A different sky, a different hemisphere, the same grief. Immensity, whether a starry tapestry overhead or sitting atop some mountain, is a good antidote to sorrow and death.
I withdrew from my daypack an old battered collection of the sonnets of Edna St. Vincent Millay. The cracked binding fell open to the page, as if the volume knew what the moment required. To me, the words had become an anthem for this modern plague.
Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.
I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.
I sat there, watching the sun cross the sky, watching the great river flow, metaphorically like time, down to the sea of eternity, until day’s end nudged me with a chilling touch. I closed the book, replacing it in the pack, slipped on my shirt, and stood looking over the Gorge as the sun, like some fellow traveler, began taking its leave into the west. I whispered Cal’s name. Here we go our separate ways, my friend. Godspeed on yours. Then set off down the mountain to continue my own journey, alone.
His ashes were sent back to Oklahoma.
Friday, February 24, 1995
10:58 p.m.
Providence Hospital, Portland, Oregon
Sometimes I’m wandering in a blizzard, knee-deep in snow, unable to see six feet in front of me. Sometimes it’s spring, the brush and heath decked out in their dusty-drab, Down Under version of green. Sometimes it’s autumn. Yet always the same dream: I’m lost. I’m alone. And I’m looking for someone.
“For your partner, Gray?” O’Shaughnessy asks.
“No. Even in the dream I know he’s dead. Someone else. I’m looking for someone else.”
• • •
Opening my eyes, I squint against the fluorescent light, grounding myself once more in this second-floor waiting room as the dreamscape fades. Must have dozed off. The room remains empty, hospital sounds murmur and hum and ping in a low-level audio blur. Otherwise it’s quiet. Less trauma and drama than the first-floor waiting room next to ER. This is for the long-term emergencies. Like me.
I pull myself up in the chair, checking the clock on the wall. Approaching eleven. But I’m operating on East Coast time; as far as my body is concerned, it’s 2:00 a.m. Too bad I’ve never been able to sleep on planes, buses, trains, in cars— anything that’s not my bed— so unlike Gray, who could sleep on a roller coaster. A flicker on the television screen draws my attention. Eleven o’clock news. I find the remote and listlessly aim it at the TV, taking it off mute.
“Tonight, a major setback in the Department of Justice’s investigation into allegations of corruption by members of the Portland Police Bureau . . .”
I’m immediately, fully awake. The story has been dominating local news, and, like most of the city, I’ve been watching since it broke in early January.
“The primary witness in the Department of Justice’s investigation was shot this afternoon by an unknown assailant and is at this hour reported to be in critical condition. The witness, whose identity has not been released, presented evidence alleging extortion and civil rights abuses by members of the police bureau . . .”
The anchor goes to a reporter on scene at the hospital, this hospital, who is downstairs and outside in the chilly temperatures. She has little to add, so she notes the heavy police presence, that the witness remains in critical condition and is under round-the-clock guard. She reminds viewers there is still a second witness, a police officer named Blake O’Connor, who recently came forward to testify. He looks young in the official department photograph shown on the screen. Third-generation police officer, I’d read. His face and name have been in the news during the past week. Originally, his identity was suppressed, but once leaked by the grunge press, he was identified by the mainstream media as well. By testifying against his fellow officers, O’Connor was breaking the police’s unwritten Code of Silence— the same code, it was pointed out, as the criminal underworld’s. A recent editorial in The Oregonian commended the young officer for his courage and integrity, hailing him as a true representative of the men and women who loyally serve Portland on the police force. The mayor praised him. The police chief praised him. He was toast.
At the end of the newscast, I switch off the television and feel a new heaviness descend over me. I know more about this investigation than I should, more even than the police or the FBI. I know way too much . . .
Chapter Four
The Mount Bogong Tragedy
[Northern Victoria, Australia, October 1984]
On August 5, 1936, three men set off from Hotham Heights on a skiing expedition to Mount Bogong. All were experienced skiers. Cleve Cole, thirty-seven years old, was a leader of the Lone Scout organization in Melbourne and co-author of a book on scouting; Howard Michell, twenty-three, was the scion of a wealthy textile family in South Australia; Percy E. “Mick” Hull from Hawthorn, Victoria, also twenty-three, was well familiar with the highlands. They were in good spirits when they departed. They would be the first men to cross the high plains in winter. Their plan was to ski up the summit of Mount Bogong, then on to the Staircase Hut, where they’d left a cache of provisions for their return trip. They never made it to the hut.
I learned of the famous disaster on my first trip into the Bogong High Plains. It was 1984. I was new to Australia, and Gray was so excited to show me the region. We stopped in Glen Valley, a jumping-off point to the numerous bushwalking trails and campsites. I was still adjusting to Aussie terms: While he pumped the petrol (gasoline), I went inside the milk bar (convenience shop) to use the loo (toilet) and buy some biscuits (cookies) for our tea (dinner). In there, I found a wall display filled with flashy, touristy brochures of the Victorian Alps: Mount Hotham, Mount Beauty, Mount Bogong, and the high plains that lie amid them. To a person from the Pacific Northwest, calling them “mountains” and “alps” seemed a misrepresentation. These terms must be understood in the context of the largely horizontal topography of Australia, the flattest of the seven continents. Mount Bogong, the highest “peak” in Victoria, rises to only about 6,500 feet and appears more like a rounded hilltop. Among the brochures, I also found an older sun-bleached, flyspecked pamphlet, mimeographed on cheap paper. The title in faded ink read, THE MT. BOGONG TRAGEDY. I took one, along with the chocolate biscuits, and read it as we got back on the road.
On August 6, the three skiers had been overtaken by a sudden blizzard. They dug a snow cave where they waited three days for the storm to end. But on August 9, running low on food, they decided to make a break for the Staircase Hut. They soon became lost in the whiteout conditions and for the next five days wandered with little food, exposed to sub-freezing temperatures and severe winds. On Friday, August 14, they finally descended Mount Bogong into the rugged and largely un-surveyed Big River Valley country. By then, suffering from exhaustion, hunger and hypothermia, too weak even to continue carrying their sleeping bags and gear, they dumped them and tried to find their way through the thickly timbered wilderness with its steep ravines. They had matches to start a fire, and now wood, but their fingers were too badly frostbitten to use them. Cole’s feet were blistered, making it impossible for him to walk any farther, so they decided Michell would go for help. The remaining two men took shelter in a hollow log. According to Hull’s later account, after three days Cleve Cole lost hope that Michell had made it through, and at that point he seemed to lose his will to live. Hull woke later that night to find his companion missing and went out looking for him. Discovering him unconscious and partially covered in snow, Hull managed to drag him back to their log. By that time, he, too, doubted they would be found alive.
But the night before, on Sunday, August 16, Michell had reached Glen Valley, stumbling