Page 22 of Her Wild Coast Refuge

While getting ready for my shift in the dining room, I play my favorite Dawson James tunes. He had only released one album before he vanished from the music scene. After that show in Three Rivers when I met him backstage, I floated on cloud nine for weeks. I wish I had the guts to ask him what happened. How did he go from humble folk singer to real estate tycoon? After that night, I waited and waited for news of his next album or appearance, but a year passed, then two.

Singing Dawson’s music while I do my makeup and put up my hair brings back so many feelings. I still have that backstage pass he signed. His songs still make my heart want to burst. With a wistful sigh, I wink at the mirror, then laugh.

I get to the lodge with enough time to stop by our admin office for a quick use of the computers.

My email to The Nature Conservancy flat-out begging them to buy the mining claim in the upper watershed has only generated an automated reply.We’ve received your message and will get back to you soon. Meanwhile please visit our donation page…

But there’s a reply from Rowan Peterson, my contact at Alaska Wild, an anti-development nonprofit. He’s ready to sue the mining company. Eep. That sounds messy. And expensive. But I like the idea of taking these people to court. At the very least, it would slow things down. Buy me more time.

Though I’m tempted to offer him every cent of my windfall, instead I offer to start a fundraising campaign to support whatever they move forward with.

After I send it, I try to dig up information about the mining company. Could I meet with them? Make it clear how risky a mine would be to the Soren Lake watershed?

Using the BLM’s General Land Office website, I type in the claim’s GPS coordinates.

While I wait for the results, I get up to breathe and shake out my hands. I’ll request a meeting with whoever’s staked this claim. I’ll talk about my granddad’s quest to preserve Soren Creek, about how the millions of salmon who return home each year to spawn need our protection and how the entire ecosystem depends on them.

I can at least try.

Through the office window, I spot a pair of loons on the lake, their black beaks and white spots a striking contrast to the glassy water. I can almost hear my granddad’s confident voice.

Don’t give up.

A scanned document appears on the computer screen, and I jump into my seat. The print is fuzzy, like the deed was typed on an old typewriter then photocopied a hundred times, but I can make out the name: Augustus Daly, and the year he staked his claim: 1936.

I check the clock—almost time for my shift. A search of Augustus Daly brings up pages and pages of links. I click around, but don’t find a current connection between Augustus Daly and the mineral claim he staked in the Soren Creek watershed. However, with a claim that old, the man is certainly deceased.

But if that claim is blocking the completion of the Soren Creek Preserve, Augustus sold or bequeathed his claim to someone, and thatsomeoneis who I need to track down.

A sale would create a public record, which I should be able to access.

If Augustus bequeathed it to a family member—I doubt that’s public. I will have to trace his family lineage.

Pressing the heels of my hands to my eyes, I fight the sense of dread. I need help with this. But where do I put my energy—a lawsuit, making my plea to the owners, or trying to buy the claim? I remind myself to open the package from Fish2Forever later. Maybe they have a strategy.

Before I leave the office, I remember to call Jared.

“Hey, Lex,” he answers.

“This is going to sound random,” I say while stretching my calves, “but when’s that bluegrass festival you go to every year? The one in Silver City?”

“Weekend after next,” he replies. In the background, a little girl giggles, followed by a deepwoof—most likely my niece Juniper and their year-old pup Bruno.

“Is it too late to get tickets?” I ask, crossing my fingers.

“I’ve got a couple for opening night. You want ‘em?” He muffles the phone, and I hear Evan’s laughter mixed with Juniper’s.

I clench my fist in victory. “Yes, please. You’re never going to believe who I’m bringing. Remember when I won backstage passes to that music festival in Three Rivers?”

“Aye.”

“And you remember who I was crazy about?”

He chuckles. “Dawson James.”

“It’s him! He’s here on business. His partner Quinn hired me to be their tour guide.”

“Whoa. Crazy.”

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