And then she was skiing downhill. She started telemarking to slow herself. Gradually the dark shadows of the trees gave way to another shadow coming toward her. She blinked hard to bring the shadow into focus: a rectangular building of some kind, snow clinging to the sloped roof and bunching beneath the windows. A cabin! She’d skied down into St. Elmo, but where were the other cabins and houses? The main street with vacant shops? The town hall and the saloons? She called out again. “Liam, Liam! Where are you?”
Nothing but the hush of the falling snow and the shush of her skis as she turned left off the trail and headed for the shadow. A log cabin, she could see now, slanted to one side, as if it had followed the slope of the mountain, with a little porch at the front almost buried in the snow. She got to the porch before she stepped out of her skis. Then she picked them up so they wouldn’t get lost in the snow and, struggling with the skis and poles, stomped across the porch. Her boots made a soft, thudding noise in the snow. She tried the doorknob, but when it didn’t turn, she threw herself against the door. It creaked open, and she stumbled into the darkness inside, dragging the skis and poles with her, knocking her backpack against the frame.
The cabin was as cold as the outdoors, but it was a different kind of cold, like the cold in a freezer, compacted and still. She was shaking with the cold. She managed to swing her backpack off her shoulders; then she removed her gloves and began rummaging in the backpack for the emergency kit that she always carried on a cross-country ski outing. Her fingers were frozen claws, her hands refusing to work. Finally she managed to drag out the kit. She let the backpack drop to the floor and concentrated all of her energies on the kit. It was a moment before she found the flashlight. Still shaking, she shone the dim light around the little room. The light beam flitted over the plank floor, jumped across the clumps of paper wallboard peeling off the log walls.
This was it, then, a one-room cabin, and yet, what more did miners need? They had never planned to stay in the West, Liam had said. A place where they could eat and sleep and stay warm in the storm was all they needed until they hit the big lode of gold. Then they planned to go back East and live like kings.
But here was something: a fireplace built out of stone, no wider than a column set into the far corner. And she could see she wasn’t the first to seek shelter in the one-room cabin. Someone had been here in the last few days, judging by the trace of ashes in the fireplace and the two small logs stacked next to the hearth.
She set the flashlight on the floor and started digging in the kit for matches. She always carried matches; where were the matches? The beam from the flashlight made a starry pattern of light on the plank floor. Then her fingers closed on the narrow matchbook. Five matches inside, but that would be enough, if she were careful. She realized that the possibility of getting warm—the fireplace and logs and now the matches—had rolled over her, obliterated every other thought, even that of Liam. But if she could get warm, she told herself—if she could just not be so cold—she would go back onto the trail and look for him.
She began ripping off pieces of the paper wallboard, tearing at it with raw, frozen hands. The wallboard came off in chunks, brittle and hard. She built a pile in the fireplace and went back for more, moving through the dim beam of light patterning the floor, trying to ignore the tiredness that dragged at her. Then she laid the logs on top of the wallboard, just the way Liam had stacked logs on top of crumpled newspaper to build the fire at the cabin last night. She crouched next to the fireplace and struck a match. It flickered a second, but before she could get it to the wallboard, it went out. She leaned in closer and held the matchbook next to the wallboard. Her hands were still shaking. She tried to steady them before she lit the second match. This time the wallboard caught on fire. Another moment and the logs started burning.
Charlie crawled over to the flashlight and turned it off. The little cabin shimmered in the firelight, and the air was filled with the crackling sound of fire. Inside her backpack, she found the folded plastic cloth that she and Liam had spread in the snow about halfway to St. Elmo, when the sun was still shining. They’d sat on the cloth and eaten nuts and dried fruit and shared a bottle of water and turned their faces to the sun. She crawled back to the fireplace, smoothed the cloth on the floor in front of the hearth, and lay down, hugging herself. The warmth leapt out and caressed her tingling face and hands. A few minutes was all she needed. Then she would find Liam and bring him to the cabin. Liam would know how to get more logs, and they could wait out the storm and stay warm.
Liam, Liam, where are you?
* * *
Charlie awoke in the freezing cold. Coming through the darkness was the faint sound of laughter and music. It took a moment to get her bearings. At first she thought she was in the cabin at Mount Princeton, but why was it so cold? Liam must have let the fire die down. Then it came to her, like an arctic blast of wind, that she was in an abandoned log cabin in a ghost town, and the fire had burned out, and she was alone. Except that she wasn’t alone. Outside somewhere, somebody was having a party!
She managed to get to her feet, her legs and arms as numb and heavy as logs. She struggled into her backpack and gathered up the skis and poles. She hadn’t meant to fall asleep. Liam was out there somewhere looking for her, but now there were other people around. Someone could have seen him. She could get other skiers to help her find him.
Charlie stepped out onto the porch and stopped. It was night, and the sky was light and clear. The blizzard had worn itself out, leaving little flurries of snow swirling in the air. Main Street in St. Elmo stretched ahead in the moonlight that flooded the snowy ground. Wooden sidewalks ran up and down the street in front of the buildings—houses and stores shouldering one another, painted blue, red, and yellow. She could see the black lettering painted on the front windows. There were boot tracks in the snow on the sidewalks. Snow drifted over the roofs and piled behind the second-story false fronts.
Amber lights glowed in the windows, and in a nearby house, she could see a woman seated at a dressing table brushing her hair. Outside, a horse was hitched to a small sleigh. The music and laughter were coming from the building about halfway down the street, lights shining in the front window. The saloon, Charlie thought. Everything was just as Liam had described it, a little town in a snow globe, a little town beneath a Christmas tree.
Two men came out of a shop and hurried along the sidewalk. One of them called out to someone on the other side of the street. Charlie hadn’t noticed anyone else, but now she saw there were a lot of people walking along the sidewalks. Most were men, but there were a few women, and the women wore long dresses that swept over the snow.
Charlie swallowed hard. Her mouth had gone dry, and she could feel the cold working its way back inside her. There was a party going on, all right, a party that she and Liam had known nothing about when they had set off for St. Elmo. Some historical society must have scheduled a get-together in the old ghost town and people had brought clothes from the 1880s. Somebody had even driven a horse and sleigh up the trail. There were societies like that, Liam had said, people who dressed up like mountain men and went to rendezvous, just like the mountain men in the 1800s, and people who dressed up like cavalry and Indians and staged mock battles on old battlegrounds. Liam would be furious, she thought, when he saw all the people here. He had wanted St. Elmo in winter just for the two of them.
Charlie stepped into her skis and started down Main Street. There were tracks everywhere made by hooves and wheels and sleigh runners. The gathering, whatever it was, had been going on for some time. She expected the tracks to be frozen, but the snow was soft, glinting like diamonds in the moonlight, and her skis glided through them. “Hello!” she called to several men wearing long black coats and brimmed hats. They stood in a little circle in front of a shop with a false front and black letters that spelled Tobacco painted on the window. “Can you help me?” But they ignored her and kept on talking, one
of them puffing on a cigar, another throwing back his head and laughing into the night sky, as if no one saw her, as if she didn’t exist.
“Hello! Hello there!” Charlie called out to a couple walking arm in arm along the sidewalk, but they kept walking. “Hello!” she called to two men heading into the shop with letters that spelled Hardware on the window. The door shut behind them, and she skied toward two other men farther down the street, standing on the sidewalk, heads dipped in conversation. Still no response, as if she weren’t there. It was as if the people attending the gathering had decided to ignore anything—or anyone—from the present.
The music was louder. A tinny-sounding piano pounded out a ragtime piece that burst out of the saloon and floated down Main Street every time someone opened the door. Above the door, St. Elmo Saloon was painted in red letters across the false, second-story front. Charlie took a diagonal route across the street. She left her skis propped against the hitching log at the edge of the sidewalk. Farther up the street a black horse was tied to another log. She walked over to the front window of the saloon. It was crowded inside, women in brightly colored, shiny dresses that sloped off their shoulders, with ruffles at their ankles that showed off their high-heeled shoes; men in dark suits with white shirts and black string ties, some with cowboy hats pushed back on their heads.
Across the room, a line of men stood shoulder to shoulder in front of the bar, but Charlie watched the line break up and the men turn around as a tall woman in a blue dress, with blond hair stacked on top of her head, walked over. There were a half dozen round tables set about where men were laying down cards on the green baize tabletops. A shiny-dressed woman perched on the lap of one of the cardplayers.
It was then that she spotted Liam. The black-haired man with the mustache—he’d always wanted to grow a mustache—and the redheaded woman in a green dress leaning over his shoulder, brushing her face against his. Several cards lay facedown in front of him. Deftly he lifted the corner of one card, then tossed some gold coins toward the coins stacked in the middle of the table. The dealer dealt out a round of cards, and then it seemed to be over. Liam reached out both hands, circled the stacks of coins and pulled them toward him. He handed some coins to the woman. Grasping his chin with one hand, she turned his face toward her. She kissed him on the lips.
Charlie pressed her face against the freezing window and tried to blink back the tears that had made the saloon seem watery and unreal. At first the tears felt warm on her cheeks, but then they turned to ice. Still she couldn’t take her eyes away from the black-haired man with the mustache, staring at the new round of cards that had been dealt, pushing a small stack of coins into the center of the table. It was Liam, and yet it was not Liam. The truth hit her like a sledgehammer: The Liam that she knew and loved was dead.
The saloon door opened and two men spilled outside and walked past. Charlie made herself move away from the window. She walked over to the edge of the sidewalk where the men stood looking up and down Main Street, as if they were expecting someone. She reached out and tried to take hold of one of the men’s arms, but the sleeve of his jacket dissolved in her grasp. There was nothing but air. She could hear the rumble of a train, the shrill sound of the whistle, and the swooshing noise of steam coming closer. They had pulled up the tracks in 1926, Liam had said.
Later, Charlie barely remembered stepping into her skis and heading back down Main Street, past the lights in the windows and the people walking about. Barely remembered the freezing cold and the blizzard starting up again and the snow driving against her face as she skied up the incline past the little cabin and started downhill toward the fork in the trail. She remembered only skiing as fast as she could, the music and laughter receding into the night behind her and the words pounding in her head: Get away from here. Get away from here.
* * *
“Can you hear me?”
A man’s voice cut through the blackness, and Charlie tried to fight her way upward into consciousness. She blinked into the bright spotlight shining somewhere above her. The face of a man with a knitted ski cap pulled low on his head was coming closer, and she struggled to bring him into focus. Snow was everywhere: snow on her jacket and gloves, snow piled over her legs. She was buried in snow. She tried to sit up, aware of the strength in the hands pressing on her shoulders.
“Better lie still until we make sure you don’t have any broken bones,” the man said. Then he shouted: “Over here! We found the woman off the trail.”
Other men were stomping through the snow, and a woman, too, and then all of them were hovering over her, brushing the snow from her jacket and pants. She could barely feel the hands moving over her arms and legs. It was as if they were moving over stone.
“Can you tell us what happened?” The man’s voice again. “Did you fall?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “It was snowing. I was so cold.”
“Maybe she just lay down,” the woman said.
“What about your friend, Liam Hollings?” The man’s face came into focus now: a prominent nose and flushed cheeks. Light eyes peering at her from beneath the cliff of his forehead.
“Liam,” Charlie said, feeling the softness of his name on her lips.
“Any idea where he might be? When did you last see him? Did he fall off the trail?”
Charlie closed her eyes. She and Liam were skiing up the trail together, the old railroad bed. We’ll have to watch ourselves. The old narrow-gauge trains didn’t need much room. She could feel the tears starting again as she looked at the man. “He got ahead of me. Somewhere around the fork. I couldn’t see him.”
“Trail gets real narrow in that area,” the man said. “Not much room for mistakes.” He dropped his head into the hush that moved over them. Charlie could hear the soft thud of snow falling off a branch and the quiet sound of her own weeping. Then the man said, “We’re going to move you onto the snowmobile. An ambulance is waiting in Mount Princeton to take you to the hospital in Salida.”
Already the strong hands were sliding her out of the snow.
“You’re lucky you didn’t get any farther off the trail.” The woman’s voice came from somewhere behind. “Another foot and you would have rolled into the canyon. We never would have found you.”
THE SALIDA JOURNAL
The search for missing skier Liam Hollings has been called off after two weeks, according to a spokesman at the Chaffee County Sheriff’s Department. Hollings, 29, and Charlie Lambert, 26, graduate students in physics at the University of Colorado, had set out the morning of January 6 on a cross-country skiing trip along the abandoned railroad bed in Chalk Creek Canyon. When they didn’t return that evening to Mount Princeton, where they had rented a cabin, the manager notified the sheriff. The county search and rescue team located Lambert around 10 p.m. about a mile from the abandoned town of St. Elmo, but the team has been unable to find any sign of Hollings.
“The extreme winter weather, with deep snows and freezing temperatures, makes it highly unlikely that Hollings can be found alive,” the spokesman said. “The skiers were on a very steep and narrow expert trail. The rescue team believes that Hollings became disoriented in a blizzard and may have skied off the trail into the canyon.”
Lambert was evacuated to Salida Community Hospital where she was treated for hypothermia, frostbite, and exhaustion before being released last week. She could not be located for comment.
Otto’s Sons
“Robert’s come home.” Otto Hunting Bear stood in the doorway, leaning on a knobby walking stick carved from a branch. He was bronze-skinned and whipcord thin, with buzz-top gray hair, and a worn, weathered look that made him seem older than his seventy years.
Father John got to his feet and motioned him into the office. “Nice to see you, Grandfather,” he said, using the polite Arapaho term for addressing an older man. “I heard the good news,” he said as Otto lowered himself into a side chair that Fat
her John kept for visitors. Outside St. Francis Mission was quiet, except for the undertow of the wind and the small tapping of a cottonwood branch against the front window. Beyond the mission were the open, brown stretches of the Wind River Reservation. If he put his finger on a map, the reservation looked like a small rectangular block in the center of Wyoming, but that was only because Wyoming itself was so big. It took the best part of an hour to drive anywhere on the rez.
“You must be very happy,” Father John said.
“Happy? Happy don’t touch it.” A smile creased the old man’s face, light bouncing in his eyes. “Walked into the living room two weeks ago, like he’d been gone a couple hours. Just stood there, hands in his jeans pockets, that stupid smile he used to get on his face when he was little and got himself into trouble. That was Robert. He could pretty much smile his way out of anything with Mame. ‘Hi, Dad,’ he says. ‘You’re lookin’ good,’ like I wasn’t busted up with two hips the doctor give me and a back that don’t hold me straight. Wonder I didn’t have a heart attack. I couldn’t even speak. I got outta my chair, went over, and hugged him so hard, I like to squeezed the breath outta him. ‘Take it easy, Dad,’ he said, but I couldn’t let go. All I could think was, My son was dead and now he’s alive. He’s come back.”
“How’s he doing?” Father John resumed his seat behind the desk.
“Okay, I guess.” Otto gave a forced shrug and piled his hands on top of the walking stick. “Hard work fitting in again after all them years.” He shook his head and stared into the middle of the office. “Twelve years, and not a word, no sign he was walking the earth. Nothing but the big, empty space he left behind the day he packed his bag and drove off. I’ll never forget that old wreck of a pickup that he won off some guy in a poker game bumping across the yard and heading down the road, trailing black smoke. ‘Gotta get off the rez,’ he’d told me. ‘Nothing for me here.’ Mame and me didn’t know where he went, what he was up to. After five, six years, we started thinking our boy was dead. Tried to convince ourselves there wasn’t no reason to keep hoping, but it was tough. Wore her out, worrying about Robert and what become of him. She got thinner and thinner until she was nothing but a skeleton in a bag of skin before she died. Only thing that kept her hanging on long as she did was our other boy. Tom was still with us. He’s a good boy.”
Watching Eagles Soar Page 16
