Introducing the Lillian Alling Avatar

When I was approached by Vancouver Opera to write a series of travel blogs in the voice of Lillian Alling, my first task was to learn as much as I could about the “Mystery Woman” of the Telegraph Trail. Like many before me, I was intrigued by the enigma of this legendary young woman who – for reasons that continue to mystify – traveled across North America from Manhattan to Dawson City largely on foot, by some reports reaching Siberia.

It turns out that very little, in fact, is known about Lillian. What is known is full of hearsay and contradictions. I read Cassandra Pybus’ book, The Woman Who Walked to Russia, an account of the author’s pilgrimage retracing Lillian’s steps through the British Columbian wilderness. I enjoyed the creative license Amy Bloom took with Lillian’s story in her novel, Away. But my assignment was to get inside the head of one particular Lillian, the Lillian imagined by John Estacio and John Murrell in creating the music and libretto for their opera, Lillian Alling.

This Lillian is feisty, obsessive and fiercely independent, driven by a purpose that at first seems girlishly romantic, but is gradually revealed to be anything but. This Lillian is multi-layered and full of secrets, unsophisticated in some respects, but astute, intelligent and fearless as she encounters individuals and challenges along her route that both help and hinder her quest. This Lillian’s personality and perspective are informed equally by the traumas she left behind in Europe and the surprises, good and bad, in store for her in the New World.

In writing Lillian’s travel blogs, it was my turn to imagine what she experienced journeying from New York City to Telegraph Creek, from the United States into Canada, from the suffocating crush of steerage as she crossed the Atlantic, to the startling ruggedness of the BC wilderness – and every point in between.

Nowhere are those experiences more compelling – and better documented – than along British Columbia’s Telegraph Trail. I was fascinated to learn the history of the trail and about the linemen stationed in nine cabins along the telegraph line, between Hazelton and Telegraph Creek. It was these linemen who first brought the real Lillian Alling’s story to light as she stumbled out of the woods one day, exhausted and her clothing in tatters, at Cabin One. In real life, the linemen assisted Lillian on her northward path, telegraphing ahead to alert the next man to watch out for her, and sometimes even escorting her on part of her journey. This is where the legend of Lillian was born.

However obscure the reasons for real Lillian’s trek might be, our Lillian’s reasons are as dramatic and gripping as they come. Putting myself in our Lillian’s well-worn shoes, I tried to feel her blisters and her weariness, to experience her fear and urgency, to imagine her exhilarating rush of freedom as a young woman walking, hitch-hiking and hopping boxcars across a continent, and to share her wonder at the breadth and variety of the landscapes she travels through.

I look forward with great pleasure to experiencing Lillian’s odyssey once again, on stage at the Queen Elizabeth Theatre.

~ Elizabeth Stewart

Lillian Travel Blog, Entry #8

Photo credit: Lee Russell/Library of Congress

On the Telegraph Trail
May, 1928

I tell Scotty that I have extra shifts at the restaurant and that I can not see him for a few days, hoping this white lie will give me the head start I need to reach Jozéf. For I know Scotty, and I know that he will try to follow me. Everything must be settled before he finds me.

I have money enough to buy a ticket for the train to Hazelton. Riding in comfort, I chide myself that I think I have become a fine lady. I remember back to my ragamuffin self last summer, hopping boxcars across the country, trekking long miles with holes in my boots and my clothing in tatters. I worry that I have become soft since then, unused to long hauls on rugged tracks all the day long. Last year I made it only as far as Scotty’s cabin, Cabin Two along the Telegraph Trail. There are nine linemen’s cabins before Telegraph Creek, before Jozéf – hundreds of miles more to travel through unknown mountains and wilderness. But there is no point in my asking myself whether I am up to the task. I have no choice in the matter. Finding Jozéf is my duty, and my destiny.

I set out from Hazelton, wishing I had more time to prepare for my journey, but time is of the essence. I follow the telegraph line again, this time skirting around the linemen’s cabins, knowing that – should one of the linemen spy me – the telegraph lines will be abuzz with news that the “Mystery Woman” has returned.

I keep walking, through the tall forest, scrambling down into crevasses and struggling up steep slopes, scraping my hands and shins on sharp rocks. Past the spot where the bear ate my food. Past Cabin Two, where fleetingly I think of Scotty, and the happiness we could have shared.

I am in unfamiliar territory now. The telegraph line leads me to a rickety bridge spanning a deep chasm, the waters of the Skeena River crashing below with spring runoff. I take a step or two, and discover that many of the planks are impossibly rotten. But there is no way back for me. I force myself across the bridge, testing each board as I go. I learn something I did not know about myself before. I am afraid of heights!

It is still cold in the night time. I build a fire, taking the chance that if Scotty is following me, he will not see the smoke. As I warm my hands, I hear something in the bushes – something large. Then I see cat eyes glowing in the dark, and hear the cougar snarl. I have grown fearless. I take a burning log from the fire and thrash it wildly, shouting. After a few minutes, all is silent. I stay awake most of that night, feeding the fire.

Then disaster! I am making my way down a steep narrow path, hugging the mountainside, when suddenly from above comes a roar and deluge of tumbling rocks. I flatten myself against the mountain, but a rock strikes my hand – the hand holding my bag. The bag is gone down into the gorge, and with it my food. All I have left is the clothes on my back. But I must press on.

At last I pass the ninth lineman’s cabin. I must be near now, to Telegraph Creek. I come upon a small stream. And at this stream I see the back of a man. He holds a pan in his hand, with which he scoops mud from the creek bed. “Jozéf?” I say to him. “Jozéf Nikitich Lazinsky?” Jozéf turns to me. At long last, I have found you.

Lillian Travel Blog, Entry #7

Vancouver
April, 1928

It is more than a year since I came to America in search of Jozéf Nikitich Lazinsky. As I followed Jozéf’s path across this continent, I grew to expect freedom, and to nurture hope – until the day I was betrayed by Scotty Macdonald on the Telegraph Trail.

I suppose that Scotty thought he was protecting me by alerting Constable Wyman to my intentions to reach Siberia. A joke in itself! My destination was never Russia. Where I come from, we fear nothing more than the police, so imagine my dread when Wyman arrested me and took me to Hazelton for trial. I could barely understand the judge. I believe he wanted me to promise to give up my plan to walk north, which I could not do, for I have a greater promise to keep. And so he sentenced me to jail, and sent me far to the south, to the Oakalla Prison Farm near Vancouver.

I will not dwell on the indignities I suffered there, for I look forward, never back. It is enough to say they worked me like a peasant, in the kitchen, in the laundry. The hardest part was being hemmed in and constantly around people, when I had found my own kind of happiness in my solitary life of walking. But being around people meant listening to people, and my English improved over those months to the point that, when they released me in the early winter, I was able to find work in Vancouver waiting tables in a café.

I found a bed in a women’s hostel and saved my earnings, thinking only of the spring, when I could set out north again to Telegraph Creek, where Jozéf seeks his fortune looking for gold. I only hope I am not too late. What if he has become wealthy, and moved on? But every day I renew my vow to find him, no matter what it takes.

One day as I am leaving work, a man stops me. “Lillian Alling?” he says. I am taken aback, for no one knows me here. Then I recognize him. Scotty Macdonald! The man who sent me to prison. I stride away, but he stops me. If you knew what I went through to find you, he says. He never intended for me to wind up in prison. All he wanted was to keep me safe. I see in his handsome face that he is sincere. I see more than that. I see that he is in love -- with me. With Lillian Alling! And in that moment I see something else – that I love him, too.

The next weeks are like heaven. We take long walks in Stanley Park, alongside the ocean. We do not care whether it rains, or if the sun shines. We are happy, together. I never knew I could feel such happiness. Such belonging. I find myself daydreaming about a life together, but I stop myself. I know it can not be.

My simple life has become so complicated. I must tell Scotty the truth of the matter. I owe him that much. Then I must leave him, for the final leg of my journey is one I must take alone. I hope Scotty will understand. I hope he can forgive me.

Lillian Travel Blog, Entry #6

Hazelton
October, 1927

I did not think to find myself back in this town again so soon, back at the beginning of the Telegraph Trail – and without my precious freedom. I have been bitterly betrayed, by a man I thought was my friend.

After I bid farewell to Sam at Cabin One, I continue north, following the telegraph line. Sam has replenished my supplies, so I have enough food to keep me strong. I am wary of bears and wolves, but I learn not to jump at every twig breaking, at every rustle of bushes. I begin to enjoy this untamed country, to marvel at its wild beauty and to drink deeply of its moist air. Perhaps this is where I belong. But I must not daydream. I must stay focused on finding Telegraph Creek, and Jozéf.

I count on my map eight more linemen’s cabins I must pass before I reach Telegraph Creek. On the first day I make good progress, but on the second day I am slowed by rain so heavy that I am forced to take shelter. Even so, I am drenched to the skin. My boots take the worst of it. Sodden, they begin to pull apart at the seams when I start walking again.

I drop my pack and fall asleep on the bank of a stream, too chilled and exhausted even to eat. I awake in darkness to the sound of snuffling and grunting nearby. By moonlight, I make out the lumbering shape of a bear. My heart is in my throat, but the bear is too busy eating my food to notice me. I lie perfectly still while he devours the last of my dried salmon. I keep a tight grip on the pistol in my pocket – although I know it would be useless against this giant.

I travel two more days without food. I am hot with fever. At times the trail is overgrown with brambles, and I must fight my way through them. They tear at my clothes, and my skin. At last I reach Cabin Two. The door is open. I am too starving to be polite and knock. Inside the door on a shelf, I see tins of food. Without thinking, I take several. Only then do I see the lineman, sitting at his telegraph machine, his back to me. Then he turns and sees me. I run.

This lineman is young and fit. He catches me in the clearing outside the cabin, holding onto me firmly with his strong hands. I look up expecting anger, but instead I see a broad smile across his handsome face. “I know you!” he says. He calls me the “Mystery Woman”, heading for Siberia, and to my chagrin I remember the small lie I told Sam, now grown into a small legend. I have been invisible for so long that I resent the loss of my anonymity to the telegraph line.

But Scotty Macdonald is a gentleman, and he seems to understand that I do not like questions. He insists that I stay with him until my blisters have healed and my fever is gone. He warns me there will be snow before long, and tries hard to persuade me to turn back and wait out the winter in Hazelton. I wish I could explain to him what drives me to find Jozéf.

On the third day, I prepare to say good-bye. Scotty finds excuses to delay me – cutting down a pair of his pants to fit me, hiding my boots. Like a fool, I think it is because he likes me, but then I find out the real reason. The policeman, Wyman, arrives. He has come for me, because – behind my back -- Scotty has called him on his telegraph. My worst fear comes true. Wyman arrests me, and brings me back here to Hazelton. To jail! Tomorrow I will be brought before a judge. Scotty Macdonald, I will never forgive you.

Lillian Travel Blog, Entry #5

On the Telegraph Trail
September, 1927

I spend longer than I intend in Hazelton, but with Jozéf so close, I must make myself ready. I find work cooking at a fishing camp. I am finding English easier to understand, but still difficult to speak. At any rate, I have little to say. I listen, invisible, to the men telling stories around the campfire at night, and I learn.

I learn that thirty years ago, gold fever seized this land. Thousands of men came from all over and traveled even further north in search of wealth. Many died and few grew rich, but still they came to find their fortune – just as Kristian told me that Jozéf has come here to find his. Those were days of big dreams, and one such dream was to build a telegraph line a thousand miles north to Dawson City. I learn that from Hazelton, they built a lineman’s cabin every 32 miles. There are nine cabins between Hazelton and Telegraph Creek – more than 300 miles I must travel by foot, through the wilderness! The men talk of bears and wild cats. I wonder however I shall survive. But survive I must. I must find Jozéf.

I set out at the end of August with as much food as I can carry, the pistol and two ten dollar bills in my pocket – all the money I have in the world. These linemen must have supplies in their cabins. Perhaps I can purchase food from them as I go.

The air is cool, for that I am grateful. But the mountains and trees make me wish for the open plains. I follow the Telegraph Trail along the broad Skeena River, keeping the wire in sight, counting 32 miles to the first lineman’s cabin. In the flat lands of North Dakota, I easily walked 32 miles in a day. But through this thick forest, up hills and down gullies, 32 miles takes me three days. Brambles catch my clothing. Insects plague me. Giant black ravens spy on me from their high perches. Every rustle of leaves is a bear or a wild cat, stalking me.

At last I follow the wire to the first cabin, nothing more than a house of logs. I knock at the door, for despite my ragged appearance after many days in the wilderness, I am still civilized. When there is no reply, I go inside. I find one room – two bunks, a table with the telegraph machine. And food. I have had nothing but berries and stream water today, so I open a tin of beans. I barely have a mouthful when I hear him coming, whistling a tune. He opens the door – a bear of a man -- and I am caught, guilty of theft, trying to explain with my broken English that I will pay him for the food.

But the man is not angry, only surprised to see me, a woman, alone out here. He tells me his name is Sam. He wants to know my name. I tell him I am Lillian Alling. He asks me many more questions. How did I come here? Where am I going? Why am I here? I begin to think this Sam is very nosy. He works for the government. Does he plan to tell the police about me? About Jozéf? So I tell him a story. I tell him I have come from New York City. I tell him I am walking home to Russia, to Siberia. At this, Sam whistles.

Sam wants me to stay. He says it is too dangerous for me, a woman alone. Perhaps if I tell him the truth, he will understand what drives me. As it is, he calls me his “Mystery Woman” as I take my leave, heading north to Jozéf.

Who's That Girl?

Follow Lillian’s Twitter feed at @whereslillian to receive her updates from the road. Read Lillian's travel blogs here or on the Lillian Alling blog.

But who is the “voice” of Lillian?

All will be revealed on opening night: Saturday, October 16th.

Lillian Travel Blog, Entry #4

Hazelton
August, 1927

Kristian Fjeldståd gives me a map that Jozéf left behind, a map of the Telegraph Trail, ending at his destination of Telegraph Creek. But first I must find my west and north, to Hazelton in British Columbia. Kristian thinks there is a railroad in Canada, all the way to the Pacific Ocean.

Kristian’s father, Karl, is not pleased to have me at their farm, a visible reminder as I am of his resentment towards Jozéf. I am not one to linger where I am not wanted. After two days, I accept Kristian’s kind offer of a little food and new boots – boots that he had outgrown – and I am on my way again.

I walk for days, heading west. The land is flat and open, wilder the further west I go. No welcoming lights of a farmhouse, no shelter from the sun. The boots Kristian gave me are too loose. I stuff them with grass, and keep walking.

Then, good fortune. I come to a broad lake which would have taken a full day to walk around, had it not been for the people I meet there, gathering wild rice. They call themselves Métis, and come from the north, from Canada. They speak mostly French and, I, little English, but we manage to work out that in exchange for helping them harvest rice from the lake, they will transport me north in their canoes.

Somewhere on the lakes and rivers we travel, we leave America behind. I do not know much about Canada, only that it is cold in winter and very large – larger than even the United States. The untamed wilderness of North Dakota gives way to endless fields of golden wheat, rising up from the river to tidy farmhouses. It feels orderly. It feels safe. Daydreaming as the Métis paddle, I picture myself living in one of these houses, working in these fields alongside my man – safe from the soldiers and police back home. I imagine what it would be like to belong here. To belong anywhere.

We part ways at Old Wives Lake. From here I walk to Moose Jaw, a small railway town with fine brick buildings -- mostly banks, it seems to me. I hop the first train I can, westward.

I travel curled in the corner of a freight car. I ration my food and water, for I have no idea how many days it will be to Hazelton. Or will it be weeks? I keep my pistol close at hand, wary of the hungry, ragged men who come and go – arriving with a thump and a fright as they hurl themselves into my car. I am constantly afraid that the railway police will spot them, and my hiding place will be given away.

When the box car is too hot and airless to bear, I take a chance and sit by the open door to feel the wind in my face. I watch the sun-bleached prairie roll by -- wheat, wheat and more wheat! -- until, one day, I see in the distance blue hills. The train stops at a place called Cow Town, according to the hobos. Next we go north to Edmonton, where I must change cars – running to catch the westbound train on legs like rubber from disuse.

This train goes through mountains so high they are capped by snow, even in mid-summer. Then Jasper, then Prince George, then countryside where the trees are as high as the mountains. Until at last we reach Hazelton. When the railway police are not looking, I leave the sanctuary of the box car. I must gather supplies, for it is from here that my most difficult journey begins – north through the wilderness along the Telegraph Trail to Telegraph Creek. To Jozéf.

Lillian's Travel Blog, Entry #3

North Dakota
July, 1927

I have been traveling for weeks, but North Dakota is still hundreds of miles ahead of me. At least two more weeks of walking. Then, a stroke of luck. I meet a man who tells me that the train goes to North Dakota. I rub my fingers against my thumb, to say I have no money for a ticket. He laughs, which I take to mean neither does he.

And so with a little instruction I “hop” a train from Chicago as far as Fargo. From there I follow the Red River north to the farm of Karl Fjeldståd. As far as Jozéf’s brother, Sergei, knew, Jozéf was working for this Karl Fjeldståd. I should have had my first inkling of disappointment then. Jozéf, after all, was never given to hard labour in a farmer’s fields.

This landscape feels empty to me – flat and forlorn. The openness I loved in the spring is now punishing under the summer sun. The wind blows ceaselessly, a constant reminder of how small and powerless one is against nature. My thirst is unquenchable and my skin burnt red. I take to traveling in the mornings and evenings, and as far into the night as I dare for fear of walking in circles in the dark. My feet are blistered and I am exhausted, but impatience will not allow me to rest when I am so close to my journey’s end. To Jozéf.

It is night as I near Karl Fjeldståd’s farm. Their barn is visible a mile away, lit by torches and alive with the gay sound of fiddle music. As I draw closer, I hear singing -- the beautiful, spirited singing of many voices together. I see men and women, dancing together. My heart quickens at the thought of Jozéf’s expression when he sees me.

I find Karl Fjeldståd outside the barn, a spry man in his fifties, a little drunk -- no happier to see me than Sergei had been. For one thing, my arrival has interrupted a party. (My appearance must have been frightful compared to the pretty women dancing in fancy dresses inside the barn.) For another, the mere mention of Jozéf’s name sends him into a fury. Jozéf left weeks ago, he says. He ran off with Karl’s best boots and before the planting was done.

I am devastated to have come so close, only to find that Jozéf is gone.

Kristian, Karl’s son, takes pity on me and gives me food. In truth, the handsome young man is taken with me, don’t ask me why. Perhaps because he longs to be a traveler, like me. He is too young, too innocent to imagine what drives me on.

Kristian shares a secret with me, a secret his father does not know. Before he left, Jozéf told Kristian that he was going to find gold, in a place still further west, still further north. In a place called Telegraph Creek, in Canada. A thousand miles away. A thousand miles! My heart sinks. Will this road never end? But there is no question. I will keep going. I will find a way. For at the end of this road, I will find Jozéf.

Lillian's Travel Blog, Entry #2

Chicago
June, 1927

I have lost count of the days since I left New York City behind me. I thought never again to look with such awe upon a place as I did upon that city of towers, but I have discovered that America is full of wonders. And space – America is full of space. Over these last weeks, I have put my sturdy shoes to good use on my way to North Dakota, on my way to Jozéf. Every day, from dawn until dark, I walk. I think of Jozéf, and how my life is bound to his.

I have seen so much I hardly know where to begin. First, everywhere there are good roads. I have marked them on the map I made at the library in New York City, and I follow them west and north to North Dakota, so that I will not get lost. These roads are full of cars, big American cars. Sometimes, these cars stop for me, for I suppose I am a curiosity, a woman, walking alone. Without fail, a man is alone in the car. My English is so poor, I have difficulty understanding their words, but their meaning is clear enough.

I will confess that once I accepted a ride with such a man. He was a salesman, I believe, for when we stopped in a town for hamburgers, he shows me a suitcase full of kitchen wares – along with a pistol he keeps in the glove box of the car. He was showing off, trying to impress me. If only he knew how hated the sight of a gun is to me, with what I have lived through.

This man has trouble keeping his hands to himself. After I finish eating, I tell him I must use the bathroom, and leave through the back door. I stop only to take the pistol from the glove box, fearing he may come after me. I am, after all, a woman alone. For the next few days, I must keep to the woodlots and fields, out of sight of the road. But the hamburger was delicious.

I have seen farmlands so vast and so fertile that the young wheat flows in the wind as far as the eye can see. I laugh to myself, in a place called Pennsylvania, to see wealthy farmers who could afford to buy many trucks using wagons and horses instead, just like the peasants back home. In the towns, I am struck my how people walk down the street smiling. Where I come from, only idiots smile so much. But like everything else in America, happiness is plentiful. I suppose it is easy to smile here.

Not everything in America is beautiful. In Ohio, the factories and steel mills make the air foul and choke the rivers. In Chicago, I see magnificent buildings like in New York City, but also newcomers from many countries, pressed together in tight quarters – like in New York City. Everyone struggles to be successful, to be American. They see my worn shoes and my dusty clothes, and they think I am a peasant – like they used to be, before they became Americans. Now, they want only Americans for friends. I hear Yiddish in the streets, but I pretend not to understand. For as much as I want to belong, I want just as much to be invisible, anonymous.

I am discovering what freedom feels like, and space to oneself. I keep away from the cities, preferring the openness of the countryside. Most nights I sleep under the stars and wake to the gentle dawn – knowing that each day brings me closer to Jozéf. America is hope, and I hope that soon I will find him. Tomorrow I set out again, north and west to North Dakota.

Lillian’s Travel Blog, Entry #1

New York City
May, 1927

Never did I think to feel the firm land under my feet again. For twelve days, my stomach tossed with the ocean. We were packed below decks like pickles in a jar, just as tight and just as stinky. There were families from many shtetls – Slonim, Motol, Pinsk – but none from Hrodna. I listened to their stories and their dreams, especially the young girls. They saw themselves in jewels and furs, married to rich Americans. But I kept my dream to myself. Jozéf is here, I know he is. Just as I know I must find him.

At last we left the ocean behind and followed the shoreline of skyscrapers, so tall that they make your neck ache just looking up at them. The ship docked to let the first and second class passengers disembark, but not us below decks. Us they put on a smaller boat, and ferried us past the Lady Liberty (she is magnificent) to Ellis Island. I will not dwell on the indignities I suffered there, for I have sworn never to look back. Only forwards. After two days, they declared me fit to begin my new life in America.

I soon discover that the people back home were wrong about one thing: the streets of New York are not paved with gold. They are crowded and noisy, with a hundred different languages that make my poor ears ring. Everyone is in a hurry to make it big, too busy to notice a poor girl like me – unless it is an oafish flirt who thinks that because my English is poor, I am too stupid to see through his charming lies.

I find a bed to share with another girl in the small apartment of a family from Gdansk. For this honour I pay them ten dollars a month, and even so they treat me like a servant. I bite my tongue and keep to myself, taking comfort from my dream of finding Jozéf. As I fall asleep at night, I try to imagine the expression on his face when he sees me.

It takes many days, but at last I find Sergei Nikitich Lazinsky, Jozéf’s brother, in Brooklyn. I walk there across a beautiful bridge that is very famous. But I find out that Jozéf exaggerated when he told us of Sergei’s success. He is living with his wife and children in a rundown tenement building, no better than the one in which I have found a shared bed in the city. I suppose that life here has hardened him, for he is suspicious and ill-tempered, and does not believe me when I tell him that I am Jozéf’s betrothed. But I am not so easily put off, and refuse to leave without an address for Jozéf. At last Sergei tells me he is working for a man in North Dakota.

I am happy, until I go to the big library and discover that North Dakota is 1500 miles from New York City. Back home, we never imagined how big America is. I do not know how I will travel there, but I will not stop. I must find Jozéf. My life is bound to his.

From the books in the library, I have drawn a map to guide my way to North Dakota. I have found work stitching hems and have saved as much money as I can – except for what I spent on new shoes. As I set out on this journey across this strange land, all I know for certain is that I will need sturdy shoes.

Lillian Blogs!

Not only does Lillian Alling tweet, she also blogs! Starting tomorrow, we'll be posting Lillian's journal entries as she walks across North America and into the treacherous foothills of Telegraph Creek, in search of a mysterious man named Jozéf.

Go behind the scenes and into the mind of Lillian Alling. She will be blogging about arriving amidst the chaos of Ellis Island in the 1920s, hopping trains, befriending Norwegians in the North Dakota prairies, spending time in Oakalla Prison Farm and her hopes and dreams of a new life.

Follow Lillian's adventures on Twitter and here for weekly journal updates.

*journal entries may not reflect what will be seen onstage.

~ Ling Chan, Social Media Manager