by David Boyle
“Your gratitude is unnecessary,” the alien said flatly. “The beast presented me no alternative.”
Ron’s cheery expression began to fade…
“In our present situation, it is imperative that we preserve every asset we possess.”
…and went blank. “Asset?” Taut lines crinkled his brow. “Is that all we are? All I am? A fuckin’ asset!” The label burned deeper. “Why you motherf—”
Hayden cut him off. “McClure! He just saved your life. The why shouldn’t matter.” Ron stood with a furious gaze, his mouth opening and closing, but nothing coming out. He clenched his jaw and snorted, then stormed toward the tents. “I’m sorry, Wheajo. He can be a little slow to adjust.
Please accept my apology. And my thanks.”
“Anybody for breakfast?” Tony called out, minutes later. “This whole morning has been exciting. I don’t know about you, but it’s given me one heck of an appetite.”
“Sleeping gives you an appetite,” Charlie grumbled, flinging what was left of his Aussie toward the tarps. “This fuckin’ place is going to kill us. I said so yesterday, and now I’m sure of it.”
“Ah, you’re only upset because you’re hungry. And I know how to fix that.” Spared having been scared out of his wits, Tony strode brightly to the woodpile and gathered up an armload of particularly inappropriate pieces. The fire down to barely a wisp—how convenient!—he dropped the cuttings onto the coals, then knelt and pulled out his lighter. I hope this works, he thought, wondering where to start.
Mark came strolling only seconds later. “You can’t start a fire that way,” he said, picking off the branches. “Stick to cooking, Delgado. I’ll take care of the fire.”
Tony thanked him profusely. Okay, that’s one. Now what to do with McClure? He thought for a second, a smirk creeping across his face when he headed for the supply cache. He dug a beer out from under the tarps, then gave it a shake on his way to Ron. Bemoaning how stressful the morning had to have been, Tony offered him the can with the fervent hope it would sooth his nerves. Tony had taken but a few steps when he heard the sudsy pop, Ron squalling while at the same time trying to catch it all.
That’s two!
With Ron slurping and Mark reconstructing the fire, Tony next conned Charlie into slicing a portion of the dinosaur meat into steaks. He tossed Hayden the coffee pot and pointed to the river, then burrowed under the tarp for the cookbox and powdered eggs. With his friends occupied with something other than dinosaurs, Tony in due course had Fillet le Corythosaurus simmering on the grill, the alien ready with a spatula and monitoring the pan of reconstituted eggs. Noisy and animated, the Cretaceous campsite was soon filled with the repartee and aromas of a most unconventional breakfast.
Staggered cross-legged around the upturned canoe, they toyed with apt descriptions for the meat. Dark, very lean, and surprisingly tender, descriptions ran the gamut from venison to raccoon, Hayden and Tony admitting they’d never tasted anything quite like it before.
“Think about all the rivers we’ve been on,” Hayden said at one point, poking with his fork. “Except for some of our lunch stops, this is probably one of our best meals ever.”
“Sure as hell beats the shit outta that salty stuff. Where was that? Oh yeah… the St. Croix.”
“You talking about the bacon?” Ron asked.
“Yeah, that canned stuff.” Mark remembered too.
“What was so bad about that?” Ron asked between bites. “I thought it was great.”
Charlie turned to Tony with a different recollection. “The best part was how it burned.”
Full bellies and a pot of coffee had exactly the effects Tony had been hoping for. They joked about previous meals: the great ones, the not-so-great ones. Where they’d been at the time.
Tony tapped a cigarette from the pack, listening to the banter and pleased that his friends were finally relaxed and back to normal.
13
Breakfast was such a hit that Chef Delgado was encouraged to sit back and relax while the utensils were cleaned and stowed and the area surrounding their ‘dining table’ was tidied up. Always the stickler, Mark fussed with the fire until he had it going just so, a pot of water soon propped on a rock and steaming beside it.
They knew virtually nothing about the island, the morning’s events a pointed reminder of the need to rectify that particular situation. Equally important, there were slabs of dinosaur to be attended to. They fell naturally into three teams: two to investigate the island, and a third to work at curing as much of the meat as possible before it got to rotting. As head of the preservation effort, Tony requested that everyone keep their eyes open and gather samples of any plants that looked, smelled, or otherwise gave even the slightest indication of edibility.
Charlie volunteered to help Tony while Ron and Mark explored the north end of the island, and Hayden and Wheajo the south. Mark had earlier gotten a fix on sunrise, and they used that time to synchronize their watches and establish an estimated time after which everyone would be expected back at camp.
Tasks assigned, each team set to work.
Unsure about how smoky it would get, Charlie and Tony located an area for their would-be smoker along the back of the clearing halfway between the woodpile and the landing. They scraped away the mulch, uprooted what plants were there, then dug a shallow pit in the center. Later, perhaps, the pit would be lined with rocks to improve heat distribution, the soil for the moment tamped and compacted. Green logs were used for the uprights, sets of equally green cross-members then notched and wedged into place to create a sturdy framework. Heavy branches were next trimmed and stacked between the posts, the enclosure further lined with layers of various fronds. A thatchwork frame became the door, and an armload of skinny poles the top. Additional fronds were lastly gathered and threaded between the cross members to plug the gaps.
Thatching complete, Charlie set to work charging the pit with a thick bed of coals. These were covered with woodchips, and the entire enclosure wetted down. They scoured the woodpile for what hardwood was there, then added a portion to the fire to allow it time to burn down while the rest was put aside for later.
“I was thinkin’ before we left that I was goin’ overboard bringing all that along. Sure as fuck ain’t the bear I was hopin’ to poke, but now I’m glad I packed it.”
“You mean the salt? Heck yes. I’m glad you packed it too,” said Tony, rubbing a handful into long slivers of meat. “I don’t know what we’d have done without it.
“How much did you bring, anyway?”
“The guys at Gander Mountain said bear skin was thicker and oilier than deer, so I got two bags.”
“Two is good…. Yeah, that should keep us for a while.” Tony wiped the beads from his forehead. “Here, go ahead and start with these,” he said, pointing with an elbow. The temperature was up, and the sun was still climbing. “The sooner we get these going, the sooner we can get to the next batch.”
Racks of jerky-to-be were presently dangling above the coals, Charlie taking care when he wedged his makeshift door into position. “Any guesses on how long this’ll take?”
“No, not this time…. Is kind of funny, now that I’m thinking about it.”
“How’s that?”
“I’ve read my share of cook books, and wouldn’t you know, not a one of them has a section on dinosaur.” The coals were having the desired effect, a blue gray cloud soon drifting into the trees.
“However that stuff ends up," said Charlie, waving, "it’ll be smoked real good.”
“I’ve done this. . . at least once before, so I’m sure it’ll be fine.” Charlie shot him a dubious look. “Don’t worry, you’re going to love it.”
Their explorations determined the island to be nearly a third of a mile long by something like 180 yards wide, a good thirty of that coming by way of the point that pinched the river to something under fifty yards. Best guess was that the island had once been part of the western mainland, the deadfall-infested channe
l created by an enormous flood at some point in the island’s distant past. In places fewer than ten yards wide and carrying but a miniscule fraction of the river’s flow, the channel at the same time served well as a moat as evidenced by the lack of foot-traffic leading to or from the heavily forested mainland.
The northern half was also the lowest, the boulder-strewn point adjacent the river piled high with the remains of trees washed downstream. Huge willows dominated the bank, the forest within becoming a more diverse assemblage away from the river. The majority were skinny, and most reached to the canopy before spreading out, the intermingled branches so dense in cases that the ground cover dwindled almost exclusively to ferns. It was a pattern repeated along the length of the island, and likely the mainland as well: provide enough sunlight and the forest floor flourished; cut it and only plants with the tenacity to compete with the ferns survived.
There were curious depressions scattered throughout the island, with each containing a unique blend of trees and undergrowth. The forest complex made abrupt transitions, the mix of trees changing for no readily apparent reason, the foliage shifting from open clusters of softwoods to tight stands of various oaks, ginkgo, what looked like ash, and a slew of types no one had seen before. There were scattered groves of pine starting roughly at the island’s center and south, most growing in extended groups as if for their mutual protection.
Ferns and weeds not yet true grasses were prevalent throughout the island, the various types distinguishable by their subtly varying colors. Club mosses, too: shaped vaguely like bamboo with a filigree of pointed leaves surrounding the knuckles, all crowned with a scaly green mass resembling pygmy pineapples. An oftentimes whimsical mixture of the different and familiar, mini forests of the straw-like club mosses could be found in almost every pocket of moist soil.
An apparent microcosm of the mainland, the trees populating the island differed markedly north to south, the most extensive stands of oak, maple, ash and other angiosperms found on the southern portion of the island, a fortunate proportion of which were within reasonable dragging distance of camp. Even so, the stands were often very dense. Difficult simply to explore directly, roots and vines in places spread across the ground like ropes, the forest floor a thick and fragrant mass of dead and decaying vegetation.
The big rapid effectively signaled the island’s southern terminus, the bank a near-vertical drop to the foot of a boulder strewn shallows, the main portion of the rapids extending to the east, the log infested channel on the west. Referred to eventually as Boulder Rapid, the drop underwent a series of abrupt transitions, the rapid’s difficulty ranging from Class II below the island to Class III or higher as the underlying bedrock twisted across the river. A playground for kayakers of even mediocre skill, the falls rumbling beside the far shore were a magnificent cauldron that, for them, were better suited to watching than running.
*****
They were late getting back, and clouds increasingly cluttered the sky when Mark and Ron returned to a smoke-filled, if deserted campsite. “Guys made some serious headway on this stuff. There’s enough here to last us a good couple of days.” Shriveled and browned, strips of dinosaur were stacked along the Tripper, with more in process and more awaiting their turn in the smoker.
Ron grabbed one and gave it a sniff. “Not bad,” he said, nipping off a piece, chewing.
“After what all you had for breakfast I’m surprised you’ve got room for that.” Mark waited for Ron to swallow before asking the obvious. “Well, how is it?”
“Whatever they’re smoking it with needs work, but otherwise it’s okay.” Ron checked his watch, then glanced about the forest. “Where do you think they’re off to?”
“Your guess is as good as mine, but I doubt they’d go far. We are talking Delgado and Bull here.”
“I guess they could have gotten past us.” Ron slipped an arm through the sling. “Tell you what, I’ll head back this way and check. You take a look by the rapids. Neither of them got a chance yesterday, and if Hayden and dumbshit beat us back, they might all have taken a walk to see them.”
“Yeah, that sounds reasonable.”
They took off in opposite directions, Mark pausing for a look at the river when something caught his ear. “McClure, hold up!” He stepped to the drop off, listened, then headed back across the clearing.
“What’s up?”
“I’m not sure,” Mark said, trotting over. “You have to listen close, but there’s something….” There were sounds embedded in the pervasive hiss of the rapids. “Are those shouts?”
Ron cocked an ear, then tipped the rifle from his shoulder—“Maybe”—and hurried into the forest. Branches and fronds slapped at their legs, the babble crystallizing amid the thrashing to where they were able to catch snippets. They stopped to get a bearing.
A voice called out: “Whoa! There’s one!”
Mark straightened, blinking. “What the hell…?”
They pressed ahead, and within forty yards began catching glimpses of a T-shirt through the trees. Ron angled toward the river and shouldered his way into the thicket. Hayden and Wheajo were standing along the bank, both intent on the river.
“Got one!” Tony shouted from below the bank.
Hayden looked to the rustling. “Been wondering when you guys would show up.” Tony was ankle deep in the shallows, his pole bent in an arc.
“Check it out, Bull… look at this guy go!”
“Yeah, great. Just don’t let ‘im take all your line.” Charlie unhooked his latest catch, and, after tossing the thing in the river, sent his lure flying. He, too, had gotten rid of his shirt, though he hadn’t gone to the lengths Tony had with making cutoffs of his pants. Sunbeams speared through gaps in the clouds, the hair brushing his shoulders gleaming at times like frazzled gold. He jerked his rod back. “Whoa… that’s a good hit!”
Ron squeezed his way to the drop. “Having a good time are you?”
Tony squinted over his shoulder. “With fishing like this? Heck yes,” he said, playing his latest victim ever closer to shore.
“Your route through this stuff stinks, McClure,” Mark said, slashing at the foliage with his knife. Tony was a little off to the side and nearly straight down when he reached the bank, swirls blooming a few feet past where his line entered the water. “How long you guys been here?”
“We were attracted by their exuberance some time ago,” Wheajo said, watching the men below, their poles bobbing as each struggled with whatever was on their lines. “They are obviously excited, though I fail to understand why.”
Hayden clarified. “Ten minutes maybe?” He tipped his head at Wheajo. “I could be wrong, but I’m thinking he’s never been fishing before.”
Tony landed his fish. “What a beauty! Look at this one, Bull!” Silver scales glinting, Tony cautiously slipped a finger behind its gills. “Oh yeah. This is a good one. Easily an eight-pounder!” Charlie kept reeling, not the least impressed.
“Okay, I’ve seen enough. You guys watch if you want,” Mark said, retreating the way he’d come. “Me, I’m getting my pole!”
Tony twisted the hook free, and after tossing the fish stuck the pliers in his pocket. “How you doing?”
“Almost there,” Charlie said, rod up, cranking. “Couple more yards and I should be able….” The rod bowed, the reel started singing. “You son-of-a-bitch…. There he goes again!”
His drag buzzed while the fish ran with the current, then slowed and went silent when Charlie finally managed to turn the thing. From that point on he made steady progress, the fish soon flopping on shore. “Talk about neat! Like a big ole orangey kinda bluegill… with teeth even!” He looked to Tony. “A keeper?”
“He’s definitely big enough, though you do have to be careful. Keep too many and we won’t have room to walk!”
Charlie unhooked the thing, “This is your lucky day, kid,” and tossed the fish back.
Hayden had seen enough too. “I’m heading back. You coming?” Ron s
aid sure, and started through the trees with the rifle held over his head. “How about you, Wheajo? You up to giving fishing a shot?”
“A most curious endeavor. But yes, I would appreciate the opportunity to experience some of your, may I say, unusual customs.”
Charlie took but passing notice when the onlookers left. “I guess you know this place scares the livin’ shit outta me. But the fishin’…? It’s unbelievable!”
Tony nodded, a smile etched on his face. “No kidding. Like something out of Nature’s medicine chest.” They cast their lures in long arcs—plop! plop!—and started their retrieves. “And no going back from here, okay? But what would you say to ten bucks for the biggest fish?”
“Make it twenty.” Tony nodded, and three turns of the crank later Charlie’s rod jerked with a strike. “Oh no you don’t, you ain’t getting’ away!”
Tony was watching and flinched when his lure banged his rod tip. “How about that? Made it all the way back!” The lure sailed away, his cast nearly automatic. He waited a few seconds before starting his retrieve, his rod jerking almost immediately thereafter. He set the hook, glancing. “You’re going to regret bumping me.”
Their lines zipped across the water, going and coming, often multiple times, the two immersed in the experience of a lifetime. Charlie landed his first. “Would you look at the mouth on this thing! And here I didn’t even know they made fresh water tarpon.”
“He’s pretty alright,” Tony agreed, turning only long enough to get a glimpse, his latest catch flopping ashore a minute or so later. “Oooo… a speckled one. Like a white bass… only different!”
*****
“Yeah, the grip you’re going to have to live with,” Hayden said to Wheajo, instructing the alien on the fine points of casting. “So you press this button,” he said, demonstrating, “then lift the rod… and bring it forward, like so.” It wasn’t meant to be perfect, the lure splashing hardly any distance from shore. “Until you click the handle, like this… the line will keep peeling off the reel, so don’t wait long or—” A sudden yank nearly ripped the rod from his hand. “Holy shit!” Hayden jerked the rod up, and was so surprised it took him a second before he started reeling. “Can you believe that? I’ve actually got a fish!” Hayden steadied the rod. “There’s no way to explain this, so watch while I play him.”
