Winter came early in the north. They were paddling their way through the last two weeks of August. The colors of autumn would stain the taiga with reds and yellows. Frost would come on every morn, and soon after, the snows that never melted until the following spring. There was a somber feel to the day, as gray and troubled as the weather. Cameron tucked the pup inside her jacket, climbed into the canoe and left Jack to the paddling. They headed downriver toward a fate neither could guess at or talk about, traveling in a silence that felt almost funereal.
It took most of the morning to reach the Mackenzie River, and there was no feeling of triumph in either of them when they did. It was simply an unheralded arrival at the confluence of the two rivers, where the clear black water of the Wolf pushed into the gray silted water of the broad, powerful Mackenzie, and both flowed north toward the Arctic Ocean. It was a moment that brought them closer to the end of their journey together, a moment neither felt like celebrating.
Lunch was made on the south bank of the Wolf near where the rivers met. Cameron boiled a pot of strong tea and cooked the last of the char. The pup ate a slurry of mashed char and water. Cameron took the satellite phone out of her dry sack, replaced the battery and tried to power it up, but it was just as dead as it had been when she pulled it out of the waterlogged canoe. No matter. They’d be in town by nightfall, and she could call Walt from there and arrange for their pickup.
Cameron repacked the satellite phone and choked down her lunch without tasting it. She held the pup on her lap and watched the swift dark water of the Wolf River push aside the silted water of the Mackenzie, and wondered how many miles it would take before the clearly defined boundaries between the two rivers blurred and then disappeared. Out of the corner of her eye she watched Jack finish his meal, take a swallow of hot tea. He’d lost so much weight his face was gaunt. Not even a week’s growth of beard could hide the struggles of his journey. She knew she looked even worse, her face badly bruised and abraded, her clothing shredded from miles of rugged bushwhacking. She didn’t realize her sigh was audible until Jack turned his head toward her.
“Home stretch,” he said.
“Is that what you’d call it?”
“According to the map, the town’s only five miles down river, and it’s on this side, so we don’t have to cross. Would be twice as far otherwise, and damned dangerous on a windy day like this with a leaky canoe. Look at the waves out there.”
Cameron looked. They were big enough to easily swamp their canoe, strip the duct tape, roofing tar and sheet-metal patch right off and sink them before they’d covered a quarter of the distance to the far shore. She heaved another sigh. Right now being swamped in the middle of the cold Mackenzie River seemed preferable to the way she felt.
She was about to voice that sentiment when the sound of an approaching jet engine turned their heads. A small passenger jet flew over very low, heading north and descending rapidly. They stared. The sight of the red-and-white jet with the Canadian Air logo was so incongruous that it took a few moments to process.
“Guess we aren’t the only two people in the world after all,” Jack said.
“Landing gear was down,” Cameron observed. “We might be closer to town than you thought.”
“I’ll buy you supper tonight at the best restaurant in town, assuming there’s more than one.”
She managed a laugh. “It’s not as hick as you think. It’s a really nice town, and there are a couple good places to eat. Norman Wells is where the Canol pipeline project was kicked into high gear by your government during World War II, to help build the Alaskan Highway. The pipeline to Whitehorse wasn’t much of a success. In fact from what I’ve read, it was a colossal waste of money and was used for only one year, but they’re still producing oil up here, and it’s no small village, not like you’re thinking. It’s a real town. They even have a couple of hotels with hot showers.”
“Like I said, I’ll buy you supper at the best place in town.”
“I’ll take you up on that offer, since I don’t have any money on me,” Cameron said. “The best place to eat is the Big Bear Tavern at the Tulita Hotel. I just hope they allow puppies.”
* * *
THE PADDLE DOWN the Mackenzie River was a miserable one. It began to rain, there was no convenient place to put ashore to don their rain gear, the wind was bad and there was no way to escape the waves that built up. The patch began to leak, and Cameron’s bailing couldn’t keep up. In the end Jack put ashore on a sandbar barely two miles downriver, and Cameron hauled the canoe into the shallows. She was cramped, wet and miserably cold and glad he’d opted not to push on. There was six inches of water in the bottom of the canoe. They were starting to rummage through their packs for their rain gear when a shallow-bottomed skiff coming up the river spotted them and headed toward the sandbar.
“Heyho!” the man sitting in the stern greeted as he drove the aluminum skiff ashore, cutting the engine and hauling up the outboard motor in a perfectly executed maneuver. “Need a lift to town? I can tow your canoe, and you can ride with me. Fifty bucks. It’s getting rough on the river and it’s supposed to rain all day. Bad weather, lots of wind.”
Cameron and Jack exchanged glances.
“We’d appreciate it,” Jack said.
He started to pull out his wallet when the man said, “You can pay when I get you there safe,” and laughed as if he’d made a joke. He had a hand-rolled cigarette in his mouth, which the rain had put out long ago, and he talked and smiled around it and didn’t seem to care it wasn’t lit. His skin was dark and weathered, his eyes dark slits in a stoic face that somehow managed to reflect great humor at their situation. It was hard to tell his age. He could have been fifty or eighty. He was lean and dressed poorly for the weather—worn-out blue jeans, patched jacket and tattered ball cap—but he seemed perfectly comfortable with the elements.
They were quick to load their gear into the skiff, lash the canoe behind and climb aboard. “I’m Jack Parker, and this is Cameron Johnson,” Jack said as Cameron boarded, one hand cradling the pup inside her jacket, the other clutching the gunnel to keep her balance.
“Fred Andrew” came the reply from the man in the stern, who nodded and smiled with his eyes.
“Thank you, Fred,” Cameron said. She sat up front and took a quick peek inside her zipped-up jacket at the pup, who lifted milky blue eyes and seemed as content as the captain of their little boat. Jack pushed the boat off the sandbar and sat behind her in the middle seat to converse with Fred Andrew.
“We would have spent the night on that sandbar if you hadn’t come along,” Jack said.
“I figured,” Fred replied, letting the bow of the boat swing downstream and starting the motor with one pull. “Your canoe was full of water and your woman was cold. I could see that from a distance.”
“You live in town?”
He shook his head. “About a mile downriver from here,” Fred replied. “Don’t like towns much, except for the food. The food is good.”
When he opened the throttle, the boat surged forward and all conversation ceased. The motor made too much noise. The ride was rough but fast in the swift current with the 60 horsepower Johnson at half throttle. Cameron cursed her stupidity for not donning her rain gear before they set out. She was freezing. Soon roof lines of the town came into view, the little houses on the outskirts, the airfield, the town dock and bigger buildings between the river and the airstrip. She was shivering uncontrollably as Jack climbed out to tie the skiff to the pier. He helped her out, then took their gear as Fred handed it up to him.
“We canoed down the Wolf River and stayed at a trapper’s cabin about twenty miles from the Mackenzie when our canoe got wrecked,” Jack explained to Fred as they unloaded the skiff. “We’d like to find whoever owns that cabin and thank him.”
“No need to do that,” Fred said. “You get in trouble up
here, you need to get inside a cabin, so nobody locks their doors.” Fred smiled around his soggy cigarette. His eyes crinkled almost shut. “What will you do about your canoe? You can’t keep paddling unless you fix it. I could fix it for you.”
“We’ll haul it out onto the pier for now, before it sinks completely.” Jack handed Fred the promised money for bringing them to town. “Come have supper with us, Fred. I’m told there’s a good restaurant in town, and Cameron needs to warm up.”
Fred nodded, climbing out without further prodding. “I like eating food I don’t have to cook,” he said. “You buying?”
“I’m buying,” Jack said.
“Big Bear at the Tulita Hotel has the best food. Easy walk from here.”
Fred helped Jack haul the canoe onto the pier and tip it over so it covered their pile of sodden gear. Jack shouldered his pack. Cameron didn’t care if every last shred of their moldering gear fell into the river and floated to the Arctic Ocean, she was so cold. She just wanted to get someplace warm. When Jack put an arm around her and rubbed her arm up and down to warm her, she leaned gratefully against him, and they followed the spry and cheerful Fred Andrew up the pier and onto the street. The Tulita Hotel wasn’t far at all, maybe a hundred yards. Enough distance to get the blood flowing in her legs.
The foyer was warm. Suffocatingly, wonderfully warm. The Big Bear Tavern was to the right of the entry, and the place was half full. Jack helped her strip out of her soaking wet jacket and hung it next to his on hooks just inside the tavern door, and they hung their dripping hats atop their jackets, where they made puddles on the worn linoleum. Fred walked in like he owned the place and led them to a booth Cameron assumed was the one he always laid claim to. He tossed his wet jacket beside him as he slid onto the bench seat and left on his dripping ball cap. They hadn’t been seated ten seconds before a middle-aged matronly server deposited a big thermal carafe of hot coffee on the table and three big mugs to go with it.
“Same as usual, Fred?” she asked, no pen or notepad in sight. Fred grinned around his sodden cigarette and nodded happily. She looked at Cameron and Jack while handing them plastic-covered menus. “Sweeties, you look like you could both use something a little stronger than just plain joe,” she said, then crossed to the counter and reached behind it for a bottle of brandy, which she deposited on their table. “Fred must’ve rescued you just in time. He’s good at that. On days like this he cruises the river looking for boaters in trouble. I’d recommend you both order our Antifreeze Special. You could use it.”
“Thank you,” Cameron managed through chattering teeth, closing her hands around the heat of the mug that Jack had already filled.
“Is this the best hotel in town?” Jack asked. “We need to get dried out, have a hot shower.”
“Town’s full of engineers,” the waitress said. “Hotels are all full. They’re doing oil exploration stuff, and I guess they’ve made some new discoveries. Fred rents a room, though. His place isn’t too far from here. He might have something for you.”
Fred nodded. “I do. Seventy bucks, and that includes the round-trip boat ride.”
“Is there a shower?” Jack asked.
Fred shook his head. “Plenty of water, though, a whole river of it, and I have a sweat lodge. A sweat lodge is better than a shower—cures whatever ails you.”
“We’ll take it,” Jack said.
“That’s good.” Fred looked happy and took another swallow of coffee. “My wife died last fall, before the snows,” he said. “It’s been lonely with her gone. So now I rent rooms to boaters like you. There are a lot of boaters who canoe the Mackenzie every summer.”
“I’m sorry about your wife,” Cameron said.
Cameron wanted a hot shower almost more than she wanted food. She needed to change into some dry clothes, assuming there were any left in her pack. She took a small sip of her coffee after Jack put a generous dollop of the brandy into it. Alcohol fumes wafted up on the steam. She breathed them in while scanning the menu for the description of the Antifreeze Special. Lobo slept curled beneath her fleece pullover like he’d been born and belonged there. He was either the most highly adaptable pup on the planet, or weak and dying. She reached a finger beneath her pullover and tickled his fat warm little belly until he heaved a contented moan and she felt him curl into a tighter ball. She relaxed. He was the most highly adaptable pup on the planet.
The waitress returned, setting a heaping platter in front of Fred, stacked with what looked like two very fat and greasy burgers bracketing a mountain of golden fries. Cameron eyed Fred’s platter and felt her mouth start to water. Fred carefully laid the remains of his soggy cigarette on his paper napkin when the platter was delivered, picked up one of the burgers topped with sautéed onions and bacon and bit into it with obvious enjoyment.
“I’ll have what Fred’s having,” Jack said. “Cameron?”
“Me too,” she quickly responded.
“That’s our Antifreeze Special,” the waitress replied, gathering their menus. “So much fat, it can’t freeze no matter how cold it gets.”
“Sounds perfect,” Cameron said, and when the waitress left to place their order, she pushed out of the booth to follow her. “I have to wash up,” she explained, pulling the pup from under her fleece and handing him to Jack. “I’ll be right back.”
The hot water in the ladies’ room felt so good she wanted to crawl into the sink. She soaped her hands several times, washed her battered face carefully, then finger combed her hair. There was a pay phone in the lobby, and she used it to call Walt before returning to the tavern.
He answered on the third ring—he was probably asleep in his chair—and he accepted the charges. When he heard her voice he bellowed, “Jesus Mary and Joseph, where in the hell have you been? What’s taking you so long? I’ve been right out straight trying to run this place single-handed!”
“Nice to hear you were worried sick about me, Walt. We’re in Normal Wells. Made it into town about an hour ago, and we’re about to head for our lodgings. We’re staying with a Dene by the name of Fred Andrew. He lives upriver a ways. Hotels are full of engineers. I knew you’d want to know we were okay. We’ll be here tomorrow morning at the town pier if you could pick us up.”
“Hell, yes. I’ll be there by 10:00 a.m.,” he said, then lowered his voice. “That woman’s been here the whole time, Lori Tedlow, the Lone Ranger’s sister. She’s outside right now. Hasn’t left since she got here a week ago. She’s been driving me crazy, and she’s about to have a baby. The thing could come any second now.”
“It’ll be over soon, Walt. Bring money. I don’t have a loonie on me.”
On her way back to the booth, she stopped at the counter where the waitress was filling ketchup bottles. “Where do people bring stray dogs when they show up in town?” she asked. “We’re looking for a female dog that looks like a coyote and got lost along the Wolf River last summer. We think she might have found her way here.”
“Oh, boy,” the waitress said, shaking her head with a dubious expression. “Stray dogs don’t last long up here. Sometimes they’ll hang out at the dump for a while looking for food, but mostly they just disappear. Nobody has the money to feed stray dogs, not like down in the big cities. I don’t like to say it, but there are always a few dead dogs at the dump.”
This wasn’t what she wanted to hear. She returned to the booth, where Fred was working on his second burger. A few moments later the waitress arrived and plunked two more huge platters of food on their table. Cameron stared at the greasy bounty and was reaching for the first burger when the waitress returned.
“Couldn’t help but notice that cute puppy,” she said, offering Cameron a small stainless-steel bowl full of chopped meat, chicken scraps and scrambled egg with milk poured over it. “Leftovers, but he won’t mind.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
; BETWEEN THE SPIKED coffee and the enormous fatty meal, Cameron could barely move. She put her head down on the table for a moment to rest her eyes while Fred spun some weird endless thread about extinct Hare Indian dogs and how they’d looked like a coyote crossed with a fox, and the radium mine at Great Bear and a village of widows where the men who worked in the mine had all died of cancer. He went on about the Manhattan Project, and how some of the Sahtu Dene had gone to Hiroshima and Nagasaki to apologize for the bomb because they had helped mine the uranium that made the bombs, and then Jack was nudging her with his arm, taking the pup and the empty bowl out of her lap and saying, “Time to go. Fred’s taking us to his place.”
Fred went ahead of them to the boat while they donned their wet, clammy jackets and hats. Cameron tucked the pup back inside her jacket, and they trudged out into the cold rain. She wanted a long hot shower and a soft bed, and she wasn’t looking forward to the boat ride back upriver and into the wind, but at least her stomach was full and, according to Fred, the ride wouldn’t last too long.
They loaded their essential overnight gear into the skiff, left the rest on the dock beneath the overturned canoe, and Fred ferried them back upriver into the river chop. An endless half hour later, plowing into headwind and waves, he veered into a little tributary and docked at a crude log, stone and board pier that jutted from the bank. Above the creek, on a high piece of land, was a cabin built of black spruce logs that looked like a much larger replica of the one on the Wolf River. It had a steel roof, a narrow porch that looked over the trees toward the river and two metal chimneys, one on either end. The front end of the cabin was taller than the back end. There was a large woodshed, a generator shed and what looked like a large machinery graveyard way out behind the cabin, before the field darkened into woods. In the rain, everything looked dreary and bleak.
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