I owe a great debt of gratitude to those who tolerated my disappearances, in both body and spirit, over the course of the creation of this book. I hope these pages offer some small justification.
In particular, I’d like to thank Roby Littlefield, for help with the Tlingit language, along with her deep insight and knowledge into the bright and living Tlingit culture. Also to her son Ed Littlefield, for help in a clutch moment, and to Yéil Ya-Tseen, for bringing his calmness and thoughtfulness to difficult passages in the book. To S’áaxwshaan, for sharing myths found in these pages, and to Tammy Young and the Sitka Tribe of Alaska, for the consideration and helpfulness.
Un grand merci to Eléonore Bertrand for her encouragement, and for taking the time to share her deep knowledge of the phenomenon of twins. Also to Michaela Dunlap, who blends her deep knowledge of the Alaska rainforest with a generosity of spirit I’ve seldom encountered. A thank you in neon to the entire town of Sitka—I apologize to tourists and locals alike for playing fast and easy with geography, topography, cartography—really anything that might be graphed.
To the good folks at Sitka Conservation Society, whose board I am proud to sit on: I am in awe of your tireless commitment not only to protecting old-growth forests, but also salmon streams, through commitment to programs like Fish to Schools, 4-H, and other strategies that help us live in the woods. Also to Andrew Thoms, whose dual commitment to community and the wild largely inspired this book. To Larry Edwards and the Alaska Rainforest Defenders, for constant vigilance; and to Nels, whose memory and artistic shadow in Alaska I’m proud to work beneath. Brent Cole at Alaska Specialty Woods inspired a critical part of this book and was incredibly generous with his time on the phone and over email.
Sara Anderson, Carrie Johnson, Katherine Kelton (a twin!), and Emma Libonati: thank you for helping me title this book. To Steve Gavin, a buddy always up for a careful, considered read: still waiting for you to come home. To Justin Ehrenwerth, sometimes it does hurt to be alive, brother. I’m only glad you’re here to share this spin around the planet with me. To my boys Rick Petersen and Alexander Allison, for their observations no one outside Alaska could provide. And also to Mr. Allison’s fire seventh-grade Language Arts class—your early corrections regarding both subsistence and the comportment of teenagers these days were clutch. To Marian Allen: your commitment to the Tongass is unmatched. To John Maxey, who provided shelter in Seattle so I could finish revisions, and Rob Sachs, whose reads and humor carried me through much of this. To Alex, for virtual beers during the pandemic, and Jeff Marrazzo, who provided a much-needed New Year’s break, allowing me to focus on this book. A better friend one could not hope for.
To Rick Powers, whose tightly knotted slips of survey tape wave from the branches, blazing a trail all but impossible to follow—and yet still I try, proud of every step I land in your outsized tracks. To Dr. BJ Smith, whose medical advice—from a Pennsylvania doctor, no less—was indispensable. Thank you to Rachel Smith for her acute attention to the word even in a tough moment. To Suzanne Rindell, always the one in the open doorway—always—my companion along this rocky, fraught path.
To my editor, Beverly Horowitz, who hung tough through early versions—there’s no one I’d rather receive an email from on a Sunday. To her assistant, Rebecca Gudelis, for her patience and thoroughness in the book’s final stages. To Julia Masnick, my “baller” agent at Watkins/Loomis, whose wit is matched only by her thoughtfulness and professionalism. And to Gloria Loomis: thank you for the unerring guidance.
To Marina Pelmeneva, who forced me to describe this book in Russian, thus condensing the plot considerably. To Cora Dow, whose clarity as a powerful young Alaska forest activist helped create Josie’s character, and to her mother, Rebecca Poulson, for her gorgeous illustrations. And to Sylvia Bi for the beautiful jacket and interior design, and to Rowan Kingsbury for the inspired jacket art.
To Aunt Mary Jo and Uncle Fred, whose warmth and generosity have saved me from darkness more than I’d ever like to acknowledge. To Denise Gosliner Orenstein, hippest aunt ever, and quickest reader. To my mother, Kathy Gosliner, for her constant love and presence, and unswerving faith in the word. To my stepfather, Joseph Lurie, for his considered reads, and for being a model on how to serve on this earth.
To Len Kola, for helping to watch the kiddos, and to my mother-in-law, Donna Lee, for the same—and for threatening to “go Sicilian” on anyone in the business who wrongs me. To my girls, for climbing over my legs and slapping the laptop closed, announcing that it’s time to go outside to pick mushrooms or catch a fish. Also to Unicorn Kitty, who—though I hate her with everything inside me, down to her little rainbow horn—made the perfect pillow for my head. I couldn’t have revised in the Airstream RV without her.
Finally, to the good grammar teachers in the Catholic schools my wife attended, who provided her with the tools to help me—when she’s not dispensing justice on our small island in Alaska—wrangle ideas into a book. Rachel Jones is about the grittiest, most beautiful and astonishing human I’ve ever come across. It is my great good fortune to walk this life alongside her, and I can only give thanks to the great, unseen powers beneath and above us who made it so.