The chopper banked forward and headed southwest toward the Mackenzie Mountains, some 24 kilometers away.
The short stunted spruce of the flat plains of the Mackenzie River became a blur beneath them.
The first portion of the Canol Trail would have been easy to walk, Webb thought. Boring because of the flatness, but not so boring since a moose or bear could appear at any second.
If you wanted to walk all 675 kilometers of northwest Arctic from Norman Wells to Whitehorse—the entire length of the Canol Road—you walked a segment of 80 to 130 kilometers every summer. A chopper took you to your starting point and picked you up at the other end. By cutting the trek down to shorter segments, you could carry enough food to last the week it took to go between the mile markers. Or you could choose to walk the Canol Trail, a shorter portion of the original road.
Webb had no intention of walking any of the other segments.
Once he found what he had been sent to find at Mile 112, he was not coming back to hike the rest of the trail. Last thing he wanted was a return trip to Norman Wells and another encounter with Brent Melrose.
Webb wasn’t great at math, but the pilot had told him earlier that they would be traveling at about 160 kilometers an hour. So when the helicopter dipped again about fifteen minutes later, at the approach to the Mackenzie Mountains, it surprised him. They couldn’t already be at their destination.
This time, instead of hovering, the chopper landed on a gravel bar between sheer canyon walls near a shallow, fast-moving river. The water was so pure and clear, you could see flashes of fish.
All the noise and vibration stopped.
George unstrapped himself from his seat and opened the side door to the chopper. He pointed above him.
“Make sure you keep your heads down,” he said. “The blades haven’t stopped moving.”
Two minutes later, all of them were on the ground. Webb looked around, blown away by the view. The canyon walls that rose above him were reddish brown. He’d never felt so puny, not even among the massive skyscrapers of downtown Toronto.
There was the sound of rocks tumbling high above them.
“Sheep!” George called out.
All of them looked up to see a pair of white mountain sheep, with little ones behind, edging their way along a path 50 or 60 meters straight up.
Webb pulled his eyes away from the sheep and looked downriver. Huge rocks rose like zombie giants.
He noticed a small piece of pipe, twisted and rusty, running along the river’s edge. This was all that remained of the work of thousands upon thousands of men: a pipeline meant to send a precious flow of oil from Norman Wells to Whitehorse, 675 kilometers to the west. Webb thought about what it might have been like to be one of the army of workers who built the pipeline, fighting howling winds and lashing snow in temperatures of minus 50 degrees Celsius.
They wouldn’t be going that far though.
Godlin Lakes was at Mile 168. That was near where the chopper was going to leave them. They were going to walk back from there to the old pipeline pump station at Mile 108, just beyond Devil’s Pass, where the chopper would pick them up in a week.
He’d been told that was almost 100 kilometers and that they’d need to average just over 16 kilometers a day.
When the chopper dropped them at Mile 170, they’d be alone in thousands of square miles of the most remote wilderness that Canada had to offer.
If there had been any other way for Webb to get to Devil’s Pass except with a group, he would have done it.
It had been tempting to use some of the money to hire a chopper to bring him in and out. Straight to Devil’s Pass and back to Norman Wells.
Except that’s not what his grandfather had wanted him to do.
EIGHTEEN
Webb jumped at an explosion of noise and movement in front of him. Almost immediately, he realized it was a bird.
But the two Germans—Fritz and Wilhelm were their names—began to laugh. Webb couldn’t tell them apart by looking at their faces, but Fritz wore black pants and Wilhelm wore navy blue. Webb didn’t really care if they wore different pants on a different day. He had no intention of getting to know them.
Wilhelm pointed at Webb and said, “Little bird! Big jump!”
He laughed with a meanness that Webb knew all too well was the laugh of a bully.
Webb ignored it and watched the flight of the bird. It was smaller than a chicken, with brown feathers mottled with white. It stopped briefly and blended in with the rocks. It squawked again, getting closer to Webb.
“Ptarmigan,” George explained. “A male. Trying to lure you away from its nest. The hen is somewhere nearby, hunkered down. We’ll see lots of these displays as we hike.”
“Stupid bird,” Fritz said. “Very stupid.”
He threw a rock and hit it in the head, slamming it onto its side. The ptarmigan spasmed briefly, then stopped moving.
Fritz and Wilhelm laughed again, but froze instantly as George spun on them, anger obvious on his face.
“What?” said Fritz. “Little bird. Dead bird.”
“You treat this land with respect,” George said. The top of his head only reached the Germans’ shoulders, but there was no fear in his voice. Just anger. “We only kill what we can eat.”
“Yah, yah,” Fritz said.
“That means,” George said, “you killed it. You eat it.”
“No, no,” Fritz said.
“And to eat it,” George said, “you slit the belly and remove the breast meat. We take it with us and cook it over a fire later.”
“Not me. You. We pay you to be guide.”
“And if you don’t skin it and gut it, the helicopter takes you back right now. Think that pilot is going to listen to you or to me? Now pick up that bird, and I’ll tell you how it’s done.”
“Get blood on my hands?”
George kept staring at him. “When you killed it, you got blood on your hands. Now are you going to do it, or go back to Norman Wells?”
The German shrugged and walked over to the dead ptarmigan. He nudged it with his foot to make sure it was dead. Then he picked it up, trying to hold it away from his body.
“Good work,” George said. “Now get that fancy knife of yours and slit the bird’s belly open.”
In the air again twenty minutes later, Webb was once more in awe of the scenery, which had changed and now looked like the surface of the moon. They were flying over the Plains of Abraham, the trail’s highest point at more than a kilometer and a half above sea level. The plains were vast and barren, amazing in a sad and desolate way. Webb was glad they wouldn’t be hiking through this portion of the trail.
George finally broke the communication silence. “Now approaching Devil’s Pass,” he said. “You’ll see the collection of old buildings and trucks at the pump station. That’s our final destination.”
The chopper climbed and then threaded its way between the granite peaks that seemed to want to pull them down.
Incredible that it would only take them another half hour by chopper to get to Godlin Lakes, and then a week on foot to make it back to Devil’s Pass.
Webb didn’t spend much time thinking about that, however. Instead, not for the first time, he wondered what had happened at Devil’s Pass.
When the chopper left them at Mile 170, all of them stared at it until it disappeared. The distant thump-thump-thump of the engine traveled back to them for a while, reminding Webb how alone they were.
Then, finally, there was only the sound of the wind moving through the trees.
“That’s it then,” George said. “We’ve got a ways to go. Let’s take photos first, and then get started.”
He pointed at the weathered mile marker sign.
Each of them took turns kneeling beside the sign and pointing toward it while George took their pictures.
Goofy, Webb thought. Very goofy. But if he didn’t do it, they’d wonder why he was here. So he pasted a grin on his face and knelt beside th
e sign.
Close to four hundred men had died in the two years it took to build a road from Norman Wells to Whitehorse. That was an average of two men a week. Slipping on ice and falling beneath bulldozers. Getting washed away by fierce currents in water that would freeze you to death within minutes. Tumbling off the sides of cliffs. Just so the road could be advanced one mile marker at a time in some of the most brutal conditions on the planet.
And less than three years after completing it, the government had decided it wasn’t worth the effort and expense. Or the blood of all those men.
Now the mile markers were mainly used for photo ops. This said something about mankind, Webb knew, but he wasn’t going to put any effort into trying to come up with something profound to say about it.
To him, it was just a stupid waste. Although it might make a good song someday.
George stepped forward along a narrow stretch of ground that might once have been a road.
Webb’s journey to Devil’s Pass had officially begun.
NINETEEN
Webb stayed at the back of the group. At least twenty steps behind. This way, he wouldn’t have to talk to anyone. Happily, Fritz and Wilhelm were directly in front of him, talking with George. Their voices carried to Webb, but he couldn’t hear the words.
It didn’t matter.
He was concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. A person could take longer strides on city sidewalks, but this wasn’t even close to flat and smooth. The rocks felt slippery, even though they were dry. The trail was uneven and frequently took them off the roadbed because the roadbed had broken away.
He had his iPod and his music. He wasn’t worried about running out of power. The solar-powered charger took care of that. But somehow he couldn’t bring himself to put in his earbuds.
It wasn’t that this land was sacred or anything. Sacred was too strong a word. But the mountains were so untouched and the air so crisp and the water that trickled into streams that became rivers that fed the Mackenzie was so pure that it all deserved a respect that did verge on the sacred.
Webb wasn’t going to walk through it and disrespect it in any way whatsoever. He wasn’t going to tell this land that his puny downloads were worth more of his attention. Out here, he understood why George had insisted that not a single thing be left behind on the trail.
That’s why it was a shock to Webb when one of the Germans in front of him tossed an object into the bushes.
And kept walking.
Webb didn’t.
He stepped into the shrubs at the side of the trail and found what the guy had tossed out.
It was a large flashlight full of D batteries that weighed about two pounds and was probably as bright as a car’s headlight. He could understand why the guy didn’t want to carry it, because two pounds was a lot of extra weight in a backpack that already weighed a lot. Plus, it never got dark this time of year, so they didn’t need it anyway.
Webb grimaced at the thoughtlessness of the littering. There was plenty of room in his backpack, so he put the flashlight in his backpack and followed the others again.
TWENTY
THEN
On that hot day in Phoenix, the woman who had answered the door at 2911 Roy Rogers Road appeared to be about the same age as Webb’s mother. Her brown hair was shoulder length. She had faint laugh lines around her eyes. And a puzzled look on her face. Chances were, Webb guessed, teenaged guys with long hair didn’t knock on this door very often.
She glanced at the taxi that was driving away, then back at Webb. She remained standing in the doorway, an obvious clue that she wasn’t prepared to invite him inside.
“I’d like to talk to Mr. Jake Rundell,” Webb said. “I have a note from him asking me to stop by. I was given the security code to get in here and told I didn’t need to call ahead.”
It felt good to be in the shade of the house. In the short walk from the street up to the door, he’d begun panting in the heat.
The woman sagged a little, holding on to the frame of the doorway. She took a breath to steady herself, then spoke slowly. “His funeral was a couple of days ago.”
Webb felt himself sag too. Jake Rundell was dead?
If Jake Rundell was dead, now what? Nothing in his grandfather’s letter could help him. “You’re obviously not selling anything,” she said. “Otherwise I’d tell you that this community has strict rules against going door to door. But you came in a taxi.”
“Flew in from Toronto,” Webb said. “This morning. My grandfather sent me.”
“He’s too old to travel himself?”
“His funeral was a little over a week ago,” Webb said. “At the reading of his will, he left me a note saying he owed Jake Rundell a favor and I was supposed to help.”
Webb pulled the small key out of his pocket. “I was given this too.”
The woman straightened, as if someone had given her a small electric shock.
“You’re Jim Webb?” She stepped back. “Please, come inside. Shut the door behind you.”
Webb followed her to the living room. Tiled floors. Leather furniture. A huge sliding glass door at the back that showed the brown mountains in the background.
“I’m Jana Rundell,” she said, pointing to a chair for Webb to sit in. “The rest of the family has already flown back to their own homes. I’ve stayed behind to begin getting the house ready for sale.”
She moved to the kitchen, which was on the other side of the counter that divided it from the living room. She returned holding a handwritten note and an envelope.
“Here’s what it says,” Jana told him, reading from the note. “‘When Jim Webb shows up with a key, hand him the envelope.’”
Webb took the envelope and opened it. All that was written on it was another address. He read it out loud and gave Jana a questioning look.
She shook her head. “Doesn’t mean anything to me.”
“Your father didn’t say anything else?” Webb asked.
“My father?”
“Jake.”
She laughed. “Jake had his eighty-eighth birthday a month ago. He was my grandfather.”
“David McLean was ninety-two,” Webb said. “He was my grandfather. My mom is about your age. I keep forgetting not everybody had children as late in life as my grandfather.”
“David McLean?” Jana said. “Hang on.”
She walked out of the open area into what was probably a bedroom. When she came back she handed Webb a black-and-white picture in a frame.
It showed four young men in air-force uniforms. Webb instantly recognized his own grandfather.
Jana leaned over Webb, pointing. “There’s my grandfather, Jake. He talked a lot about David McLean. Said there was nobody like him, ever.”
“The other two?” Webb asked.
“Harlowe Gavin and Ray Daley. They look like brothers, don’t they? Twins, almost. Grandpa Jake said that, in training camp, Harlowe would take a duty shift for Ray so that Ray could go into town and chase girls, and the commanding officers couldn’t tell the difference.”
“Long time ago,” Webb said, seeing the life and vitality in the young men’s faces. It made him sad all over again, knowing his grandpa was gone.
“World War Two,” Jana answered. “But I don’t have to tell you that, do I?”
Neither spoke. The air-conditioning unit kicked in and a wave of cool air washed over Webb.
“So—”
“So—”
“You first,” Jana said.
“My grandfather sent me here to help Jake,” Webb said. “He didn’t know that Jake was dying.” Webb paused. “Or maybe he did. I know he wanted me here as fast as possible.”
“Why?” Jana asked.
“I expected Jake Rundell to tell me,” Webb answered. He tossed the key into the air and caught it again, leaving his palm open. “But I guess since he knew the end was coming for him, he left me an address instead.”
Both of them stared at the key.
&
nbsp; “If it helps,” Jana said, “I can drive you there.”
TWENTY-ONE
NOW
The Godlin Lakes were near the top of the mountains, right alongside the road. A floatplane was tied near a dock on the lake. As the group walked toward the water, Webb saw the wires that were strung from fenceposts surrounding some small cabins. After hiking through vistas straight from a wilderness slide show, finding this collection of shacks felt like stumbling upon civilization.
The two Germans were leading the group, and Fritz, the one who had thrown the flashlight into the bushes, reached the fence first.
“You might not want to do that,” George said as Fritz put his hand on the wire to push it down and step over it. Fritz fell backward with a scream, shouting something in German that Webb couldn’t understand. It didn’t sound good.
When Fritz got up, there was a dark stain at his crotch.
He screamed again, this time at George.
“What is this? What is this?” He pointed at the fence. “You tell me ahead of time, yes? Not wait until it bites me!”
“Bites you?” George asked.
“Shock! Shock! Yes, bites my hand.”
George said calmly, “It’s why I said you might not want to do that. It’s electric. Up there, attached to some batteries from a tractor. That would give anybody a big shock.”
“Electric?” Fritz was furious. He pointed at his crotch. “You make me wet my pants.”
“Not me,” George said. “It’s important to listen to your guide out here. Got it?”
The German gave him a dark look but said nothing more.
“Why electric?” Webb asked.
“Bear fence,” George said. “Electricity keeps them on the outside. That’s a good thing. Tonight we can set up our tents inside.”
The commotion had drawn a man from the cabins. He waved and grinned. Since barely two dozen hikers went down the Canol Trail in any summer, Webb guessed that not many visitors came up to the lakes.
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