The Last Homestead

by Warren Troy

  He said, “Come to see me, or just passing through?”

  “Well,” the bossy looking one said, “If this is your property, then we should talk.”

  “And just what would we have to talk about?” Denny already had a feeling he knew what the stranger was about to say.

  “We work for Genesis Mining Corporation, and this general area is going to be part of a new project we plan to develop. It’s been written up in several papers and on TV.”

  In the low tone Denny spoke in when he was getting or was already bothered by something, he responded. “Does it look to you like I get a paper delivered, or have an antenna to get television reception?”

  A sheepish grin on his face, the bossy guy told Denny he “did have a point there.”

  “So, what is it you want to tell me?”

  “Well, uh, what did you say your name was?”

  “I didn’t; it’s Caraway.”

  “Well, Mr. Canary,”

  “I said Caraway, C-a-r-a-w-a-y.”

  “Right, Caraway. Well, this stretch of Creek #27 is going to be fully developed all the way up to the hills over there to the south. There’s an old mine up in there, hasn’t been worked since the late forties. You might have seen it? It’s actually the center of the mine site we’re going to work.”

  “Has this project already been approved by the state?” Denny asked, his patience and tolerance for undesired company wearing thin.

  “Oh, not quite yet, lots of formalities to go through. It’s going to bring lots of revenue to the area, and jobs for the locals.”

  “I suppose my land will be a part of this project of yours?”

  Something about the way Denny spoke made the bossy guy pause in his spiel. “Uh, it will be right in the heart of things. I’m sure someone will come talk to you about an offer on your place, if it comes to that.”

  “Since you have the right to pass by my place if you’re taking the trail farther in, I suggest you do just that, now. Our conversation is over.”

  The bossy guy got red in the face, probably not used to being spoken to like that. “There’s no need to be unfriendly, you know.”

  “Oh, really. You come onto my land and tell me you’re planning on turning it into the bottom of a tailings pile, and probably screw up the creek in the process, and I have no reason to be rude. Well, let me put it another way: get the hell off my place, now!”

  The field worker, who had stood quietly until then, took a step forward, a serious look on his face.

  “I wouldn’t,” Denny said, his voice low and steady.

  The guy paused in his steps towards Caraway, sensing he might not want to start something after all.

  “Forget it,” said the other man. “Let’s go.” He held out a business card to Caraway, who made no move to take it, and let it drop to the ground. The two men got into the ATV, turned around, and headed back the way they had come.

  Denny stood there a while, bad feelings stirring around in his mind and gut. The situation had brought back the reason he had left his first homestead. He had sworn to himself he would never be forced to leave his home again. He hoped it would never come to that, but there seemed there was a chance it might.

  Denny went inside the lean-to and finished replacing the bearings, then went into the cabin and poured a cup of coffee from the pot keeping warm on the wood stove. He tried to settle down, his mind still filled with unpleasant thoughts. Several times during the summer, Denny heard mechanical noises in the distance coming from the far side of Lanyard Creek, and once saw a chopper fly over pretty low. The goings on concerned and irritated him, but there was nothing he could do.

  Denny needn’t have worried. It turned out the project was going to cost far more than it would yield, and the whole plan was scrapped. Caraway’s forest sanctuary was still safe. Denny learned of the cancelled project from Charlie Brady at the cafe, and was glad of it.

  Fall came and Denny took his moose, finished gathering enough wood for winter, and generally made things shipshape on the ‘stead. He hadn’t heard any foreign noises in the woods for quite a while, and his run-in with the mining people faded away.

  Chapter Twelve

  Near the end of the next December, the weather warmed to ten above zero. There had been over two feet of snowfall already, during several weeks of extremely low temperatures that came earlier than usual. Denny felt as if spring had come back, the change in temperature was so great. He knew winter was far from over, and savored the warming.

  With his stock of wood in good shape, and plenty of meat and other foods on hand, he decided he could take a couple of days to explore an area nearby he hadn’t headed into before and was curious about. It was a range of hills to the southeast, across Lanyard Creek. This felt like a good time to satisfy his curiosity.

  Denny had his gear and supplies for a short snowshoeing trip ready and waiting. Anticipating spending a night under the trees, he had a small tarp for making a shelter, and would spread a ground covering of spruce boughs for insulation against the snow. He used his light, warm down sleeping bag, attaching it beneath a small pack containing basic emergency essentials and quick foods such as moose jerky, fry bread, and a home-made trail mix from bulk foods he had purchased in Anchorage. He had a small metal can with a wire loop handle for boiling water, a baggie of instant coffee, and one of Labrador tea. He could also boil some of the jerky for a tasty hot broth. He brought along several whips of licorice as well. He would take his .44, leaving the old Winchester 30-06 at home, not expecting anything his revolver couldn’t handle.

  The long darkness of winter would normally be a drawback to a long hike, but the full moon now dominating the night sky would make travel not only easier, it also added to the enjoyment, the eeriness of exploring by moonlight providing a little extra excitement. Denny didn’t play by the rules most hikers and campers did. He was a capable and accomplished woodsman, and he followed his own mind when it came to being in the woods.

  The next morning, Caraway headed out on his sojourn into new territory. The snow was settled, making for good snowshoeing. Denny could travel by snowshoe with ease now, not like those first few attempts years ago, when his inexperience had him coming back covered with snow from the falls he had taken while learning the basic north country skill. Now, he could set a mile-eating pace for hours. The bright moonlight in a clear sky enabled him to easily find his way.

  He was about three miles from his homestead, having crossed Lanyard Creek and hiked along the flat wooded country on the other side, crossing another, smaller stream before he reached the hills beyond, which had drawn him into this new area. There was some actual daylight now, though it wouldn’t last long this late in the season. Standing and scanning the slopes ahead of him, he was pleased to see the hillsides were not particularly steep, so Denny kept his snowshoes on and started up the hill directly in front of him. The trees growing up the slope were not too dense, which made for easier travel too.

  After hiking uphill for half an hour he came to a wide level area, looking as if it had been bull-dozed into the hillside. He moved along the flat, which was about fifty yards wide and almost as deep. About half-way across, he saw what looked to be a small depression in the hillside. When he moved closer, it appeared to be a cave opening. His curiosity piqued, he took off his snowshoes, and used one to dig away the snow partially filling the gap in the hillside. There was no frost around the opening, so he knew there was no big, warm animal bedded down inside.

  It didn’t take long to discover it was actually a man-made opening. There was enough light to see there were some wooden beams about ten feet inside the opening, one on each side and one along the top held up by the other two. It was an old mine, and Denny thought it might be the mine those two unwanted visitors had mentioned last summer.

  In the reading he had done on the area, he had learned there had been some mining around the turn of the twentieth century and some in the nineteen thirties and forties, but had seen no sign of it
along the main trail to his homestead or the general area around it, which he had already explored. He thought about entering the mine for a little exploration, then decided to come back later and use it as a shelter for the night.

  Back on snowshoes, he skirted around the mine site and continued up the slope. It took another half-hour to reach the top. The view from there was spectacular, the forests and rivers beyond offering a wonderful panorama. Denny drew a deep breath at the sight. He had a great love and admiration for Alaska and its incredible territory, which began as soon as he’d come into the state. Even though he had done a lot of research before he had originally traveled north, nothing could have prepared him for the reality of it all. Now, he couldn’t conceive of living anywhere else. He planned on living his entire life here, deep in the bush, no matter how long that might be or whatever happened. Views such as this refreshed his enthusiasm.

  Denny moved along the hilltop at a steady pace, intent on walking to its end to see what was there, after which he would head back to the mine to enjoy the shelter it would provide for the night.

  He had gone about a half mile along the hill when he came to the edge of a steep slope, which descended to a creek far below. Caraway wasn’t sure if it was Lanyard Creek farther downstream than he had been before, or another branch of the Salcha River. He stood considering things and observing the area below him for several minutes when he suddenly knew he was no longer alone. Someone or something was behind him.

  Denny slowly drew his .44 and turned around. What he saw was a large grizzly bear on all fours, staring intensely at him. He saw in the brief moment they looked at each other that it was an old bear, too gaunt to be likely to survive its long winter sleep. It was certainly out looking for food. The poor, rubbed coat of fur and boney appearance somehow added to the ominous stance it had taken. He wondered if this starving animal had followed his snowshoe trail, or merely happened on him by chance. Whatever the case, this was just plain bad.

  The bear’s ears laid back, he lifted slightly off his front feet and leapt towards Denny, amazingly fast in spite of its haggard condition, desperation driving it forward. Denny got off one quick shot before the bear was on him. Charged with adrenaline and the desire to survive, he managed to turn away as the bear struck at him with its massive right paw, its three-inch claws flashing in the air as they ripped across Denny’s left arm.

  The force of the strike knocked Denny down the slope, and he rolled, bounced, and tumbled down its steep face. The action of the fall caused the snow behind him to come sliding down. It wasn’t really an avalanche, but enough came down to bury him when he came to a stop near the base.

  Denny had lost consciousness, having thumped his head on something under the snow. He’d lost a snowshoe, but his pack was still holding by one strap. Somehow, he had held onto the .44, which was now thoroughly packed with snow.

  Denny came around, unsure of how long he had been out. Lying still, not wanting to move quite yet, he studied his situation, and found he wasn’t buried too deeply, as the slight amount of fading light coming through the snow told him. His head hurt, but moving his left hand up to the sore spot, he couldn’t feel any blood. Moving his left arm higher over his head, Denny experienced sharp burning pain, but by moving his arm back and forth, was able to break through the covering of snow. Widening the opening, Denny listened to learn if the bear had followed him down, but heard nothing. He wasn’t sure how long he had been lying there. If it was still alive, the bear would have found him easily.

  The shot he had made could have been fatal, but he wouldn’t know until he had dug his way out. Carefully moving his right arm, the pistol tightly held in his right hand, caused no pain. He continued to push the snow away from up above his head until he could clearly see the sky, and then began wiggling around, kicking his legs as though swimming, finally working his way out, the one remaining snowshoe coming off his foot in the process.

  With his head and shoulders above the snow, Denny looked around. Far up the slope just below the top, lay the bear, its head and one foreleg stretched out in front of him. He had apparently died right after whacking Denny. Caraway knew it could have gone very differently. Letting go of what might have been, Denny concentrated on his present situation. All the way out now, he saw three claws had racked his upper left arm through the parka, penetrating to his flesh. He knew the gouges were deep, yet the blood flow that surely would have come seemed to have ceased. Perhaps lying in the cold snow had slowed down the bleeding.

  Looking at the pistol, he put it back in the holster after clearing out the packed snow as much as possible.

  In spite of his predicament, he was reminded of the slough he had slipped and fallen into years before, losing his pistol, when he had hiked in to locate his first homestead site. He had almost given up and turned back, but continued on instead, the better for it. He’d retrieved his pistol from the channel of muddy water and had to clear out grit and mud to make it capable of firing, before continuing on. This time, he’d be unsure if the pistol would work if needed, unable to clear all the packed snow still clogging its action. He knew he could do little to fully clear it until he got back to the cabin.

  Back to the cabin, now there was a sweet thought. Denny decided the best and easiest thing to do was move down to the bottom of the slope and the creek below. Slipping the pack onto both shoulders, he set out.

  It didn’t take long to get down to the creek. He had moved carefully down to the bottom of the slope, not wanting to set off another snow slide. Upon reaching the hard-frozen creek, he’d follow it as long as it went in the right general direction. The relatively light layer of snow on the creek’s surface was easy enough to walk on. His wounds had begun bleeding however, and the pain was working on him, drawing away his energy. Taking the holster off its belt and tucking it into his waistband under the torn and bloody parka, he buckled the belt at the first hole, slipped the belt over his head, and used it as a makeshift sling to take the pressure off the injured arm. Taking the gun and holster in his right hand he started up the creek. He was grateful for the full moon to help him see the way.

  He had hiked about a mile and a half when he met the trail his snowshoes had made on his outbound journey. It was a relief to see his own prints. The creek he had been following wasn’t Lanyard after all, but the secondary, smaller stream he had crossed on his way out to the hills beyond Lanyard. Turning right, he followed the tracks to the cabin, crossing back over Lanyard in the process. The deeper snow made the walk without snowshoes exhausting for him, and though his arm was hurting badly, throbbing and aching, he held on and made it home.

  Denny felt pure joy seeing the snug log cabin standing before him. He got the stove going quickly and sat close to it, waiting for the interior to warm up, and the deep cold to leave his body.

  The events of the day had worn him down, and his strength was at low ebb. Leaning over in his chair, he opened his pack, pulled out a piece of jerky, and sat chewing it as the cabin slowly gained a comfortable temperature.

  Denny slipped his arm out of its improvised sling and carefully unzipped the parka and removed it, grunting with the renewed pain. Taking off his flannel shirt, he inspected the wounds. They were deep, though none of the muscles seemed to be completely torn through. He knew what he had to do, and wasn’t looking forward to the task. Two of the wounds definitely needed stitching. The third simply needed tight bandaging. Caraway had no other recourse than to make his own repairs.

  First, he had to clean the lacerations. He went over to the little cabinet on the wall and took out the bottle of hydrogen peroxide stored there among other first aid supplies. He tore a piece of clean cloth from an unused muslin game bag, soaked it, and gently washed out the wounds. He grunted and growled as he applied the peroxide, but kept at it until it was done. Unscrewing the cap on the bottle of iodine, he soaked another piece of cloth and applied it to the wounds. Denny let out a yell as the iodine took effect. He sat there breathing quickly until the p
ain had subsided. Then he took out his little leather-working kit and removed the smaller of two curved needles. He found his sewing supplies, and removed a spool of heavy thread. He poured some bourbon into a small bowl and placed the needle and thread in it. He took a good swallow before putting the cap back on.

  Denny took some of the now boiling water from the tea kettle and made a cup of Labrador tea. He sat there putting his thoughts away from what needed to be done next. Finishing the cup of tea, he got busy.

  After threading the needle, without hesitation he put half a dozen crude stitches in the deepest wound, then five into the next. His first aid supplies provided some antiseptic ointment and bandaging material. Finally, the job done, Denny put several good-sized pieces of split wood into the stove, and lay down on his bed. He had no appetite, and in moments had dropped into a deep sleep. Just before he awoke, he had an unusual dream.

  The night before he had left Nevada to come to Alaska, he’d had a dream about standing on a high bluff with his grandfather, viewing an amazing land full of rivers, lakes and mountains. Denny knew now it had been a condensed vision of Alaska. His grandfather, who had been his best friend, told him things would be fine if Caraway used what the Good Lord had given him to deal with the things to come in his life.

  In the new dream, his grandfather was standing over Denny’s bed there in the cabin. He was smiling, and said, “I’m proud of you, Denny. You have become the man you’ve always really been, and no matter what, things will come out right. I’m still watching over you.”

  He smiled, thanked his grandfather and got up to stoke the fire. Even though his arm was stiff and sore, he felt much better. Taking off the bandages, he saw no sign of infection. Putting on new bandages, he made a sling from more cotton muslin, and spent the day doing as little as possible — reading, drinking, eating, and napping. He would heal quickly and get on with his life soon enough.