We announced they could draw sticks. Only those who won would be permitted to join us. To my surprise, a dozen Indians volunteered. However, the five selected lost much enthusiasm when they were told we would be leaving this morning, that they would be towing sleds full of supplies as far up the river as we could manage. Two flat out refused to be conscripted, so we are left with three.
When the old man indicated his desire to travel along with us as well, I said that we have no more need for his services. Samuelson translated my message, to which the old man gave a sly look & tipped his black hat as if to bid us adieu.
The dog, a burly husky-wolf much larger than most of the Indians’ dogs, seems to have been offered in trade for tobacco & sugar already acquired from our stores without our knowledge. I suspect that, like the Indian woman, the skittish animal will be more trouble than it is worth.
Sophie Forrester
Vancouver Barracks
January 17, 1885
Such an unwieldy title. “The ABC of Modern Photography?.?.?.?Comprising Practical Instructions in Working Gelatine Dry Plates.” That alone should have deterred me.
Allen brought the book home to me last night, sent by Mr Pruitt along with an offer to further explain the camera’s mechanism during our ship ride north. He must have reconsidered his earlier brusqueness, and I am grateful, particularly because I will need every bit of help if I am to understand any of this. An entire chapter devoted to chemicals! Neutral oxalate of potash. Sulphate of iron. Hypo-sulphite of soda. Methylated spirit. Bi-chloride of mercury. My brain spins.
From a distance, it seemed such a simple and nearly magical art. A black cloth. A mahogany box. Glass plates. Darkness and light. Yet in truth it is both more material and more complex than I could have imagined.
Books have always been my most reliable teacher, but Allen is correct that some skills are better understood in practice, by hands and eyes. He says we should purchase a camera if it interests me so. I have no idea of the expense, and certainly there is not enough time to seek one before our journey north, but if I can learn a bit from Mr Pruitt aboard the steamer and continue to study the manuals over the next months, is it possible that I could learn to make my own photographs?
Well of course, Allen said, and he wouldn’t spend too much time fretting over those cursed hand books, either. “You just have to do it and figure it out for yourself,” he said, “and I have no doubt that you will.”
It is something I love very much about him. He goes not in search of obstacles, only the paths around them. Anything seems possible.
Yet for all my keenness, I see now that I have a great deal to learn.
January 21
It is well after midnight, yet I cannot sleep a wink! Today it was confirmed that we will board the mail steamer “Idaho” on its February 3rd stopover in Portland. Though it is still some time away, being in possession of a firm date and the precise name of our ship has beset me with worries and excitement. Are the women right that I will suffer seasickness? Mrs Connor mentioned a bromide remedy. I will have to ask at a pharmacy. Oh, I do hope I am so fortunate as to see the puffin bird. Are the illustrations I have seen accurate? Does it possess such a sweet and comical expression? As for the Wolverine River tribes and their frightening reputation, I should not let myself fret.?.?.?.?and on and on trail my thoughts.
I have given up on sleep all together and have come to the kitchen table with my diary so that my candlelight might not disturb Allen as he sleeps. I have put on a kettle for chamomile tea and wrapped myself in a blanket in hopes of settling my nerves.
To be awake at such an odd hour, the windows dark and the house quiet, with a daring voyage on the horizon, causes me to miss Father more than I have in some time. If he were still alive, I would be writing to him just now. He would have been so glad for me, for he was always one to favor adventure and the promise of something extraordinary.
I remember that when I was quite young, I overheard him talking of flying mice, how he had seen them swoop and dive across the night sky. If he was in a fervor with a new sculpture, once the form began to come alive in the marble, he would bring lanterns to the forest and work long into the night, and it was then that he had seen them. He said they flew silently, like furry shadows.
For days I could think of nothing but these winged mice. I gleaned every small detail I could find in Mother’s schoolhouse book about the animals of North America, and at any opportunity, I pleaded with Father to take me with him at night.
“They are only bats, nothing more,” Mother said.
Father whispered to me alone, “These are no ordinary bats. These are mice who swim with the stars.”