1
Stikine River Wilderness, Alaska; November 1888
They were all going to die. The only question was how long it would take.
Bryony Wetherby dipped a wooden spoon into the pot over the fire and stirred the soup, trying not to think of how it steamed and swirled against the air that grew colder with each passing day. Trying not to think of how her fingertips were so cold they ached and the big toe on her left foot was numb.
And it was only the beginning of November. Not late November or December. But she was already fighting frostbite.
“Bryony, come here and look at this.” Her father’s voice filled the campsite. “I think I found a new species of lichen.”
Bryony looked over to where her father and Dr. Ottingford were crouched on the ground near a boulder on the outskirts of the camp. Behind the boulder, a glacial lake filled the valley, its water a creamy turquoise color from the minerals of melted glaciers.
“I think it’s a member of theStereocaulonfamily.” Her father studied the lichen through his magnifying glass, his snowy white hair sticking up from his scalp in odd directions, as though he’d scratched it a half-dozen times while studying the new flora. “But I’ve never seen one with a gray hue.”
“Yes, I agree. It’s definitely part of theStereocaulonfamily.” Dr. Ottingford, her father’s research associate, nodded as he examined the specimen. The man’s balding head made him appear fifteen years older than his true age.
“Hurry and grab that journal.” Her father looked over at her, and she was tempted to laugh at his hair jutting every which way. But his brow was furrowed into lines of irritation. “Walter here will collect a sample to take back to Washington, DC.”
She almost asked her father what the point was of recording anything about the lichen, when it seemed more and more likely they would die in the Alaskan wilderness, surrounded by towering mountains and rocky valleys that didn’t contain enough soil to grow any vegetation they could eat.
Ten weeks. That’s how long they’d gone on like this after their guide was killed in a bear attack. At first they hadn’t been worried. After they buried their guide, her father and Dr. Ottingford had decided to collect samples for a few more days. After all, the Department of the Interior had commissioned their study on the flora and fauna of Southeast Alaska, and her father had wanted a chance to conclude the research he’d been working on at the higher elevations near the Stikine Icefield for most of the summer.
But that was when they assumed they’d be able to find their way back to the river. Or to a stream. Or to anything that might lead them to the place they’d beached their canoes on the banks of the mighty Stikine River and headed inland.
“Bryony?” Impatience laced her father’s voice. “Didn’t you hear me? I need the journal.”
“Come eat, and I’ll record your observations after dinner.” Not that she could call the three handfuls of edible roots she’d thrown into the stewpot much of a dinner. It was flavored broth, at best, and probably not enough to sustain them through the night and into the morning. But it was the only thing they had.
“Get the journal.” Her father’s voice grew louder, echoing over the forgotten valley and into the crags of the mountains towering around them. “This is too important to wait.”
She sighed, then left the spoon in the simmering pot and grabbed the journal she was using to sketch her findings. She headed toward her father and Dr. Ottingford, who were studying a snow lichen with small, grayish-white leaves that covered a series of smaller rocks beside the boulder. She knelt on the ground beside them, causing the cold to seep into her skirt and the thin trousers she wore beneath it.
Her father gave her a moment to open to the correct page and take out her pencil before he continued.
“Note how dense the coverage is, and that the leaves are more gray than white.” He reached out and brushed one of the leaves with his finger, then rattled off a list of observations about the size and shape of the leaves, the density of the coverage, and how the lichen grew in both sunny and shaded areas.
Bryony recorded every detail, just as she’d been doing for the past fourteen years. She even asked about the vegetation growing around the lichen and recorded a few notes before finally sketching a picture.
“The leaves look too feathery. Create a more defined edge.” Her father peered over her shoulder. “Don’t you think the leaves need to be more defined, Walter?”
Dr. Ottingford carefully scraped a small sample of the lichen off the boulder and placed it between two sheets of herbarium paper before straightening and looking at the journal. “Yes, make them a bit more distinct if you could, Miss Wetherby.”
Bryony did as asked, waiting until both men nodded their approval and read over her notes before she closed the journal. “Now can we eat dinner?”
Her father blinked, as though just now remembering they needed to eat at least a few bites of food if they wanted to keep from starving. He got like this when he was focused on something, almost as though eating and drinking and not dying of hypothermia were all somehow secondary to studying vegetation.
“Right. Yes. Let’s eat dinner.” He scratched the side of his head, which caused yet another tuft of white hair to stick out at an odd angle. “What did you prepare?”
“A stew made primarily with roots.” It was the only thing they could eat on the cusp of winter. The wild blueberries had ripened and died months ago, the fireweed stalks that could be eaten as young shoots were now brown and tough. And the glacier lilies, whose bulbs could be eaten, had also died. The only way to find food was to dig up edible roots. Either that or hunt, but that had been their guide’s job, and they’d struggled to find food ever since he died.
“That’s it? Root stew?” Her father raised a bushy white eyebrow, then slid a hand over his flat belly. He was older than most scientists who went on expeditions, but his lithe form, good health, and experience made him fast and skilled.
Unfortunately, he wasn’t very skilled at planning. He never had been. Which was why he was now frowning at her, his hand still resting over his stomach. “I’m rather hungry tonight. Didn’t we skip lunch?”
“Yes.” And breakfast had been the same roots, only she’d fried them in a pan over the fire rather than boiling them in a stew.
“Can’t you make something with the jerky or pemmican? Maybe cook up some biscuits and fry it over the fire for sandwiches?”
