By S.G. Copeland

It’s mid-September here in the Silver Valley of northern Idaho. Tamaracks that encircle the town of Wallace are starting to turn their golden hues and soon the valley will receive its first dusting of snow. The morning air has a cool refreshing scent, another clue that winter will soon be here. But today, the sun is shining and offering its warmth.

As a court appointed guardian and executor, I have been assigned the task of securing and inventorying the properties, both personal and real, of Jackson Murphy, deceased. When no known relative is found at the time of death of a resident the court steps in to handle the deceased’s estate with the hopes of determining who, in accordance with state statutes, the rightful owner may be.

I remember my first assignment. She was a prim lady living in a studio apartment above a hardware store in Wallace. She kept mostly to herself, so very little was known as to where she was from, whether she had a family somewhere or was in contact with relatives when she passed. I remember entering her room to start the inventory and feeling like I was invading her privacy even though she was deceased. She kept a neat room and she owned very little.  The apartment was furnished, so there was little I had to inventory. Her dressing table held an ornate comb and brush set and fine powder box. A small cedar chest held a few pieces of jewelry. As I opened one gold locket a smiling couple came into view.  I remember wondering whether I was looking at the deceased and her husband. An old trunk found in the closet was filled with a few clothes and a small stack of letters and post cards. I wrote letters to her correspondents telling them of her passing and to inquire as to their connections before determining the disposition of her property and assets. I remember a real sadness overwhelming me. A life lived, stories untold and no one left to remember or even to mourn. So, I mourned her loss. There have been many cases since then, each with their own stories to tell.

My new assignment, Jackson Murphy, is a different story.  He had been a fixture around Wallace for over forty years. He and his dog, Dex, would drive into Wallace in his Ford pickup at least once a month when he would leave his cabin and come to town to pick up his pension check and buy supplies. A very friendly sort always willing to visit with anyone he encountered. Often, he would be found sitting around a table with several residents laughing and telling stories, drinking coffee.  Jack, as he was called, was well-liked by everyone he met. No one was a stranger for very long and no one had an unkind word to speak of Jack. Yet of all the ones interviewed, none could recall him speaking of any family or where he was from before settling near Wallace.

Two weeks ago, Dex came to town alone. Jack’s constant companion first went to the post office, jumping on the door and barking and finally leaving the post office, he went to their favorite coffee shop and repeated his performance until finally someone suggested that something must be wrong with Jack and decided to follow the dog. Dex led his followers up Placer Creek and about one mile out of town they found Jack beside the road slumped over his steering wheel. Massive heart attack, the coroner ruled; no need for an autopsy; cause of death, natural. Dex remained beside his master until the very last. Now he is being taken care of by the sheriff’s office and I will need to find a home for Dex. Being a large dog, some saying he is a wolf hybrid, this task may prove to be difficult. But one must admire the loyalty of this dog and I would certainly do my best to find him a good home.

Stories of Jack were plentiful. I was told as a boy, not much older than 12 to 14, he ran a pack train of twelve mules to work crews in logging camps. Later he would pack supplies to the various lookouts in the St. Joe drainage. One story related to me was his part in the construction of Balancing Rock Point Lookout.  This L-6 Patrol Shelter or Tower Cupola was a standard design of the 1930s and was incorporated into a package of materials and transported by pack stock to the remote site above the North Fork of the Clearwater River. He later worked for the Forest Service as a smoke chaser, retiring after nearly 40 yrs of service, but he could never leave his beloved forest.

Building a small cabin on an abandoned mining claim south of Wallace, he spent his retirement hiking through the forest, fishing in its many streams and visiting with everyone encountered. He always welcomed those who stumbled out of the woods to find his little cabin. He invited them in to warm by his small stove, baking up fresh light biscuits and offering a wild berry jam, he, himself, had made. A cup of hot, strong coffee would be savored by all. If night fell, he offered his cabin as a refuge from the cold and in the morning would send his guests on their way, bellies full of sour dough flapjacks and more of his wild berry jam. He was a kind, friendly soul, but he kept his private life private.  Now it is left up to me to unravel this private life.

Across from the sheriff’s office I wait outside the court house for Deputy Mason Crawford. He will drive me up into the mountains to Jack’s cabin. I’ve packed essentials for a three-day stay and hope that will be enough time for me to not only inventory Jack’s property but to winterize and secure the property for the coming snows. Normally I don’t plan overnight visits but since Jack’s place is so secluded I believe my time would be better spent in completing my tasks instead of traveling every day going and coming from his cabin.

Mason arrives in his Ford Ranger. Dex is sitting shotgun beside Mason and it brings a smile to my face. I toss my backpack and sleeping bag in the bed of the truck and then hop up to sit beside the big dog. Dex stretches out the best he can in such a confined space laying his head in my lap. I find myself caressing the massive soft head and hear an occasional sigh. It is clear that Dex is mourning the loss of Jack. I feel his sadness.

Mason is curious of my duties and asks many questions on our trip up the mountain. Thinking about it I guess it is an unusual occupation for some but I look at it more as a calling now. With every assignment I want to bring closure, not just for the county but for anyone of the potential family I find along the way.

After about 45 minutes Mason turns off the main road onto a narrow lane barely visible through the trees and we find it is good to have four-wheel drive. It’s close to noon when we arrive at the cabin. Dex is excited to finally be home as he bounds from the truck.  The cabin is unlocked, as Jack always left it that way in case someone needed shelter when he was away. Mason helps me unload my backpack and sleeping bag and then splits some wood for the stove. I start a fire and it isn’t long before the cabin is toasty and warm. Saying our goodbyes, Mason tells me he will be back in three days to pick me up and then I watch the truck navigate down the narrow lane and out of sight. Dex is sitting beside me and watches the deputy leave and then looks up to me and I swear he was thanking me for bringing him home. Well, I have three days. I think to myself, I better get started.

Jack’s cabin is very neat and quite comfortable. The wood stove, used for both heating and cooking is in the center and also heats water piped to the kitchen sink. Water is supplied by a gravity fed system from a spring above the cabin. A comfortable armchair is positioned between the stove and a bookcase full of books and a side table holds a kerosene lamp and Bible. A table with two side chairs is centered under a window overlooking his small garden. The kitchen and pantry are tucked neatly in one corner. A trap door in the kitchen floor opens to a cellar filled with canned meats and vegetables and a full shelf of Jack’s famous wild berry jam. A smaller building connected by a covered porch houses not only a cedar-lined sauna but a shower room with a composting toilet.

Since my initial inspection and inventory is completed, it is time to find answers. Who really was Jackson Murphy and who might be his heirs? Dex nudges my hand and I realize that it is passed time for both of our suppers. I open a can of stew I brought, heating it on the stove and sharing it with the big dog. I stretch out my sleeping

magazines along with books of poetry by Frost, Stevens and Dickinson and then I see several leather-bound journals neatly lined up by years. I retrieve the first journal and begin to read. Entries recording weather temperatures, rain and snowfall; an occasional sighting of migrating birds or wildlife visiting his little home fill the pages. On occasion a short poem is added or a Bible quote cited. Then an entry intrigues me.

“August 8, 1948,” he writes. “I have met the most beautiful girl on the Clearwater. Her dark hair cascading nearly to her waist. The face of an angel, ivory skin and the bluest of blue eyes. Her name is Alice Wingate.”

So, there was someone, I think to myself. I continue to read his journals. He mentions Alice many times and I find this romance blossoms. I cannot stop reading the journals.  He has filled them with poems expressing his love not only for Alice but for the woods and mountains surrounding his home.

“June 1, 1949 – I asked Alice to marry me and she said ‘yes!’ Her family does not approve and she is ordered to never see me again. How can I live without my beloved Alice?”

“July 4, 1949 – I met Alice in Orofino. We married there and traveled to our new home near Wallace.”

“August 5, 1949 – Alice’s sister, Hetty, arrived in Wallace and demanded to see her sister saying that she was being held against her will. We received a visit from the sheriff and he was satisfied that Alice was not a captive but happy with her life with me.”

“April 15, 1950 – We welcomed our daughter, Caroline, a beautiful, healthy girl. Alice is not well. Sent word to Hetty”

“April 17, 1950 – The Lord has taken my Alice away. My heart is breaking.”

“April 19, 1950 – Hetty has arrived and has offered to care for Caroline until I can find someone to help me. I am so lost Lord!”

“June 12, 1950 – My telegrams go unanswered. My letters are returned to sender. Where is my Caroline, Lord?”

“July 5, 1950 – I traveled to Kamiah in search of Caroline. No one will tell me where she is. No one will tell me where Hetty is. They have stolen my daughter! The law won’t help me! I feel I have lost everything.”

As I continue to read the journals, I have a profound sadness engulfing my very soul. This man had lost everything he loved. Over the years he continued to search for Caroline. He never missed a holiday or birthday. I find a stack of his cards and letters, marked “return to sender” tied with a red ribbon. It’s morning now. I have spent my first night reading.

After breakfast Dex and I venture outside to complete my inventory. After supper, I return to the armchair and continue to read Jack’s journals. Jack’s last entry reads, “August 10, 1989 – Doc says I have a bad ticker. Wants me to move to town so he can care for me. How can I leave my beloved Alice, won’t leave Alice! If the Lord takes me, I wish to be laid to rest beside my Alice.”

I rise to let Dex out and ask him, “Where’s Alice?” Dex heads to the treeline and leads me to a small clearing near the cabin. A secluded spot with a single grave. A stone bench beside the grave. Birdhouses, most likely made by Jack, encircle the area. A wind chime plays a beautiful melody. The site has been tended with love. I have found Alice.

Armed with information I return to Wallace and search for Caroline. After much research I find that her Aunt Hetty had taken Caroline out of state to Kansas and raised her under the name of Wingate.

Upon contacting Caroline I learn that she had been told her parents were both deceased, a murder/suicide. She had no idea that she had been stolen away from her father.

It’s been nine months since I began my task. Caroline has arrived with her husband, Michael Kincaid and daughter, Alice; a beautiful girl with dark hair cascading down her back and the bluest of blue eyes. With Dex by my side, they follow me up Placer Creek to Jack’s cabin. I walk them to the hidden clearing which now holds two graves. The warm summer sun breaks through the trees highlighting the area. Birds seem to be everywhere with their chorus of songs. There is a sweet smell of honeysuckle. Jack is home with Alice. I hand Caroline her father’s last journal and the keys to the padlocks I placed on the cabin doors. Hopefully she will discover her father’s undying love. His cards and letters await her, still wrapped up with the red ribbon.

As I head back to Wallace I see them standing beside Jack’s cabin in the rearview mirror.  My job is done. I say a silent prayer for them to find peace and to live their lives without regrets.

And Dex? Well, I found him a home. He has never left my side.