The Last Homestead

by Warren Troy

  Denny settled into a silent observation of the terrain below. In all the years he had been in the state, his enthusiasm and love for it had never diminished. To him, Alaska had its own autonomy, a natural independence unlike anywhere else Caraway had been. It was far beyond any other state’s natural dynamics. No matter what happened, life in Alaska always seemed wider and fuller.

  All too quickly, they were coming into the Anchorage airport. Nathan had a work truck parked by his hangar, and Denny, while waiting for Nathan to finish his conversation with a man from Barker Surveying, had a cup of the most potent coffee he’d ever drunk. He figured the pot must have been heating all day in the hangar office, and Caraway figured he could float a quarter on top. Still, he finished the cup.

  Afterwards, Nathan and Denny went over to several supply houses to pick up specially ordered surveying equipment and other supplies.

  With all the needed supplies in the truck, they drove over to a well-known gun store, Great Northern Guns, which had been in business for many years. When they went in, Nathan walked over to talk to the owner, Joe, who he’d apparently known for a long time, judging by the way they greeted each other, interacting as only friends bonded by meaningful experiences can. While standing there listening, Denny noticed one photo among many, displayed up on a wall. In it, was Joe, Nathan, and one other fellow standing by a huge bull moose one of them had taken. It was a massive animal with a gigantic set of antlers. The scene appeared to be typical willow country somewhere in Alaska, and the men looked as though they’d been hunting for a while. The photo spoke volumes about the connection these sportsmen shared.

  Someone said, “What can I do for you, sir?” Denny turned to see a very large man sitting behind a glass-topped counter, under which were several shelves full of semi-auto pistols. He was obviously ready to give Denny his undivided attention.

  “I need a suitable rifle for shooting big bears.”

  “Have you been around big bears much? They do demand a large bore rifle.”

  Denny responded with a facetious remark, unusual for him when confronted with a stranger. “I didn’t know bears shot rifles.”

  The big man stared at him for a minute, and said, “If you’re really interested in buying a gun, I’ll be glad to help you.”

  Smiling to himself, Denny nodded and the salesman showed him several guns, all fancy grade magnums, large caliber rifles, one of which was an engraved European model.

  Denny told him he wanted a good basic working gun, maybe a 375 H&H, but nothing too fancy.

  The man seemed a little disappointed that Caraway didn’t want the top grade guns he had shown him, pointed to a rack of used firearms, and told Denny he could look at the rifles there. Finding one 375 H&H, he brought the gun back to the counter. It had obviously been on a few hunts, but looked solid enough, a bolt action with a low-power variable scope on it. Though Denny had always used open sights with his Winchester, he liked the fast way this gun and scope lined up on a target. The various small scratches and dents on the stock didn’t bother him.

  The salesman said, “This one isn’t the quality of the other ones I’ve shown you; however, it’s solid and will probably do the job for you. We have plenty of 375 ammunition in stock.”

  Denny told the man he’d take it, with three boxes of ammunition, which he picked out from the many boxes on a shelf.

  As the man was writing up the necessary paperwork, Nathan came over and said, smiling, “Hello, Yog, scare off any obnoxious customers lately?”

  Denny said, “Yog?”

  With a glint in his eye, Yog said, “Yes, sir, if that’s okay with you.”

  “Well, if it’s okay with you, then there’s not much I can say about it. A man’s name is his own business.”

  “That is true. I have to do the background check to finish the transaction. Only take a few minutes.”

  Nathan took out his checkbook and asked Yog for the full amount.

  Yog asked, “Is this gun for you or for this man?”

  “This man is going to work for me as a bear guard, Yog, and I’m buying the gun for him to use for that purpose, but it is a piece of equipment for my company. I asked him to pick out a good one.”

  “Well, if that’s the case, there’s no problem whatsoever.”

  Nathan filled out the necessary paperwork and handed him a check for the purchase.

  Getting everything in order, Yog told him, “I just need to do the background check and we’ll be all set.”

  The background check cleared and the deal was done.

  As they were leaving, Denny stuck out his hand. Without hesitation, Yog shook it. Denny was aware of the great strength in the big man’s arm, though Yog didn’t exert any undue force.

  “Thanks for buying your rifle here, sir, I appreciate it.”

  Nathan and Denny headed back to the airport after having a mid-day breakfast at Gwennie’s, a long-established restaurant with lots of antiques and other items relating to life in Alaska, including an old full mount grizzly bear which had seen better days, judging from its hairless patches and moth-eaten ears.

  On the way to the airport. Nathan mentioned, “Yog takes a little getting used to, but he certainly knows guns.”

  “Oh,” said Denny, “I’ve met worse.”

  The two men returned to the Chena Ridge house that evening, after unloading the new gear from the Beaver at the Barker Surveying Company warehouse. The next day, Nathan took Denny out to the local shooting range to sight in the gun. Though it had a lot more recoil than the 30-06, Denny found it comfortable enough to shoot accurately, and it took only a half box of ammo to get it sighted right in at 100 yards.

  Nathan told him, “You can shoot to point of aim from 0 to 200 yards with that cartridge, Denny, handy in the bush, as you certainly know.”

  Denny nodded his agreement.

  Two days later, Denny was out with a crew working some remote land on a BLM contract in an area called the Farewell Burn, about forty miles from the village of Nikolai. A parcel of the burn, first surveyed in the mid eighties, needed to be redone, and Barker had taken the contract.

  It was a bleak area, having gained its name from a huge fire in 1978, Alaska’s largest forest fire on record. The surveying crew flew to the little town of McGrath, then to a strip at the burn itself.

  Some trees were coming back, though it was covered mostly with willows and grasses. It was obvious to Denny the place had been totally devastated. It wasn’t nice country, but that didn’t matter. He was there to do a job.

  There were some bears around as the crew worked the survey, though none of them came close enough to be a worry. Once in a while, one of them would let out a roar. One of the newer guys on the crew looked concerned the first time it happened, but Denny told him not to worry. “He’s just letting us know he’s aware of us.” The new guy gave a half-hearted smile and went back to work, looking around occasionally while he worked.

  A problem did occur when a huge American Bison bull came into camp and caused a disturbance. Denny knew there were transplanted bison in the area, there to be hunted. To see one in the Alaska bush instead of out on the Midwestern plains seemed a little strange to him.

  The massive old bull came into camp one morning and stayed for over an hour, threatening crew members and causing some general confusion. Denny stayed on alert, keeping a reasonable distance from the bull, yet close enough to make a good shot if necessary. Though there were several moments when Caraway thought he might have to put the beast down, fortunately it wasn’t necessary, and the bison finally wandered off.

  The only time Denny had any real trouble was when one of the crew, after the work day was over, decided to do a little exploring on his own, unarmed. Denny caught up with him and asked him to come back to camp.

  The guy got huffy, grumbling that he had lived in Alaska for years, and didn’t need a baby sitter.

  Caraway gave him one of his long looks and told the belligerent man he had a job to do and didn’t
plan on letting him make it any more difficult than necessary. “I don’t give a damn what you do, or what happens on your own time, but I was hired to keep everybody safe, and that’s what I intend to do. Let’s go.”

  The guy tried to stare Denny down, glaring at him, until, when he finally realized he was dealing with a man of resolute character, turned and walked back to camp. There was no trouble from him after that.

  Denny handled his job with ease, traveling around to various remote sites with the crews, and several right on the outskirts of Anchorage and Fairbanks, sometimes just standing around, keeping watch with the rifle resting easily on his shoulder. Occasionally, he had a little time to explore the areas they were working in, never straying too far from the camp however, in case something came up. He got along with the crew well enough; though, as is often the case, there was one wise guy, always making remarks, who Denny found mildly irritating, as did the rest of the crew. The man was a good surveyor, so he was tolerated.

  At one job, working on a piece of land by a major river the state was developing for a public camping site, Nathan Barker came cruising up on an air-boat. He got out, tied the boat off and walked right up to where Denny was standing. Nathan smiled and handed Denny an envelope. It contained a check for twenty-five hundred dollars. Denny gave Barker a questioning look.

  “Denny, I went down and had a little chat with Carlton a few days ago. He and I have had a few encounters in the past. I convinced him to make out your check, and told him you deserved a bonus for the extra work you had done for him, to which he agreed.”

  “This is almost twice as much as I was supposed to get.”

  “True, and O’Bannion had made out a check for less, which he insisted was all you were owed, until I told him you were still working when you were forced to undertake an unnecessary and dangerous wilderness hike back to civilization. He put up a bit of a fuss, and let’s just say I know more about the S.O.B. than he realized, and he finally saw the wisdom in taking my advice. So, enjoy the bonus; you deserve it. Besides, I liked seeing his face turn as red as his beard.” Nathan broke out a big grin.

  Shaking Denny’s hand, he went to talk to the crew chief about the way the job was going, then walked back to his airboat, cranked it up, and headed down river.

  Chapter Twenty

  It was mid October and temperatures were rapidly dropping. They’d had several light snows, and work was becoming more difficult to complete. On November First, a real snow hit in the area northeast of Tok where they were located. When the storm abated, it was time to break camp and get hauled out with all their gear. Nathan made a couple of hops in the Beaver to help out with the camp break-down. Denny’s work for the season was over. He spent several days helping Nathan get things sorted out back in Fairbanks, enjoying the accomplished man’s company.

  None too soon, Denny was free to head home to Lanyard Creek. He had been ready for quite a while. Though it was good to make some money, and Nathan gave him a bonus for his work, he needed to get back to the peace and solitude of the homestead, or at least he thought so.

  Denny’s life would be back on a seasonally defined schedule. He was glad to be off the clock, though he had been offered the same position next summer, and gladly agreed. Before leaving Fairbanks, he’d given Nathan detailed instructions on how to get to his place, when Barker suggested he come see him later that winter. Denny hoped he would have time to come out for a visit.

  Caraway Checked in at the post office when he first reached Salcha, and the postmaster gave him a cardboard box filled mostly with trash mail. Denny found it amusing that he got so many catalogues in the mail, living as he did.

  When Denny got back to his trailer, he found that Elliot had kept the place ready for him, plowing the snow, sweeping the front steps off, and making sure the heater was running right. He’d have to bring him some fresh moose meat when he was able.

  Caraway figured he was going to have an interesting ride in on the winter trail. He had, of necessity, ridden his ATV out to Salcha at the beginning of summer to find work. Now, he would have to take it back in over the snow-covered trail. There hadn’t been any heavy snowfalls yet, judging from the snow he’d seen, but the amount of snow in Salcha was only a general indicator of what he might find down the trail.

  After Denny had settled into the trailer for the night, he went through his mail, tossing most of it into the trash. But there was one personal letter, from Gwen O’Mara. Denny paused for a moment, before opening the envelope, thinking back to the last time he had been with her. Inside was a newspaper clipping from the Hazel Trumpeter dated August 29th, 2000, and a brief note.

  The newspaper article read:

  A Hazel man was fatally shot by his wife at their homestead on Long Bay. The incident was reported by a neighbor who came upon the scene shortly after it had occurred. When questioned by state troopers, the wife said, “I just couldn’t take any more of him. There’ll be a whole lot of people a whole lot better off now.”

  The woman, Laura Waters, alternately laughed and cried during questioning. She had bruises and other signs of possible physical abuse. Her husband, Bucky Waters, was a long time homesteader, his land located northeast of the head of Long Bay.

  When asked what he thought, Waters’ homesteading neighbor who had reported the incident said, “Well, I’m not really all that surprised. There were a number people who didn’t care much for Bucky. I guess his wife turned out to be one of them.”

  There are no plans for a memorial service at this time.

  After reading the article, Denny considered the news it held. It wasn’t totally unexpected. He’d assumed someone would eventually take care of Waters, and was glad he didn’t have to bother, but felt bad for Bucky’s wife, hoping she wouldn’t be charged for what was, in his mind, a favor to humanity.

  Folding up the article and putting it in his pack, he read the simple little note Gwen had included. All it said was, “I miss you. Gwen”

  Tucking the note away with the newspaper article, Denny laid out all his gear. It was a wise move on his part to keep a set of winter clothes and gear at the trailer. He had never had to use it before, but this situation would change that fact. The ATV started easily in the cold dark morning hour when Denny made ready to head home. He had bought a few items in Fairbanks to replace the perishables he had taken from the cabin and given Elliot the previous June. They made a simple load on the wheeler’s racks, along with his chainsaw and emergency supplies.

  Dressed for the run, including a ski mask to protect his face, Denny rode down to the trail head at the Salcha river recreational area and headed home.

  The trail was rough going from the beginning. Denny had never run his wheeler in real winter conditions, always having a snow machine for that. There was enough snow to make it necessary for the wheeler to go plowing through the cold white stuff, forcing the snow off to the sides like the bow of a boat through water. In some spots, the ATV began high centering on the snow being forced under it, and Caraway had to stand on the footrests and rock back and forth to keep it from floundering.

  Denny had been right to think there might be more snow farther out the trail. The snow was deep in some areas, and he had to walk in front of the wheeler on the aluminum bear paw snowshoes he had kept at the trailer to break trail for his struggling machine. By the time he reached the bridge he had built over the little creek, he was exhausted, after spending over ten hours on the trail already. Denny needed a break, so he ran the wheeler over the bridge to a spot close beyond that would do for a quick camp. He cleared the ground close under a large spruce tree, and got a small fire going. The clothes he wore under the parka were damp with sweat from his exertions, and he took them off to replace with the set in his pack.

  Caraway sat by the little fire, the layer of cut spruce branches keeping him off the cold ground. He didn’t grumble to himself about the situation. No sense in doing that. He chewed on a licorice whip, ate a little clean snow, and rested. Hungry later,
Denny opened one of the packs of bacon he had bought, strung half a dozen strips on a willow stick, and hung them close to the fire to cook.

  The forest was quiet, sound muffled by the snow covering the trees and ground. Denny let his mind drift, listening to the sound of the fire, accentuated by the sizzling strips of cooking bacon. The smell of it was making his stomach growl. Pulling one piece off the willow branch, he sat contentedly chewing. It wasn’t as filling as his moose jerky, but would do for now. It didn’t take long for him to finish all the bacon, lick his fingers clean, load up the wheeler, and continue on.

  The rest of the trail was easier going because he had done more clearing on the stretches closer to the cabin, so that there were fewer low bushes hidden in the snow to make for tough riding. Still it wasn’t easy, but Caraway could feel how close he was to his homestead, and that kept him going.

  It was now about a mile to his cabin. Denny had been running with his headlights on in the winter darkness. Riding an easy piece of trail that was located between Lanyard Creek on the right and an area of deep forest on the left, Denny stopped because the headlights had lit up a big bull moose walking down the trail towards him. The lights gave the massive animal an eerie appearance. The old bull still had his rack, and though he was past his prime, it was impressive. The moose stopped a short distance away and stood staring at Denny, probably wondering why the curious critter before him didn’t have the sense to get out of its way.

  Denny shut the engine off. He spoke calmly but clearly to the moose, letting him know there was nothing to be bothered about, but there was really no way, at that point, Denny could ride around the moose, or the moose walk around the ATV.

  Caraway knew what would come next and he didn’t have long to wait. The moose thumped the ground twice with a front hoof, lowered its head and began rocking his antlers back and forth. Denny slipped off the wheeler and waited.