It seems we are more captives than guests. An hour ago I left camp to climb the nearby mountainside. My hope was that I would be able to see down into the Wolverine valley, perhaps determine the location of the trapper & his companions. Without Samuelson’s translation skills, our stay here becomes useless.
Part way into the climb, I was overtaken by two Midnooskies, I believe the same two who found us on the other tributary of the Trail River. I attempted to explain to them that I was merely hoping for a better view. They made it clear that I was to return to camp with them.
I had my carbine, but thought better than to resist them. For now it seems we must wait this out.
45°F, exposed bulb
40°F, wet bulb
Barometer: 28.80
Dew point: 32
Relative humidity: 60
Cold, strong wind.
Have you ever seen the nest of a humming bird? She would march to Kingdom Come in search of one, the Colonel says. He is bemused & clumsy in his affection. He cannot comprehend how she should find so much in that small hold. He is neither blessed nor cursed with a poet’s heart.
He does not see. In the palm of the hand, such a nest might become Mr. Blake’s wildflower. Infinity, all of Eternity, collapsed like damp foetal feathers inside a thimble egg.
Auguries. Heaven. Or Hell. Joy. Or Woe. Victory. Birth. Death. Defeat. All told in a raven’s cry, a vulture’s flight. Can I recall those signs of Innocence? The babe that weeps. A skylark wounded in the wing. All Heaven in a rage?.?.?.?the lines escape me.
And what of you, Mrs. Forrester?—?what do you seek in the break of the shell, the weave of the twigs? Whose future do you divine?
Or, is it possible, that your wonder is truly pure, without expectation or pride? Do you, Mrs. Forrester, still believe? Do you bask in the golden light I once imagined I felt upon the crown of my head? Not simply the light of God, Love, Science, even Truth or Art, but that rarified light of Promise. Thy Kingdom Come.
It is no wonder the Colonel fell in love with you.
Wolf Tracks Near Trail River
Sophie Forrester
Vancouver Barracks
May 17, 1885
The dark room is nearly ready, yet I can do no real work until I have a camera, dry plates, and chemicals.
Since I was a young girl and first caught sight of a mourning warbler and knew it for what it was, or first heard the song of a wood thrush in the forest just as rain clouds lifted, I have sought some form to express myself. Yet I have shown no aptitude or lasting interest in any of them?—?not watercolor nor pencil, not dissection nor taxidermy.
It occurs to me now, however, that I might work with light itself. It has always captivated me, the way it shifts and alters all that it touches, significant both in presence and in absence.
I am desperate to begin. I have become too mindful of suffering and darkness; they attend to me even when I bid them not to, like scavenger birds perched and waiting for the calf to die. And when I seek a finer grace in the day, some essence of love and life, the light fades beneath my eyes.
I will not abandon the quest before it has truly begun, however. I will let this grief sharpen my gaze, polish and shape it until it becomes a magnifying lens through which I might yet see.
May 18
Evelyn was thrilled when I asked her to accompany me to Portland on Thursday, for hadn’t she always wanted to take me shopping in the city, and hadn’t she always wanted to get me into something besides my plain dresses? Her eagerness waned when I informed her that we would shop for photography supplies rather than dresses and shoes, and I am sure she would have abandoned me all together except that I allowed for a quick stop at Mendelson’s. (They are expecting their summer shipment, Evelyn informed me. “Fabric comes in choices beyond gray and brown, you are aware of that, aren’t you?”) I would go without Evelyn except that I need her assistance in navigating the streets and finding the various shops.
I have my list, but only the vaguest notion of where I will find everything. I can be certain of this?—?it will cost me dearly. As I counted my savings this morning and prepared myself for the knowledge that I might spend it all in one fell swoop, I could not help but hear Mother’s voice of reproval: a woman should never depend on marriage alone to keep her safe, as any number of tragedies could befall her, and we must always be prepared for the worst. Hers is the voice of experience, I know all too well, but I will not heed it.
I refuse to assume a long, dreary life. I would prefer to spend every last penny, if need be, and visit every druggist from here to San Francisco; I would place all my faith in something mysterious and joyful and surprising, even if it fails me in the end. And well it might. I have sense enough to know that I might delude myself, that in all likelihood this lies beyond my ability and artistry, perhaps even beyond my faith, but then I think of Allen and know precisely what he would say?—?nothing is impossible. Take one step, and then another, and see where the path leads. Don’t think of the obstacles, only the way around them.
Thursday, then, it is Portland. And tomorrow, I will look for birds.