Perhaps this is what young Mr. Troyer so longed to hear from me. I could not find the words then. It is you, Sophie — you make me want to express myself more profoundly. You give me hope that we may yet find meaning in our days. Your photograph serves as evidence.
I am reminded of something the trapper Samuelson said of Alaska’s wild country.
Here, I have found the passage in my diary: — She always keeps a part of herself a mystery.
You have focused your lens on just such a mystery.
These months I’ve been gone, I have thought often about the narrowness of your life at the barracks. I know all too well how meddlesome that society can be, & it grieved me to think of you so confined. I should have known you better. Of course you would buy a camera & build your own dark room. School teacher or officer’s wife, you are every bit the woman I fell in love with.
This is what we will do, as soon as I am returned to Vancouver: I will leave the service, as we have planned & I have so long desired. We will pack up our camp, your camera too, & we will go to the wilderness, you & I. Yosemite, yes. But for your photographs, the Cascades, the upper reaches of the Columbia River, the high deserts to the east of the mountains, or we’ll go to the Coast, the tide marshes. We’ll sleep in a tent beneath the stars & make love & listen to the wind through the trees, & the hours will belong to us alone. We will report to no one. When dawn comes, we will go looking for your birds, & you will teach me their names.
Yes, there is most certainly something in this photograph, Sophie. It is in that blade of light at the edge of the humming bird’s wing. Something wild & beautiful. It is something of you, my love.
Sophie Forrester
Vancouver Barracks
July 29, 1885
I cannot categorically name it, any more than I can be sure of my own faith, for it is not the photograph itself as much as the impression it leaves upon me. The moment the fledgling humming bird perched at the edge of the nest and stretched its small wings, and the late sun shone along the river, my breath caught in my throat, and I released the shutter.
It was just as Mr Redington described — all my days spent in experiments and failures and near successes, and in an instant I was presented with this scene, a young bird preparing to take its first flight, and I allowed instinct to lead me.
All along I had imagined that it would be the mother bird that would figure large in any photograph. Yet when I returned to my dark room, I was full of the sense that I had something at last in this picture of the fledgling, even as I was afraid to hope for so much. Could the young bird have held its position long enough to be more than a blur of motion? I was cautious and methodical in my every step. I waited until dark before I bathed the glass in pyrogallic solution. I then fixed it in hypo-sulphite of soda, and at sunrise this morning I prepared to make the prints. When the sun was high, I latched negative plate and nitrite of silver paper into the frame. I made many prints, varying the exposure from less than a minute to more than ten minutes, tempering my developing solutions. I moved back and forth from the bright day to the red glow of my dark room, testing and looking.
Still I was not sure, not until I chose the best print, not until I toned it in chloride of gold, floated it for some time in clean water and let it hang to dry, not until I brought the print out into the day.
There, along the bird’s still, outstretched wing: an unexpected sliver of white light.
It is only an effect of a beam of sun glancing off a branch behind the subject and can be explained rationally & scientifically.
Yet this cannot account for the remarkable sensation it evokes in me, a trembling, thrilling exhilaration, as if I have set something right, and long to do it again and again.
My excitement comes, in part, from the knowledge of how easily it might have slipped past me. It was a singular event, the tentative young bird at the edge of the nest, that allowed me to photograph the unfolded wing. Within seconds of my releasing the shutter, the humming bird took flight, its wings beating so rapidly as to be invisible to the human eye. I doubt it will ever return to this nest again. What if I had not been at the camera at that precise moment? What if I had hesitated with the shutter, or the day had been overcast, or my eye had been drawn away? What if the wing had extended slightly higher, or slightly lower, so as to obscure the gleam along the branch?
The dark foliage and gray nest, the bird’s small eye and pale breast, the slender black beak and, then, the wing — like a hand that has drawn back a curtain — and my gaze is seized by that unexpected, graceful arc of light.
When I look upon it, this bend of bone and feather and sunlight, a tender place in my heart is healed even as it is torn, again and again a thousand times over.
I am left to wonder, will anyone else see it?
That day in the forest when I looked upon the marble bear, alive with the setting sun, what did I witness? Was it only sunlight on stone, or Father’s spirit, or a reflection of my own?
It seems to me now that such a moment requires a kind of trinity: you and I and the thing itself.
Part Six
Midnoosky Birch-Bark Basket.
1885.
Allen Forrester Collection.
Birch-bark basket formed in traditional style with flat, square base, oval mouth, folds in bark at either end. Reinforced with spruce root stitching. Used for gathering and storage of food. Also for cooking by filling it with water and heated rocks.
This example, however, is unusual for its small size: 3 inches in diameter.
Sitka Herald, May 14, 1907
STRANGE REPORT OF INDIAN KILLED BY HARPOON BOMB
BYERS ISLAND, ALASKA — An Indian witch doctor was killed by a harpoon bomb aboard a whaling ship in Alaskan waters earlier this month.
The Indian had been employed as a guide by Grady Whaling Co. of Sitka. According to the company’s reports, he accidentally detonated the bomb attached to a whaling harpoon and was killed instantly.
Such news would not have traveled far beyond Byers Island except for the strange reports that followed.
The captain of the ship was informed that the Indian was considered a powerful witch doctor among the nearby tribes. Apparently a colorful character, the Indian was known to have a pronounced limp and to wear a black top hat and an elaborate necklace of teeth and trinkets. The Indians said he could provide healing and hexes in equal measure. Because of his worth, they demanded exorbitant payment for his death.
Grady Whaling Co. was not amenable to the payment, however, and conflict seemed imminent. US Revenue Cutter Bear was dispatched to serve as peacemaker by force if necessary.
However, all negotiations were called off when it became known that the Indians believed the witch doctor had not in fact died but instead had taken up residence in a spruce tree on Byers Island, in the form of a black bird. The Grady Whaling Co. argued that no compensation should be paid in such a case, for while there was a corpse, the bird was very much alive and well.
NOTICE OF LOCATION
State of Washington Alaska Territory
County of No counties in this territory
Wolverine River Mining District
Notice is hereby given that the undersigned did, on the 6th day of July 1887, discover and locate a quartz lead containing valuable minerals, to which they have given the name the Gertie Lode, under the Act of Congress of May 10, 1872; they claim 1,500 feet in length on the line of the lode, starting at the center of the discovery shaft and running west 1,500 feet, and 300 feet in width on each side of the center of the lode for the whole distance in length. The said lode is located in the Wolverine River Valley, Alaska Territory, northwest of the Trail River’s confluence.
William Samuelson and Jeremiah Boyd
Locators
Dear Walt,
I’m enclosing a couple of things I think you might find interesting. Earlier this winter, a university student offered to do research for me, so I asked if she could find any referen
ces to the “Old Man” from the Colonel’s expedition. It was a nearly impossible request, since we have no name or other key information. But she went through online archives of Alaska newspapers, and she found this article on an Alaskan “witch doctor” being killed aboard a whaling ship in 1907. The similarities are amazing, and it certainly makes me wonder.
I’m also sending you a photocopy of the mining claim for the Gertie Lode that began the gold rush here in Alpine. We have it on file here at the museum, but I just thought recently to look it up. I hadn’t noticed the names before, but now I recognize them — Samuelson and Boyd! I haven’t been able to find any other records for them.
I’m finished going through all the journals and letters, and have most of them translated into digital documents, and I have to say that I was surprised in the end — I didn’t realize that the Colonel and Sophie eventually came up here together.
On another note, the Anderson Museum in Portland doesn’t seem to be open anymore, but do you know where Sophie’s photographs and plates went to? Depending on where they are kept, I thought we could offer digital copies of her diaries to add to their collection, if you think that would be appropriate.
But the main reason I’m writing is I have an idea, and I’ll apologize now because I’m afraid I might bombard you with my enthusiasm. Here’s my thought — Why don’t you come up here and visit us in Alaska?
I can already guess your arguments about why it wouldn’t work, but before you say no, give me a chance. We’ve got it all figured out.
You could fly up this summer for just a week or two. My cousin owns a rafting business, and he has already said that he would be happy to take us on a float trip down the Wolverine River. He has an opening in mid-July. It only takes about 5 days if we put in near Alpine and float to the coast. We could also take it at a more leisurely pace if you wanted.
Although it is a big, fast river, the only serious white water is at Haigh Rapids, and even there we can skirt around the rougher water. Clients well into their 70s have rafted down the river before. It sounds like you’ve recovered well from your recent illness and have spent a lot of time in the woods throughout your life, so I don’t think this will be outside your comfort zone. My cousin is used to having some pretty hoity-toity clients, so he serves great meals, and you’ll have a warm sleeping bag and a cot in a roomy tent.
Isaac has already checked into it, and we can get you a cabin at the Wolverine River Lodge so you could spend a few days here in Alpine too. It’s nothing fancy. The main lodge has a restaurant and bar, and there are a half dozen cabins nearby. Each one has its own bath, telephone, and television. It’s only about a 10-minute drive from the museum, and it’s right on the bank of the river. Just imagine — It’s very likely that the Colonel camped in this same area.
We are all so excited about this idea. You could see the museum and meet everyone here. Mom is already planning to have you over for dinner, and Isaac wants to take you up the old mining road so you can see the ruins there.
I know this must seem overwhelming. But please just give it some thought. On a practical level, it would also solve the problem of the artifacts — you could bring them with you on the plane. It would be safer than sending them via the mail. And we’ve got the money you donated to the museum, so we can easily cover all the expenses of your trip.
OK, I hope this hasn’t been too much of a “hard sell.” I really want you to consider this, Walt. I know it has long been a dream of yours to come to Alaska, and we would love to have you. Please say yes.
With warmest wishes,
Josh
P.S. You’ll also see that I’ve also sent you brochure about the rafting trip, just in case it might help persuade you.
Raft Alaska’s Magnificent Wolverine River
Calving glaciers, soaring mountains — float from the mountains to the sea and experience Alaska on its grandest scale.
Our river trip begins in the historic mining town of Alpine, Alaska. For the next five to six days, you will float through one of the most scenic landscapes in the world: dramatic Forrester Canyon, cascading waterfalls, coastal mountains with their ever-white peaks, the misty stretches of Boyd Flats, and the beautiful Tillman River. You’ll also see the crumbling signs of a bygone era — the abandoned railroad line that was built in 1905 through some of the most rugged terrain on earth. You’ll see tunnels through the mountainsides and timber railroad trestles. Wildlife too abounds along the way: bears, seals, salmon, and bald eagles are common sights. Near the end of the trip, we will float past Kings and Stone Glaciers, which regularly calve giant slabs of ice into the river.
You can look forward to:
Friendly, informed guides.
Freshly prepared meals.
Comfortable sleeping quarters.
The adventure of a lifetime.
Dear Josh,
You knocked me right off my feet with your last letter. Alaska!
Right off the bat, I can think of a lot of reasons why the trip would be against my better judgment. I’m too old for such adventures, and I hate flying more than having teeth pulled. Consequently, I haven’t been in one of those death traps since 1980, before you were even born now that I think of it.
It also seems to me that your little museum could put that money to better use than bringing my useless bones up there.
All that said, yours is the kindest invitation I’ve received in a long time. As you well know, ever since I was a young boy and learned about the Colonel’s journey and studied that map up in the attic, I’ve dreamed of seeing Alaska. It’s hard to even imagine what it would be like to step foot in that country. And now, it seems like I’ve got some friends up there to boot.
I won’t deny it. I’m nervous about making that long trip. I’ll check in with my doctor, and we’ll just see how this pans out.
As for Sophie’s photographs, the Anderson Museum burned in 1965. The family had donated her photographs, plates, and camera equipment to the museum, and all of it was destroyed. What you have there is all that’s left.
Thank you for your kindness, Josh. I’ll be in touch. I sure would like to see Alaska.
Walt
Oregon Post, April 19, 1929
BIRD PHOTOGRAPHER SOPHIE FORRESTER RECALLS LIFE OF ADVENTURE:
ANDERSON MUSEUM WILL OPEN SHOW OF HER PHOTOGRAPHS NEXT WEEK
One would guess upon first meeting Mrs. Sophie Forrester that she has led a common, quiet life. She is a slight and elderly woman with white hair pinned up neatly, long dark skirt, old-fashioned high-necked blouse and a soft-spoken, Victorian manner.
Yet visit her home on a quiet little pond outside of Portland, and one will find evidence that contradicts this ostensibly ordinary life.
There is a wooly mammoth tusk above the fireplace, a framed letter from the National Audubon Society in gratitude of Mrs. Forrester’s work, and on her bookcase an Indian birch bark basket that holds what Mrs. Forrester says are the eggshells of an Alaska ptarmigan.
Follow her upstairs to her studio, and one finds a lifetime of photography equipment, including the original American Optical field camera that began her career.
For nearly four decades, Mrs. Forrester photographed the birds of Washington, Oregon, and the Alaska Territory. Among many others, the renowned American ornithologist William Norland highly praises her work.
“She is a true birdwoman, and don’t let her tell you otherwise,” Mr. Norland is quoted as saying. “But there is a rare genius to her photographs. The birds aren’t the subject of her lens, as much as light itself.”
And surely her avocation has exposed her to much adventure. She and her husband, the late Col. Allen Forrester, made six journeys to the wilderness of Alaska where she photographed ptarmigan and terns among many other birds.
When asked if she was ever afraid she would drown in a river or be eaten by a bear, she laughs and waves off the question.
“I have only ever been truly frightened of boredo
m and loneliness,” she says.
It takes much effort on this interviewer’s part to get her to talk about her notable career. When asked about her photographs appearing in the celebrated “Wild Birds of North America,” she says, “Why yes, Mr. Zimmerman did use a few in his book.” In fact, more than 30 of her photographs appear in the pages of that much-acclaimed publication. Over the years, both her photographs and her meticulously noted field observations have been printed in many scientific journals and magazines. Her particular interest has been nests and fledglings.
Her life work as photographer and naturalist went hand in hand with her husband, who passed away in 1918. It seems that the Colonel was known in his own right, as he led an important expedition into the Alaska Territory in 1885, according to Mrs. Forrester.
“He liked to tease that he was my field assistant, but he was the one who actually made it all possible,” Mrs. Forrester reminisces. “I would look up at a nest on a cliff and wonder how on earth I could ever get that photograph. He would lead me up and around and farther on until we were on top of the cliff, then he would tie me off with ropes and lower me down until I was face to face with the nest. And then I’d get my picture.”
Surely then she must have been frightened?
“My stomach did give a flutter now and then,” she admits, “but I knew he could tie a good knot.”
Mrs. Forrester insisted on naming several other people for this article. She credits much of her success to the early encouragement and guidance of a Portland pharmacist by the name of Henry Redington. In 1885, he sent her photographs to a book editor and so launched her career. And those many years ago when she was first starting out at Vancouver Barracks, Army Sgt. Joe MacGillivray helped design what she says is her most valuable invention — a photography blind. She describes it as a small canvas tent where she could sit inconspicuously with her camera lens aimed out a hole in the canvas.