by Eowyn Ivey
June 15
Pruitt requested we stay in the village for several days. He says he is ill & needs to rest. I inquired as to his specific ailments, to which he replied only that he is generally weary & not himself. He complains of aching bones & shortness of breath even when walking on flat ground. I suggested that he might gain strength in eating more when we have food available, to which he shrugged with indifference.
I asked Tillman how he fared.
— I’m well enough. But Colonel, we have been going hard. A day or two wouldn’t put us too behind, would it?
I suspect Pruitt of apathy, Tillman of wanting to consort with the Indians. Both of them are wary of the lake. It all frustrates me to no end. Perhaps I have been too inflexible, however.
I have agreed to an additional day in camp, so as to rest & feed our appetites. The men must find their nerve again. I have no interest in dawdling our way over the mountains. I am disappointed with their softness.
Pruitt reports that the psychrometer has been stolen. I suspected he had misplaced it, but then Tillman caught sight of one of the young Indians showing the instrument to the others. Tillman was ready to start a brawl, but I swayed him otherwise. We are better off to seem as if we approve of the “trade” than to arouse hostility.
This evening, Nat’aaggi brought an old man to speak with us. She helped him raise his hide tunic to his chest. Along the Indian’s side were savage, roughly healed scars. Several of his ribs had evidently been broken as well, healed unevenly so that they protrude at odd angles. It is improbable that a man could survive such injuries, certainly not an Indian without medicine or doctor.
I asked what had caused this. Was he in a battle? An attack of some sort?
Nat’aaggi again shook her head, then pointed to the lake. It seems the old man was fishing out too far. The creature overturned his canoe. He says he escaped only because he was a strong fighter.
I observed that the scars are well healed, asked how long ago it had happened.
The discussion attracted Tillman’s attention.
— Christ Almighty! The thing in the lake did this?
I repeated my question about the timing of the event.
— It happened many summers ago, when he was a young man, Tillman said.
I suggested that if the creature had ever existed, perhaps it was dead now.
Tillman was not put at ease, however. As he climbed into his sleeping bag, he made his plea.
— Let’s just walk around the lake, Colonel. Why risk it? Even putting aside this 50-foot monster, those waves are serious enough. Seems to me they could sink these shallow canoes.
When I would not budge, he tried to convince me that it would improve our mapping if we were to walk the edge of the lake.
— The lieutenant could get better measurements.
I have no desire to overwinter in this territory. I told Tillman as much. I’m ready for home. The lake offers us no danger beyond fear & superstition. With calm weather, smooth waters, we’ll paddle straight across without any excitement.
June 16
It is but the early hours of the morning, yet I can no longer sleep. It is quiet. The waves have subsided. The lake is smooth. A mist lays across the water. I am anxious to be on our way. I will wake the men soon.
In September I visited the Chkituk village, where I sang a funeral service for a Kenaitze who had become ill and soon died from a fright. He had seen some scary animal-like monster that was coming from the water. Soon this native lost his speech, his mind became cloudy, and within three days he died.
— From Hegumen Nikolai, Travel Journal, 1860,
Through Orthodox Eyes
Dear Mrs. Forrester —
I have enclosed your pneumatic shutter. I am quite anxious to learn how it works for you. Although my landscapes are not as prone to jumping about as your birds, I may yet be tempted to try the apparatus. My wife for some time has wanted me to take a portrait photograph of our three young and energetic grandchildren. A quick-acting shutter might be of use in such a situation.
I have also put on order the rapid rectilinear lens — I think the Dallmeyer’s will serve you best. I will send it to you as soon as it arrives.
And yes, I know all too well your frustration. It is a rare combination of events that must occur: the illumination at the moment, the length of exposure, the composition of the scene, the development, and then the printing. I am sorry to say that only one or two of my photographs of Mount Hood come close to touching upon the vision that I so often witness. Yet I believe that the more you experiment, the nearer you will draw to your aspiration.
I hope I do not stray too far into my own philosophical thoughts, but let me venture this much: one must learn the mechanics and chemistry, and then allow all that to slip into the background. It seems counter to science and rational thought, but I do not believe one can ultimately calculate perfection. It is an impression, an instinct in the moment, on which one must depend.
All that being said, I see great skill in the two prints you kindly sent me. They may not be your birds, but it is clear that you have an aptitude for both composition and light. It seems to me that already you observe and translate the world with a photographer’s eye.
I would be most pleased to see more of your future work.
Sincerely,
Mr. Henry Redington
Sophie Forrester
Vancouver Barracks
June 12, 1885
I would not have gone out today if it weren’t for the letter from Mr Redington that arrived just before noon. He is so composed that at times it makes me smile, for his idea of “inordinate pleasure” is a brief discussion on citrate of soda solution and exposure times. Yet his kind words bolster me more than he can know. Can it be that he really finds some promise in my work so far? I write to him pages and pages of all my anxieties and frustrations, and he sends me concise common sense and encouragement. And a pneumatic bulb!
Charlotte was glad as well, for I’m sure she must tire of being cooped up in the house with small chores and my ill mood. Today was a perfectly fine day to go afield, albeit quite hot. She and I settle into a routine — I wear tripod and camera strapped to a knapsack on my back, while she carries the wooden box with glass plates, focusing cloth, etc. (And her sling-shot is always at her side. I must remember to tell Allen when he returns how devoted she was to her promise to protect me.)
In the large meadow on the hill we caught sight of two king birds that behaved like a breeding pair, of which I made notes in my field book, and although we were unable to locate their nest this day, I am hopeful. Then, in a hollow in a dead alder tree, we discovered an occupied sapsucker nest. The darkness of the cavity will not allow for a photograph, I am afraid, but it was a lovely find all the same, and Charlotte was quite taken with the nearly grown chicks.
As we returned to the barracks, we met up with Evelyn, who was strolling with two officers and several young women, and Charlotte and I were obliged to stop and converse with them.
When asked, I explained that we were in search of birds, to which one of the young women said she was fascinated by photography but suggested that it was a rather rough and manly hobby, to traipse about the forest with a camera. The two young men nodded their agreement.
“What a stupid thing to say!” Evelyn replied. “What on earth makes it more suitable for a man than a woman? Do not for a single moment doubt Mrs Forrester. More than anyone I know, she is capable!”
They all seemed taken aback by the passion of Evelyn’s speech, and it occurred to me that they do not know her so well. Nor were they inclined to engage in her debate, but instead began to wander away from us and down the trail toward the barracks, all the while one of the women complaining that they would be late to the band concert at the parade grounds this afternoon.
“Imbeciles!” Evelyn said, once they were out of hearing distance. “But they are the closest I can find to amusement in this
place, so I am stuck with them after all.”
She left us then to catch up with her party, but before she had gone far, she did in fact say something that surprised me. “I hope you find your humming bird, Sophie!”
I did not think she was listening that day in Portland when I told her of my impracticable desire. How could anyone hope to photograph the ceaseless motion that is a humming bird?
June 13
At long last, after all these days of searching and waiting, I have a bird! A chickadee on the branch of the alder, with more contrast than I would like and faced the wrong direction, but there it is, all the same!
I was so elated, I ran about the house and shouted for Charlotte to come see the developed plate. She agreed it was wonderfully exciting, but remarked that it was unfortunate that all I had caught was the “tail-end” of the bird. I could not argue her point.
Yet I begin to regain some small optimism. More and more I grasp the way in which shadow, light, and shape transfers to the glass, and how I might manipulate the elements both in the field and in the dark room to achieve more subtlety of detail. And if I can catch the tail-end of a chickadee in a hundred hours, then I must only invest hundreds more.
As for a nest, I fear the season grows late. It may be next spring before I am able to attempt such a photograph. Yet I am pleased to know that while I lack the hand to paint or sketch, it seems I possess some of the necessary traits for this endeavor — fortitude and great patience.
June 15
I am grateful that we were not harmed, but now that it is over, I confess I found today’s encounter positively exhilarating! We returned safely to the cabin from the forest hours ago, yet even still I can feel my heart trembling.
With the weather fair today, Charlotte and I ventured farther than ever we have before. Where the wagon trail weaves north, we came across a small meadow. It was a picturesque scene, the way the sunlight caught the buzzing insects and tawny grass. Several small birds fluttered up from the grass, landed, flew up again, but I could not identify them with the naked eye. We walked to a small rise, and from there we could see that the meadow turned to marshland at the far side. We set down packs and camera, I brought out the field glasses, and we sat there for some time in silence, watching the tree swallows and dragonflies.
The black bear seemed completely ignorant of our presence. It wandered out from the trees not a hundred yards away, its head down in the grass as if looking for some morsel of food. Now and then it brought its snout up to sniff the air, but never indicated it saw us.
Charlotte was equally unaware as she looked to the distance through the field glasses. I touched her elbow, and when she saw where I pointed, she squeaked, and then reached for her sling-shot. I shook my head and urgently mouthed the words “no, no.”
Thank heavens the child obeyed me! At best, she would have startled the bear so that it would have fled, ruining our chances to observe it. A more terrifying likelihood is that the creature would have been provoked to come after us, and I do not think we would have fared well, no matter how straight her aim or fast our legs.
So Charlotte and I remained still and silent, yet it required much willpower on my part, for such nervous energy coursed through my veins. All of my senses and attention were fixed upon the bear, so that the animal became fully formed, magnified even: dusty black fur, small ears that twitched at the insects, the gentle slope of its forehead, the immense weight and bulk of its presence. It was nothing like the cool, white marble bear of my childhood.
And then the bear looked at us. Its eyes were quite small and dark, like wet pebbles in its enormous black head. It watched us for what was surely only a few seconds, but time had become mutable, slowed, so that I had long enough to consider what the bear may or may not do, and it was a disquieting consideration. At last, it turned from us and began to lumber away across the meadow, and time sped alongside it, so that when the bear disappeared into the far trees, it was as if all had happened within the clap of hands.
When we returned to the barracks, Charlotte sprinted to Mr MacGillivray where he was working in the general’s garden.
“A bear! We saw a bear!”
“What is all this?”
I confirmed that it was true, indeed we had spied a black bear just a few miles away. Mr MacGillivray seemed skeptical but concerned, and he expressed relief that we had survived the ordeal.
And just now as I write, I have realized that in all the excitement, I left my field glasses at the marsh!
June 16
I am yet unsettled by it, the gaze of the black bear.
For some time after Father’s death, I imagined, with both fear and hope, that I would someday meet a wild bear in the forest near the quarry, and that when I looked into its eyes, I would know that it was Father.
Of course, I found no such sign in this bear. In its small, dark eyes, I saw nothing recognizable or connected to my brain, no common affinity or acknowledgment. Only an alien wildness that was grand and terrible.
I am glad of Mr MacGillivray’s news. He set out on horseback yesterday and found tracks in the mud of a nearby creek, yet he saw nothing of the animal itself. (And, kind man, he retrieved my precious field glasses. I am only fortunate it did not rain on them during the night.)
I begged Mr MacGillivray that we might keep the knowledge of the bear to ourselves, for if the men of the barracks, many of them bored and keen to prove their bravery, learn of its presence, there will be a hunt on.
“I agree with you there, Mrs Forrester. Much rather let the fellow find his way back into the mountains. As long as he doesn’t overstay his welcome.”
Both Charlotte and I promised we would not wander so far, an agreement to which I was amenable. While I am glad to have seen the bear,, for surely it is one of the most extraordinary occurrences of my life, I have no desire to repeat it.
June 17
I have been issued a summons; I am to present myself at General Haywood’s house tomorrow afternoon.
Mrs Connor! I have no doubt. It seems she has taken it upon herself to directly or indirectly inform the General of the modifications I have made to the pantry. Insufferable busybody!
Bless the soldier who delivered the message, for he began immediately with, “This isn’t regarding your husband. We have no news about the Colonel’s whereabouts. The General wants to see you on another matter. It’s about your room here, where you do your picture-making.”
This evening I cannot stop stewing over it. Is this such a matter of urgency that a soldier must be sent to my door? Again and again, I rehearse in my mind what I will say to the general and his wife tomorrow, and the words I will dish up to Mrs Connor next I see her. For heaven’s sake, the cabin is to be destroyed next summer! What does it matter what I do to it? If necessary, I will pay for any damages, and reinstall the door and shelves myself if need be, even if it is just in time for them to knock it down. Beyond that, what I do with my time is my business and mine alone.
Evelyn informed me with great amusement just the other day that I am the talk of the ladies’ teas, that Mrs Connor has made it clear that she finds my activities unwholesome, even wicked, and she didn’t think the General would approve of the “injury” I had done to the house. Mrs Whithers apparently defends me as much as she is able and says she would like to see my photographs, but she wonders how interesting they could be considering I point my lens only at trees and shrubs.
It is all an incredible annoyance! Why do any of them care how I spend my hours? I certainly have absolutely no interest in their daily comings and goings.
I say this, however: I will not be bullied, General or no General.
Vancouver Barracks, Washington, Circa 1880
Lieut. Col. Allen Forrester
June 16, 1885
Kulgadzi Lake
We have survived the lake & the fiend it holds, although Tillman’s leg is badly injured.
The dog was skittish from the start, reluctant to even board the ca
noe.
We left shore around 6 this morning in a cool mist. The lake was dead calm. For some distance out, the water remained shallow so that our paddles scraped the bottom. At about 100 yards from shore, the depth abruptly fell out from beneath us so that even when Tillman thrust the paddle & his arm directly down, he could not strike bottom.
In the stillness of the morning, we heard only the dripping of water from our paddles, one of us occasionally clearing our throats. As we hit our rhythm, the canoes gained speed. Our vessels were well matched in weight & strength — Pruitt rode with me, while Tillman & Nat’aaggi carried the dog in their canoe. It seemed feasible that we would make it across the lake within an hour or two.
Tillman noticed the dog’s sudden alertness. At first it only lifted its head, pricked up its ears. Then came its low growl.
— Christ! Will you look at that? Tillman said.
The fur along Boyo’s back stood on end. The dog growled again, then began to bark sharply towards some distant place in the middle of the lake.
Pruitt whispered a curse.
That’s when I saw it — a large V sliced through the waves, as if an invisible canoe was propelled towards us.
I suggested it was perhaps a beaver or muskrat.
— That’s one hell of a rodent, Tillman said without humor. He took out his rifle, began to load it.
The form seemed to quicken its advance, but as it neared within a few hundred yards of our canoes, it abruptly changed direction, began to circle us at that distance.
In the gray depths, I could not determine anything of its shape. When it surfaced, we could see that its length was greater than our two canoes end to end. Nat’aaggi shouted with alarm. She & Tillman began to paddle quickly back towards shore.
— Don’t, I said. — It may only rouse its interest. Let’s just sit.
I did not yet realize how near the beast was. Just then, it struck our canoe with such force as to nearly capsize us.
