1885
Mrs. Lowe confided in me that her husband has fathered a child with an Innuit woman, is gone more than he is home. She believes he has taken the native woman as a kind of second wife.
Why does she remain? Does she not have family to assist her? & wouldn’t the church dismiss him if they knew of his misconduct?
— I must leave it to the Lord, she said.
She asked if I have such faith. I admitted that I do not.
— Sometimes I fear that our prayers are not strong enough for this wild place, she said.
This evening I sit outside the wall-tent. I notice for the first time a true darkening in the sky with sunset. The air is cool. Autumn comes early to this country.
Tillman & Nat’aaggi play their hoop game down at the river. They race each other & laugh. When once they both threw rocks into the hoop at the same time, he grabbed her at the waist & lifted her into the air.
It is selfish, but the sight of them causes me some loneliness.
July 27
It is good that Tillman came for me tonight.
I stayed too late in Mrs. Lowe’s home. She & I talked of our families in the East, our childhoods. She had visited Boston often when she was a young girl. When it grew late, she helped the older children into their beds in the attic, lit a lamp at the table. I stood to go, but she asked if I might stay to visit a while longer. The children were soon asleep, all but the infant that suckled at her breast.
When the babe had fallen asleep, she gently pulled its mouth from her breast. I could not look away. The wet milk upon the child’s lips. The soft curve of her full breast. She did not hurry to cover herself, but sat there for a moment, then she brought her eyes up to mine.
The world narrowed to such a small point so that I forgot all but that warm flame of the lamp.
Then came the sergeant’s knock. — Sir, it is late. You wanted to rise early.
I cannot sleep. I sit outside the wall-tent where Pruitt & Tillman are still in bed. I hold in my hand Sophie’s letter & the silver hair comb.
July 28
We left the
Lowes’ home this late morning. The children ran about shouting, helping to dismantle the wall-tent & load the skin boat. The baby cried in her arms. Once we were on the river, it took much effort on my part to not look back for her.
Just before Nulato we came upon Mr. Lowe at an Indian camp. He waved to our boat when he saw that we were white men. I would have preferred to float past, but it would have seemed markedly unfriendly, so we stopped.
The man is cheerful, friendly, quick to shake our hands & bless us. He said he was glad to know we had found rest & food at his home. He asked briefly how his family fared. I fought the urge to pummel him. When he began to introduce us to the natives in his company, Tillman interrupted, said that we must be going if we hope to meet up with the steamboat.
Mr. Lowe seemed surprised by our abrupt departure, but not in the least put out. He waved happily from shore as we rounded the next bend in the river.
We sleep tonight in an abandoned trapper’s cabin well below Nulato. No sign of the steamboat, though it is expected any day now.
We landed only briefly at the village, but found the Indians in a state of unrest. They have heard that the Alaska Commercial Co. will close down its Nulato station. Anvik has already been abandoned. Several Russian-Indian creoles have stirred the hostility by explaining to the natives what poor terms they have been receiving on their trade. They get less than half the San Francisco value for their furs, but are charged 25 per cent more for goods.