by Shaye Marlow
We went to one of my favorite spots and first tried fishing from the boat. I quickly tired of this, as the children just wouldn’t fucking stay still. Following my three rapid-fire cups of coffee, I was also having a bit of a bowel emergency, so I talked the men into trying out a little shore fishing.
Once ejected from my boat, the children ran free. They quickly became distracted with getting muddy and making a fort out of driftwood, and I—after my potty break in the woods—was able to actually concentrate on helping the men catch salmon.
They weren’t bad as fishermen went. They caught their bag limit of Reds before noon, and then turned their attention to helping the kids catch theirs. We had lunch on the shore, and then went back to it. The kids caught their last fish, a fat, glossy Silver Salmon, around two in the afternoon, and I was able to enjoy one of those rare days where I got off early.
Considering the way it started, it had actually been a pretty good day. The men tipped well, I was able to find some TP when I needed it, and the children had only broken my cheapest rod. Thank God, and at the same time, damn them.
I heard my neighbor’s helicopter before I even got back to my cabin. It skimmed by overhead just as I was pulling into the slough. I’d gotten lost in my normal daily routine, and had actually sort of forgotten about the new resident noise-maker.
I slid in to the shore and threw my anchor out a little harder than was strictly necessary. Grumbling, I loaded all of my equipment onto my four-wheeler.
Then I found out my four-wheeler wouldn’t start.
Now this sucked, sure, but my day wasn’t ruined. Shit like this happens when you live in the bush. You just gotta roll with the punches. So I was rolling, as I gathered up my fishing gear. I definitely couldn’t leave my stuff out along the river where anyone could take it, but there was no way I could carry it all in one trip, so I gathered what I could, and I rolled on up the trail.
Purely by chance, I decided I would carry the shotgun on my second trip.
I was walking along the trail, concentrating on keeping my rod tips up off the ground, when I became aware of a lighter spot of uniform brown against the dark soil ahead of me. I looked up—and froze.
It was a brown bear, a damn big one, and it was standing there in the middle of the trail, practically taking up the whole trail, staring at me.
Something a lot of people from the Lower 48—and hell, the rest of the world—don’t understand, is that bears aren’t cute, cuddly, harmless creatures. People go to the zoo, see that fuzzy, adorable animal snoozing in a sunbeam, and they get this impression that bears are sweet creatures whose greatest ambition in life is a good nap.
Well, newsflash: Real bears aren’t teddy bears. People who try to hug them get eaten. Bears are at the top of the food chain for some damn good reasons. They’re a half-ton of sheer muscle behind five-inch claws and killing teeth. They kill to survive… and also sometimes just because.
We Alaskans have whole books full of gruesome bear attack stories. We’re talking detailed, gory maulings where faces and scalps and all sorts of deliciously horrible body parts are rent open or ripped off. There are accounts of bears being shot right through the heart—heart, destroyed—and they continue to kill and rampage for a full ten minutes after.
So now you know where I’m coming from, when I tell you, I was walking back to my cabin after work Sunday afternoon, and I came face-to-face with a bear. There was nothing between us; no fence, no plate armor, not even the thinnest veneer of civilization.
And in that unguarded moment, staring into the bear’s eyes, I realized something. Humans are just bags of blood walking around, and we’re pretty darn easy to pop. Despite what my forward-facing eyes said, I could be hunted, and killed. Sometimes, people are prey.
My heart doubled its pace, and my vision narrowed as my fight or flight response kicked in. But I wouldn’t win against this thing in a fight, and I couldn’t run.
It’s something drilled into Alaskan kids: Don’t run. Absolutely do not run. Bears are predators, they will give chase, and they can run thirty-five miles per frickin’ hour. And when they catch you, they will tear you apart…
I was frozen there, trying to figure out what to do. I could have put my hands over my head to make myself look bigger, but they were full. I could have yelled to try and scare it, but I felt barely capable of a squeak. I really, really wished I had my gun.
It was still staring at me. Not afraid. A really bad sign.
I began to back away. Slowly. Just one step. Two. Over the thunder of my heart, I became aware of another noise, the low, thrumming drone of an aircraft getting closer.
The bear took a step to follow me. Then another. Did it look hungry?
I looked around for a tree to climb. There was nothing close. I had my Leatherman, but that knife was only two or three inches long, and it’d take a precious few seconds to pry out.
I took another couple steps back.
The bear chuffed, and advanced, moving a little faster. He’d been about thirty feet away. Now it was twenty-five.
I finally decided to try shouting. I made some noise, waving my rod- and tackle box-laden hands above my head.
He kept on coming.
I stumbled backward, shouting louder, barely aware that I was now competing with the thundering approach of an aircraft.
The bear paused. Cocked its head.
A helicopter roared by directly overhead, low above the treetops. The sound was enormous, the blast of air snapping off dead branches high up in the trees.
The bear turned to its right, and scooted into the woods.
Now I know I said don’t run, but this was my chance. That bear could have turned around at any moment and come back for me, and I didn’t want to be anywhere nearby when he did.
I sprinted along the trail, my neck prickling, sure at any moment I’d feel his claws in my back. After a harrowing couple-minute run, I broke out of the woods. I dropped my fishing gear as I crossed my little drive. I flew up my three steps, smashed through the door, and then slammed it behind me.
Safe. My breath heaved as I leaned back against the cool metal door. That had been one of my closest calls yet, and of course it had happened during one of the very, very few times I was caught without my gun.
My gun, which was on a broken-down four-wheeler, along with a bunch of expensive fishing equipment, next to a tourist-infested river. I had a story deadline, but I also had stuff. And that stuff allowed me to make a decent living as a fishing guide, so I really needed to rescue it, and soon. My choices were: I could play pack-mule again, or I could get the four-wheeler running.
I’m capable of lots of things—I can fish, and drive a boat, and shoot a gun—but I am not the least bit mechanically inclined. My four-wheeler might as well run on magic, propelled by fairy wings, for all I know. Although, I do feed it gas every once in a while, and I am pretty sure that fumy clear fluid has something to do with its propulsion. I know for damn sure the thing won’t move without it.
But anyway, I’d checked. The tank had been full. It wasn’t the gas, and thus it was beyond me.
My brothers were coming to visit in a little over two weeks, and I knew they’d probably be able to trouble-shoot it (if they didn’t somehow actually shoot it, blow it up, or sink it in the process) but two weeks was too long. I still had work; I had to make that commute from cabin to boat several more mornings before their visit, and the four-wheeler was the best way to transport my fishing gear.
Though I really, really didn’t want to do it, I knew exactly who I had to call.
“Hello?” said a cheerful tenor on the second ring.
“Ed, hi,” I said. “How are you?” I wasn’t usually much for small talk, except when trying to disguise that I was calling to ask for a favor.
“Helly! I haven’t heard from you in weeks! Good, I’m good. How are you?”
I could hear him smiling on the other end, and I winced. Ed was a nice guy, definitely not the grungiest-lookin
g bush rat I’d ever seen, and he’d had a thing for me for years. Problem was, I felt absolutely nothing for him, and I suspected his ‘thing’ originated from the fact that I was one of only two females under the age of 45 that resided on the river year-round.
We did the verbal dance, and I finally got to it: “Ed, I was wondering…well, my four-wheeler died, and I was wondering if you could possibly come by and take a look at it.”
“Sure! I’d love to,” he said. “When? I’m free right now.”
See, now I just felt bad. This sweet guy was willing to jump on any excuse to spend time with me, and I just wanted to use him for his mechanical skills. Was there a special place in hell for me? Or was this why women eventually married—so they could have that shit on tap?
“That’d be great,” I said. “The four-wheeler died down at my boat. Meet you there in 15 minutes?” Hopefully the fix would be quick, and then I could get back to my cabin, and meet my deadline.
“Sounds great!”
I signed off, and picked up the shotgun propped next to my front door. There was still a bear out there. And yes, I owned more than one gun. More than a few, even. At last count, a dozen.
It is Alaska, after all. Gotta have your guns.
I rescued my gear from the dirt drive, treating it with a little more care as I hung the rods on their rack, and set the tackle box beneath.
Shotgun in hand, I started warily back down the trail. The birds were singing and flitting about in the shadows under the canopy as if a bear hadn’t almost ‘popped’ me and painted the forest with my blood. As I walked, I noticed the echoing tat-tat-tat of a woodpecker becomes something eerie when you’re freaked out.
I caught a flash of movement out of the corner of my eye. I jumped and swung my gun around—it was a squirrel.
To my relief, the bear didn’t make another appearance, and I arrived at the river unscathed except by mosquitos. When Ed pulled up, I was sitting side-saddle on my four-wheeler, and I saw him glance at the shotgun resting in my lap.
“I had a close call with a bear,” I said by way of explanation.
He’d climbed ashore, and he paused in tossing out his anchor. “Just now?”
“On the way to my cabin, maybe twenty minutes ago.”
He gave me his serious, concerned look. “I’ve got my rifle. You want me to see if—”
Crap. I didn’t want his concern. “No, it’s fine. I got caught without my gun, but it won’t happen again. Just know that there’s a brown bear in the area, and he doesn’t seem to be afraid of people.”
“Are you sure? It’d be no problem…”
I shook my head. I didn’t want to fill the role of Ed’s damsel in distress. I could take care of myself. Really, I just wanted him to fix my four-wheeler.
We made awkward conversation as he unfastened the grill and peeled a couple pieces of red plastic off the front end. It was awkward because I wanted to be nice to him, but I didn’t want to lead him on. I was trying to strike a balance, but that was hard to do when you were as socially inept as I was. I tried to stay on safe topics, asking him how his Fourth of July went, whether he’d been fishing lately, what he thought of the weather.
Despite my best efforts, he managed to slip in an indirect date invite. “Are you going to the Hindmans’ anniversary barbecue?” he asked. He looked up at me, hazel eyes earnest in the gap between his dark brown hair and beard. The man had so much facial hair, that if I hadn’t heard him speak, I wouldn’t have been sure he owned a mouth—but that wasn’t unusual around these parts.
“I…” had been planning on it, because I liked the old couple, and there was free food, and Suzy’d be there, but I didn’t want it to be a date.
“I’m going,” he said, wrenching on something, blissfully unaware of the thoughts screaming through my head. “And I’d love to see you there.”
His eyes squinched up, telling me he was smiling, and I actually wondered for all of three seconds why I couldn’t be attracted to a guy like him. He was nice-looking, hardworking and honest, and he was obviously compatible with the lifestyle. So why wasn’t I attracted to him?
Then I came to my senses and realized it didn’t matter why. I just wasn’t.
“Um,” I said noncommittally.
He didn’t seem to notice. “There,” he said. “That should do it.”
Thank God.
He straightened up and wiped some grease from his hands, and then walked around and started the four-wheeler. He smiled as the engine roared to life. He let it rumble for a few moments, and then shut it down.
Then he spoke. Here’s what I heard: “It was the—” something, something “—which had disconnected from the—” something, something “—and you were low on—” something, something “—oh, and your battery—” something, something. Yeah, that last part had sounded kinda important. Oh well.
I nodded as if I’d understood, and thanked him. He put the front of my four-wheeler back together, packed up his tools, and then looked at me. I stood by during that awkward pause while he tried to think up some last thing to say, some brilliant thing that he probably hoped would inspire me to show him gratitude the old-fashioned way.
“Well,” he finally said, “I might see you at the barbecue.”
I nodded again.
He got in his boat.
I got on my four-wheeler, and headed back to my cabin. I felt Ed’s longing like a physical presence as he watched me drive away. I really, really needed to stop letting him help me.
Back at my cabin, I was shucking off my damp, fishy clothes, when I heard it again, whomp whomp whomp, and felt the vibration that made my pots rattle. I finished dressing, and then went downstairs to glare out my window.
I watched the helicopter collect three people and take off again. Good. It looked like my evil neighbor was taxiing his hungover friends back to whatever hole they’d crawled out of, rather than keeping them till Monday. I hoped that would bring the decibel level down a bit, and let me actually get some sleep tonight. Knowing it was for a good cause made me feel a little more inclined to tolerate the noise.
I started up the generator—I needed to run it a couple hours each day if I wanted the lights and running water—and threw a quick casserole into the oven for dinner.
Then I went back up my ladder, fetched my ear plugs, and sat down to finish my story. I could still hear the helicopter in the background, but it was faint. An hour in, I switched over to my own music, turning it up loud to drown out everything else.
I don’t know if it was just that I was in a slightly better mood today, or if the writing gods were smiling on me, but I managed to finish my story. I got it edited, and then emailed—yes, courtesy of satellite, I even had internet in my little corner of the woods—by my deadline.
It was 8 p.m., and I’d eaten, and now that my story was done, it felt like a weight had been lifted off my shoulders. I went out on my deck with a beer and the binoculars, determined to relax by watching the silly antics of stick-legged sandpipers.
Just a few minutes later, the Devil flew overhead again. The wind of his passing made my hair fly everywhere, and scared the birds I’d been watching. I lowered the binoculars to watch him pick up what looked like the last of his guests.
Having cooled off a bit from last night, I was starting to wonder what his deal was. Most cabin owners in these parts showed up occasionally on weekends, or for whatever week or two they could get off. My new neighbor had said he was staying the summer, which seemed an odd amount of time, unless he was a schoolteacher. Somehow, I didn’t think he was a schoolteacher.
So what did he do for a living that let him afford the cabin, and the helicopter, and huge parties, but at the same time, let him hide out in bumfuck for a couple months? Was he running from something? That seemed like it was often the case around these parts; people who lived out here were trying to avoid the law, or grow pot (see avoid the law), or just be alone. With Gary’s party last night, he’d proven he wasn’t a loner. A
nd he didn’t look like a stoner. Which left trouble with the law.
I mulled that over a bit, and finally decided I didn’t know, and I wasn’t going to ask. I wasn’t going to talk to my neighbor at all, if I could help it. He was way too hot to have a normal relationship with any-which-way, and I was going to do my level best to avoid him.
Chapt
er Three
“I’m gonna kill him,” I growled into the phone. It had been five days since my neighbor moved in, and he hadn’t failed to disturb my peace on a single damn one of them.
“Who’re you gonna kill?” my friend Suzy asked. “Brett?”
“No, not Brett. My new neighbor!” I was pacing around, and the glares I cast through my big picture window should have set something on fire.
“Oh, so he moved in then?”
“You knew about this?” My voice was rising.
“Well, sure, he’s the son of one of my dad’s old friends. Dad actually was the one to pass along that the place was for sale.” I could hear her smile through the phone. “Why do you want to kill him?”
I didn’t even know where to begin, but the biggest thing: “He is loud. He’s got a helicopter, and he’s doing some construction over there, and Manny’s drilling him a well. There’s pounding going on day and night. He actually woke me up yesterday and today with his sawing and hammering. He comes and goes with his helicopter, he’s decided the airspace above my cabin is an acceptable flight path, and he’s had Rob with the flight service make several trips in carrying building materials, and it’s just been non-stop noise.”
Suzy was making all the right sympathetic sounds, so I continued.
“The day he moved in, that very first day, he made a dozen trips with the helicopter, he had a huge party that went well into the wee hours of the morning, blaring their speakers and littering on my beach. And a couple of his friends tried to steal my canoe, and then they woke me up with fireworks, and, Suzy…he set my blueberry patch on fire.”
