To the Bright Edge of the World

by Eowyn Ivey

Pruitt walked between the boulders, inspecting their surface. It was then that he noticed the petroglyphs.

As we sit beside the fire, which produces more smoke than heat, we have tried to set straight our recollections of last night’s occurrences. So much is unexplained. What is it that we witnessed? The terror, absurd as it seems, has not entirely left us. The storm came upon us swiftly. The dark clouds streamed across the mountaintop & moved amongst us, the air turned icy & wet, so our clothes were soaked through, our faces damp. The midnight sun was blotted out. They walked out of the fog. Yet how can I say they walked? They were only shadows in the windblown mist. Arms, hands, howling mouths. Bitter cold, their touch. Some were of human form, while others were great lumbering beasts. Confusion swept through us. We were all out of our sleeping bags. Boyo barked madly in all directions as if birds threatened him from above. Nat’aaggi drew her bow, then knelt & wept. Tillman called for his mother. I heard Pruitt scream from far away.

Even with Pruitt’s pathetic state, I am proud of these men. There were many who thought this expedition impossible, to travel up the Wolverine River, to cross this divide into the heart of Alaska. Yet here we stand. We made the long, steady march up from the coast 500 miles. Ahead of us is yet 1,000 miles to the sea, but we will travel through land charted by white men. We will float at ease down rivers, rather than drag sledges & skin boats up them. There will be trading posts to restock our provisions.

Several times I have walked down to the Columbia River as far as the orchard,

Native children were abused for many years by missionaries and teachers at territorial government schools. How do those effects trickle down through generations? How do we help families get out of patterns of alcoholism and addiction and domestic violence? These are real problems. But when we use terms like subjugation and loss and the desire to “preserve culture,” it devalues and limits people in a way

When I’m reading these diaries and letters, more than anything, I’m thrilled, both as a historian and as a member of the tribe. We know so little about the

precolonial Wolverine River, and the Colonel’s diaries are rich in information.

The missionary’s wife fed us our first real meal in four months, including fried eggs, bread, potatoes, & turnips, all sprinkled with generous amounts of salt. She has welcomed us all, although she serves Nat’aaggi

—Do you read the Bible, Colonel? he asked. I admitted that I did not. Religion has never held much interest for me.

There is hope in our wanting to be something better, even if we never manage it. Maybe that is what I can hold to. The wanting. Do

He officially resigns his commission.

Nat’aaggi left this morning at dawn. I watched as she & Boyo disappeared into the willows. She carried her bow & quiver of arrows; she & the dog both wore their packs.

Lieut. Col. Allen Forrester August 20, 1885 Aboard the USS Corwin bound for San Francisco

We will pack up our camp, your camera too, & we will go to the wilderness, you & I. Yosemite, yes.

style with flat, square base, oval mouth, folds in bark at either end. Reinforced with spruce root stitching. Used for gathering and storage of food. Also for cooking by filling it with water and heated rocks.

I’m also sending you a photocopy of the mining claim for the Gertie Lode that began the gold rush here in Alpine.

hadn’t noticed the names before, but now I recognize them—Samuelson and Boyd!

Why don’t you come up here and visit us in Alaska? I can already guess your arguments about why it wouldn’t work, but before you say no, give me a chance. We’ve got it all figured out. You could fly up this summer for just a week or two. My cousin owns a rafting business, and he has already said that he would be happy to

As for Sophie’s photographs, the Anderson Museum burned in 1965. The family had donated her photographs, plates, and camera equipment to the museum, and all of it was destroyed. What you have there is all that’s left.

Yet visit her home on a quiet little pond outside of Portland,

For nearly four decades, Mrs. Forrester photographed the birds of Washington, Oregon, and the Alaska Territory.

have only ever been truly frightened of boredom and loneliness,” she says.

This novel was very much inspired by the real-life 1885 journey into Alaska led by Lieutenant Henry T. Allen.

Eowyn was raised in Alaska and continues to live there with her husband and two daughters.