by John Hunt
I grinned at him. “No sweat.”
To begin with, I found it difficult. The first day I was always frustrated. The second day I was feeling resentful that it was all down to me. Hell, there were three men here. Why was it down to me to do the laboring? But on the third day, I began to get the hang of it, learning to merge the stroke with the slash, twisting the head sometimes to knock out a heavy piece from the notch. The chips leapt out, covering the ground. I worked on through the days, getting into a routine, keeping up a steady rhythm. I started to enjoy it, planning where each stroke should fall, the precision of it, the thunk of the ax, the pile of logs growing as the sun moved around the sky. I could let my mind drift; images of school, of Anchorage, of Jessie with her shirt off drifted through…a couple of times, out of the corner of my eye, I could see her watching me.
I figured that if I could keep this up for a year or two I might start to build up a bit of muscle. I already felt stronger, my newly-tanned body was taking on some definition and my hands were getting callused.
“You’re nailing it,” Bob said. “Keep going, we might be here for a while. Here’s how to stack them, in the sun, facing west, bark side up, so that the air can circulate and dry it off. There’s some corrugated iron over there you can use as cover.”
Thinking about that chainsaw now, it cuts to my heart. Dad kept it in great condition, and I did the same, when I inherited it. Many years later, I exchanged it for Gor, along with a can of petrol. I don’t think there are many still left now – they’d cost a lot more, though petrol is measured out in spoonfuls, so they’re only really of value as status symbols. Like the old decorated swords buried in chieftains’ mounds. Still, on the plus side, I guess all seventeen year olds around today are far fitter than I was at their age – scary, many of them; they’ve been chopping wood since they were old enough to stand.
That evening, we were sitting out on the porch, venison steaks sizzling on the barbie, the grey jays chattering around the woods and edging up to the verandah, looking for scraps.
“Bloody camp robbers,” said Bob. “I’d get my gun and shoot them, if I had the energy.”
I was dead beat, but feeling good.
“This is such a beautiful spot, I’d like to take a picture of us here,” said Louise. “I’ve got an Instant Print camera – gather around while I go get it.”
“I don’t know how long we’re going to be here for,” she said as she brought it back. “But we should have one of us together. I’ll put it on a timer, so we can all get in.”
I still have that photo, the only one I have. The only one I’ve seen, actually, for many years. Jessie and Bess are laughing, Sue’s looking solemn, Bob with his unruly white ponytail, Matthew smiling through his newly-growing beard, Louise at the front, Mom and Dad with their arms around each other. All gone now. Myself – well, I looked a bit awkward, but better than I’d thought of myself. The picture is a little worse for wear after all these years, but I keep it in a sealskin wallet for protection. Nowadays, I wear it on a cord around my neck, next to the skin. I want to take it with me when I go.
TWENTY
The mountains rose on one side of the lake. On the other there was a series of hills, split by canyons, with rivers at the bottom, steep sided, but thick with pine and brush.
Bob and I got back late one afternoon and picked up our pace when we heard shouting in the area of the Lodge. Matthew stumbled towards us.
“Sue’s missing. We’re out looking for her,” he shouted.
My guts twisted. Little Sue, alone out here…
“How did it happen? Where did you last see her?” Bob asked.
Matthew was hysterical. “We were all out picking blueberries, got separated. I just don’t know where she went to, we all thought she was with someone else.”
A few minutes later and we were all gathered outside the Lodge.
“It was a couple of hours ago.” Matthew looked scared stupid. “Could…could she have been taken by a bear?”
“No,” Bob replied. “Or you would have seen, heard something. You’re absolutely sure she’s not here? You’ve checked all the rooms, the outhouse?”
“That was my first thought,” Dad replied, “we’ve been around everywhere. She’s not here.”
“Fallen asleep?”
“We’ve checked every cupboard and cranny.”
I glanced around, the wilderness seemed to stretch on forever, nothing but hills and forests, rolling on towards the horizon. How were we ever to find her? It hit me – how isolated we were. In Anchorage, even if you got lost, which was hard to do, there were people everywhere, hundreds or thousands to a square mile. Here, it was empty space. But that was the wrong word…every few yards had its obstacles, dangers.
“She’s not likely to have gone up the mountain,” Bob said. “So she’s lost in these canyons. It’s easy to do, and shouting doesn’t carry well, hard to tell where it’s coming from.”
He took the map out. “In two hours she won’t have got more than a couple of miles or so as the crow flies, even if she panicked and started running. We’ll spread out, and go to these positions.” He marked them on the map before barking out orders. “Louise, Mary, you stay here, close to the Lodge, circle around it, spiraling out, keep calling. Matthew, Donald, Jim, Bess, Jessie, head for these points here. We create a circle. Count to five thousand on your way out. Then start zigzagging in back here. Look out for footprints, for any sign of her passing. When you find her, bring her back to the Lodge, and Matthew – you fire a shot twice, to let us know.”
“Oh God, I should’ve been watching her,” Matthew said.
Bob slapped him on the back. “We’ll find her. The danger is she might’ve fallen. She could’ve knocked her head, or gone into water. But at least the weather’s warm, there’s going to be plenty of light. Let’s go.”
An hour later, I heard two shots. Back at the lodge, Dad was talking. “She’d lost us, and went off in the wrong direction. When she realized she was lost, she tried to get back, but got into a different canyon. I found her huddled up in a cave.”
Mom was hugging her. “It’s OK, Sue, you’re safe. You’re safe, you’re back with us now. Let’s go and clean you up.”
“I didn’t mean to get lost, I didn’t mean to,” Sue wailed, tears streaking down her stained cheeks. Her face and arms were scratched and badly bitten.
Bob turned to Matthew. He shook his head. “This isn’t going to work. There are too many of us to look after. I’ll take you back to the highway tomorrow.”
“Hang on, Bob,” Dad cut in. “You’ve made some good calls for us, but that’s not just your decision.”
“It’s fine in weather like this,” Bob waved his arm around. “But if this had happened in a few months, she’d be dead. You want that? You want the responsibility?”
“I know it’s different for you and Jim,” Dad replied, “but any of the rest of us could easily get lost here.”
“We won’t let it happen again, will we, Sue,” Mom said, her arm still around her.
“Please don’t send us away,” Sue sobbed.
Matthew met Bob’s unforgiving gaze. “Look, I’m sorry we lost her. We’re new to this. If you all think we should go, we’ll go. But we’re not going to be a drain on you, I promise.”
I saw Jessie looking at me, a query in her eyes.
“Give them a chance, Bob,” I said.
“Bob, don’t get so bent,” Mom said firmly. “They’re not going anywhere. Enough of that.”
Bob was silent for a long moment, then he gave an indeterminate grunt, turned on his heel, and walked away.
Jessie was still looking at me. “You go out for a long time with Bob. How do you not get lost?”
I shrugged. “Keep an eye out for features, I guess. Odd trees, rocks, shapes. Remember your angle to the sun. Whether you’re going up or down. If we’re in new territory, we might slash marks for us to see on the way back. I follow Bob, mostly.”
�
�Bob’s right though,” Dad said, quietly. “This isn’t going to work, is it? We’re not suited to this life. We’re creatures of streets, straight lines, GPS. I don’t know how we’re going to learn enough, fast enough, without being able to Google it.”
“Matthew was still looking devastated. “Maybe we should just leave, Donald.”
“No. That’s not an option. We’ll figure something out.”
Sue was still crying. “There were all these rocks everywhere, and prickly bushes. I just couldn’t find my way, I didn’t know where to go.”
“Sue, I think I can show you how to find the way,” said Louise. “Let’s go down to the beach.”
We all followed, uncertain as to what she was trying to do.
“Now, let’s make a map, to show us where we are. This piece of driftwood is the lodge,” she said, positioning it on the sand. “And these sticks, those are the trees here.” She arranged the sticks. “We’ll make these ripples of sand, like this, and that’s the lake. Those rocks over there, Sue, bring those over, and they can be this mountain. And here are the canyons…”
I looked across the lake. Nobody had noticed, but two moose were swimming across through the mist that hung around the surface, a male in front, with its huge antlers standing proud, a female behind, an arrowhead of ripples around them. I opened my mouth to say something, but didn’t want to interrupt the concentration on the patch of sand. And then the mist closed in, and they were gone.
“And here, these pebbles that we put all around it,” Louise was saying, “this is our boundary. We’ll need to find some more on the beach here – you see how pretty these are? So, it’s like this is our garden, our little private one. And it’s just the same as this bigger one, around us. But you stay within this area. Do you understand that?”
“It’s a lovely map,” Sue replied. “Can we put some flowers in?”
“Of course; we’ll go and look for some now, and we can add more later and make the map bigger. And we’ll make it as pretty as we can. That’s what we’re trying to do here, too.”
TWENTY-ONE
We soon gave up wearing watches.
“Time is your enemy out here,” Bob said. “Make it your friend. Worst thing you can do is rush something, that’s when accidents happen.”
When the sun was at a certain angle in the sky, it was time for supper. In the evenings we’d barbecue outside, the smell of meat overpowering that of spruce pollen. After we’d cleaned up, we had a couple of hours to ourselves. We’d just hang out, shooting the breeze. We’d play cards or read. The sun didn’t set behind the hills till around ten, so we didn’t need lamps. Even then, it was generally light enough to read through the night. We actually talked…it seemed like we’d mellowed, and the kind of stuff that was an issue back in Anchorage didn’t matter anymore. I remember several occasions with Mom and Dad, sometimes together, sometimes separately, I think they were the first we’d had like “equals”, rather than on the “could you hang this washing up for me, Jim,” kind of level. We got closer as a family. Bess and me were getting on better. “You’re useful to have around, Jim,” she complimented me, as I helped her over rocks. “Never really figured that before.”
Louise, Bob, the Hardings – we all got to feel more like family.
One evening Mom asked, “What’s that you’re reading, Louise?”
“It’s an old favorite of mine from long ago, The Swiss Family Robinson. A family are marooned on an uninhabited island in the Pacific, in the early 1800s, and it’s about how they survived. How they made things – a house, a boat. Actually, their situation is in some ways similar to ours. I was wondering if I could pick up any tips to suggest to you.”
“What could we possibly learn from them?” asked Bob. “That was centuries ago. Did they even have guns back then?”
“Well, they did, but guns aren’t everything. For instance, in the bit I’m reading now, they’ve tamed some goats. They’re getting quite a farmyard together. Makes more sense domesticating animals than having to hunt them all the time.”
Bob looked a bit thunderstruck. “Goats. I’ll be damned. Why didn’t I think of that? We should have got some goats. Keep reading, Louise.”
We mostly gave up on remembering which day of the week it was, but Mom kept a calendar, and on a Sunday we’d break into the stores and have a treat, bring out a pudding, a cake, a pot of jam, put a posy of flowers on the table. In the evening, Dad would fish out a bottle of Jack Daniels and we’d sit out at the back, overlooking the lake, Dad offering it around. “Not for me, thanks,” said Bob the first time, palms out. “I’ve been off the giggle juice for a long time.”
“I didn’t know that, Bob,” said Mom, surprised, “though come to think of it, I’ve never seen you with a drink. How long’ve you been teetotal?”
“Thirty years now.” He paused, looking uncertain as to whether to share more. “It nearly killed me. I was a bum for years, wasted. I woke up in a cell one day, and a minister helped me sort myself out. I lived in his house for a year. I’m not generally in favor of ’em, but he was a good man. A Unitarian. Never been sure what that meant, but they don’t have much truck with teaching and stuff.”
“What else helped?” asked Dad, looking thoughtful, cleaning his specs.
“To be honest, being out here, in the wild. Makes it easier, not having any booze around. I mean, I could set up a still, make vodka from birch easy enough, but somehow, when I’m out here, it doesn’t seem necessary. I mean, why be plastered all the time when you’ve got this?” He waved his arms around. “I’ll put the kettle on for some tea. And Donald, that stuff’s too valuable to drink. It’s good for frostbite, things like that.”
“He’s an even better man than I took him for,” I heard Louise mutter under her breath after he’d gone inside.
The sun dipped towards the horizon. Chickadees flitted along the beach, going tsikadee, dee, dee. The strange, haunting cries of loons echoed around the lake.
“The Indians believe it’s their ancestors calling from the spirit world,” remarked Louise.
“I could believe that, it’s an amazing sound,” replied Mom.
“It’s down to the shape of the larynx and how you use it,” intervened Dad. “Nothing magical about it.”
Louise laughed. “You truly have the imagination of an engineer, Donald. But sometimes perhaps it’s what you see in things, how you respond to them, that counts more than the thing itself.”
“Why’s it called a loon?” Sue asked.
“A loon, a loon, it can’t hold a tune…” Bess sang.
“It’s a Scandinavian word, meaning clumsy,” I replied. “They’re really primitive birds, the oldest water birds in the world, and they never developed the knack of walking.”
“How come you know that?” asked Jessie.
“I know about birds,” I replied, blushing. “I mean, only the feathered kind,” my tongue seemed to tie itself into knots. What a dork. I didn’t want to be like this. And I wasn’t going to mention the stamps.
“Nice to hear a song again,” Bob said, back with a cup of nettle tea. He started to sing, croakily.
Wi’ my dog and gun, through the bloomin’ heather,
For game and pleasure I took my way.
I met a maid, she was tall and slender,
Her eyes enticed me some time to stay.
I said “Fair maid, do you know I love you?
Tell me your name and your dwelling, oh so?”
“Oh, excuse my name, but you’ll find my dwelling
By the mountain streams where the millcocks crow.”
And it’s arm in arm we will go together
Through the lofty trees, in the valley below,
Where the lenties sing there so so sweetly
By the mountain streams where the millcocks crow.
“Why, Bob,” said Mom, “where did you learn that?”
“From my grandpa. He was Irish, from the old country, knew hundreds of songs by heart. Came over
to work on the railways. No family left now. Had a couple of brothers once, but we lost touch. Never had a missus. There’re a few other verses, but I’ve forgotten ’em. I don’t know anyone who stills sings the old songs.”
“You could teach them to me,” said Jessie. “I like singing.”
Bob’s face lit up. “I’d like that a lot, Jessie. We can do it when we go out hunting or fishing. Get a tune going. We can be like the Potter’s Place choir, on tour. It’s a good thing to do, keeps the bears away. The one thing they don’t like is being taken by surprise.”
TWENTY-TWO
In that most amazing of summers, the best of all summers, I fell head over heels for Jessie. How could I not? She was a stunner. Lovely, oval, innocent face, trim figure – at school she would have been beyond my dreams. And she seemed kind, though with a kind of steel inside her that Bess didn’t have. And she knew her own mind. OK, she wasn’t Miss. America, but she was out of my class. I knew that as sure as I knew anything. But she barely seemed to notice me. She and Bess were a closed bubble.
It was a week later. We were ranging around more comfortably now, fishing, foraging, gathering back at the lodge in the evening. Bob just insisted that we were in pairs, at a minimum, with a rifle between us. Even Mom and Louise came out at times. One day, which still brings a smile to my face as I recall it, Bob and I, Jessie and Bess, were catching salmon down the Portage River.
“Jim,” Bob said after a while, “could you and Jessie take these back, then you can get supper started with Matthew. Nice ones here, must be fifteen pounds. Bess and me will stay on to catch some more.”
Jessie and I walked back in silence, carrying a pole on our shoulders with several salmon hanging from it. She was in front, moving with the grace of a deer over the rocky ground, and I wondered if she could feel my eyes devouring her figure. It was the first time we’d been alone together. I wondered if I should start a conversation. How did you do that? My mind seemed to have gone blank. I didn’t expect she’d be interested in stamps, or war gaming. What did teenagers talk about? The tracks of an animal crossed our path, I thought it might have been mink. But why would she want to know that? And now we were past it, so it was too late to mention it. Should I say something about the weather, about what a lovely day it was in the warm sun, glinting in her hair, the wind blowing strands across her face and rippling the leaves, wispy cirrus high overhead? Perhaps I could bring up the political situation. But what was that, anyway? Where would you start? I wished I wasn’t such a goof.
