by Tricia Goyer
“Where are the men and women, the children once young and then old, who lived in this place? Native families who came here each year to smoke fish up the Salmon River? Homesteaders and their families who arrived to begin a new life? Who smelled the fragrance of mud in low tide? Heard the call of the sandhill cranes? Tasted strawberries on the beach and felt—as we do—the power of the wind? The stories we tell you here come from women and men long gone. In their own words and word of mouth.”
The two women’s voices joined in unison. “The stories are here, although their bodies are gone.”
“Some of their houses still stand,” the other woman continued. “The home of May White and her children, now the Gustavus Inn. Glen and Nell’s. Ruth and Fred Matson’s house, still lovingly cared for by Amy Youmans. Reverend Parrish’s cabin, soon to be a museum of our own.”
Ginny smiled, feeling part of the story in a small way after reading Ellie’s letters.
The women continued. Sharing about the music, the musicians, the roses planted by some of the first inhabitants that still bloomed, the drainage ditches still being used. The names were not forgotten. Their deeds were not forgotten either. Ginny’s mind took her to the Hollywood Walk of Fame. She’d walked the sidewalks of stars before, amazed by how few names she knew. Great performers whose names meant nothing anymore. Yet here…each memory was treasured, cherished.
“The stories are alive, the triumphs and trials,” the women said together. “Accomplishment and failures, grief and laughter and fear. How they made do. The stories are here.”
Then, dressed as their ancestors, folks from the community emerged from behind the curtain and paraded in front of the stage. Names were spoken—first names for the most part, since last names weren’t needed.
Two rows up, Ginny spotted Gina with her family. A few seats down was Jared the EMT, with his wife and children. She recognized Mitch, Lori the librarian, and Lee and Linda, of course.
Ginny bit her lip. Her heart longed to be a part of this community, but if that happened, she’d have to give her whole self, her whole heart.
Standing on a stage in front of thousands or on a television performance in front of millions seemed less frightening. To be known in such a way—really known—seemed like giving a part of her protected heart away, not to one but to many.
The stories came next—of the three newlywed couples who’d first arrived to homestead. Ginny laughed as they shared about the first time the women homesteaders made bread. Thinking the dough didn’t rise, the women dumped it out under the trees. It was only after they noticed a snowy pile of white under the trees that they realized the yeast had risen. They’d baked bread from the dough—after they’d picked out the pine needles and dirt.
Ginny learned about the Native American fishing camp up the river, and as they shared the stories she tried to imagine the gardening, the building, and the dancing to a gramophone.
Community had meant everything then, just as it did now. Ginny glanced around again, tears blurring her eyes this time. Kelly sat near the front, Jace on her lap. The reflection of the spotlight brightened his wide-eyed expression. Dove Fowler sat next to them. Bud stood in the back. He glanced as Ginny looked over and then waved. In a strange way she was going to miss that old van.
The actors continued, talking about Abraham Lincoln Parker, his wife, Edith, and their children and grandchildren. She heard about the ways the Parkers impacted the community, and then she heard the story she’d been waiting for.
“The end of the Roaring Twenties brought a gentle lamb to our community in Reverend Clay Parrish. With his wife, Adelaide, he shepherded the folks of Strawberry Point and the surrounding villages. Reverend Parrish lost his wife, but he didn’t lose his heart. He continued to serve for many years to come.”
As she listened, she was sad that Ellie’s name wasn’t spoken like the others. Ellie left and didn’t become part of the community, yet God did a work in her—changed her, and changed those she knew for a time.
Ellie’s letters also changed Ginny, reminded her what a relationship with God was all about. As she looked around, Ginny, too, felt a part of this place, and that was what hurt the worst perhaps. To get a glimpse of what could be, and know it would never happen.
Don’t torture yourself, just leave. Drive out to the lodge, pick up your refund, and then go to the airport. It’s no use longing for what’ll never be.
Ginny rose, swung her purse over her shoulder, and headed out. She wanted to say good-bye to Brett, but she decided to call him tonight from Juneau instead. This was his night. His community was here to raise funds for his move to Africa. The last thing she wanted was to distract him from that.
A few people eyed her as she headed toward the back door, and Ginny pulled her cell phone from her purse and pretended to answer a call. She didn’t want anyone to follow, to check on her, to try to help—which was exactly what the folks of Glacier Bay would do.
She hurried down the gravel road alongside the school, and the trees lining the road blurred. The wind picked up and she glanced up at the sky. The sun still shone, but a few clouds gathered in the distance.
She climbed into Bud’s van and chuckled to herself as the seat tilted in. The window was cracked a few inches, letting in the breeze. She didn’t bother to roll it up. She needed fresh air. Space to think.
She’d gotten down the road just a little when she saw the blue sign that read TRAIL. She had wanted to see the old plane wreck, but in just a few hours she’d be leaving for good. Now was her only chance.
She pulled the van over sharply, grabbed her purse and sweatshirt from the passenger’s seat, and climbed out. The wind was still blowing, but it looked as if the forming clouds would hold back the rain, at least for a while. What had Linda said? It was only a quarter mile to the airplane. She could make it there and back in twenty minutes, before the clouds let loose.
Her tennis shoes sank down slightly as she moved toward the trail. The ground was spongy and green—a soft, bright green that covered everything she saw. Tiny ferns coated the ground, logs, and the base of the trees. It was as if a carpet of life had been laid over everything.
Only a tiny, muddy line marked the trail, and even as Ginny walked along, uncertainty joined her as a traveling companion. She’d heard about bears in the area, but surely not in this area…right? She thought about Janey’s—Ethel’s—fright.
More questions joined in. Was this the right direction? Shouldn’t she be at the wreckage by now? What if it wasn’t bears that she should be afraid of but people?
She continued on, questioning whether she was on the wrong trail, when suddenly a chunk of metal appeared on the forest floor. Hair rose on her arms and she slowed her pace. Lives were lost in this crash. More pieces of twisted metal came into view as she continued on. No moss grew on them. These scars refused to be hidden.
Ginny looked at the airplane pieces scattered over the forest floor. For so many years her life had seemed scattered like that. Her life had crashed before she could remember, and during the years that had followed, she lived among the wreckage. Yet maybe she wasn’t the only one who’d had a hard life.
She’d never known people like she discovered here. Some grew up with outhouses, eating wild game for dinner, washing their clothes by hand. They were fiercely independent but just as fiercely loyal.
Maybe she should just tell Brett the truth—that she didn’t want to go back to LA. Or at least not permanently. She wanted to settle down here. Wouldn’t it be possible to sing, play, and then escape back to Glacier Bay for a while?
She could hear Danny now. “You’re never going to be a great star unless you sacrifice everything to your career.” Of course he would say it in a nicer way. But if she had to sacrifice for anything or anyone, it would be for God. Her soul told her that now was the time. This was the place.
After five more minutes of walking, the cabin of the plane came into view. It was larger than she thought. The nose was gone, and pi
eces of the tail and wings spread out in all directions. Names and quotes were spray-painted on its shell, and inside it looked as if at one time a campfire had been made there. She pictured teens sneaking out here to party. It was something she no doubt would have done—well, at least before she’d been part of Dale and Robyn’s family. Being with them had given her a new idea of fun.
Her heart ached for the families of the men lost. And for her loss too. It was amazing how one event could change everything.
As she stood there, eyeing the wreckage, a sound broke the quiet of the forest. A lumbering of sorts, a movement from just beyond the trees where she stood. An image popped into her mind of a bear. She thought of Ethel as a child in the outhouse, and her heart leaped to her throat. Her eyes darted around her, and even though she didn’t see anything, the noise grew.
Without hesitation, Ginny scurried into the hull of the wreckage. The metal was cold, and her jacket caught on shards of twisted frame. As she scurried on her hands and knees into the cold darkness, her knees crawled through pools of stagnant water from recent rain.
What was I doing coming out here alone?
“O God, please help me….” she whispered, sitting with her back against the metal and her legs curled up in front of her.
The noise sounded again, closer. Ginny was too afraid to look out. She balled her fist, closed her eyes, and held her breath, hoping whatever was out there didn’t pick up her scent.
Ginny’s insides twisted in fear. What was she doing, leaving like that? She should have just stayed and enjoyed the show even if it did break her heart that she was falling in love with these people and their community. Even though she didn’t know whether she could be part of them.
After a few minutes the noises stopped, but Ginny was afraid to move. Afraid she’d come across a bear on the trail. Being this far north, the sun was still out. She had time to make it back to the van before it got dark, but she told herself to wait awhile—give the bear time to pass.
Ginny reached her hand inside her purse to pull out the small flashlight and get a better look at the inside of the cabin. As she did her hand brushed against the envelopes she’d placed there. Ellie’s letters.
She pulled one out, eager to read it and pass the time until she felt safe enough to walk back to the van. Eager to get her mind off whatever creature roamed.
Chapter Thirty-Six
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August 27, 1929
Dear Grandfather Barnett,
What happened? Miss Ellie just left! It’s early. We haven’t even had breakfast yet. Papa and Joseph are out fishing. A man came to the door, all skinny and clean, except for his shoes. They was all covered with mud. I tried not to giggle, but seeing his fancy shoes a mess made me happy. I didn’t like the looks of that man.
Miss Ellie talked to him on the porch, then came in crying. Said she had to leave right now! And she just left, didn’t even take anything with her. I thought she was going to come back, but now Papa says no, she’s not coming back, but he’s sure she’ll write a letter to explain. It’s been a week now. No letter. Why do letters take so long?
One more thing that will make you burn with anger like it did me. When they left, that man put his hand on Miss Ellie’s back. I hate that man.
I wish you’d write. The mail boat is running, but we haven’t got any mail yet.
I don’t want to tell you how sad I am that Miss Ellie’s gone. Linc says I’m too old to cry at night, but I’m not the only one. Even Papa seems real sad. Of course he doesn’t cry, though. Men don’t, I’ve heard.
Please get this all fixed for us. I want Papa to be happy and marry Miss Ellie. I know you’d tell me to pray, so I’m praying real hard. I love you.
Janey
August 28, 1929
Dear Clay,
I’m on an airplane! My hands are practically frozen solid as I try to write. James sits next to me, in his new flight jacket. He brought me a luscious black Lorna Dunn fur coat, but the opulence of it nearly turned my stomach. I much preferred my old Alaska coat that Edith brought over after I first arrived, so that’s what I’m wearing.
You’re probably wondering how I ended up riding the air currents. Well, that morning, my last morning, I was cooking up breakfast when James came to the door. Of all the strange things I’ve seen in the “land of midnight sun,” James, dressed in a derby hat, beige coat, and slick shoes alighting on my doorstep was the most peculiar of all.
I thought of that horrid letter he wrote. Was he here to woo me? Oh, Clay. It made me ill. But the look on his face told me that wasn’t his purpose. Something was wrong. Grandfather caught an infection—pneumonia—and the doctors think he’s in his last days. James came to take me back to him. I would not have left with him for any other reason. I threw on my hat and coat, left the children with Linc, and we raced toward the boat dock.
Apparently Lester was over at the Juneau dock with the gas mail boat when James arrived there. James paid him for a round-trip ride in his boat. Every second seemed to matter.
We took the steamer from Juneau to Seattle and now, here I sit on an airplane from Seattle to San Francisco. I can’t seem to stop the tears, even in this icy-cold airplane soaring above the misty clouds.
Other thoughts also weigh heavy on my mind. I’m wishing I could’ve said good-bye—kissed Penny’s sweet-pea cheeks, fought one last swordfight with Zach, admonished Janey to take care of everyone and not to fret. I’m imagining Linc showing me his latest invention. Did he finish that basket pulley for Falls Creek?
And Joseph. If only he’d listen, I would’ve gladly apologized for interrupting his life, layering pain upon pain. How I wish I could’ve shared my own losses with him, promised it would get easier as it did for me.
Yesterday on the steamer, a man sat by the railing with his little girl. The way he smoothed her hair, smiled, and laughed with her—it echoed of you. This morning I awoke in the Seattle Hotel. As I situated my hat and pinned my hair, I could almost feel your soft touch tucking that stray strand behind my ear.
Good-bye to you all. I’m sorry it’s not in person.
Most of all to you, my dear Clay. As the years pass and shadows fall, perhaps the details of my time with you will fade, but your kind heart, wisdom, strength, and love will linger, always etched in my heart.
Ellie
Dear Janey,
I’m so sorry I had to leave you like that. I don’t want you to worry. I can imagine what you thought when I left with James. You probably saw the way he acted toward me, like a beau and not a friend. I don’t love him, Janey. He came to take me to my grandfather, who is very sick. Even though I’m grateful for that, I have no intention of marrying him. Please don’t let a drop of anxiety cloud your sweet mind.
I love you very much. I don’t know when I can get back to see you, but we can always write and be hopeful that Lester will not neglect to deliver our letters.
Miss Ellie
James,
I received your latest letter requesting I accept your marriage proposal.
My answer, James, is still no, as I told you on the steamer and on the airplane and in the taxi. I will not ever marry you.
Please be honest with yourself. Your improved zeal for me surely springs from the restoration of my grandfather’s fortune. As you once wrote to me in a letter, I fear you wish to marry me “for my money.”
If you truly cared for me, you would be more gratified, as I am, about the recovery of Grandfather’s good name and the conviction of my distant cousin, Felix Cooney.
I feel sorry for you, actually. I hope this will help you transform your ways.
Elizabeth McKinley
September 27, 1929
Dear Reverend Martin,
I rightly appreciate your offer to come. You speak right. Every parishioner’s due a pastoral visit at times. I suppose you’re as much my reverend as can be found up here, but please don’t trouble yourself. I know you want to help with Joseph, everybod
y seems to, but I’m the one who must care for him. Not that I’ve done much good so far. In fact, the dark hold seems to tighten its grip every day. It’s not improved since Ellie left a month ago, either. A terrible anger hangs close to the surface, but mostly now he seems to lack any life at all. Blank, like a wandering sheep.
The one bright spot in all this happened two nights ago. And I can tell you it surprised me. The Matsons invited us to a get-together—card playing, dancing, and singing, with Charles Parker playing the guitar. They invite us with great frequency—two or three times a week, I’d say. But with Joseph being so downcast, I usually say no.
This time the little ones asked with such earnestness, I felt a need to say yes. As we put on clean clothes and Linc prepared a salmonberry cake as an offering, I noticed Joseph combing his shaggy blond hair. Did my eyes fool me, or was that a mite-sized flicker in his eyes?
When we arrived at their large farmhouse, sure enough, Joseph hung back, leaning against the whitewashed wall beside their grandfather clock (I can only imagine the boat ride getting that hulking thing over here). For quite a spell, he silently watched the group laughing and singing. But then Mrs. Parker sidled up next to him. I don’t know what she said, but by the end of their conversation his shoulders weren’t so crouched over. Then she grabbed his arm and demanded he dance.
One doesn’t say no to Mrs. Parker.
So as Charles played “She’ll Be Coming ’round the Mountain,” accompanied by Linc on a rigged-up drum set and Janey on her harmonica, Joseph danced. I wish I could say he smiled. He didn’t, but from time to time he stopped frowning, and that’s a gift I gladly receive. Afterward, Mrs. Parker handed him her violin, and he played the rest of the evening—until it was time to eat. He can scarce resist Lester’s goose and turnip stew, much less Linc’s cake.
I don’t know what it was that lifted him that night. I’d hoped his temperament would continue to lighten after we got home, but it hasn’t. Got worse, really. Dark, irritable, gloomy. And most of all, apathetic. He won’t talk about Tinle and what happened. I encouraged him to write in a journal, or letters, something to work through it, but he won’t.
