And then my Pollyanna side, the one that tends to annoy Isaac, kicks in and I think, but thanks to you, we have these journals. And we have all our stories. We have the people who live here now, and our history and fate, even our families, are intertwined.
I’ve been thinking more and more about the exhibit and what I want to do with the artifacts. It is incredible that your family kept the Colonel’s leather tunic. There are very few Wolverine River artifacts from that early in history. And of course when an item is so damaged, especially in such a violent way, people don’t tend to hold on to them. The jacket, the artificial horizon (I’ve always thought that was such a poignant name for that instrument), and his tin cup could make one display. I’m thinking we could also show the journals, open to certain pages, in a glass case. And then there are Sophie’s letters, the silver comb, and the baby sling.
There are so many talented artists here in Alaska, working in both traditional and modern media, and I’m wondering if there isn’t some way we could do a related art show. I’m coming up with lots of ideas.
I’m sending you another photograph because it looks entirely different this time of year. This was taken upriver from Alpine, near the pass where the Colonel and his party went over the mountains. Winter is full on now. It snowed last week, and then it cleared up and the temperature dropped to 20 below zero. The water pipes in my mom’s house froze the night before last, and poor Isaac spent half the day in her crawl space thawing them with a blow torch. I’m glad he’s willing to do it because I’m always afraid I’ll burn the place down.
All best wishes,
Josh
Dear Josh,
Your latest photo is in its place on my refrigerator, right next to the other, although I’ve got to say, this one makes me want to go put on my sweater. It gets cold enough here in Montana, but that looks like something else altogether. And those mountains. It’s a magnificent scene.
You’ve given me something new to ponder, too. I can’t say I’ve ever considered the whole idea of culture and loss just the way you described it, and it’s not the first time you’ve turned something upside down for me. I suspect you do my dusty brain good, even more than the crossword puzzles.
I was sorry to read that story about your father. My own dad died when I was in my twenties, and it left me reeling for some time. I can’t imagine how hard it would be if you were just a young boy. My dad was one of those larger-than-life men who I just assumed would always be around. He’s the one who first showed me the boxes with the Colonel’s papers in the attic, and told me I was free to read as much as I wanted, as long as I was careful with the pages. When he could tell how taken I was with the expedition, he got a map of Alaska and pinned it up in the attic for me, and I marked the Colonel’s route. From then on, I always imagined I’d see it in person one day.
I kick myself now that I didn’t do it when I had the chance. When I was still working for the highway department, I had a travel agent look up the information for me. I told her I didn’t want to go on one of those fancy cruises through the passage; I wanted to see the country the Colonel described. She did her best to put together an itinerary for me, but her papers and brochures just sat on the coffee table for a few months and then I must have thrown them away. I had the money to pay for it and could have taken the time off from work, but it always seemed like too much hassle. And I think some part of me was a little afraid of making the trip. That must sound silly to you. Does to me now, too.
At least I had the good sense to send the Colonel’s papers up there. How is your transcribing coming? Are you ready for me to send the artifacts yet? I stopped by a shipping business last week, and it sounds like they can handle delivering them to you whenever you’re ready.
Sincerely,
Walt
Lieut. Col. Allen Forrester
July 20, 1885
Tillman has done his best to keep up with my entries. I am grateful for his attention. Though there is nothing slanderous, only personal & revealing, it makes me uneasy to know he has opened these pages. He was quick to say he could not have made out my handwriting even if he had tried.
These past days are confused in my memory. I have not been that ill since I was a child. I am still weak in the legs, quick to tire. I am very much thankful for the work of the men & Nat’aaggi in keeping us on the path to the coast. They say our encounter with the upper Tanana River tyone was eventful, at times worrying. I recall very little of it.
We are disappointed to learn from Indians camped on shore that the trading post downriver is without supplies.
At noon we arrived at the Yukon, a considerable mark of progress.
July 21
A disappointment. We have reached the trading post, overseen by a young Russian-Indian creole & his wife, yet as reported they are out of provisions & wait for the steamboat to return upriver. However, they treated us kindly. The woman gave us breakfast of fresh coffee & hardtack. After these starving weeks, it was a delicacy indeed. Also, the storekeeper provided Tillman with a pair of much-needed trousers.