The book opens not with a legend but with a first-person account of a man caught in a bear trap on a winter trail. The narrator, identified as Kitchakahaech the Raven, describes the pain, the snow, and the slow approach of death. This framing device—a white traveler stranded in the Northland—immediately establishes a tension between the outsider's perspective and the indigenous stories he carries. The reader is warned that the tales suffer in translation, 'wrenched from the setting of campfires and trail.' This editorial note examines how the opening, middle, and later excerpts guide a first reading, focusing on the interplay between personal ordeal and oral tradition.

The Trap as Threshold

The opening pages do not begin with a myth but with a physical crisis. The narrator steps into a bear trap set on a man trail, a mistake that nearly costs him his life. This accident is described in visceral detail: 'the packed snow of the trail beneath my feet gave way, there was a sharp click of steel meeting steel, and a shooting pain that ran from heel to head.' The trap becomes a metaphor for the reader's own position—entering a world where the rules are unfamiliar and the ground may suddenly fall away. The narrator's helplessness, lying in a 'blanket of snow,' mirrors the reader's dependence on the storyteller. The excerpt makes clear that these legends were not collected in comfort but earned through hardship, carried 'many weary miles' in memory. This framing asks the reader to approach the tales with the same patience and endurance the narrator had to muster.

Yaeethl's Cunning and the Thirst Spirit

The middle excerpt introduces Yaeethl, the Raven, a trickster figure who matches wits with Heenhadowa, the Thirst Spirit. The dialogue is sharp and insulting: Yaeethl calls his opponent a 'fatherless son of a shameless mother,' while Heenhadowa responds only with laughter. The contest is not physical but verbal and psychological. Yaeethl's strategy is indirect: he builds a lodge, performs rituals, and feigns indifference to provoke curiosity. The text notes that 'it is not the way of the Raven to eat quickly of discouragement,' a line that hints at a cultural value placed on patience and cunning over brute force. The excerpt also includes footnotes explaining unfamiliar terms—'Icht' for witch doctor, and a note that snakes are unknown in Alaska—which remind the reader that the text is mediated by an editor who is both insider and outsider. The reader must watch Yaeethl's moves carefully, as the story rewards attention to detail.

The Role of the Translator's Voice

Throughout the excerpts, the translator's presence is palpable. The dedication 'To Ah-Koo' and the dual names—Kitchakahaech and To-u-sucka—signal that this is a collaborative work, not a simple transcription. The narrator admits the stories 'suffer in the telling' when removed from their Alaskan background. This self-awareness shapes the reading experience: the reader is never allowed to forget that the legends are being filtered through a foreign language and sensibility. The footnotes, such as the explanation that 'Devil's Club' is a plant, serve as bridges between cultures. Yet the translator also withholds information; the reader does not learn how the narrator escaped the trap or whether Yaeethl's plan succeeded. These gaps are intentional, forcing the reader to accept the fragmentary nature of the text and to engage actively with what is given.

Pacing and the Expectation of Resolution

The excerpts are structured to create anticipation. The opening trap scene ends with the narrator losing consciousness, leaving the outcome unknown. The Yaeethl story breaks off just as the Raven enters the lodge and closes the door. Both moments are cliffhangers, but they function differently. The personal narrative invites the reader to wonder about survival; the legend invites speculation about trickery. The book's subtitle, 'Legends of the tribe of Alaskan Indians known as the Chilkats,' suggests a collection, but the excerpts imply a continuous narrative thread. The reader must decide whether to treat the work as a series of discrete tales or as a single, episodic journey. The pacing—alternating between the narrator's ordeal and the mythic contest—creates a rhythm that mirrors the oral tradition: stories within stories, each delaying the final revelation.

A first reading of In the Time That Was benefits from attending to the frame as much as the framed. The narrator's vulnerability and the trickster's indirection are not separate themes but two sides of the same storytelling coin. The reader who accepts the gaps—the untranslated words, the unresolved scenes—will find a work that resists easy consumption. Approach these pages as you would a trail in unfamiliar country: watch where you step, listen for the voice behind the words, and do not expect the path to be straight.