The Last Homestead

by Warren Troy

  The cabin door was wide open and it was obvious bears and other animals had come and wreaked havoc on the place. It was a god-awful mess inside, nothing left intact. There were lots of Denny’s clothes and gear torn and scattered around, with broken and bitten foodstuff containers all over the floor. Charlie thought the worst, believing Denny would never leave his place to the animals like this unless something severe had happened to him.

  Brady sat down on the wood splitting stump to consider the situation. He decided Denny had either gone elsewhere, not wanting to be on the homestead without Gwen, or he had walked into the forest and taken matters into his own hands. Charlie wouldn’t expect that from Caraway, though the last he had seen Denny, the man had seemed totally undone by Gwen’s death. Charlie had to find out.

  Out of respect for Denny, since the place was a total ruin already, Charlie found some nails and a hammer in the old cabin, nailed the bear boards over the windows, and made sure the door was shut tight, and then left.

  When his friend had flown him back in, Charlie called Search and Rescue in Fairbanks, related the situation to them, and requested a search be put into effect. Though he thought it, he didn’t suggest that the search might end up being a retrieval.

  The search went on for three days, and near the end of the last day, an ATV was spotted about twenty miles to the east of the homestead on the edge of a tundra meadow. When they described it, Charlie knew it was Denny’s. The wheeler was in bad shape, the seat and plastic parts all broken and chewed on, and two of the tires flat from being bitten through. Charlie asked that it be choppered in to the North Star Cafe.

  There had been no sign of human life or remains, and the search was ended.

  Charlie, after some long nights, had concluded Gwen’s death had been too much for Denny, and he had intentionally disappeared. He refused to believe Denny had been killed by accident or animal attack. He knew the man too well. But, until such time as some real evidence was found, he wouldn’t be sure.

  Charlie told Elliot about the situation when he went over to Denny’s trailer to sniff around. Elliot told Charlie that Denny had signed the trailer over to him and his grandson, which strengthened Brady’s idea of Denny going away on purpose. He shared his thoughts with Elliot.

  “I wondered how Gwen’s death might affect the man, Mr. Brady. It really tore his heart up, I know that. Please let me know if you hear anything.”

  Several months later, Elliot passed away, basically from old age. He had already talked to his grandson when he felt he didn’t have long, and passed ownership of his own home and the Caraway trailer to him, asking Drew to take care of the place in case Mr. Caraway ever showed up, and return the place to him if he did. The young man loved his granddad and was cut from the same cloth. He promised to take care of things. Since Elliot had left his own house to him, it was a simple matter of walking over to take care of things.

  The next six months passed on, as time will do no matter what the human condition might bring. Charlie held the hope Denny might someday come walking in as he used to, and maybe Charlie could talk to him, and help him if it was what Denny needed. Brady knew, having seen the best and worst of human nature, that no one can escape their destiny, and perhaps Denny becoming a sad, possibly demented, human hiding away in the forest from society might be his.

  Time passed by, and nothing about Denny came to light, until those moose hunters came into the cafe.

  That next fall, when moose season was going strong, three hunters came into the cafe. They definitely looked as if they’d spent time in the willows, hunting the giant creatures. There had been a cold rain mixed with light wet snow falling on and off for days, and these three seemed grateful for the warmth of the cafe and the hot coffee and food they ordered.

  Charlie was leaning on the counter, listening to the hunters reliving the hunt, one of them getting his moose. Then, something was mentioned that made Charlie stand up straight, all his senses alert.

  “Boy, that sure was a strange looking dude I saw, really scary. I wish you two had seen him. He was something. He looked like somebody out of a crazy-man-in-the-woods movie. I’m glad he went away.”

  “Yeah, I wish we’d have seen him too. Are you sure you’re not just messing with us?”

  “You know me better than that. He was really wild with that fur hat he was wearing, but it was the look in his eyes that freaked me out most of all. Never seen such a hard, cold stare, like he could look right through me. I didn’t know what he might do. All I did was turn to call you guys and he was gone like a shadow. I’m glad we were packed up to ride back in. I don’t think I would have stayed another night out there.”

  Charlie broke into their conversation, his intense interest in the story startling them. He knew what to ask: where they had been, and what the guy looked like. It was the description of those piercing eyes that made his mind up. Charlie knew it could only be Denny Caraway. The hunters carried GPS tracking devices, so they gave Charlie the coordinates of their camp where the man had been seen.

  Charlie once again enlisted the help of his pilot friend to scout the area, two days after he talked to the hunters. Though they searched the specified area for hours, they saw nothing. Charlie decided to let it go, thinking maybe the guy who supposedly saw the “wild man,” was simply telling a tale after all. Even if he was telling the truth, the man he saw could be anywhere by now.

  Fall evolved into winter. The temperatures dropped and snow fell steadily. Business at the North Star had slowed down by January. Charlie was bored and tired of his own coffee. He decided to take a few days and do a snow machine ride and some winter camping. He enjoyed being out in the winter woods.

  He decided there was no better trail to ride than the one along the Salcha River, which eventually ran by Lanyard Creek and the Caraway homestead. Charlie thought it might be a good thing to check the condition of the cabin and who knew, maybe he’d spend the night and clean up the place if no one else had been there already.

  Brady put all his gear together and went over his snow machine, checking out its condition. Behind the snow machine in his shop was Denny’s wheeler. Charlie had restored the machine to good working condition.

  Always keeping his Skidoo in great shape, Charlie packed his gear in the rack and on the rear end of the seat, then went to eat his dinner, get some sleep, and leave in the morning.

  Though the day before had been cloudy with snow flurries, the morning was clear, not a cloud in the wintery sky. Brady made note of the extreme change, glad for the good day. Cranking up his machine, Charlie headed out.

  He had no trouble following the trail. The work Denny had done on it had made it pretty easy traveling, heading out to Lanyard Creek. It took him about six hours to reach the old homestead, and he arrived before what daylight there was had not yet faded. Opening the door to the cabin, Charlie saw it was still a mess, and was sorry to see no one had cleaned it up.

  Going out to his machine to continue on his way before finding a good place to camp for the night, Charlie happened to glance up at the low hill between the cabin and the little lake beyond it. Squinting his eyes against the glare off the snow, Charlie thought he saw some tracks, and walked over to investigate. Sure enough, when he got closer he saw a set of snowshoe tracks leading up to the top of the rise.

  Following the tracks, he worked his way up to where the tracks ended, between two birches. Charlie pondered the way the tracks stopped, then continued back down the hill at an angle, and onto the trail again at some distance from the cabin. Whoever had been there had stood in that spot for some specific reason, perhaps looking over the lake, visible from the vantage point. The way the tracks were smeared in the snow made it appear as if whoever it was had stood there a while.

  Suddenly, as if a curtain was lifted from his thoughts, Charlie Brady knew without a doubt who had been there and why. He was standing where Gwen Caraway was buried, and it was her husband who had come to visit the grave, not going near the cabin when h
e did, wanting only to stand over his beloved wife. Charlie got goose bumps all over when he realized the situation, confirming that he was right. Caraway was still around.

  Brady followed the tracks down onto the back trail, heading away, deeper into the bush. He decided to follow the tracks, camping when the light gave way to winter darkness.

  Running his snow machine at low speed, Charlie followed the tracks for mile after mile. Mostly, the prints avoided the heaviest forest, often running across the numerous tundra meadows. About fifteen miles from the Lanyard Creek homestead, Charlie came across the remains of a simple spruce-bough shelter, and the cold ashes of a small campfire, partly covered with snow. Whoever it was had spent the night there, on the way out and the way back.

  When the snowshoe prints finally entered heavy woods, Charlie parked his machine outside the trees, checked his GPS position, and slipped on his bear paw snowshoes and shouldered his pack. He checked his .357 service revolver under his parka and began walking into the trees, following the tracks.

  When he got to an area where the trees were dense and the snow not as deep, he took his bear paws off to make walking easier through the undergrowth. He saw no snowshoe tracks, but found some boot prints. Whoever it was had taken off their snowshoes too. Charlie tied his bear paws to his pack and followed the prints.

  Charlie had traveled another hundred yards or so when he smelled the undeniable scent of wood smoke. He did something he had learned from his work in the troopers. Whenever he was coming up to a camp where poaching or other illegal activities might be going on, he began whistling. He figured it was something they didn’t expect a game officer on the case to be doing, and usually caught them off-guard, making them easier to deal with. He knew it was Denny Caraway he was tracking, but Brady had no idea what his mental condition was at that point.

  The smell of smoke got stronger, although he couldn’t see a campsite or dwelling. Then, he turned to the right and stood amazed.

  There was a very little log cabin, so snugly tucked inside a ring of trees and willows, he wondered how it had been built there, unless it was old enough that the trees had grown up around it. It was a little trapper cabin, barely eight by ten feet in size, with a set of handmade snowshoes leaning against the front wall. There appeared to be no windows, but a small stove pipe was sticking up out of one corner, wisps of the smoke he smelled coming from the stack.

  He considered walking up to the hut when suddenly, a familiar voice behind him said, “Officer Brady.”

  Without turning around, Charlie said, “Mr. Caraway.” Charlie stood silently for a moment, then said, “Got any coffee brewing? I could use a cup.” Then he turned around.

  The sight before him made him do a mental double take, so strange it was. There stood Denny Caraway, looking like a man from another, more primitive time. He was dressed in a fur hat, made from a coyote’s head skin, and a down parka, heavily stained, with numerous patches, but with a beautiful ruff made of wolverine fur. His gloves were rabbit skin, the right one off and hanging by a piece of leather lanyard, the bare hand gripping an old lever action Winchester rifle. On his feet were some old pacs which had seen better days. His beard was long and full, and his hair stuck out thickly from under the skin hat.

  “Just came to visit, Denny, not to intrude on your solitude. I can leave, if you like.” Charlie noticed how lean Denny had become, even in the thick parka. His face looked much thinner too. Still, he looked healthy for all that.

  Denny stood staring at him. His intense look seemed even sharper and somehow deeper than before. Charlie was so glad to see his old friend still alive, he couldn’t help smiling. Sticking out his hand, he said, “Damn, Denny, it’s really good to see you again.”

  Denny didn’t smile, but there was a relenting of the coldness in his eyes. Reaching out, he shook Charlie’s hand gently.

  “No coffee. I have some Labrador tea.”

  “That would be fine, thanks.”

  They went into the tiny cabin, Charlie having to bend down to pass through the low door. There was a small window in the back wall made from a piece of thick plastic sheeting. Once his eyes got used to the dim light, Brady saw there wasn’t much inside, only a wooden plank bed with several blankets and a sleeping bag on it, a stump probably used for a chair, a small wooden counter, and several wooden shelves. In one corner was a rusty old sheet metal military woodstove with a cast iron skillet leaning on the wall near the stove. The stove had seen better days and Charlie wondered if it came from the person who had originally built the cabin. There wasn’t much by way of foodstuffs in the cabin either. Charlie wondered how Denny was keeping fit. In fact, he wondered how Denny had survived at all, despite his great store of wilderness knowledge.

  It was a meager dwelling by anyone’s standards. The thought that came to Charlie’s mind was, “Gone to ground; the man has gone to ground.”

  Denny poured some of the tea into an old heavy mug and handed it to Charlie, then poured some into a handmade wooden cup for himself.

  Charlie noticed one shelf with a few personal items on it, including a small photo in a wooden frame of Gwen as a younger woman, smiling and holding up a large salmon she had obviously just caught. Charlie didn’t remark on it.

  The two old friends didn’t talk much about anything, but sat in each other’s company. Charlie did ask Denny how he was doing. Denny looked at him a moment and simply said, “As you see me.”

  After all too brief a time, Charlie knew he should go. He stood, slipped on his gloves, and walked to the door. Denny walked out with him. It was then Charlie saw the several moose quarters hanging high up by a rope in a tree, safe from any marauding critters, and hard to spot by people, too.

  “Well, take care, Denny, and if you ever see your way clear, I’d be happy to stake you to a meal and all the coffee you want at the cafe.” Then Charlie added, “There are some people wishing the best for you, Denny.”

  Denny stood a moment, then nodded slightly. Charlie nodded too, and began walking back the way he had come. He looked back once, but Denny was gone. Turning away again, Charlie left, a pain in his heart from seeing his friend in such condition.

  Brady put his snowshoes back on and walked out to his snow machine as the light was failing. He decided not to camp despite the late hour, rode back past Denny’s old homestead, and continued on to the highway and normal life, though Charlie felt nothing would feel quite the same to him after his meeting with Denny.

  He feared Denny was truly lost to the world, and would remain a sad, lonely hermit until something in the wilderness put him out of his obvious misery. Charlie mentally kicked himself for his negative thoughts, for giving up on Caraway. He felt he still knew the man, and just had to keep thinking one day he’d show up at the cafe, have that free meal and coffee, and get on with life.

  Charlie knew when wild creatures are sick or wounded, they often go to ground, hide away to lick their wounds and heal until they are well enough to continue the eternal battle of survival. He hoped Denny would heal. Brady was a skookum man.

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  After Charlie left him, Denny took a walk in the trees. His mind was in turmoil. Charlie’s visit, though Denny was glad to see him, had stirred up sore emotions Caraway had laid to rest, or thought he had, by going deep, living in total isolation. Except for being spotted by a moose hunter the previous fall, Caraway had seen no one all the time he had been there.

  Denny thought back on his recent life. As his initial, meager supplies ran out, Denny used his hard-learned woods lore to survive. He caught, shot, and gathered whatever he needed to keep going. It had all made him stronger, but always there was the hole in his middle where Gwen used to be.

  Recently, he had actually begun asking God for guidance and help to survive the grief he felt. Though not a religious man, Denny needed something to keep his self-exile from overwhelming his mind. Several times, a small incident made him wonder if his asking for help had actually made a difference.
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  One morning, he walked out into a nearby tundra meadow while hunting for a moose. His supply of meat had completely run out and he’d not seen any moose for some time. Denny paused and asked for a moose to keep body and soul together. A few minutes later, a young bull moose had walked out into the meadow, not even fifty feet from where he was, and stood looking at him. Denny was surprised. This was not typical behavior, an animal presenting itself as if it were waiting. Then, the moose stood broadside to him, looking away. Amazed, Denny took careful aim, shot the heavy caliber old rifle, and the moose collapsed to the ground, the bullet finding its heart. Denny walked over to the animal, perfect for his needs, looked up, and said, “Thank you.”

  Brady’s visit might be a sign. Searching his heart, Denny decided it was time to return to life, the life of other people, of troubles and joys, of challenges, and moments of contentment. When he had the realization, it felt as if a great weight had been lifted.

  Going into his shelter, he saw it differently now. At first he had planned to live there until his last days. Now, he knew it had been a place to lay up in, until his mind and heart had healed, until Gwen’s death was bearable. Perhaps now, after living this solitary existence for so long, it was time to look forward and accept — a time to return.

  That night, Denny slept longer and deeper than he had in all the time he had lived there. When he awoke the next morning and went outside, he saw there was a set of wolf prints leading up to the shelter, going around it several times and then leading off in the general direction he would take to get back to Lanyard Creek.

  He had taken a long hike many years ago, and it had set him on a new path in life. Now, he would take another long walk, not into the unknown, but back to the best home he’d ever had.