any more stories to tell?
Byrne follows the course of Arcturus Creek to the till plain. Here he dismounts again and leads the horse. This flat stretch of sand, gravel, and braided streams has lengthened in the years since he was last here. Dividing it are the moraines, curving outerworks of recessional rubble, resembling the concentric walls of an ancient Celtic fortress. Each time he struggles to the top of a moraine, Byrne finds that the glacier is still farther away than he thought it would be.
Twelve years before, when the expedition established its base camp here, the glacier terminus was a high wall of cracked pinnacles surrounding a wide cave entrance. He fancied it resembled a giant marble foot, all that remained of some forgotten colossus. Now there is only a rounded slope buried at its end in a mound of wet mud and rock, the debris laid bare by recession.
Perhaps this is a landscape better suited to a rational new century.
In the evening he returns to the old settlement and sets up camp near the cabin he entered before.Night falls swiftly and the mare, tethered to a krummholz stand, lifts the black silhouette of her head against the moonlit clouds.
Byrne leaves the dying fire and crawls inside the
cabin.
10
My Dear Loved Ones:
Iâm sure youâve been wondering at the long delay since I last wrote, and now that the mail service has been restored, I can tell you the reason. Weâve just had a flood.
Apparently a dam of loose ice built up downstream, and with the spring melt already underway, there was a lot of water coming down from the glaciers. I woke up on the first morning of the flood to see ducks paddling down a river that had once been the road past the chalet. I also heard that a black bear, driven away from its feeding grounds by the rising water, took refuge on the roof of Mr. Traskâs house. For the next three days our little corner of the world could have been described in one word: slush.
When the dam burst, slabs of blue ice tumbled down the swollen river, surfacing and diving like sapphire dolphins. Trees were sheared off the crumbling banks. Further down the valley in Jasper, the ground buckled and doors no longer closed. Headstones in thecemetery sank into the spongy earth. The ends of coffins rose up like the prows of sinking ships.
The Anglican church, a hopeful wooden structure, collapsed during the first night of the flood. In the morning the townspeople found a saint standing in the river, grounded upright on a gravel bar. The wooden statue wobbled unsteadily in the rushing current, birds perched on one of its outstretched, nut-brown arms.
Two days ago it was snowing, and yesterday I was helping with the cleanup and got a bit of a sunburn. It feels wonderful to be outside a lot more though, even with this crazy weather.
I must close now. Morning comes very early, and I have a full day ahead. A world of love. From your loving daughter,
Elspeth
11
The morning after the glasshouse party she is in the chaletâs front parlour, sipping hot Earl Grey tea from an eggshell china cup.
From her window, she can just make out a climbing team struggling up the glacier against blowing snow. Five tiny figures huddled together, crawling slowlyforward up the slope. The alpinists from Zermatt.
Elspeth blows on the surface of the steaming tea, sips from it, raises her head and listens.
Above the sound of the wind, she hears the distant crack and crumple of an avalanche. The thin glass in the windowframe rattles. She glances out. It takes her a moment to find the source, a slender white plume flowing down a dark seam of Mount Arcturus. The avalanche is high on the mountain and the alpinists are in no danger, but they stand motionless, watching as the cascade of snow and ice bursts over a rock ledge.
So graceful and delicate from this distance, as if unconnected to the thunder echoing across the valley. At the glasshouse party Byrne had told her there could be chunks of ice the
Byrne follows the course of Arcturus Creek to the till plain. Here he dismounts again and leads the horse. This flat stretch of sand, gravel, and braided streams has lengthened in the years since he was last here. Dividing it are the moraines, curving outerworks of recessional rubble, resembling the concentric walls of an ancient Celtic fortress. Each time he struggles to the top of a moraine, Byrne finds that the glacier is still farther away than he thought it would be.
Twelve years before, when the expedition established its base camp here, the glacier terminus was a high wall of cracked pinnacles surrounding a wide cave entrance. He fancied it resembled a giant marble foot, all that remained of some forgotten colossus. Now there is only a rounded slope buried at its end in a mound of wet mud and rock, the debris laid bare by recession.
Perhaps this is a landscape better suited to a rational new century.
In the evening he returns to the old settlement and sets up camp near the cabin he entered before.Night falls swiftly and the mare, tethered to a krummholz stand, lifts the black silhouette of her head against the moonlit clouds.
Byrne leaves the dying fire and crawls inside the
cabin.
10
My Dear Loved Ones:
Iâm sure youâve been wondering at the long delay since I last wrote, and now that the mail service has been restored, I can tell you the reason. Weâve just had a flood.
Apparently a dam of loose ice built up downstream, and with the spring melt already underway, there was a lot of water coming down from the glaciers. I woke up on the first morning of the flood to see ducks paddling down a river that had once been the road past the chalet. I also heard that a black bear, driven away from its feeding grounds by the rising water, took refuge on the roof of Mr. Traskâs house. For the next three days our little corner of the world could have been described in one word: slush.
When the dam burst, slabs of blue ice tumbled down the swollen river, surfacing and diving like sapphire dolphins. Trees were sheared off the crumbling banks. Further down the valley in Jasper, the ground buckled and doors no longer closed. Headstones in thecemetery sank into the spongy earth. The ends of coffins rose up like the prows of sinking ships.
The Anglican church, a hopeful wooden structure, collapsed during the first night of the flood. In the morning the townspeople found a saint standing in the river, grounded upright on a gravel bar. The wooden statue wobbled unsteadily in the rushing current, birds perched on one of its outstretched, nut-brown arms.
Two days ago it was snowing, and yesterday I was helping with the cleanup and got a bit of a sunburn. It feels wonderful to be outside a lot more though, even with this crazy weather.
I must close now. Morning comes very early, and I have a full day ahead. A world of love. From your loving daughter,
Elspeth
11
The morning after the glasshouse party she is in the chaletâs front parlour, sipping hot Earl Grey tea from an eggshell china cup.
From her window, she can just make out a climbing team struggling up the glacier against blowing snow. Five tiny figures huddled together, crawling slowlyforward up the slope. The alpinists from Zermatt.
Elspeth blows on the surface of the steaming tea, sips from it, raises her head and listens.
Above the sound of the wind, she hears the distant crack and crumple of an avalanche. The thin glass in the windowframe rattles. She glances out. It takes her a moment to find the source, a slender white plume flowing down a dark seam of Mount Arcturus. The avalanche is high on the mountain and the alpinists are in no danger, but they stand motionless, watching as the cascade of snow and ice bursts over a rock ledge.
So graceful and delicate from this distance, as if unconnected to the thunder echoing across the valley. At the glasshouse party Byrne had told her there could be chunks of ice the
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