by Eowyn Ivey
Several times I have walked down to the Columbia River as far as the orchard, but never considered the area for nests. Surely all the activity and noise from the wharves, the ferries coming and going, men unloading crates into wagons and then driving them past with shouts, with all that commotion, who would think that a humming bird would choose to build its nest amid all that? And so late in the year?
Yet there it is, dressed in frilly lichen and lined with downy seeds and no bigger than a child’s teacup. The nest is built on a most precarious thimbleberry cane, about four feet off the ground, and with each gust of wind, the stock waves and trembles. The mother bird was not at home, so I crept closer and closer, scarcely breathing for worry of stirring the branches, until I could peer into the nest, and there I beheld two perfectly small white eggs.
“Was I right? Oh Sophie, is this your nest?”
Indeed it is!
June 29
It does no good to have Evelyn sighing and complaining behind me as I work.
“My God, how can you stand this tedium? Aren’t you done yet? When will you have a picture? It’s been hours!”
In fact, we had been at the nest for not three-quarters of an hour, and I was only beginning my vigil.
“Honestly, I’d think I’d rather listen to Mrs Connor lecture me about the ills of whiskey and dancing, than sit here with nothing but the flies and this insufferable heat and you not talking at all.”
Perhaps she should seek out some other company, I suggested as kindly as I could manage.
“Yes, I will do just that!” she exclaimed, as if released from some odious duty. “Just tell me as soon as you have a picture I can see.”
Now that I am able to sit on my field stool and contemplate the scene in some peace, there is much that gladdens me. The mother bird tends to her nest. As afternoon wears on, with the sun over the river, the light is quite lovely, and I can see already how this pneumatic shutter is essential. With only the subtlest of movement, I can press the bulb and rapidly expose the plate.
Yet I need to be much closer if there is to be any hope of the nest looking like something more than a black dot in the far distance, only I fear that if I press the female, she will abandon it all together.
Beyond photographs, it gives me joy just to observe the Rufous humming bird through field glasses, as she sits with her long, elegant beak and speckled throat. She shifts now and then, flares her tail feathers, and adjusts herself to her eggs. When the wind gusts along the river, and the cane shakes violently, she settles herself down into her nest, like a fisherman in a boat. I begin to wonder if she is unskilled at choosing her nesting sites, and if maybe earlier in the season she lost one to wind or storm. That would explain this late nest. All in all, I have much to add to my field book.
I have taken one photograph, though I know I am still much too far from the nest. It occurs to me that if I could somehow conceal myself and the camera, with only the lens unobstructed, I might be able to place myself much closer without causing a disruption.
June 30
“A hunting blind is what you’re after.”
My inclination to seek out Mr MacGillivray was entirely correct. I explained my desire to construct a kind of camouflage for myself so that I might position my camera within feet of the nest.
We will need it to be tall enough to accommodate the tripod and camera, so that I might aim precisely into the nest, but should otherwise be as small and unobtrusive as possible. I will send Charlotte to Vancouver tomorrow to purchase canvas from the mercantile, and Mr MacGillivray has promised to help me build a crude frame.
A delightful sense of anticipation flutters within me.
July 1
As I brought my camera to the nest this morning, I found that even as I walked, I studied the angle and nature of the light and considered how I might compose a picture of this arrangement of trees or the pleasing way the lane runs past the General’s house. I noticed that the mountains were flattened of all detail, but remembered how, in the evenings, their ridges and peaks are often brought out in relief by the setting sun.
And then I suddenly arrived at a wonderful consideration: somehow, through these many weeks of study and effort, I have come to see the world through the eyes of a photographer! Mr Redington said it was so, he believed in me even as I doubted myself, and now I find that perhaps he was correct after all.
July 2
I wish I could only be happy on her behalf — I have learned that Evelyn soon goes to San Francisco with Lieutenant Harvey, who has resigned his commission and will become a partner in a shipping business. I am disappointed that she did not tell me herself; I heard it instead through Charlotte and her mother. When I asked Evelyn about her plans, she was too eager to defend herself, saying that while she will travel with Mr Harvey, she will stay with a cousin in San Francisco until the wedding. I care little for propriety, only about her well-being and happiness.
She says she longs for the cosmopolitan, for surprise and newness, for anything but the treacherous hold of the commonplace, and as she spoke, there was a fever in her eyes that appeared less wholesome than that of a joyful bride-to-be; I do not like to echo Mrs Connor, but I suspect Evelyn’s many late nights do her health ill.
General and Mrs Haywood cannot be pleased, for she has brought some embarrassment upon her family, and while Lieutenant Harvey has promised to marry her and he has means, he is also known to be impulsive and fiery-tempered. Yet I suspect it is his very unpredictability that maintains Evelyn’s attraction.
I might have shared my thoughts with her, that she is too intelligent to marry into trouble just to escape boredom, but who am I to assume wisdom over her heart? Certainly my Mother saw only misfortune in my choice of an Army colonel a dozen years my elder. She begged me to consider her own mistaken path, how she had forsaken her community of faith by marrying outside of the Society of Friends. She was convinced my security lie with a younger and less worldly man than Allen, one who possessed a gentle religiosity. Yet I am convinced such a marriage would have stifled me.
It seems to me that it is most difficult to comprehend love from an outer view; I can only hope my friend finds more joy than not.
July 4
Charlotte and I have set up the canvas tent some twenty feet from the nest. At first, I intended to decorate the outside of it with branches and leaves, but I no longer think that will be necessary. It is movement that seems to startle the bird more than anything. My hope is to gradually inch closer during the next day or so.
Charlotte is beside herself with excitement about the nest, though she said she wished she had been the one to find it for me. When the mother bird was away, I had Charlotte hold a piece of paper at the nest so that I might focus upon it, and when she saw the two humming bird eggs she exclaimed, “Why, they’re no bigger than buttons!”
It is cramped quarters inside the tent, less than five feet by five feet, but there is room enough for camera, tripod and campstool. I have cut several small holes in the canvas so that I might point the lens out one and sit on the stool and watch with my field glasses out another.
Charlotte is vastly more patient than Evelyn, but even her I was forced to send away, as she fidgets and talks incessantly. She was far from displeased, however, for when she asked if she might try making a few prints from the pine siskin plates, I gave her permission, and she ran home to the dark room with much enthusiasm.
July 6
I arrived at not half past five o’clock this morning with my camera. The tent is now well within the thicket and only a few feet from the nest. With the entrance on the opposite side, I am able to tiptoe in without stirring the mother bird.
The location, I find, is too shaded for a decent photograph this time of day, but I am not sorry to have risen so early. It is both peaceful and thrilling to be hidden away in here while all the world goes on around me. The sun rises, the bugler sounds his call, and with it, all the post comes to life. The insects begin to buzz about
the tent, the mother bird stretches her neck, and I hear the first ferry come into the wharf along with the distant sound of men and mules and wagons.
Yet amid all this activity, I go entirely unnoticed, nearly to the point of awkwardness. Just an hour or two after reveille, two young soldiers walked by on their way to the parade ground — What’s that tent doing there? She’s taking pictures. The Colonel’s wife? Not much interesting what I can see, just branches and trees. Who is she then? Mrs Forrester. Don’t think I know her. Seen her with the General’s niece now and then. Now there’s a spitfire. Mrs Haywood? Naw, the niece. Evelyn.
I wondered if I shouldn’t speak up and reveal myself before they said anything to embarrass themselves, but I hesitated, and the sound of their conversation diminished so that I could tell they had moved on.
It is after noon, and the sun comes in from across the river. The light is strong. I have begun now to photograph in earnest.
One of the eggs is hatching! I was granted only the briefest view, when the mother bird stood at the edge of the nest as if to fly, but then she returned to her brooding.
Three plates today. I restrain myself, for I am still uncertain which hours and weather conditions will serve best.
July 7
Peculiar how near to death a newborn bird appears, its skin thin and wrinkled, its head like a moldy, squashed blackberry. The chick shows no sign of movement, and I would be unsure of its life except for the movement of its small ribs with breath. The sight of it causes me a shudder, much like when I look upon an unsightly wound, yet within days, this wretched creature will sprout feathers and open its beak to the world.
Lieut. Col. Allen Forrester
July 12, 1885
Srgt Tillman agin. This mornin we came to know why they brot us here. They herd we were medcine men with ways to cure the sick. All we have are 3 kinds of Army pill one for malarie, tho we seen no sign of it here, an the pills that eather empty you out or keep you stopped up. The lutenant gave them out willy-nilly but the Indians were glad of it. The chief who is sickist of all got some of each, while others just got 1 or 2 kinds. The lutenant says he feels bad givin them pills that wont do them good but might make them feel worse, but I say he probly saved our lives if nothin else cause the Indians are well plesed an wont shoot our heads off.
Pruitt doesnt look too good himself. Hes turnin black all over with the scurvy an he lost a nother tooth.
July 14
Were on the river agin. The Indians didnt want us to take our leave. They kept tryin to look in our boat to see whats in there so they almost found Nattie under the sleepin bags but they didnt. I spect she could fend for herself fine but I didnt want to trust that.
Were probly gettin nere some rapids an I dont like it much. The lutenant uses a stick floatin in the water an his watch an says the water runs about 7 miles an hour.
Rainin. Least the smoke from the wild fires is gone.
Sick an tired of eatin nothing but tallow that goes down hard. The Indians dont have much food to speak of an we have nothin to trade anyways.
July 15
Its me agin. The Colonels fever broke at last so hes gettin better but still just rides in the boat with not much talkin or helpin.
Im scared out of hell with these rapids. Nattie & me do most of the paddlin with poles to keep us out of the sweepers. The water is fast an theres big rocks an trees to run smack into. Seems all the rain is swellin the river more so that trees are topplin in. River like a notted braid so we got to pick wich way to go rite about the time its too late cause the waters fast an were alredy going some way. I dont like it much atall but I try an not lose my head.
July 16
Mitey glad the river is slowin. Just one big channl. Wether cleard up to.
Past by some Indians camped on shore. I shot a round into the air to greet them. Scairt the hell out of them. They all took to runnin into the woods. All but one old woman staid an we got some dried fish from her to cook in our tallow wich is a nice change for our bellies. Cant wait to find the tradin post to get some real vittles.
July 17
Nothin to report cept a long day on the river. Lutenant says we made 60 miles. Got some more meat an fish from some Indians. They talk a pidgin of English an Indian that we can kind of figure. They say were almost to the Yukon. There we mite come across the steamboat.
Dear Walt,
I’m getting close to the end of the transcribing, and I’ve been thinking a lot about something you mentioned in your last letter. Do I feel a sense of loss when I read these pages? It’s a difficult question for me to answer, because the question itself makes certain assumptions. But the short answer is no.
I also want to give you a long answer, and I hope you don’t mind, Walt, because I find the topic really challenging and interesting.
So let me begin by pointing out that I’m not one, or the other. I’m both, or more accurately, many — Wolverine tribe, Russian, Irish, Swedish. And that just pertains to some of my ancestry, which I think is only one aspect of a person. There are so many other labels people like to assign. Where am I an insider, and where I am an outsider? It all depends on where I’m standing and who is trying to put me into which box.
But what makes the question of cultural loss the most uncomfortable, and difficult for me to address, are the inherent definitions built into it. If a group of people is described as existing in a state of loss, it is necessarily therefore lesser, and those that took greater. It’s such a limiting and two-dimensional idea. Who defines wealth and success? How can we say this person is valued less or more, is better or worse, because they are a part of one culture or another, and why would we want to?
When I was 9 years old, my mom was making my favorite breakfast — sourdough pancakes with blueberries and black bear sausage. It was a clear September morning, and we were hoping my dad might be home soon from hunting camp, so I’d helped my mom clean up the house and my brother had started a fire in the woodstove. Outside the wind was picking up, and with every gust, yellow birch leaves would get blown off the trees, and I remember thinking they looked like spinning gold coins.
I was just getting the syrup out of the cupboard when there was a strong knock on the door. It startled me, because it was so pounding and unexpected — nobody ever knocked when they came to our house, they just walked in. My mom looked worried, too, and then she opened the door to find a tall Alaska State Trooper standing there in his blue uniform, Mountie-style hat, and holster. He’d come to tell us that my dad had died in an airplane crash in the mountains. He was flying out of his hunting camp when the weather turned bad.
My father was an Irish-Swede — his great-grandparents were immigrants who had come to America to escape poverty in their own countries. When he was 19, he moved up to Alaska from Minnesota because he wanted to be a big game guide. He fell in love with my mom, and he never left Alaska again.
I remember my mother crying for two days straight, and then she stopped crying and started organizing the potlatch. My dad’s friends held a wake at the bar, where they drank too much Jim Beam and shot rifles in the air in honor of my dad. And then my mom’s relatives from all around Alaska started showing up at our house. There was this endless amount of cooking and eating — moose meat, salmon, wild blueberry pie — and everyone was telling stories. My great-uncle played fiddle, and the old people danced and sang. They all slept on our living room floor and in tents in the yard, and it seemed like they were here for weeks.
Somehow these memories are both the happiest and saddest of my entire childhood.
So I guess I wonder, where is the line separating me into this culture or that culture, saying I have less or more? I’m just me, and like most people, I’ve had my heart broken a few times, but for the most part I have been happy.
I don’t want you to misunderstand me, though. There are some important and hard questions to be asked of history in Alaska. Native children were abused for many years by missionari
es and teachers at territorial government schools. How do those effects trickle down through generations? How do we help families get out of patterns of alcoholism and addiction and domestic violence? These are real problems. But then if we use terms like subjugation and loss and the desire to “preserve culture,” it devalues and limits people in a way that I don’t think is accurate.
You shouldn’t assume my opinions represent how everyone feels, though. Even within my own circle of friends and family, you’ll find twenty different opinions on one subject. Whenever anyone writes down one of the old stories, several people come forward to say “No, that’s not the way it goes. This is how it happened.” I think there’s this tendency to lump people together, to think that all people who look like this or come from this background must think the same.
Here’s example: a few years ago an environmental group approached the tribe to ask us to support some stance, assuming we’d all agree. But we had to say no, actually, some of our members earn a living working for the exploration companies, even as their relatives are protesting against the mines. Another example: I have a group of friends who formed a band and they use traditional Wolverine River language, music, and dance but interweave them with modern sounds and influences. They performed at the birthday party of one of our elders, who was turning 100, but even though they meant it to honor her, she was upset by it. She is devoted to her church and was raised to believe the old ways are backward and evil.
All of these opinions are packed into one small town, even one family. You can see how complicated it is, even if you just scratch the surface. It’s humanity. We’re complicated and messy and beautiful.
When I’m reading these diaries and letters, more than anything, I’m thrilled, both as a historian and as a member of the tribe. We know so little about the precolonial Wolverine River, and the Colonel’s diaries are rich in information. Every detail, about how people dressed and spoke and prepared their meals, is an exciting discovery. I love the idea that women could turn into geese at the edge of a marsh, that a young girl could marry an otter and then slay him for his hide when he was found to be unfaithful. The dead could go to the mountains to hunt woolly mammoths, and instead of drunken teenagers and a psychopathic serial killer, Kulgadzi Lake could be inhabited by a giant toothy monster. There’s this sense in these stories that we were wrestling with a vibrant and fully spirited land.
