“That’s when modern humans began, Myra.” Sergei was gazing toward the Elwha below, then Myra. He lifted his pack. “We are cousins. All of us.”
“That’s kissing cousins, Myra.” Sarah poked Myra’s leg.
“Shut up, Sarah.” Myra hoisted her pack and strode off.
“She really likes you, Sergei.” Sarah pulled on her pack.
“She hates me.”
“You’re a man. You don’t know anything. I know that and I’m not even a woman yet.”
Sergei and Sarah followed Myra up the hill.
Tom stood and watched them, then said to William, “We gonna get there, ‘Eye?”
“One step at a time, Tom.”
“You know, ‘Eye, a big canoe like that, handled right, with a strong wind astern, could probably sail 150-200 miles a day. From here to Alaska and then on to St. Paul might be possible. I think the trip out to the headland, starting probably in early April from here, that’s the harder leg of the journey.”
Ahead, the others worked uphill. It was hot. They would need water before early afternoon.
“I’m really glad Sarah appeared at your house last spring, Tom.”
“I was pissed at you, ‘Eye, when you suggested we bring Sarah out here last May, but now I’m glad you opened your big ugly mouth.” Tom, sweating, cleaned his glasses, then looked up. “And it seems Sarah went on a journey of her own. What’s Sergei say? You need data? For a nuts and bolts guy like me, Sarah’s story has all the data I can ask for. I believe her, you know.”
“Then tell her, Tom.”
They struggled on, always upward. They reached the crest of the ridge, which fell from the peak above them back down to the Elwha. Down the slope to the left might be water, but it was a long way. The footing was better, but still slow. The small ledges, the rocks, the branches, forced them to try to rise step by step straight up the hill, or work in angles, first to the left, then the right, making switchbacks to lessen the slope.
They came to another big blow down, trees piled across the crest of the ridge for hundreds of feet. They had to work down the slope to the left, off the crest, to pass beyond the logs and trees. By the time they were low enough to get around the ends of the trees, they were as close to the outlet stream as they were going to get, so Sarah and Sergei went off in search of water, carrying bottles and the water bag. The sun was bright, even through the trees, and the air smoky. When Sergei and Sarah returned with water, they drank, then filled their bottles.
They climbed. They stopped after an hour, took water, rested. They stopped again an hour later, rested again. When they stopped, they spoke little. They simply dropped their packs and sprawled where they could, breathing, trying to drink, trying to find energy. Tom’s knee had become increasingly stiff. William was sure if Tom seized up he would be in big trouble.
It was mid afternoon when they first broke into alpine meadows after fighting through 200 yards of chest-high, thick, tightly-clustered bushes. It was tedious and slow going. Sergei had been in the lead, and he suddenly found himself facing an opening, a narrow slide chute, piled with rocks. The rocks were large and clustered, rising at a 20-degree angle up the ridge. As they rested in the sun and heat, large flies appeared from nowhere and attacked.
They followed the chute upward at a steep angle 200 feet until the angle changed and the slope led to a broad gentle basin beneath the lip of another climb, beyond which William was sure the unnamed lake lay. When they emerged from the chute into the basin, they staggered 100 yards further up, then went left 50 yards, and stopped. Here the grass was green, the ground smoother, and they were in the open. They dropped their packs.
“The outlet for the lake must be over that rise,” Sergei said, pointing north. Higher in the basin, east, William could see a stream emerge over the lip, then drop in a cascade, disappear, then reappear further down, where it dropped in a longer fall.
William was happy to take off his pack. The wind cooled his face. He heard birds and saw an eagle, high above.
To the west lay the peaks and glaciers of the Bailey Range, and beyond that, white and huge, Mount Olympus. Below, the Elwha valley stretched northwest to the sea. To the right, dropping away, the Lillian valley led west to join the Elwha. The Lillian fire was clear, a pall of smoke still covering a large area down in the valley. Framed by the distant opening of the Elwha Valley, they could see the sheen of the Strait of Juan de Fuca, even the pale blue mountains of Vancouver Island beyond.
Further up the basin, two black bears grazed, bush by bush.
“You were right, William.” Sergei was sitting, looking west, hand shading his eyes. “This is a beautiful land.”
“Your church. Right, dad?” Myra also shaded her eyes.
They had only 300 feet to climb to pass over the lip above and find a level spot by the lake. William could hear, faintly, a waterfall, the outlet stream, tumbling off the ledge separating the upper basin, where they were, from the lower basin below. Maybe he would swim in the lake. They had miles yet to go, days of cross-country travel in steep unknown country, but they were beyond the fires, above most of the smoke, and surrounded by heartbreakingly beautiful country.
Overhead, high up, the eagle continued to circle.
William closed his eyes. They all dozed. The eagle cried, twice.
William opened his eyes.
North, behind the rise of land before him, not 30 yards distant, the biggest bear he had ever seen rose. It faced him, motionless. Somewhere above, and higher, he heard a thrashing scramble and he knew without looking that the black bears above them feeding on berries were rushing away as fast as they could go.
This bear was huge, with an enormous head and long arms. It craned its neck, looking at him. Its fur was long and mottled, a kind of piebald pattern. As William stared, absolutely motionless, he smelled a rank, strong odor, not of today’s world. This animal, standing on the knoll 30 yards away, was the same short face bear Sarah had drawn in May. This was what Sarah and her comrades had faced during her journey, bears just like this one, swimming to the island, hungry for salmon yet no salmon to eat. It was the most terrifying yet beautiful animal he had ever seen.
William slowly turned his head toward the others. Tom and Sergei were lying in the sun, eyes closed, perhaps asleep, but Sarah and Myra were sitting, silent, facing the bear. He looked again at the bear.
Its fur shone in the sun. For a long moment it towered, looking, watching. Its head bobbed, once. Then it shook itself and turned, disappearing from sight, behind the rise, headed toward the waterfall and the lower basin.
William glanced over at Myra. She was motionless. Sarah’s eyes were glistening. One tear slowly tracked down her cheek. The bear was gone. William somehow knew, watching Sarah, they would not see it again.
Tom and Sergei sat up. Tom dusted off his shirt. Sergei, seeing Sarah, Myra and William’s expression, inhaled, sharp.
“You saw it. Didn’t you? The bear.”
Myra nodded, swallowing.
William said nothing. Thank you, grandmother.
Sarah spoke to Sergei. “The bear has shown us. The Marking Place, the people’s sacred place, it must be here. Somewhere in this basin.”
Tom rose and went to sit next to Sarah. He placed his arm across her thin shoulders. “Sarah, I make you this promise. We will return, next year. We’ll go to Bear Valley and see if we can find another fossil thrower. And then we’ll come up here, to find this Marking Place, from your story. And next year, maybe, I’ll see this bear.”
The eagle flew toward Windfall Peak.
The afternoon light was golden. North and west, beyond the opening where the river flowed, distant, Vancouver Island pointed toward Haida Gwaii, the Bering Sea, the Siberian shore, and the rest of the world.
AFTERWORD
When I first moved to Seattle in 1990 I found myself negotiating ag
reements with local Tribes to enable commercial shipping activity to coexist with treaty-guaranteed fishing rights in Seattle Harbor. I learned all the Tribes’ legends state they have been in the Pacific Northwest forever. Always. This conflicts with current archeological dogma, which holds that humans first arrived in North America at the end of the most recent ice age, 12 to 15 thousand years ago. Being contrary, I wondered, could such legends be true? And, if true, how so?
This became my question. Years came and went, then more years. When I could, I did research, studies of geology and ice movements, ice age refuges, and dozens of books and papers about the origins and spread of modern humans. I have my own ideas about human travel based on my years at sea and recent archeological evidence of ancient seafaring. I was always in the Olympic Mountains, on the peninsula, exploring. The common belief holds that the native people avoided the interior, but this is not so. There are sites deep in the wilderness, several thousand years old. I am convinced some of the high alpine trails were first trod by human feet during the time of the great ice.
Stories are what make us human. The ability to tell a story is a means to remember, to pass culture generation to generation, to learn and hold memory. How did we humans come to be storytellers? What happened? Strong Heart suggests what may have happened, and where, and even how. Mostly, though, this is just a story.
Special thanks to Lyn Coffin and all my fellow classmates in her class at the University of Washington, Literary Fiction 1, in 2013-2014. Pete Wise, one of those classmates, was a terrific editor. Ethan Yarbrough, of Iron Twine Press, took a huge chance, because he believed, and his advice and counsel have been invaluable.
An author writes, but friends, family members, teachers, and classmates make a story real through their comments, suggestions, and reactions. In the end they have as much to do with whatever works as the author. Many people helped with this tale, too many to list here, but I would be remiss if I didn’t mention my wife, Randa Williams, who was always patient yet encouraging, and Wade Watson, Gerry Quigley, Peggy Schlein, Sarah Miller, Adam Miller, John Wiggin, Ruth Schlein, Dick Livingston, Teri Johnson, Oskar Sheldon and his Sheridan friend Eric Nolastname, Len Richards, Patrick and Monica Fairbairn and Beth Richards, who all first saw this tale back in 2014 and gave me much needed encouragement when I needed it most. To those many others who later gave feedback, and there were many, thank you, too. It seems it takes a village to tell a story.
This tale was written in Bellingham, Seattle, and deep in the Olympics with my trusty battered notebook, then revised when I was working aboard the vessels MV President Truman, Gilliland, and Shughart. Special thanks to Vince O’Halloran and my shipmates at the Sailor’s Union of the Pacific for giving me an effective vehicle for spinning a yarn – seagoing work gives time ashore between gigs on ships to write, and time while at sea to ponder. It turns out you need both.
Charlie Sheldon
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Charlie Sheldon studied at Yale University and the University of Massachusetts, where he received a Master’s Degree in Wildlife Biology and Resource Management. He then went to sea as a commercial fisherman off New England, fishing for cod, haddock, hake, lobster, red crab, squid, and swordfish. Active in the fight for the 200-mile Fisheries Conservation Zone, he later worked as a consultant for Fishery Management Councils, developing fishery management plans and then engaging in gear development projects to develop more selective fisheries. He spent 28 years working for seaports (New York, Seattle, and Bellingham, WA) as a project and construction manager and later as an executive, including habitat cleanup projects and working with Puget Sound Tribes to reduce tribal fishing conflicts. Later he returned to sea, shipping out with the Sailor’s Union of the Pacific as an Ordinary Seaman, Able Bodied Seaman, and Bosun. His last gig was as bosun aboard USNS Shughart, New Orleans to New York, in 2016. Always a writer, he published Fat Chance with Felony and Mayhem Press in 2005. He began working on ideas for Strong Heart, his tale about the Olympic Mountains, the Pacific coast, and human origins long, long ago and began serious research in 2010. These days he hikes in the Olympics whenever he can, cooks for his wife, and continues to write tales in Ballard, Washington.
Charlie and a replica of a Short-face bear at the Royal Museum,
Victoria, British Columbia.
Strong Heart Page 23
