The Last Homestead

by Warren Troy

  Two weeks later, the winter bear incident was fading from his mind. His arm had healed well. Denny dressed for a trail ride, and after making sure the snow machine has enough gas and oil, strapped his emergency pack in the back rack, belted the clean, oiled .44 around his waist and rode out, following the path he had taken when he returned from the slope he had tumbled down after the attack. It didn’t take long to get there this time, on his machine. Denny could see the disturbed snow where he had been buried. Hiking up to the spot, he took the little folding shovel he used on the trail and began digging. It took only a few minutes to find one of the snowshoes, but it was a while before he located the other one, the first he had lost. Luckily, he spotted a tiny bit of the tail end poking out above the snow’s surface. Looking up towards the top of the slope, he didn’t see the bear anymore. Undoubtedly, the predators that remained awake during the winter had made short work of the old fellow. Having found what he came for, Caraway enjoyed the ride home.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Late the next spring, Denny made a decision he knew would someday be necessary. He had to find work to supplement his dwindling reserves of cash. Before leaving Nevada in 1990, he had liquefied all assets, selling his home, and cashing in his company stocks and 401K. This amounted to a substantial sum, allowing Denny to spend five years living on his first homestead without working, and be able to buy whatever he needed. He was also able to spend years on his new place in the same manner. Now, however, to keep a cash reserve for emergencies or necessary equipment he had to find work.

  So, during the first week of June, Denny brought out his ATV from where it had been stored in the lean-to behind the old plywood cabin, checked it over completely, bungeed his pack and a few other things on the rear rack including his small chain saw, bar oil, and a one-gallon can of gas, in case some trail cutting was needed. He also put all perishable food in a plastic bin on the front rack, expecting to find work and not return to his homestead for quite a while. Before leaving, he screwed nail-studded bear boards over the two windows and the door of his cabin.

  Having no choice, knowing anything could happen when a cabin was left on its own, Denny bit the bullet and, warming up the wheeler, headed out on the long trail leading to the Richardson Highway.

  Denny had cleared the summer trail enough that it was relatively smooth to travel on. There was one area that had needed some real work. There was a creek running between two small hills, cutting across the trail as it flowed towards the Salcha. Denny had forded the creek safely the few times he had ridden the trail in summer. The last time he did, however, the creek was running high at the end of spring break-up, and his wheeler was pushed sideways in the current. He had a real struggle to get to the other bank.

  So, he had built a rudimentary bridge across the creek in late summer, when the water was at its lowest. It was crude, yet sturdy. Two long birch poles ran across the creek bed, each set near its middle on a pile of large rocks, keeping the bridge well above the water except when spring break-up had it flowing hard and high. Those main poles had been a real hassle to get into position. Denny had to search the area for two suitable trees. He found and cut them down. Over twenty-five feet long and green, their weight was considerable. He lashed the birches one at a time to the back rack of his wheeler to move them to the creek.

  Transporting the second pole, he hadn’t tied the end tight enough to the rack, the line slipped, and the log had dropped down. When Denny ran over a hummock, the front end of the pole dug in and the wheeler had literally pivoted backwards and flipped over, slamming Denny onto his back on the ground, jammed up against the birch log. Luckily, he had been able to extend both his legs straight up, keeping the upside-down machine from falling flat on him. He finally managed to roll the ATV over sideways. He wasn’t badly hurt, and was able to get the machine upright again. Still, he ached for the rest of the day. Making sure he had the pole properly tied to the rack, he continued on.

  He ran the wheeler out into the creek off to one side of the pile of rocks he had built up as a middle support, stopping when the end of the pole was solidly on the other bank. Untying it from the wheeler, he had used all his strength to lift and bring the pole over the top of the rock pile, dropping it down onto it. The first pole took a set right where he wanted it to, but the second one had required extra effort to get it properly aligned and stable. As usual, Denny got it done. The poles ended up parallel with each other and surprisingly level.

  He secured the pole ends in tightly with long wooden stakes driven deep into the banks on either side of the logs, using long spikes driven crosswise through the wooden stakes and the pole ends, locking them together. This would secure the bridge at times of high water, or at least Denny hoped so. Caraway was done for the day.

  Over two long days, he felled more birch, rough-cutting slabs with a chainsaw to use for the bridge’s riding surface. He had gotten good with his chainsaws, though he didn’t like using them, never had. He didn’t care for the noise and the potential danger involved. So, for years he had worked against his dislike of them, felling enough trees for firewood every year and milling scads of boards for building.

  When Denny finished cutting and nailing down the slabs onto the poles, he had a sturdy, reliable bridge to traverse the stream, and it made crossing over the creek on his trip to find work a simple proposition.

  As had happened during his solitary life, the homesteader momentarily longed to share the satisfaction over his accomplishment, but he only had the forest as a mute witness.

  It took almost seven hours for Denny to get to the road over the trail in summer, longer by several hours than in the winter, if the snow was good. The ride was rougher too, since Denny cut as few roots as necessary where the trail went through a heavily forested area, to keep the trees alive, not simply for love of the woods, but to lessen the chance of a tree dying and falling across the trail.

  It felt strange to run along the side of the paved road, once he reached it, a smooth, flat surface being alien to life in the bush. Pulling into the driveway of his mobile home, Denny shut off the engine and just sat, enjoying the sudden silence, glad to be at his destination. It was then he noticed the trailer door was open, and heard music softly playing. He knew who it was. Walking in, he found his elderly neighbor, Elliot, sitting on the couch, enjoying the classical music coming from the record player. He stood watching the old man who was lost in reverie, his eyes closed, head moving to the music. Denny quietly waited for the recording to be over.

  Elliot had come up to Alaska, as many had, after World War Two. He had needed something to clear his mind and heart from all the death and misery he had witnessed in Europe. On a whim, he had decided to head north for the adventure and distraction it might provide him. Arriving in early 1946, it was love at first sight, and he had never left. He had pretty much seen it all, had “seen ‘em rut,” as George Levine had once told Denny. Elliot and George had met in Alaska, searched for gold, trapped, and fished together, finally settling down as neighbors where, years later, Denny had made their acquaintance.

  After Elliot opened his eyes, it took him a moment to come back from wherever the music had taken him. Then he saw Caraway.

  “Well, hello Denny, I’m surprised to see you here this time of year. What’s up?”

  “Hello, Elliot. I have to find some work to keep myself whole. Figured I might as well start looking in good weather. How are you doing?”

  “Oh, you know, aches, pains and all the other joys of old age. At least I’m still here to complain. I just finished dusting the place out. It gave me something to do. Everything is good here. I started up your truck a couple of days ago, and drove it about ten miles up the road and back again. It’s running good. Where are you going to look for work, Fairbanks?”

  “Yeah, thought I’d go up to the Fish and Game office and see if they have anything available not requiring a degree.”

  “Well, I wish you luck, young man, I truly do.”

  �
��Listen, Elliot,” Denny said, “I have a bunch of food I brought from the cabin, some butter, bacon and such. I was hoping you could use it.”

  “I sure could.” Kidding, Elliot asked, “Have any unbroken eggs?”

  Denny gave the faint twitch of his lip that usually passed for a smile, and said, “Oh, I might, and you could always make a big omelet if I didn’t pack them right.”

  Denny carried the plastic bin over to Elliot’s little house, telling him to leave it at the trailer when he had emptied it.

  The next morning, Denny drove his truck up to Fairbanks to seek employment, hopefully in some position not requiring much close contact with people. Denny had been alone so long, any group of people made him ill at ease. Charlie Brady was right, he had become somewhat feral, most of the facades people put up in society having sloughed off during his years in the bush. Still, he needed money to do what he had to do.

  The woodsman felt uncomfortable in the clean clothes he chose from the few garments he had hanging in the bedroom closet of the trailer. They felt alien to him, compared to his usual garments, torn and repaired, turned soft and comfortable through steady use and washings in creek water.

  He didn’t particularly enjoy the run up to Fairbanks. It was nice country to drive through, but there were some bad, deep wrinkles in the road surface from frost heaving over the winter. Some of them were so rough, the highway department would put warning signs up until they could repair them, occasionally missing some, not marking them with the usual little flagged poles, leaving drivers unaware until it was too late.

  The first time he made a run up to Fairbanks, Denny had hit one of the unmarked bad ones. His heavy truck had slammed into it, then bounced higher than he would have believed possible, all four wheels leaving the ground. His head had slammed into the roof of the cab when the truck came back down and bounced, and though the homesteader had almost lost control, he managed to keep it on the road. He had pulled over and stepped out onto the side of the road, standing for a few minutes, until his adrenaline had subsided, muttering under his breath about lousy roads and non-existent work crews. After checking over the truck, especially underneath, he continued on at a reduced speed, focusing intently on the road surface.

  In Fairbanks, Denny pulled over to a gas station, filled up, and asked directions to the Fish and Game office. It turned out to be only a few blocks away.

  Denny stood in front of the door, steeling himself for the interactions to come. Entering, he asked the woman at the counter who to talk to about a job.

  With a flat voice she told him to check the memo boards to his right. Denny looked and didn’t see anything he was qualified to do. Besides, a resume and a written test was required for all of the positions, and it would mean him having to come back up to Fairbanks several more times. A notice would be mailed to him. Mailed? This wasn’t going to work out. Denny knew a resume which showed he hadn’t worked for the past ten years wasn’t going to impress anybody.

  Figuring he’d have the same hassle at the Parks Department office, Denny had to rethink his situation.

  Sitting in his truck sipping a cup of fast food coffee from a foam cup, Denny considered what his next move should be. He didn’t plan on working at some store in town. In fact, he knew he couldn’t handle that for long, no matter how much he needed some extra cash. He was at a loss.

  While he pondered his situation, he saw a sign over a store front across the street which declared “O’Bannion’s Guide Service, Moose, Bear, and Caribou.” Though he had never done any guiding, with all his experience living in the bush, it sounded promising to him.

  Walking through the front door, he saw three men sitting together talking and laughing. They turned in unison when he walked in.

  One of the men, with a bushy red beard, stood up and asked Denny what he could do for him. When Denny said he was looking for work, the man stood silent for a moment, looking at Caraway, then asked him if he had ever done any basic construction. Denny told the man he had been a homesteader for ten years and had built a large frame cabin, and a log cabin with a loft. He said, “They’re both well built and solid.”

  Thinking a moment, the man asked Denny, “Do you hunt and have you always been successful at hunting?”

  Denny thought a moment, then answered, “Yes, no, and anyone who says they have is probably lying.”

  The bearded man smiled, stuck out his hand and said his name was Carlton O’Bannion and “when can you start?”

  “Whenever you need me,” said Denny.

  O’Bannion told Denny he needed to have simple cabins built in two of his camps in Hunting Unit Twenty, and did Denny know where that is?

  He did.

  “If you’re willing to build the cabins for me, you’re hired. Any problems with working under the table? I’ll pay fair wages for the work, plus food.”

  Well, this seemed an ideal set-up to Caraway, almost as good as homesteading, only with pay. So, he nodded, and the deal was sealed with a handshake. Denny was pleased at what he felt was a perfect way for him to earn money.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Three days later, Denny was flying in a float-equipped Cessna 180 over some beautiful tundra and willow country southwest of Fairbanks in Game Management Unit 20A. The light aircraft landed on a small lake beside a low hill. After unloading Caraway’s personal gear and other supplies, the pilot headed into the wind and was gone in minutes.

  The hunting camp was on the other side of the hill just below its top on a wide bench, sheltered from the prevailing winds. There was a forested area half a mile away to the south, wide and deep. To the north spread a broad expanse of tundra running up to a range of high hills about three miles away. It was a beautiful panorama of Alaska wilderness, and Denny stood there, absorbing the perfection of this country that seemed so familiar to him. Though far from his homestead, Caraway had no doubts he could roam this country and feel right at home, having lived in the bush so long.

  The first thing he did was to erect the canvas hunting tent. This tent was what clients had previously stayed in while hunting with O’Bannion. There was a low wooden platform — a floor for the tent, located on the wide, flat bench of ground just below the top of the low hill. The wooden framework for the canvas shelter was stashed under the platform, along with a metal cook stove. It took Denny a few minutes to figure the frame out, but he soon had it erected, using the bolts and wing nuts provided to hold all the pieces of lumber together. It was easy to hang the tent over the framing, taking out any slack with hold-down cords attached to the tent, using metal stakes already driven into the ground. Once Denny had the sheet metal shepherd’s stove set up in the tent, and unfolded the cot brought in on the plane, he had a cozy place to sleep in, out of the elements. Denny stowed his firearms and pack at the head of the cot. He had brought his outdoor gear with him — rain suit, rifle, and pistol of course, knives, two changes of clothes, and other small but essential items.

  He felt settled now, ready to work. O’Bannion had asked him if he wanted someone to help with the building, but Denny said he worked better and faster alone. Carlton took him at his word.

  All the building materials needed had been provided, brought in previously by helicopter and stacked under a large plastic tarp — lumber, roofing materials, two windows, and one door. Denny located boxes of nails and screws and a large tool box containing everything he would need, including a small chainsaw and accessories for cutting the wood. O’Bannion asked Caraway if he needed a small generator and a skill saw. But the homesteader told him a good small chainsaw and sharpening tools would be fine. It seemed O’Bannion was a serious man, supplying exactly what Denny had asked for. It must have taken a number of chopper flights to bring in all the goods.

  The next chore Denny had was to gather firewood for the stove. He took up the chainsaw, tested the sharpness and tension of the cutting chain, made sure the gas and oil reservoirs were full, and walked down to a nearby copse of spruce. It only took a few minutes t
o spot several dead dry spruces standing bare of bark and most of their branches.

  In a short time, Denny had cut down the dead trees and removed all the stubs and remaining branches from the trunks. Cutting the logs into four-foot lengths, he could easily carry two at a time up to the campsite, the wood being dry and light. In an hour, Denny had a nice pile of firewood next to the tent, having cut the trunks into twelve inch lengths, splitting them with the camp axe from the tool chest.

  Caraway never went anywhere without either his .44 magnum pistol or the old Winchester rifle he had used all the years he had been homesteading, the one George Whiting had given him when Denny had bought his old homestead. The rifle was old, though well cared for when he had received it, the wooden stock’s finish worn down in places and the bluing rubbed off much of the metal. It had never let him down. The pistol, which he had held onto during the winter bear attack several years prior, showed signs of steady use too, the wooden grip panels scratched, chipped and dull, its bluing also worn, yet it too was still reliable. Denny figured it best to bring both guns on this project.

  The one concern Denny had was to keep food out of the tent. There were plenty of interior grizzlies in this country, and he didn’t want to bring them in to where he would be sleeping. So, he gathered some stones from the lake behind the hill and made a fire ring about fifty feet from the tent. He made a little fly from a plastic tarp he had brought, to block any wind. Now he had a comfortable camp to work from.

  The long hours of summer daylight was great for getting work done, but made it harder to sleep, though if Denny put in a full day’s work, he usually had no trouble dozing off. Still, being here in this open country without a solid shelter, his senses on general alert for any unwanted visitors, he probably wouldn’t sleep as soundly as he might in his own cabin.

  Denny had fried spam and canned peas for dinner along with several slices of bread and butter. Though it was summer, it would be chilly at night, so Denny kept his perishables in the shade under his cook fly in a metal box O’Bannion had provided, supposedly bear proof. Denny had smiled on seeing the food container, because the can was small and light enough that a grizz could swat it far from the camp before losing interest. Still, it was better than leaving an open buffet for the bruins in the area.