According to reports from Sitka, Alaska, the murder of Mr. Jenson followed several days of mayhem. The Indians had accused Mr. Jenson of causing injury to a young squaw. Three days later, the woman’s husband and uncle confronted the trader at his store. It seemed violence was to be averted when Mr. Jenson told the Indians that they were mistaken and that they should go back to their own camp. In the early morning hours, however, the two Indians returned and shot Mr. Jenson as he slept in his bed.
Commander Daley reports that the killers were eventually captured by Lieut. John Lowry. The Indians quickly declared their crimes, claiming the murder was in revenge for Mr. Jenson’s mistreatment of a young woman on that island. According to Daley, homebrewed alcohol and the supposed witchcraft of a medicine man on the island also contributed to the violence.
The two Indians are in custody and being transported by steamer to San Francisco, where they will stand trial for the murder.
61°36’ N
143°45’ W
Barometer: 29.18
54°F, exposed bulb
42°F, wet bulb
Dew point: 20
Relative humidity: 26
I am weary of these days of my own mind. Not the disemboweled, disembodied, charred stumps, not the blackened fields that stretch to the back of my brain. These are mere wounds to flesh and memory that I might endure. I speak to the shadows. Here, and here again, beneath my very skin. They will not leave me be.
I said kill the bawling newborn. What difference will it make? The Colonel would not meet my eyes. He feared the sight of my sick weakness but it is worse, Colonel, oh so much worse. I am worthless weak coward but more appalling I am only this: a true specimen of humanity.
Once my heart was full and trusting. I believed. A soldier’s shot always true. A soldier’s ways steady and forthright. I would wear that code like a mantle. At Elk Creek, I came to a hard truth: the mantle is threadbare, the wind passes through it.
I would believe again if I could. In goodness. In magnificence. In simple benevolence. Yet even in these far and ice valleys, mankind is no different, just more poorly armed. Strip away psychrometer and sextant, carbines and glass plates, skin shifts and quills and painted faces, and we are the same. Quivering maws. Gluttonous. Covetous. Fearful. We say we worship. A word. A man-god. A fiery mountain. But we worship only ourselves. And we are jealous gods.
Thymallus signifier, Arctic Grayling Fish
Dear Walt,
I have just read in the Colonel’s journals about the baby he found under the tree. It’s incredible! What do you make of it? I’d be tempted to think he was just out of his mind with starvation, but the details are so specific.
The documents continue to strike close to home. I mean, the Trail River?—?that’s where my father and uncle used to go sheep hunting every fall. Now there’s a multi-million-dollar fishing lodge there that brings in clients from all around the world. I wish I knew exactly where that spruce tree was.
You’re right of course. The Colonel’s expedition was the beginning of a lot of changes for this area. At first a few miners did well with gold, but then in 1899, coal was found about 15 miles north of the famous Gertie Lode. Though it wasn’t as glamorous as gold, it was coal that brought the railroad, and by the early 1900s, Alpine had become a boom town?—?saloons, company buildings, hotels, supply stores. There were bunkhouses for the miners, a newspaper, theater, a tennis court and a dress shop. It’s hard to imagine it now. It’s pretty much all gone. Even the train tracks have been overgrown or fallen off into the river. We’ve managed to salvage a few of the original buildings and have them here on the museum property for visitors to walk through.
All of that came and went just in the relatively short time since your great-uncle traveled through here. In a century, really, it went from Native country to boom town to?.?.?.?well, whatever it is now.
It’s funny that you ask about the mining. For the past 50 years or so, it’s all been shut down. But last year an Australian company came in to scout the area. If they find what they’re looking for, they’re planning to reopen at least one of the mines. It’s a divisive issue here, even within families. My uncle runs the post office, and he believes it’s what Alpine needs?—?an influx of money, jobs, an opportunity for people here to earn an honest living. And then my cousin, his own daughter, is vehemently opposed to it. She’s a member of the tribal council, and she is also actively lobbying against reopening the mines. She say the environmental damage will be irreversible and that it would change the whole community. From there, everyone has picked their sides. Up and down the highway you can see spray-painted plywood signs. “Mining Built This Town.” “Protect Our Children?—?Keep Our Water Clean.” You get the idea.