Eye of the Beholder

By J.M. Stenfors

Ever since Esther Mendenhall handled her first camera, she dreamed of photographing the American West.  She shared her vision with one other person, Bridie Callahan – her best friend.

 

Esther reached adulthood just as America became embroiled in a tumultuous era of change, called the Progressive Era.  This new society suited Esther well as she had no desire to assume traditional female roles – wife, mother, caregiver or teacher.  Educated in the public school system, trained as a photographer by her father, and blessed with natural business sense, Esther worked along side her father in his Custom Engraving and Photography Shop.  Then circumstances changed; Esther's father died and her mother – unable to live without a man to take care of her – married hastily.  In a matter of months, Esther's stepfather – a petty thief – nearly ruined her father's shop.  In the wake of the tragedy, Esther almost gave up on her dream.

 

Help came from an unexpected source – a wealthy land owner from Texas who had met Esther and her father at a charity auction.  Esther and her father photographed the event.  Willa was the only other person, besides Bridie, who knew about Esther's dream.  Willa McKinnis sent her condolences and asked Esther if she wanted to come to Gales Creek Ranch to photograph the land and its people.  Humphrey- her stepfather, for reasons of his own -insisted on escorting Esther to Texas.  He also demanded Esther introduce him as her father's partner and fellow photographer.  In a matter of days after he arrived at the ranch, Willa discovered Humphrey's scam – to charge higher fees because of his so-called expertise.  She sent him packing.  Willa became Esther's mentor and financial backer.  She, also, sent for Bridie Callahan, Esther's best friend.  That spring and part of the summer, while Esther photograph the Gales Creek Ranch and its people, Paco – Willa's favorite wrangler – train Bridie and her to survive in the West.  When they went out on their own, they were fully equipped – thanks to Willa's generosity.

 

Esther's journey took her and Bridie from the deep canyons and spectacular deserts of the Southwest to the deep blue lakes and snowcapped mountains of the Pacific Northwest.  Along the way, they met exceptional people who eagerly shared their part of the American West with them.  Archaeologist, Native Americans, pioneers, conservationist, immigrants and guides help them understand the complexity of the land.  One such person was Samuel Bidderman, owner of A Traveler's Magazine, who introduced Esther and Bridie to the newly emerging tourist industry – aimed at the expanding middle-class.  A group of people who now found themselves with leisure time and extra money in their pockets and readily accessible transportation – like the railroad.  Esther and Bridie, also, shared Samuel's interests in conservation – he even devoted space in his magazine for the subject.  Samuel hired Esther as the lead photographer for his magazine; along the way, he and Esther fell in love.

 

Then in 1906 at the height of her career, Esther and her photographs disappeared from the public's view.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J.M. Stenfors
• Release date: Aug 20, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201090791

J.M. Stenfors

J.M. Stenfors is a writer and author of the novel Navy Blue, a historical romance set during World War II.  She is an avid reader of historical novels, loves traveling in the American West and cannot past a historical marker without reading it.  She combined her two interests and one oddity to write several other historical novels featuring unconventional, independent and adventurous women in the Gilded Age and the Progressive Era.  Her novels are Thunder in the Mountain, Quest of the Heart, and Eye of the Beholder.  Joelene earned a Bachelor of Science Degree in Economics at Sam Houston State University in Huntsville, Texas.  She lives with her family and a version of Grumpy Cat, Rosie, in the beautiful Pacific Northwest in Hillsboro, Oregon.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Seattle – July 2007

Adam Edon, a renowned restoration architect in the Seattle area, entered the building and sneezed violently.  Adam, a handsome man, stood nearly six feet tall; his trim, muscular body and deeply tanned face betrayed his passion for rowing on Lake Washington.  Today, he traded in his expensive suit of an executive for a pair of worn jeans and a blue plaid flannel shirt favored by outdoor workers in the Northwest.  His sturdy hiking boots, more common to mountain trails then boardrooms, left a trail of footprints in the dust.  He carried two yellow construction helmets, a clipboard, and an industrial size flashlight even though the weak winter sun shined through the dingy windows.  Adam's keenly intelligent, hazel-colored eyes adjusted to the dusty gloom.  He, for some unaccountable reason, felt like an intruder.

The hotel – solid in its foundation – stood abandon for more than three decades; that the sprawling city of Seattle never condemned the project for its own use, puzzled Adam.  He shook his head and continued looking around.  With surprise, he found most of the windows intact which explained the lack of debris inside.  Caretakers-living on the property- prevented an invasion of the homeless and the attentions of vandals; Adam also noticed that gardeners preserved the extensive grounds, especially those close to the building.

Well, Adam, what do you think? asked Edon's mentor and friend.  Older by a month, Ethan Ludlow shared the same passion for rowing as did Adam; they met at their rowing club and formed a fast friendship.  He walked past Adam and then turned around to face the other man.  Dressed in neatly pressed woolen slacks and a handsome Irish Fisherman's sweater, Ethan looked out of place, like a swan in a barnyard.  His outfit was more suited for his executive club than a stroll through a hundred-year-old hotel, abandon for three decades.  Already dust and grime clung to his expensive sneakers

Adam could not resist teasing Ethan. Looks like someone missed the memo about the dress code for this meeting.  The younger man lifted an eyebrow. White tennis shoes, Ethan, really!

The other man looked sheepishly.  The charity luncheon ran longer than I expected. . . I didn’t get home to change.  He switched to another subject.  What do you think of my White Elephant?

Bought it yet? asked Adam, grinning.

Ethan, pretending insult, glared at his young friend.  You know I don't buy real estate until my experts examine it thoroughly.

Then, let’s go said Adam, handing Ethan a safety mask and a yellow safety helmet.

Are these necessary?

Adam looked stern. Yes, if you go with me.

Ludlow nodded, tying the mask across his mouth and nose.  He put on the helmet.  I’ll show you the way.

So, you’ve explored it before?

Ethan, nodding. had a wishful look on his face. My grandfather propose to his wife in the old Portico Restaurant . . . they celebrated their anniversary every year there – except for the three years when he served in the military.  She died one year after the Portico burned.  I plan to rebuild it.

A little over two hours later, the two men finished their tour -ending in a suite of rooms on the first floor just beyond the large reception desk.  The residential manager lived there when the hotel was open.

Well? asked Ethan Ludlow.

Adam looked thoughtful. The hotel is sound . . . unless you want to modernize the guestrooms, I can see no repairs needed.

Ethan shook his head emphatically. The Grand Villa will open as a destination hotel. . .  I want our guests to experience the Gilded Age firsthand.  Owners added Electricity a few years after the hotel open . . . that's as modern as I want to go.

It's a money pit. . . you'll never see a return on your investment, said Adam, knowing he never had to worry about telling Ethan the truth.

Ludlow grinned. Making money is not my objective.

Well, it is a big project but you don't need an architect.  A historical interior decorator is more what you need!

I agree. . . do you think your fiancé, Ms. Robles will work for me? asked Ethan tentatively.

Adam paused.  The feud between Ethan Ludlow and Julie Robles, Adam’s fiancé, was epic; at least, according to Seattle’s gossips.  It started with an ancient Eskimo carving that both Ethan and Julie bid on.  Julie wanted the artifact for a private museum in Seattle.  Ethan wanted to return it to a tribal museum in Alaska.  Ethan won.  It was not the last time they clashed over native art.

She's a professional. . . call her, said Adam.

Ethan nodded.  But I do need an architect. . . I also intend to rebuild the Portico and I want you to oversee the whole restoration project.

I thought you'd never ask, replied Adam grinning – then he sobered.  Will the Portico Restaurant prevent you from getting the Grand Villa on the National Register?

Ethan smiled. I'm hoping they'll considered just the hotel on its own merits.  Ethan's ringing phone interrupted them; he apologized and walked away to answer it.

Adam wandered towards the French doors; he opened them and stepped into a private overgrown garden.  At the end of the path, he spied a vine covered cottage.  Ethan stepped outside to join his friend.  Adam pointed towards the little house.  Have you ever explored the cottage?

Curious, Ludlow shook his head. I never noticed it before . . . let's see what is inside, shall we? said Ethan.

Although covered with ivy, the cottage appeared sturdy; even its roof resisted the destructive forces of the plant.  Grime and dirt covered the multi-paned windows on either side of a faded red door.

They, entering the cottage, paused on the threshold to stare in surprise.  Dust cloths covered every piece of furniture, including several floor-to-ceiling shelving units.  Dust and cobwebs – decades old – settled over the room where the tracks of mice trailed across the floor. The windows admitted feeble sunlight; lace curtains, faded and hanging in tatters, floated like ghost in the gloom.  Even after years of neglect, a faint chemical odor attacked the noses of the men.  A door led to a backroom. Besides the many shelves, several other pieces of furniture – a small desk, an overstuffed chair, and a potbelly stove – stood covered by cloths.  Two old fashion cameras occupied a corner of the room.

A second surprise awaited the two men as Adam pulled down a cloth – in a shower of powdery dust – from the first section of shelves.  Instead of mouse -ravaged books, the shelves – sitting in various heights – held boxes of different sizes.  He lifted one of the smaller boxes off the long shelf and set it on the cloth cover desk; Adam slid the lid open.

Narrow slots divided the interior of the box – much like a specimen slide holder in a biology class except the slots were bigger – at least, four by five inches.  Adam carefully pulled out a single glass plate.  He held it up to the feeble light.  This is a negative on glass, he said, his voice full of wonder.

Ethan approached; squinting at the glass plate. A negative. . . I have never seen one like that.

Adam nodded. I think experts in this field call this a photographic dry plate. . . an old one, judging by the subject.

They, pulling the covers from other bookshelves, revealed a huge collection of negatives. This can't be just family photos. . . it must be a professional’s collection, said Ethan, plainly excited by the discovery. We need an expert. . . know anyone?

No, but Julie might, replied Adam.

***

A month later Sanjay Patel - with a PhD in Mass Media, specializing in photo restoration - finally met with Adam, Ethan, and Julie at the newly cleaned cottage on the Grand Villa’s grounds.  The tall, handsome Indian apologize for delaying the meeting for so long – he already planned to attend his sister's wedding in New Delhi before Ethan first called.  Sanjay, sitting at a roundtable, studied the other people there.  Julie, he knew of course. He also knew Adam by reputation and from conversations with Julie.  Sanjay was a little in awe of Ethan Ludlow – the well-known billionaire and philanthropist. In academia, Ludlow endowed several scholarship funds and set up grants for many independent projects.

Dr. Patel, thank you for coming, said Ethan, waving his hand around the room.  As you can see, we have inherited a large photography collection and need your help.

Sanjay nodded. Do you have any idea who took them?

Ethan shook his head. That is why we need your expertise.

Sanjay, looking around at the shelves, experience the thrill he always felt when facing the prospect of starting a new project.  What do you want me to do with this collection, Mr. Ludlow?

Ethan was thoughtful.  First, find the name of the photographer. . . if possible.  Then, develop the negatives if they are still viable. And finally, accept them into your university’s historical archives.

Sanjay felt stunned; he assumed once Ludlow learned the name of the photographer, Ethan might auction off the collection . . . the university did not allocate much money to his department for acquiring photographs. That's very generous, sir.  May I ask you why you want the plates developed?

Ethan nodded. When the Grand Villa reopens. . . I want to display them.

Adam looked up in surprise. Where?

The East ballroom, replied Ethan.  He grinned at Adam and Julie.  We’ll discuss the plans later.

Dr. Patel frowned as he glanced at the shelves filled with boxes – literally months, even years of work awaited him if he accepted the assignment.  However, another project occupied his staff and lab now.  Even if his assistant took over the current work, space and equipment and staff still presented a problem.   A shame, he thought, professional collection- such as this one- seldom came along.

Ethan studied the professor.  Dr. Patel, if money is the problem, I intend to fund this entire project. Anything you need, just ask.

Thank you, Mr. Ludlow.  Before I accept, I need to examine some of the plates and see if they are printable."

Adam, getting up, fetched a box and brought it to the table. We open this one and discovered the plates.

What was the condition in this room when you open the box, asked Sanjay.

Ethan spoke, Dust and cobwebs covered everything.

Mold? asked Sanjay.  Nearly every abandoned building – stone or wood – in the rainy Pacific Northwest suffered from the pesky . . .  sometimes deadly fungi.

Ethan looked at Adam with surprised.  The cottage contained none.  Adam nodded agreeing

Patel looked thoughtful. If our unknown photographer used this place as a studio, then the chemicals are strong enough to keep the mold at bay.  In a few months, the chemicals might’ve penetrated the walls.

Adam looked impressed.

Sanjay extracted a pair of nitrate–treated gloves to protect the plates from contaminants, such as oils and acids, from the handler’s hands.  Gloves also protected the wearer's hands from the potentially sharp edges of the plate.

Adam, looking at his bandaged fingers, wished he had thought about gloves and knew about the hazards associated with the glass plates.

Patel, glanced at Adams bandages. An occupational hazard for historical photograph researchers. He lifted the first plate out of the box; blood smudged it.

Adam looked embarrassed. Can you recover it?

Patel shook his head. I'm afraid not. . .the blood contaminated the plate.

Tell us about Dry Plate Photography, asked Ethan.

Sanjay nodded as he replaced the damaged plate.  Dry plates were a vast improvement over Wet plates.  Photographers prepared Wet plates and developed them on-site.  Factories mass-produced Dry plates and sold them in multiple packs to photographers.  Photographers can take photos anywhere and develop them at their convenience.  A popular form of photography but mostly restricted to professionals or wealthy hobbyists.  Inventing film and the small box camera brought photography to the masses.

How will you develop the plates? asked Julie.

Patel smiled. We digitize the glass plates negatives using a lightbox and a DSLR camera.

How were Dry Plates developed back in the 20th century? asked Adam.

Sanjay answered. "Printing Out Paper was the most popular method.  The photographer treated thin paper with photosensitive silver chloride crystals suspended in a gelatin glaze. Then he placed the paper beneath the negative in a special frame.  The photographer exposed the plate to daylight or artificial light until the image develop. Washing the print in water removed the excess chemicals.  He fixed the print with gold or platinum toners to convert the silver into a more stable compound. The photographer washed the print again.  Fixing it with a solution, he allowed it to air-dry.  The print was, then, mounted on a strong card

A long and involved process, Dr. Patel, said Julie. I see why you prefer the modern methods.

Patel studied the storage box; he noticed the name of the manufacturer stamped on the lid.  From his research, Sanjay knew the business failed during the depression.  He lifted the box above his head and read out a name burned into the bottom of the box; E. Mendahall 1903.

Do you have a computer with you Miss Robles? asked Dr. Patel.

Adam laughed. Julie without a computer. . . never, he teased.

Julie, shaking her head at Adam as she took out her computer, address Sanjay.  What are we looking for, Dr. Patel?

Mendahall with the first name beginning with an E . . . Edward, Edgar or Ellis . . . something like that, replied Sanjay.  Patel sat the box on the table again. Curious, he said. I wonder why the first three plates are not in protective envelopes like the rest?

Julie's whoop interrupted his question. I found something.

Who is he? demanded Ethan.

Julie grin. It is not a he. . . the photographer is Esther Mendahall.

Of course, said Dr. Patel, excitement tinged his voice. I should have guessed, one of my graduate students wrote her thesis on women photographers of the Pacific Northwest.  I chided her on the lack of information she had on Miss Mendahall until I tried to search on my own."

Her biography is sketchy, said Julie. "The article says she was born in Chicago in 1878.  Her commercial photographs begin appearing in magazines and travel brochures around 1903.  She became the lead photographer for A Traveler’s Magazine.  Esther worked more than thirty years for Mr. Bidderman.  Julie frowned. That is strange, the article says Miss Mendahall disappeared in 1933.  There is no date of death in the article."

Sanjay, do you know anymore?" asked Adam.

Patel shrugged. "Miss Mendahall was a famous, celebrated photographer, on one hand, and a notorious libertine on the other, sharing an illicit love affair with a full – blooded Indian.  Samuel owned and edited A Traveler’s Magazine; Ephraim, the brother of deceased Samuel, defended Esther publicly many times. "

Ethan interrupted.  . . . was a residential manager at the Grand Villa when an unsolved murder or suicide happened in the hotel.

Julie's eyes widened. Tell us more.

Can't, replied Ethan.  Some notes on the hotel mentioned the scandal . . .  I never followed it up.  I'm no detective.

Adam laughed.  He knew Ethan researched all his projects to death; historical restoration needed strict attention to detail.

Then Patel, getting up, walked along the bookcases until he reached the last box on the last shelf. He lifted it above his head E. Mendahall 1906.  He, reading out loud, looked at the group. Miss Mendahall had a showing in San Francisco in 1906. She survived the earthquake but Miss Mendahall claimed fire destroyed all of her dry plates – her lifework.  How do you suppose these plates got here?

Ethan shook his head and lifted up another box.  Opening it, he found the box contained a number of journals. It seems our Miss Esther Mendahall is a woman of mystery but her friend, Bridie Callahan Stuart, was not.

Chapter 2

Grand Canyon – August 1903

Take a step back, Mr. Jamison, if you don't mind, called Esther Mendahall, standing on the rocks above him as she adjusted her bulky camera.  The man, standing with the majesty of the Grand Canyon as a backdrop, made a spectacular shot.

The handsome guide, standing still at the edge of the precipice, grinned.  If I step back, Miss Mendahall, I need to learn how to fly.

Esther looked up; her guide, indeed, stood at the edge of a long drop.  She took the photograph I'm sorry, Mr. Jamison. . . I never intended to put your life in danger, she said sincerely.  Please do come away quickly. 

Jamison smiled again; his dark eyes glowed with humor as he nimbly jumped from his perch.  His long strides brought him to Esther’s side where he stood at least six inches taller than she did.  He overrode Esther’s objections as he easily lifted her camera and started back along the path.  Esther walked behind him – enjoying the view.  His back muscles rippled beneath his homespun shirt; well-worn jeans encased his legs.  Apache moccasins, similar to ones she and Bridie wore, ran up almost to his knees.  It was hard to guess his age, but Esther thought him to be thirty something. 

A low rumble of thunder startled them as they climbed the path towards Hermit Rest Road; they both looked up.  The brilliant blue sky hurt their eyes.  Only wisps of white clouds, driven by the wind aloft, skidded by.  Still, Mr. Jamison increase the pace.  He pulled her along the steep path.  Esther did not protest; in her short stay at the canyon so far, Esther heard harrowing stories about the canyon's fierce weather – sometimes turning lethal.

Esther, Mr. Jamison . . . hurry, called Bridie from somewhere above them.  Esther's friend sounded worry.  A storm comes quickly.

Jamison stop where the trail split. Please, wait here. . . I'll get Bridie.

But, she protested.

He changed his mind. There's a deep overhang down the other trail. . . get to the cavern before the rain starts!  Still, she hesitated. You must trust me. . . I know this country, he said.

When he reached the trailhead, the wind blew dust and debris down Hermits Rest Road.  Bridie fought hard to control the spooked mules as she glanced nervously at the bank of thunderheads rolling towards them.  Jamison shoved Esther's camera under the canvas in the back of the buckboard.  He came around the wagon and climbed up; he took control of the mules. 

Unhitch the wagon, he shouted, knowing her able to complete the task.  After all, the women traveled to the canyon in a converted sheepherder’s wagon.  They quickly freed the mules who lost no time running towards the canyon's village.

Mr. Jamison. . .

He had no time to argue; he, dragging Bridie along, returned to the back of the wagon.  He shoved two bedrolls into her arms.  He grabbed another bedroll, a rifle, a lantern and a bag of food. He also handed two canteens to Bridie.  We must hurry, he said.  A bolt of lightning struck a tree and thunder boomed overhead, as if the storm warned them to move on.

Don't looked down, whispered Esther to herself.  Of course, her eyes immediately strayed to the edge of the trail which dropped away sharply to the canyon floor.  Esther leaned forward for a look; suddenly she felt like she was falling.  Esther jerked back, pressing her body against the wall of rock behind her; she shook like a frightened rabbit.  Juan Joseph and Mary, she swore softly – borrowing Bridie’s favorite curse.  Esther looked down at her feet encased in Apache moccasins that ended just below her knees. They, covered with thick dust, were much more practical than her regular shoes. Through their soft souls, Esther felt the solid earth beneath her feet.  She took a tentative step and then another. Don't look down, she whispered – this time she listened to her own advice.

A few minutes later, Esther rounded the point and found herself facing Jamison's shelter; immediately she wanted her camera.  The trail wound back into a small horseshoe canyon – a colorful array of rock cliffs soared to the rim.  Near the middle of the curve, a large outcropping of red rock sheltered part of the trail.  A dark shadow marked an opening to a cave.  Suddenly Jamison's first warning entered her head: always assume humans or more likely, animals occupied any cave in the park - approach with caution.  Esther immediately looked around. She found a small limb, barely larger than her arm.  She grimaced; the branch made an ineffective weapon. Then Jamison’s second warning came to mind; when approaching a cave, make a noise to warn the occupants that you’re there.

Roll out the barrel, sang Esther loudly as she walked quickly along the path.  She watched as dark clouds rolled across the sky.  She felt relieved when she reached the outcropping.

A rousing rendition, Miss, said a voice from within the cave.

Esther turned quickly.  Coming in from the light, she was nearly blind.  Juan Joseph and Mary, she swore roundly as her heart beat rapidly in her chest.  Esther held up her branch defensively. Come out, she demanded.

A deep rumble of laughter came at her from the dark. I hesitate ma’am. . . do you intend to hit me with that weapon? he asked.

Esther – her eyes beginning to adjust – saw the figure of a tall man. He took a step towards her.  Esther, feeling uneasy, took a step back. As they stared at one another, lightning lit up the cavern – minutes later, the boom of thunder echoed off the walls.  Esther, startled, dropped her branch. Then the rain began in earnest.

Bridie, Jamison, she said, turning towards the entrance.

The stranger grabbed Esther's arm. You can't go out there . . .  it's too dangerous.

Esther was trying to break away when Jamison entered the cave. Seeing the struggle, he brought his rifle up.  Let her go, he said menacingly. The two people froze; the sound of the rain had covered Jamison's approach.

No, shouted Esther, moving in front of the stranger.

Lightning struck again, briefly brightening the cave. Thunder crashed seconds later.  God Almighty, swore Bridie running into the cavern. Bear, mountain lion or rattlesnake. . . I don't care.  I refuse to stay out there any longer.  Bridie stopped speaking abruptly.

In the brief flare of the light, Jamison caught a glimpse of the stranger's face. Ryder, where in the hell did you come from?

The other man laughed. Up the Hermit Rest Trail.

As they spoke, the storm clouds blocked out the sun; the inside of the cave grew pitch-black. Nobody move, said Jamison.  I’ll light the lantern.  When he did, it cast the feeble light over the group.

Ryder, seeing both Bridie and Jamison drenched and shivering, spoke.  My supplies are further back in the cave.   A fellow traveler left some firewood.  I have a change of clothes . . . they are clean, I assure you.  While the storm hovered over them, no one tried to carry on a conversation.  Ryder searched through his knapsack and found his extra clothes – a plaid shirt for Bridie and Levi's for Jamison.  Then he attended to the fire and soon the smell of coffee filled the air.  Esther took the lantern to recover their gear; when she returned, she carried Jamison's rifle with an ease of someone familiar with weapons.

An hour passed before the storm subsided into a gentle rain. They finally conversed together without yelling.  Jamison introduced Esther and Bridie to Scott Ryder, his friend from New Hampshire.

Bridie, wrapped in one of Ryder's oversize shirts, smiled.  What brings you to the Grand Canyon Mr. Ryder? Her flirty Irish accent intrigued Scott.

He smiled. I am a geologist. . . I study rocks, fossils and anything connected to the earth’s creation. I am also an amateur archaeologist.

And what do you do as an archaeologist? she asked.

Scott smiled again. I study the ruins of ancient civilizations. . . Indian civilizations.  He noticed Esther's interest.

Does the Grand Canyon have any Indian Ruins? she asked.

Jamison shook his head. Never found any.

But you saw them elsewhere, persisted Esther.

Their guide nodded but refused comment further.

Bridie took up the conversation. Mr. Ryder, how did you meet Jamison?

Scott laughed – something he did often.  Jamison found me stranded at the bottom of the canyon. . . a typical Eastern tenderfoot duped by a slick operator.  Jamison organized my camp, brought his mules down to transport my gear, and agreed to guide me for the rest of my visit.  About every two years I hire him to guide me to different sites in the territory.

Like Indian ruins, asked Esther.

Scott looked at Jamison.  I'm afraid I waited too long to engage Johnson’s services. . . you ladies beat me to the punch, he said, neatly avoiding Esther's question.  Ryder knew Jamison did not normally include Indian ruins in his guided trips.  The guide felt tourist did not properly respect the sites.

Bridie smiled; ignoring the tension. She like the tall man from the East.

Scott, also smiling, stood to stretch.  More than six feet tall, his long arms nearly touch the cave's roof when he stretched upwards. Unlike most tall men, Scott was not gangly or awkward.  Even though he was from the east, Scott favored a Western Style – jeans, blue denim shirt, cowboy boots and a Stetson – and wore the clothes like a native.  His hazel eyes, flecked with gold, twinkled as he watched Bridie.

My turn to ask a question, he said. Where do you ladies come from?

Chicago, answered Bridie, grinning.

He smiled, Then thunderstorms are nothing new to you, I imagine.

Well, we don't usually experience them so up close, replied Bridie.

Scott noticed that both women dressed in practical Western wear – split skirts, cotton shirts and Apache moccasins – well broken in.  By the way Esther handled the rifle, Scott knew that she and Bridie were comfortable in the harsher Western environment.  Scott was curious. How does two ladies from Chicago find themselves in the Grand Canyon? he asked.

Surprisingly, Esther answered. I am of photographer. . . hired to do a job on a ranch, call Gales Creek in Texas.  While there, we met a man called David McAdams.  He joined a group of geologists who were surveying the area for mining opportunities.  Jamison's father was their guide.  Mr. McAdams stories were so vivid, I just had to come to the canyon to photograph it.

Jamison looked at Esther strangely, but said nothing.  He was unaware of his father’s interest in the Grand Canyon.

Scott wondered.  He knew Jamison as a crusader – a lone knight fighting against exploiting the canyon and its surrounding area.  He fervently opposed extending the railroad from Williams to the Grand Canyon.  Until then, the exhausting stagecoach ride discouraged most casual tourists.  Jamison, as an invited guest, decided to boycott Teddy Roosevelt's speech about protecting the canyon.  The Westerner wanted the Grand Canyon protected, not open to everyone.  Jamison selected clientele for his guide business because they shared his view.

Esther spoke again and Ryder began to understand why Jamison acted as her guide.  "When we arrived at Gales Creek, I thought Willa McKinnis wanted the usual family portraits; but what she wanted, was a record of a way of life that was passing.  Willa’s request awakened a desire I nursed since I took my first professional landscape photograph in Chicago.

Ryder now understood.  Jamison wanted a photographic history of the canyon before it all changed.

Bridie grinned. I'm hungry. Anyone else?

Esther woke up early the next morning and found Jamison standing at the edge of the cavern; her camera and bag containing her dry plates sat at his feet.

You went back for my camera, she said

He nodded. In a few minutes you are about to see a spectacular site.

***

A few days later Esther looked at one of Jamison's mules with trepidation; at six thirty in the morning the animal did not look any more awake than she did.  This trip, the last one into the canyon with Jamison as their guide, felt different.  A few mornings ago, standing at the Bright Angel Trailhead, Jamison proposed an insane adventure.  He asked if Esther and Bridie wanted to leave the Grand Canyon by boat, a hundred- and thirty-eight-mile trip on the mighty Colorado River complete with major rapids.  Jamison revealed the trip -arranged at the first of the summer - was the maiden voyage of his new Dory, Cassie.  Scott Ryder, already asked, was roaring to go. Esther and Bridie earned an invitation because they clearly impressed Jamison.  Having guided spoiled, demanding tourist, the women's spirit of cooperation and their ability to cope with primitive conditions away from the village -growing around the train depot - pleased him.  Also, he very much wanted Esther to photograph his wild river.

They waited a week for Jamison’s boat to reach the site where Bright Angel Trail ended at the river.  He used the time to organize his outfit; every year, he removed all of his stock - mules and horses – and equipment from the Grand Canyon for the winter.  This year his wrangler, Max, - with his two brothers - would ramrod the outfit.  Esther and Bridie also organize their belongings into their shepherd’s wagon; especially they made sure Esther's photographic plates were secure. There wagon would go with Jamison's outfit.  Esther worried – all her work, so far, rode in that wagon.  Jamison assured her that his men were good at their jobs.

Jamison walked to where Esther stood beside her mule. The guide casually shook her canteen, making sure it was full. Best get aboard Maggie, Miss Mendahall. . . the ride - to the canyon’s floor - gets hot.

Jamison led the expedition; Bridie, Esther, and Scott followed him. A youngster called Alan – who told them of the boat’s arrival – led two mules carrying their gear. Amazing sites revealed themselves as soon as they started down the trail; Esther ached to have a camera in her hand.  Of course, taking a photograph from the back of a mule was impossible.  Jamison promised to stop at several viewpoints along the way.

About three hours into the ride, everyone – but Jamison and Alan – felt the rising heat.  Sweat gathered under Esther’s hatband and it ran down her back; her feet, encased in the knee-high moccasins, swelter.  Every muscle in her body ached; but Esther vowed not to complain.

Sweet Juan Jamison how far is that oasis you told us about?  asked Ryder.  My brain is broiling.

Jamison, turning in his saddle, was about to tease him when he saw Bridie swaying on her mule.  Even though Bridie no longer held the reins, her well-trained mule followed Jamison's animal.

Bridie, he called softly. She lifted her head.  

Drink some water, he commanded.

Empty, she said.  That didn't make sense; if she drank the water, she shouldn't be in this condition, thought Jamison.

Jamison, winding the reins around the saddle horn, knew the mule would walk on until it found water at Indian Gardens.  He grabbed his canteen and slipped off his animal.  As he walked beside Bridie’s mule, Jamison took a handkerchief from his pocket and soaked it with water.  Holding her steady in the saddle, Jamison held the cloth to her face; the water dripped down and soaked Bridie’s blouse.

"What is it? asked Esther, stopping her mule.

Don't stop, commanded Jamison. It's heat exhaustion. . . we need to get her to the Creek."  They rested two hours at the stream until Bridie  decided if she could go on or wanted to returned to the rim.   She chose to go on.

Esther, looking at the boat with a sense of foreboding, turned to face Jamison. We are going to travel on the wildest river in the west. . . in that?  She asked, frankly incredulous.  

The boat, she referred to, was an eighteen-foot craft that resembled a New England Fisherman’s dory with several adjustments. The river dory had a wider beam, more flared to prevent waves from swamping the craft and it had extensive built-in storage areas with water-resistant hatches.  The craft had other unique features. The dory had stronger row blocks, longer oars and even longer blade oars to operate in the rapids. The master rower faced down the river to see the rocks in the rapids coming at him.  Jamison called his dory, Cassie.

The guide looked offended as did the other three men who stood nearby. This is one of the finest dories on the river.  A masterpiece built by master boatbuilder, Silas Warner. . .  Alan’s and Shep's dad.  He ran his hand, lovingly, over the smooth finish on the boat’s bow.

Scott Ryder chimed in.  In Maine, I went fishing in the ocean in a skiff similar to this one. . . it was an exciting adventure.

That night, Jamison warned them again. The trip is difficult. . . if you have any doubts, you need to return to the rim with Alan and Shep. No one backed off.

The next morning, they encountered their first rapid.  Holy Moses! roared Scott Ryder as they flew out of the white water and slipped into a calm pool. What a ride!  A grin lit up his face as he looked over his shoulder at the others.

Bridie grinned back at him as her bubbly laughter bounced off the walls of the canyon.  Slowly she loosened her death grip on the seat. If Bridie had to stand right now, she was not sure her legs would support her; but she knew she wanted to do it again.

Esther, breathing deeply, tried to still her racing heart.  She felt the rush when the small boat topped the waves and then drop them like a stone over and over.   Esther felt both terrified and exhilarated - more alive than she'd ever felt in her whole life.  Her throat felt raw; Esther realized that she screamed – not in terror but was sheer defiance.  She, liking the feeling, laughed with her friends.

Jamison smiled as he surveyed his passengers.  From the delight they expressed at going through their first rapids, he knew they were up for the trip. Ten more days to go, he said, throwing back his head with a roar of laughter.

Chapter 3

Oak Canyon - September 1903

Pausing on the edge of the Coconino Plateau, the weary travelers stared at Oak Creek Canyon – twelve miles of pure paradise sitting between Flagstaff on the northern terminus and Sedona on the south. Esther, sitting on the wagon seat, pondered on the scene before her.  She felt like God created this magnificence called the Grand Canyon with its commanding views to assault the senses of man at every viewpoint.  Then, he relented – taking pity on humans – by creating Oak Creek Canyon as a nearby respite.  A fanciful thought, she knew - but then this