As If Death Summoned. Alan E. Rose

eventually recover, though needing two toes amputated. The alarm was sounded, and search parties set out early the next morning. Every able-bodied man in the vicinity joined in the effort. Skiers came up from Melbourne. Both the Maude and Yellow Girl mines suspended operations so their workers could join the search. More than 120 men set out into the rugged country with no clear idea where to find the missing skiers. They started on horses, but soon had to leave the animals behind as they climbed into the difficult terrain. Meanwhile, back in Glen Valley, the women prepared food to send out by packhorse to the parties over the coming days.

      On Tuesday, August 18, at around eight-thirty in the morning, one of the search parties climbed a high ridge overlooking a valley. A member shouted across the expanse, “HALLOOOOO!” and was surprised to hear a faint whistle. Below them, they saw Hull emerge from thick brush. The seven men made their way down the slope to find him in a gravely weakened state. Cole was in even worse shape, lying unconscious inside the log. For the next two hours, they administered first aid to the badly frostbitten men and fed them hot liquids. Too weak to walk, the skiers were carried on stretchers improvised from saplings and oilskin coats. In rain and hail, against a strong north wind, it was slow going out of the steep gullies and ravines. The team took turns carrying Cole and Hull on the makeshift frames. Holding them shoulder high, they crossed the rushing Mitta Mitta River, wading waist deep into its freezing waters. In six hours, the party had covered only three miles. Exhausted, they made camp at four in the afternoon, continuing to care for the two men as best they could.

      Early on the morning of Wednesday, August 19, they set out again. A member of the party was sent ahead to get help. Incredibly, by early afternoon the young man had covered fifteen miles and was close to Glen Valley when he came upon another rescue party led by Harold Hull, Mick’s older brother. Word was sent to the township the two men had been found, and the second search party went out to help bring them in. A Sister Watson of the Bush Nursing Association drove a motor car up the river as far as the road would go to meet them, returning to Glen Valley with Cole late in the afternoon. Suffering severe hypothermia, he was too fragile, his condition too critical, to move him to the district hospital. A doctor from Omeo attended to the unconscious man. Cleve Cole died shortly after nine that night, having never regained consciousness.

      By all accounts, it was a disaster with a tragic ending. But it also became a stirring piece of Australian lore and a source of national pride, how the townships had rallied to save two of their own. The Sydney Morning Herald hailed the effort as “a magnificent example of the working of the bush code.” The Western Mail in Perth called it “one of the most thrilling alpine dramas enacted in Australia.” The following years saw the construction of a series of huts on the Bogong High Plains to provide shelter to future skiers. The first to be constructed was the Cleve Cole Hut.

      Certainly, it was a moving and inspiring tale, but as I would later learn, there was more to the story that never made it into the news-papers or the Glen Valley pamphlet.

      Chapter Five

      Into the West Hills

      [Portland, Oregon, April 1994]

      I admired the large house as I walked up the extended driveway. Overlooking Portland, its two wings arched from the three-story center peak, suggesting a glass pterodactyl. A Saturday afternoon in April. One of our major donors, a Jerald somebody-or-other, was hosting a fundraiser at his home in the West Hills. By then Cal was in the hospital, so the board president had asked the management team— Steve, Sandy, and Franklin— to accompany him in Cal’s place. They, in turn, asked Father Paul and me to come along. “You make good impressions,” Sandy said. “You’re both educated and cultured, you speak well, and you don’t drool down your front.” Father Paul looked like a priest from central casting: mid-fifties, he was the oldest person on staff, somewhat portly, with gentle gray eyes, a thatch of iron-gray hair, and a perennial smile. No one had ever seen him riled. They gave me an address, telling me to show up between three and four.

      A number of BMWs, Lexuses, and Aston Martins, as well as one aloof Lamborghini were parked in the circular driveway and down along the road. My sensible little Subaru looked as if it was crashing the party. On this pleasantly warm day, I dressed in a sport coat and slacks. The front door stood open, and I entered a large room where many people mingled, each carrying the requisite glass of alcohol. I was relieved to spot Sandy. She came up to me, looking very stylish in a summer dress with a woven wrap about her shoulders. “Oh, good,” she said. “We’re all here now. You, me, Steve, Father Paul, and FY.”

      “You look great,” I exclaimed. I hadn’t seen her dressed in anything other than jeans and vests, basic butch wear, since I joined the organization. “Very elegant.”

      “Thanks. I can clean up when I need to.”

      I was also relieved to find the party a relaxed affair compared to the black-tie functions Gray had dragged me to in Toorak. A string quartet from the Oregon Symphony played something Dvorak-ish in the corner. People stood around chatting meaningfully on meaningful topics, laughing lightly, sipping their martinis and glasses of champagne. There were gay couples, straight couples, plus a number of singles aspiring to couple. At that moment Franklin entered the room, appearing absolutely effervescent. “Franklin looks happy,” I said. Indeed, I had never seen him so happy.

      “Yes, he’s in his element,” said Sandy. “Franklin aspires to be one of the A-Gays. He has the right attitude and he speaks their language— Snob-ese— but unfortunately lacks the money to be a member of this club. Oh, look, he’s coming this way. Watch him pretend he doesn’t know us.”

      Franklin greeted me jovially like we were old friends, pretending not to notice Sandy. “So glad you could make it,” he said, a hand on my shoulder. He burbled on about what a beautiful spring day it was— “Portland at its finest”— and that there were some “absolutely wonderful people here.” Then he moved on, our finance director the social butterfly, fluttering over to another small group.

      Sandy tossed back her drink. “Well, I was 50 percent right.”

      “He probably just didn’t see you standing there.”

      I also met Steve’s partner, Mark. They made an attractive couple, both HIV-positive, though neither yet showing symptoms. As we went to the open bar and got our drinks— a very fine Chardonnay for Sandy, a truly exquisite soda water with lemon for me— we could overhear a nearby group remonstrating against Clinton’s economic policies, clear signs of the coming apocalypse.

      Sandy turned to me. “You’ve got the background in psychology. Explain this to me: How can a gay man be a Republican? I mean, isn’t that a little like Jews campaigning for the Nazis?”

      “That might be a bit too strong,” I said. “But, yes, it does demonstrate the human mind’s capacity to compartmentalize. The party that condemns you as a pervert is also the party you believe is best for your business interests. They call themselves Log Cabin Republicans.”

      “Is that because the sixteenth and arguably our greatest president was rumored to be homosexual?”

      “Except Lincoln wasn’t. All the heterosexual historians agree he wasn’t.”

      “But I read that as a young man he shared a bed with his best friend for four years.”

      I assumed a professorial air. “Yes, but, you see, it was customary in the nineteenth century for males to share beds in frontier towns— even though Springfield was no longer a frontier town, and even though Lincoln and his friend Joshua Speed later had other sleeping options.”

      “Plus, I read that he wrote very passionate letters to this Joshua Speed.”

      “Yes, but it was not uncommon in the nineteenth century for males to write other males with flowery and effusive terms of endearment, though neither Lincoln nor Speed appear to have written such flowery and effusive letters to their wives, or any women we’re aware of.”

      She leaned closer. “What else?”

      “Well, there’s also the niggling rumors that a