Icefields

by Thomas Wharton

  There is no ocean. A haze of smoke from tourist campfires drifts along the river. Automobiles and motorcoaches rush along the new highway, the roar of their approach and passing like the ebb and flow of waves.

  He turns away from the window and sits down at the desk. He will write out his memory of the dream while he is still half-awake, before its mood and precise architecture fade in daylight.

  I was alone in my old consulting room in the Strand. And then Father appeared. He wheeled in an examining table with a body on it. The corpse of a young woman. A girl, really. A thin, consumptive, almost androgynous body. The face skeletal, the skin bluish and mottled. I thought we were going to examine the corpse for probable cause of death, and so I waited for Father to begin with some kind of preliminary statement of superficial characteristics. Instead he stepped away from the body and sat down shakily in my armchair, his hands falling helplessly into his lap. He was grief-stricken, I realized, and I was expected to mourn with him. I said nothing. I didn’t want to appear heartless in the face of his evident pain, but this dead body meant nothing to me. Within the dream I decided the girl must be Freya, even though the part of me that was observing or creating this dream knew that it wasn’t her. I looked at the body again and one of the arms jerked slightly. I glanced over at Father. Postmortem nervous spasms, he said. In rare cases they can be quite pronounced. I nodded, keeping my eyes on the corpse. The fingers began to twitch. I heard the intake of breath. Father kept his head bowed. A tremor passed over the corpse and then it sat up. We’ll just have to wait for this to pass, Father said. The dead girl opened her eyes. She looked at me. Her face was no longer a mask of skin stretched over a skull, but had regained the warm pink glow of life. Her lips moved. She was speaking, although I could not hear the sound of her voice. She smiled, as if amused by my solemn look, and laughed, and again I could hear nothing. My father still sat in the armchair, his hands clasped together. We’ll just wait, he said. It will lessen and then cease. I sat down on the sofa beside his chair and watched the girl, waiting for her reawakening body to return to its proper state of lifeless immobility. Instead, she climbed off the table and began to stroll around the room, examining the mementos and framed photographs on myshelves.

  Eventually she came to the door and opened it. Sunlight poured in.

  14

  Trask perseveres in his lobbying of the park administration and the next summer he is finally allowed to go ahead with his plan for motorized snow coaches on Arcturus glacier. The first step is an access road for the snow coaches, up along the crest of the south lateral moraine to the midpoint, and down onto the ice.

  The spur line from the town to the chalet was torn up for the war effort, but now the gravel highway that was begun by German prisoners-of-war has been completed, by men desperate for any paying work. Farmers, bank clerks, teachers.

  Trask has saved much of the lumber from the settlement cabins. With it he builds a rustic information booth by the roadside, where motorists stop for postcards and refreshments.

  Three years after the end of the war, the tourists are trickling back into the park. Trask allows himself some cautious optimism. He has heard of a new wave of explorers massing out there in the cities. Families in automobiles who will glide through the mountains on smooth gleaming highways. Checking the names of glaciers in illustrated guidebooks. Gazing in awe at a world that is no longer invisible, no longer a blank space.

  The only problem now is the doctor.

  15

  —They found the poor fool lying there, froze solid on his trapline.

  Frank Trask steps into the chalet barber shop, batting a folded newspaper against his leg. He scrapes his muddied shoes on the sill. Byrne is seated in the one chair, his eyes closed, while Yesterday the barber lathers on the tall tales and shaving soap.

  —His friend wanted him spruced up for the funeral, so they brought him to me. Well, I tried my best, but the soap was too warm. It iced right up and stuck to his face. Congealed, you might say. In the end I had to use a hammer and chisel to get him shaved. And you know, that was one of the best damn shaves I ever gave anybody, quick or dead.

  Trask watches Byrne’s face emerge as the razor slices through creamy lather. He remembers the crust of ice on Byrne’s beard when they hauled him out of the crevasse. With his eyes closed he looks much the same now as he did then, stretched out on the lip of the chasm.

  Byrne’s shave is finished. He opens his eyes.

  —Good idea, Trask says. Trimming those whiskers. You were looking pretty biblical. This is much better.

  —Thank you.

  —Hold that chair, Yesterday. I just need a word with the doctor.

  Trask follows Byrne out onto the step. He holds up the newspaper.

  —I’ve just been reading about a fellow called James Joyce. It says here he’s written a great big fictitious book that nobody can understand.

  —I’ve never heard of him.

  —Well the thing is, he’s a native of Dublin, like yourself. That’s why I thought you might be interested.

  —What’s the book called?

  —Ulysses, but God knows why, because it’s about an Irish Jew. Tell me something, why is it you Irishmen always have to complicate everything?

  —What have I complicated?

  —My life. I hear you’ve been to the warden’s office about the ice-crawlers.

  —That’s right. I don’t want them up there.

  —Well, they’re going up there. Parks has agreed to it. Everybody but you wants this to happen, it’ll make work for a lot of people. Besides, in case you hadn’t noticed, the access road is almost finished.

  —I know.

  —The Prince of Wales will be here in August, and things are going to be ready, goddamn it. I don’t need any Irish patriots blowing up bridges.

  —Frank. . . .

  —Okay, that was a joke. But let me ask you, what right do you have to complain about the road? The ice hasn’t exactly been kept pristine with you squatting in your hut all these years. I really doubt you’ve got plumbing up there. How long will it be before your table scraps and Christ knows what else starts melting out at the terminus?

  —Your men are cutting down trees near the moraine.

  —That’s right.

  —Do you know how long those trees have been there, Frank? Hundreds of years. It’s like a little Arctic up there, everything is fragile. The trees grow very slowly that close to the ice.

  —And now they’re in the way. Ned, in this world the trees and rocks have to move, not the men.

  —That’s not what you told Sara’s people.

  Trask laughs.

  —Ned, this is the most worked up I’ve ever seen you get, and it’s all over a row of stunted spruce. If I were you I’d get down to the chief’s office right now, before you cool off again. You’ll impress the hell out of him, trust me, and it may just save the rest of your trees. Good luck with that, but don’t think for a minute the road’s not going in. It is.

  He steps back into the barbershop doorway, and then turns again to thrust the newspaper into Byrne’s hands.

  —Here. Catch up on the real world.

  16

  Byrne enters his house on Miette Street in the afternoon to find that Elspeth has been there. The curtains on the front window and in the kitchen have been opened.

  He moves into a shaft of sunlight, wondering how long she waited for him, and when she left. The sun beats a molten shield onto his chest.

  17

  He cuts the binding strings on his old notebooks, goes over the tables and columns of data. If his calculations are right, the ice that had surrounded him in the crevasse at the end of the last century has finally made its way to the terminus.

  And if he were still in the crevasse, if they had not rescued him and he remained frozen there until now, he would have travelled, in the intervening quarter of a century, a distance of slightly over half a kilometre. A distance he can traverse easily on foot in abo
ut seven minutes.

  In support of his calculations, a tooth-shaped boulder that he had made note of during his ice velocity measurements is now perched on the edge of the terminal slope.

  This boulder rests in the same orientation in which I first found it, further up on the ice surface, and is wholly surrounded by clean white ice, making it unlikely that the stone was ever dislodged by melting and simply rolled here.

  The marking of red paint he had made on the rock has weathered away to brown flecks resembling lichens. Another three days of melt brings it tumbling down onto the till plain.

  He spends each day at the terminus, prowling through the muck and slush. Nothing. The glacier cracks, crumbles, sloughs off fragments of itself.

  For the first time in years he comes down with a cold and retreats to the chalet. He huddles under a blanket in a deck chair on the promenade, watching the glacier through field glasses.

  The poplars in the valley snow gold. An early blizzard whites out the distinction between glacier and surrounding terrain.

  Two days later he sets out for the shelter, his last trip of the season, to bring down his books and papers.

  18

  By the following summer, Trask’s road onto the glacier is nearing completion. It has taken much longer than he expected. Park officials, engineers, geologists have been consulted at every stage. And Byrne has been a factor as well, with his warnings about destabilizing the moraine.

  Trask has built a bus terminal that will house a new, larger glacier diorama, a cafeteria selling hot food and drink, and perhaps, if early profits justify the expense, water from the mineral spring can be piped in for a sauna. For the exclusive use of those taking the guided tour onto the glacier. Towels provided free-of-charge. For the exterior of the terminal he envisions an igloo-style facade to go along with the “little Arctic” motif of Trask’s other exhibits.

  A sunny pleasure dome with caves of ice!

  He wonders if it might be possible to import penguins to swim in the melt pool at the terminus. Of course their wings would have to be clipped. And in winter, there could be hockey games right on the ice.

  Arctic. The word, used by Byrne, has given Trask an idea for a new promotional brochure:

  “Scientists tell us that the altitude and permanent snow of the Rockies has created an arctic landscape in miniature. A tundra of hardy animals, tiny flowers, never-melting ice.

  “This means that you can now journey to these accessible ’polar regions’ without leaving the comfort of your automobile. See a world that only a few brave explorers have seen!”

  Trask paces the deck of the chalet. He is troubled by something else Byrne once told him, the undeniable fact that the glaciers are now in a state of swift recession. Not much is lost every year, a few feet at most, but the rate could increase given the trend to warmer weather during the past few seasons. In time—centuries from now, but then again perhaps in Trask’s own lifetime—there may be nothing left for visitors to see.

  It seems ironic to Trask, another joke at his expense in the country of illusion. That the ice should be disappearing at the same time that someone has finally found a use for it.

  19

  In the afternoon he strolls down to the till plain, where the work crew is hacking out the roadway with pickaxes and spades. The men are covered head to foot in wet, grey mud. Their breath steams out in the cold air. Behind them, dark smoke rolls from a rusted metal drum.

  Trask watches from his vantage point on the nearest moraine. A good place for construction, he realizes. The natural and man-made mounds of rubble blend together. Even the men look like part of the landscape. One man is crossing the till plain, carrying a bucket of chipped ice from the glacier. For the beer, Trask decides. The beer he pretends not to know about.

  He looks up to see Byrne watching as well, perched on a boulder at the terminus, a rucksack on his back. Trask calls to the foreman and has the work halted.

  —Call it a day, boys.

  The men toss their shovels and pickaxes in the back of the stake truck and climb in after them. The truck rumbles to life and crawls slowly up the winding road to the work camp.

  Trask climbs down the moraine, crosses the bridge over the meltwater stream, and waves to Byrne. He makes his way over the loose stones of the till plain towards him.

  —Ned, you look like an old raven. You look like you’re thinking Now what are those strange humans up to this time?

  —What do you want, human?

  —Let’s take a walk, on the ice.

  —I was just on my way down.

  —That’s too bad. I haven’t done any ice-scrambling for years and I’d rather not break my neck if I can help it. Truth is I haven’t set foot on the glacier since the expedition. I want to see what the tourists will see when I send them up there.

  —Are you courting me, Frank?

  —Fine, forget it. If you won’t take me I’ll go by myself. And my frozen carcass will be on your conscience.

  Byrne slides down from the boulder.

  —It’s too late in the day to go scrambling around up there.

  —You won’t be overrun, Ned, that’s all I wanted to tell you. The tourists will be driven out to the turnaround point, they’ll be allowed to leave the vehicle and have a quick look around, ten minutes at the most. It’s nowhere near this hermit’s cave of yours. There aren’t going to be any restaurants or lavatories or billboards on the glacier. I want these people to feel like they’re going back into the ice age. It’s got to be wild. As far as safety allows, it’s in my best interest to keep this place just the way it is.

  Byrne nods.

  —Where’s this turnaround point going to be?

  20

  They climb the ice slope, until the distant lower icefall rises into view.

  —You can’t really see the spot from here, Trask says. It’ll be above the icefall, on the plateau.

  Trask raises his hand, traces a serpentine pattern in the air.

  —The road will come down the moraine in switchbacks, like this, and then run about halfway across the ice. We’ll clear a space, like a skating rink.

  He drops his hand, glances at Byrne and frowns.

  —What worries me right now are the melt streams up there. According to you, they change course all the time. How are we supposed to. keep track of that? If somebody fell into one he’d be gone, whoosh, and down a mill hole quicker than a rabbit.

  —I won’t be using the shelter anymore, Byrne

  says.

  —What?

  Byrne tugs at the strap of his rucksack.

  —I’m bringing everything down. It’s going to take a few trips.

  Trask shakes his head.

  —I don’t know what to say to you, Ned. I never do. I guess I’ve been wasting my breath.

  —I’m heading down now.

  —Are you leaving Jasper, then?

  —No. I’ll still be nosing around the terminus once in a while. I’m just getting tired of the climb.

  —Well, I won’t hold you up. So long.

  —You should stay here for a while, Frank. Look around. It’s quiet. You might enjoy it.

  —I might at that.

  21

  The sky has clouded over, and the rising wind carries spits of rain.

  Trask watches Byrne make his way across the till plain below. I’m not going to follow after him like a lost tourist.

  Instead he starts off at an angle across the ice, skirting a small crevasse, in the direction of the work site. He reaches the far edge of the glacier and picks his way down through the rubble at the base of the lateral moraine.

  After a few minutes he realizes his mistake. He has entered a deepening gully of loose rock, slippery with meltwater. The gully quickly becomes a ravine. The chalet and all other familiar landmarks are hidden from view. He stops and looks around for a moment, cursing his own stupidity. Trask’s guided walking tours. He has little choice but to scramble up the steep side of the gully. He sli
ps twice on the way, scraping his hands and knees. Climbing out again onto the glacier, he is shocked to find himself bent double, gasping for breath, his head spinning. Too much time spent at a desk the last few years.

  The sky has grown darker, and the wind is rising. A true juggernaut of a rainstorm is on its way over the mountain wall. Trask scans the till plain. The sullen red glow of the fire drum is like a beacon to him in the distance. At the drum he will at least be able to warm up before hurrying back to the chalet. He descends, his bootheels sinking in the soft ice of the terminal slope.

  At the foot of the glacier he halts again to catch his breath. He hears the faint creak of ice pinnacles nudged by the wind. Around him in the waning light lie fissures and spines of congealed icy mud, wet boulders, still pools of grey water. Well, you’re right in the middle of it again.

  He leans against an upthrust pinnacle of dirty ice, on a shelf at the edge of the meltwater tarn. The first fat raindrops begin to fall around him, onto his coat, the back of his neck. The pinnacle, sculpted by water and sun, rises in a graceful curve over his head. He nestles for a moment within its scant shelter. Just like a folded wing.

  22

  Trask makes it back to the chalet in the evening. The rainstorm has drawn off to a few scattered droplets.

  The sky is clearing again.

  He finds Byrne sitting on the stone steps below the front entrance, his field glasses hanging around his neck.

  —I thought you’d be coming right behind me.

  Trask shakes his head and climbs past Byrne. At the door he pauses.

  —Yeah, it’s quiet up there.

  In his office Trask shuts the door and hangs his wet jacket on the hook. He unlocks the corner cabinet, takes out a pony glass and a bottle of whisky, pours himself a full measure. He sits at his desk, the glass in front of him, but does not drink.

  There must be an artist in the construction crew, he muses, a man who missed his true calling in life. An undiscovered Michelangelo. Most of the workers are Greek and Italian, after all. They grew up in villages with that sort of thing on every street corner. Myths. Icons. Religious to the point of mania.