The Last Homestead

by Warren Troy

  Denny tied small plastic bottles up, one at the front and one at the back of the tent, and several hanging from the tarp of the cooking area. He had made them up in Fairbanks. The eight-ounce plastic bottles were full of ammonia. A curious bear would get quite a surprise after biting into one of these, the ammonia wreaking havoc on the animal’s sensitive nose, as well as tasting horrible. To entice any curious bears to the bottles, Denny had rubbed a little peanut butter on them.

  Next morning was heavily overcast. Denny walked over to cabin site at the base of the little hill, where O’Bannion had put four corner stakes and began placing a stake and string system for positioning and squaring up a post foundation for the twelve-by-sixteen cabin. Though Denny had only built one frame cabin, it had been much larger and more complicated than this simple hunting shack would be.

  The corners and post positions squared and lined up, he began the one chore he had never liked, digging holes, for the foundation posts. It was necessary, though, and Denny did what had to be done. Knowing the sooner he began digging, the sooner it would be over, Denny took shovel in hand. Luckily, the ground was quite soft, with few cobbles to make digging difficult, and he had the twelve holes dug fairly quickly. He cut the six-by-six posts into three-foot lengths, and set them in the ground, packing them in tightly. The twelve-by-sixteen foot platform itself went easily enough, support beams and joists, then he began nailing down the floor boards themselves.

  Denny was glad to be using commercial lumber for this project. He had hand milled enough boards to last him a lifetime. It was no fun, just necessary, and it had been a good learning experience. For his own structures, however, he liked home-made boards better than the ones from the lumber yard. They just seemed “right.”

  Taking a break, he made a spam sandwich and a cup of instant coffee, sitting on the edge of the platform, admiring the view from his vantage point on the hillside. A few minutes into his lunch, a camp robber came flying in, neatly dressed in his gray and white outfit. He landed on the ground in front of Denny’s feet, strutting back and forth like a little feathered soldier, waiting, quite obviously, for his share of food. Denny broke off a piece of the bread and spam and tossed it to the impatient bird. It jumped away a few inches at the toss, then quickly homed in on the tidbit, grabbing it in its beak, and flying away to the nearest tree. Denny knew he’d now have the gray jay for company all the while he was there. Some things never changed.

  Denny recalled the raucous Stellar jays that showed up at his original homestead the first day he’d arrived. Old George Whiting had put a bird feeding platform right next to the front door of the little log cabin Denny occupied while building his new, larger cabin. The jay had no problem making his demands known and its smaller mate was willing to join in the complaining. When Denny moved up to his new cabin, the jays came right along, following their meal ticket.

  Caraway realized he hadn’t had any hungry birds come to his cabin on Lanyard Creek, and wondered why. When he got home, he’d put up a feeder to see if it might bring some in.

  While he was considering this little enigma, rain began coming down, lightly at first, then turning into a real downpour. He trotted over to the tent to sit in his little folding chair and watch as what seemed to be a cloudburst came pouring down. He was grateful for the dry tent. Caraway was going to put some shavings and small kindling in the stove to make a fire warm up the tent when, as suddenly as it had started, the rain quit. A few minutes later, the sun came out. Walking back outside, he took a deep breath of the fragrant air, full of the smell of vegetation wetted by the rain, thinking how cleansing the rain was, then went back to work.

  By the end of the day, Denny had all the floorboards nailed in place, and decided it was a good time to stop. Putting the tools away, he went down the back side of the hill, and, after looking around for any wildlife in the area, took off his shirt and washed away the sweat and sawdust in the chill water of the lake, feeling completely refreshed afterwards. If anyone was there with him, they would have seen a man with no extra weight at all, lean and hard from years of homesteading. They would also have noticed the three ragged scars running across his upper left arm, mute witnesses to the dangers of remote living.

  Wiping himself dry back at the tent, he went to the cook fly, made a fire, and fixed himself a dinner of bacon and cheese sandwiches and canned bean soup. It tasted great, eaten after a good day of work in such beautiful surroundings. The gray jay came flying down just as he’d finished. There was a little piece of bacon left in the skillet. He picked it up and held it out to the bird, not expecting it to trust him. Surprisingly, the bird flew up without hesitation and landed on his wrist, looking him in the eye briefly, before grabbing at the little bit of bacon and flying away. Denny smiled, enjoying the little moment of contact. He reserved real smiles for when he was alone in the bush, barely showing one when he was around people. Denny decided this jay was used to people from hunting trips to this site.

  Reaching into his pack, Caraway pulled out a brand new pipe and a pouch of pipe tobacco along with some matches. Sitting in the folding chair by the tent opening, he wet his finger and dampened the inside of the bowl as the clerk at the store had instructed him, packed the pipe with tobacco, not too tightly, then gently lit it until the bowlful was steadily burning. Leaning back, Denny puffed slowly on the stem, enjoying the taste. On a whim, he had bought the pipe and tobacco to try it out. As he smoked his first bowlful, Caraway had a feeling this was something which would stay with him.

  Denny felt good. Finding work had been easier than expected, and here he was, in a part of Alaska he had never been before. Denny realized he needed this too. He was content, living on his own remote parcel of land, but being far afield in the wilderness made him feel free. At that moment, Caraway was sorry he would be alone in this open country only until the building was done. He now understood an old gem of wisdom; when you are free within yourself, then you are truly free anywhere you might be.

  As if on cue, a huge bull moose walked across his line of sight, barely one hundred yards away, through some willows. He moved with strength, in his prime, knowing there was nothing he couldn’t handle here in his own domain. Denny knew exactly how the moose felt. Tapping out his pipe, he went back into the tent, closed the flap and bedded down for the night.

  The next several days were clear and warm, and the slight steady breeze which had been blowing since he’d arrived had stopped. The bugs would not get thick for at least several weeks, though the ones already out looking for blood were a constant reminder of what was to come. Denny was ready with bug netting and repellent. He hoped to be done here before they got bad. Even with anti-bug supplies, they could still be maddening with their buzzing and ability to slip in anywhere there was a tiny opening. He pitied the caribou and other animals in the bush, defenseless against the hordes of tiny flying monsters.

  In two days’ time, Denny had put up all the walls and most of the roof framing, the long daylight hours allowing him to do so. The morning of the third day was heavy with clouds, and Denny hurried to get the roof covered before the next rain storm cut loose. He’d almost finished when big drops began hitting the roof boards and him. He managed to get a tarp over the unfinished area before the skies really opened up. Putting the tools under cover and trotting over to the tent, Denny stood inside, watching the water come down, his work suspended for the time being.

  Starting a fire in the sheepherder’s stove, Denny made himself some Labrador tea and sat watching the rain. There wasn’t much else to do. He hoped it would let up by afternoon so he could get back to work by the next morning when the roof had dried enough to make it okay to finish it. It didn’t let up, however, not for the rest of that day or the next.

  Two mornings later, it had slowed to a drizzle, but everything was soaked. Donning his raingear, Denny walked over to the partially-completed cabin. At least he could put up tar paper on the walls to keep some of the wet out. Though it was unpleasant, chilling work, he
got enough done to keep the inside of the cabin framing reasonably protected. Denny put the two windows in place next. The door would have to wait. The roof boards had swelled enough to seal themselves from any major leaks. Satisfied he had done something, Caraway called it a day.

  Trying to start a fire in the fire pit was a dismal failure, because the wood, along with everything else, was completely wet. So he had to cook some dinner in the tent, the wood stashed there nice and dry. He was uncomfortable doing it, the smells of cooking providing temptation for any bear wandering nearby to come in for a bite, but he had no choice.

  He fried some Spam and ate some canned green beans along with it, then treated himself to some fruit cocktail right out of the can. Afterwards, he took the empty cans out to the cooking ring to be burned later, and called it a night.

  The rain had let up completely sometime in the early morning hours. Denny woke up, needing to answer the call of nature. As he was rising from his cot, he froze. Something was out there, something nearby. His sense of such things, developed after years in the bush, was never wrong. He put his hand on the .44 magnum, just in case. The Winchester rifle was more powerful, but in the close confines of the tent, the revolver was much handier. Denny waited, listening intently, his entire being on alert. Unconsciously, he rubbed the scars on his left arm, a habit he had developed since his encounter with the starving grizzly. Whenever he was deep in thought or worried about something, he would run his hand over the reminders of that episode.

  Then he heard a muffled sound, or series of sounds, that seemed to be coming closer to the closed tent flap. Some large animal was going “Wuh, wuh, wuh,” a deep breathy noise. He knew the animal then, having heard those sounds before. Denny cocked the pistol and aimed it at the tent flap, the only thing separating him from the source of the chilling sounds. Whatever was out there was very close. Caraway could feel it standing right outside the tent, and he didn’t like what he sensed. Then he got a whiff of something smelling like a big, stinky, wet dog, verifying who had come visiting. A bear was definitely out there, probably considering its next move. All Denny could do was wait.

  A half shadow moved outside the tent flap, then remained still. There was a moment of silence before a loud, irritated growl sounded, then another farther away, and one more for good measure, even farther out. It was then the acrid smell of ammonia wafted into the tent.

  Going to the flap and opening it, Denny saw the punctured plastic bottle, mostly empty, gently swinging on the fishing line tied to the tent frame, the remainder of the potent liquid dripping out. He chuckled to himself, put the pistol down by his cot and pulled the covers up, sure the bear wouldn’t return after the welcome it received. Denny slept soundly until morning, when the warming sun woke him to a clear, cloudless day.

  The next few days went smoothly without incident. The rest of the roof boards were nailed in place, and the windows and door installed. Denny finished tacking tar paper around the framing, then laid up the plywood walls, putting one-by-four strips over the seams.

  The roll roofing went up the next day. After tacking down an underlayment of tar paper, Caraway laid out the long strips on the ground to let them relax so they wouldn’t wrinkle after being nailed down. Grabbing one end of a strip, he went up the ladder, carrying the strip hanging down over his back.

  Placing the first strip horizontally so that six inches of it overlapped the ridgeline of the roof, Denny nailed it down. He put the next layer down, slipping its edge six inches under the bottom edge of the first, sealing it with tarring from a can before running another line of nails to join the two pieces. He continued until the last layer was done, then trimmed the edge about an inch past the bottom edge of the roof boards. Doing the other side of the roof the same way, by the end of the day’s work the roof was finished, looking nice and even, without a bit of tar showing anywhere. Denny took pride in doing something right, even work as simplistic as this had been.

  Caraway stood looking at the completed cabin shell. A basic small structure, it looked right, and barring any malicious acts by man or beast, it would be there for many years. Denny’s ego didn’t require recognition, praise unnecessary, save for the pat on the back he gave himself before moving on to the next chore to be done.

  Denny suddenly realized it was his birthday. “Well, happy birthday to me,” he thought. “I wouldn’t want to spend it any other way.” At that moment, he thought of Gwen, something he occasionally did. He considered that spending a birthday with her would probably be the next best thing to having it happen out in this blessed land. A funny idea came next, funny because he’d never considered such a thing. How good would it be to enjoy it with her out here? He shook his head, gently admonishing himself for having foolish notions.

  Turning his thoughts back to the work at hand, he dragged the box containing the new, small, cast iron woodstove up to the cabin door. As he knew it would, it slipped in with an inch to spare on either side. Just as Denny had done on his own cabins, after setting the stove in place, he used a piece of string and a nail as a plumb line to locate the stove piping. Cutting the stovepipe hole in the roof was a straight-forward operation, as was sealing the hole with flashing and more tarring. Placing a small conical cap over the pipe completed the job.

  Taking a little breather, Denny enjoyed the view from up on the roof. He had done the same thing while building his own first cabin, though the view had been different. There, he could see a great forest around him, with dominating snow-capped black mountains in the distance, on the other side of Long Bay. Here, he saw mostly open tundra, with stretches of forest breaking up the panorama. There were some high rolling hills to the north, and way in the distance to the west some misty mountains were visible. Denny became caught up in the completely wild nature of the place he was in, the vastness of it all. He sensed that this country had been created and was functioning according to some grand scheme. It wasn’t the first time Alaska had drawn out spiritual feelings from the homesteader.

  The building of the little hunting shack seemed appropriate, certainly if compared to the grossly excessive masses of concrete, steel, glass, and plastic in cities. Even the dull green color of the roofing would blend in if seen from above.

  Denny called it a day, planning to paint the cabin in the morning with the dark brown paint O’Bannion had provided. Afterwards, he had only to construct bunks for the clients and guides, and put up one counter for general use and his part in this would be done. The rest would come later, probably by chopper — items such as tables and chairs.

  Twelve days after his arrival, including the rain delay, Denny was done, the cabin ready for the season. Insulation would be installed before the fall turned cold, unnecessary until then. In really cold times, no one would be there to need it.

  Switching on the field radio, Denny called in for his flight to the next cabin site to repeat the whole process. Later that afternoon, Caraway heard the familiar sound of a light aircraft coming in. He watched the Cessna touch down on the small lake. The rolled-up tent and sheet metal stove was already stashed under the platform, and all the supplies and equipment he needed to take with him to the next site were stacked and waiting by the lakeshore. As he stood on the shore, he watched several caribou, all bulls, walking along the hills behind the lake. They were moving upward to gain higher altitude and hopefully a stiff breeze, to give them a little respite from the bugs stressing them out with their constant attacks.

  Denny greeted the pilot, and loaded up the plane with his gear. Within minutes they were lifting off the water, headed east. Denny got a glimpse of the cabin he had built, thanks to the pilot circling once to give him the opportunity to admire what he’d done. It did look good. As they flew off, Denny spotted a good-sized bear walking in the direction of the cabin. He wondered if the bear had ever tasted ammonia.

  It only took 30 minutes to arrive at the new site. Caraway knew it would have taken several days to get there by foot, and without the load of supplies the plane
carried so easily.

  This hunting camp was right off another lake shore. The process of landing on a small lake and unloading was repeated. A few minutes later he was alone again, grateful for the peace and quiet after the plane’s departure. Now, the sound of the breeze, more felt than heard, and the pleasant trills of nearby birds, were all he could hear.

  This stretch of country was flatter than the last, with some mountains far in the distance and barely any hills to speak of. There was a shallow draw about fifty yards from the designated cabin site. Denny didn’t like that fact, because some animal, particularly a bear, could come up through the depression without being seen until it was right across from the cabin to be built. It wasn’t Denny’s call, however. This is where O’Bannion wanted the hunting shack, so that was all there was to it.

  Once again, Denny set up the tent as he had at the last location. He saw there were two twenty-pound propane tanks, a small propane heater, and a Coleman stove. He would much rather have used wood for heat and cooking. Looking around, he saw there wasn’t any nearby viable source of firewood. He placed the stove on its stand in the tent, along with one of the twenty-pound propane tanks. He was once again ready to build.

  This looked to be a great place for caribou and bear hunting. As he considered this, a wolf called in the distance. Denny took the pair of small binoculars from his pack to scan the area. Even so, he couldn’t spot the source of the sound. There were certainly many places of hiding for a fox, wolf, or even a bear. He wasn’t looking to satisfy his curiosity. He simply wanted to know what was around, so he might be prepared for it, if necessary.