The Provider

by John Hunt

  “Easy-peasy,” I lied.

  I kneeled and brought the Winchester to my shoulder. It was a tricky shot in the fading light, with a few branches in the way, a breeze drifting snow down from the mountains towards us. I could just make out the upper front quarter of the moose. It might not work, but another minute and it could have shifted position, and the light would have faded too much, and the breeze could have strengthened…I focused; stilled my breathing, took my glove off – and my fingers immediately stiffened in the cold. I willed the shot, allowing for a fall of a few inches in flight and gently squeezed the trigger. The noise ricocheted around the valley. At first, I thought I must have missed. Then it slumped to its haunches and keeled over.

  “Uh-huh,” said Bob, “straight through the heart again. Goddam, Jim, that’s great. Fucking brilliant. This will feed us for months.”

  I felt proud, exhilarated. My first moose. And that was the most difficult shot I’d made so far. When we came up to it, it looked like it was asleep in the snow. Sadness washed over me. It was such a huge, magnificent animal. I put my hand on its head, still warm. “Thank you for coming to us and giving your life. We respect you as our brother, we honor your spirit, may it walk in peace.” I didn’t really know if it meant anything, but I felt better about killing it.

  It was getting dark.

  “Jim, we’ll have to camp here. I’ll make a start, could you go bring your Dad over, he’s not sounding too good. Not going to be enough light to do the meat, we’ll deal with it in the morning.”

  Bob had got a fire going by the time I got back with Dad.

  “That’s a heck of a lot of meat,” Dad looked on admiringly. “Matthew’s going to be happy. Maybe there is a God looking out for us after all.”

  “You can thank Jim for it, I don’t think I could’ve made that shot.” Bob grinned. “Could you clear the snow around here, and – Jim, let’s put up an A frame here, spruce boughs on top, then cover it in snow. Hear that?”

  When I stood still, I could just hear the mournful, eerie sound of wolves howling.

  “Are they a danger to us?” asked Dad.

  “Nada, or they’d be here already. Sounds like a decent sized pack, about ten miles away. They’re probably not as hungry as they will be later. But we’ll take it in turns on watches to keep the fire alight, or in the morning we’ll find they’ve taken the moose.”

  “Bob,” Dad said, as we chewed some of the moose meat we’d roasted over the fire, “it’s been great to be out with you and Jim. A new kind of experience for me. I was just wondering, I don’t want to ask too many liberties of you, but you could keep an eye out for Bess as well?”

  “Bess?” Bob looked up in surprise. “She’ll be fine, just her hormones firing. Needs a guy. You’re not suggesting it’s me?” He laughed.

  Dad smiled, wryly. “No, I just think she hasn’t found a way of dealing with being out here yet.”

  “Shape up or ship out, that’s the way of it, Donald,” Bob replied. “But she’s going to be OK. She’s a good kid. Just needs a bit of sense knocking into her. Time will take care of it.”

  We went to sleep in our triple-layered, arctic-proof sleeping bags to the noise of crackling logs and the wolves’ song rising and falling in the distance.

  FORTY-THREE

  We were up hours before sunrise, Bob had a kettle on over the fire for tea and sourdough pancakes. “Shouldn’t be cooking on the campsite in bear country, but with the three of us we’ll be OK.” We had them smeared with honey, around the fire, warming ourselves up as the frost melted from our eyebrows, chewing jerky, appreciating the warmth of the tea sliding down. With the firelight, the full moon and the stars, there was plenty of light to work by. The three of us managed to haul the moose over onto its back. One of its frozen legs came swinging over and the hoof caught me a glancing blow across my cheek.

  “Could’ve clubbed you badly there,” said Bob. “Got to watch out for that kind of thing. Your Mom’s not going to appreciate you knocking yourself up again. Here, you start with the knife.”

  Even with my razor sharp, foot long, Bowie knife, it was tough opening the stomach. When I managed it, a burst of steam came out along with the guts.

  “Wow, these guts must weigh as much as the last deer I killed,” I exclaimed, as I pulled them out, putting the heart and kidneys into separate sacks.

  “Careful not to get any hair or dirt on the meat,” said Bob. “It’ll spoil it. Separate it into legs, ribs, haunches and head. I’ll go make a travois, plenty of spruce and alder around here, I’ll use that. We’ll leave the guts for the wolves. Everyone around here has to eat.”

  Dad and I finished the skinning with fleshing knives. It was hard work; they rapidly blunted on the frozen hide. My arm was working fine by now, just twinges. Bob had cut down springy saplings and made a travois in the form of an isosceles triangle, lashed together with crosspieces, using spruce roots for the rope – withes – they were close to the surface and didn’t take much digging up.

  We wrapped the meat in canvas, the organs went into a flour sack, tied it all onto the travois, and brushed off as much as we could of the frozen blood and guts. By the time we were ready to leave, the sun had risen, skirted the horizon, and set again. With the strongest spruce ropes attached to the frame, we took it in turns pulling it across the snow. It wasn’t too difficult. The saplings scratched through the ice, the frost crystals broke underneath our feet, sparkling blue and yellow as we scrunched through the shimmering carpet – like swimming through plankton studded seas. The low-hung, huge, white moon that seemed to take up half the sky cast our shadows further ahead than we could see, giving plenty of light to find our way back. It was eerie, trekking at night, but I’d never felt so safe. I felt confident and strong. One shot, one bullet in the right place, and we had food for the winter. I was getting familiar enough with the stars – tracking their regular pattern across the sky – particularly on a night like this, with the Pole Star right overhead, to know the way without the help of the compass. And, more obviously, our track out was still clear, breaking up our shadows as they fell on the sparkling ice covering the snow.

  Occasionally we crossed other tracks, animals leaving the mark of their passing and their smells to follow, for those who could. Once or twice I saw the gleam of eyes from the trees. I felt privileged to be living in the same space as the owner of those eyes, though with such inadequate sensory equipment. Over one horizon we could see Mars, flaming red, and after a few hours we could see the lodge on the other horizon, miles away, a pinpoint of red in the black wilderness. As we got nearer the dot turned into an ember, got larger, and then the outlines of a window took shape. We began hollering as we came close, everyone running out to greet us, and helping get the meat inside.

  “Wow,” said Matthew, his eyes lighting up, a broad grin on his bushy face as he finished skilleting some hotcakes. “Congratulations, gentlemen. Honor to the hunters. Now, how would you like it – Steak? Stew? Meatloaf? Burger? Ribs? Roast? Soup? Meatballs? Fried? Fricasseed? Ladies and gentlemen, place your orders. We are open for business.”

  PART THREE

  WINTER

  FORTY-FOUR

  Soon, it was colder again. The thermometer was down to minus 25. The door hinges were heavy with frost and it was creeping up the windowpanes so thickly you couldn’t see through them. Every few minutes we could hear the groaning of the ice in the lake as it thickened.

  Bob, Jessie and I were on our way back from checking the traps, carrying two marten. “Look,” Jessie said. “I think that’s Dad and Bess.”

  I looked through the scope. A mile away, two figures were heading for the lodge. Matthew seemed to be struggling, leaning on Bess.

  “C’mon,” said Bob, putting his binoculars back in the pack. “Let’s go help.”

  Matthew looked frozen, his teeth chattering. We helped him back.

  “Strip him down,” Bob said, as we got through the door. “Clothes up to dry – no, not directly
above the stove, Donald, they could fall down and catch fire.”

  “Let me check your hands and feet for frostbite, Matthew,” Mom said. She took his socks off, rubbed his toes. “They seem OK, you weren’t out for long. But we all need to be more careful. I don’t want to be amputating fingers and toes out here.”

  Matthew started to stutter as he warmed up. “I’m s…s…sorry, guess I’m not very fit. Could do with some antifreeze in me on a day like this. We just went out to see if there were still any cranberries left. The book says they can last past Christmas.”

  “Here, I’ll get you another jumper,” said Mom.

  “Not that one, Mary,” Bob said as she brought it back. “It’s synthetic, a lemon. The problem here, Matthew, is that you’d started to sweat, and then your sweat started freezing to your skin.”

  “You’d better tell us, Bob,” said Dad. “We’re not used to being outside in this kind of weather. I just used to go from the house to the office in a car, with the heating on.”

  Bob got up, and started taking off his clothes.

  “My fault, I should’ve guessed that, and explained all this before. There’s a way of dressing for the winter, OK? The key thing is lots of layers, and keep ’em loose, to use air as insulation. Keep to natural fabrics. They work best.”

  “Sounds logical,” said Jessie.

  “Now, first, long underwear, like I’m wearing here. I keep mine on at night. If it gets colder, wool socks and booties, sweaters, parkas, put sleeping bags inside each other. When you go outside, socks, two pairs. First cotton, then wool. If they’re tight, your feet will freeze off, and you’ll be hobbling on stumps for the rest of your life. Then jeans, flannel shirts. Then snow pants, then jackets, scarf, then parkas, always with a hood, over a wool cap. Wolverine ruffs are best, the ends of the hair don’t frost up like others do. The beavers in the lake, they’d do fine. We’ll have to get ourselves a couple now. Remember, warm air rises, so you want to cover your neck and your head, that’s where a lot of the body heat’s lost.”

  “Like the hat says to the scarf, you hang around, while I go on ahead.” Sue laughed.

  “Right on, Sue. Now, though the clothing has to be loose,” he continued, “you don’t want gaps at the edges for the cold to get through. Think like you’re on Mars, wearing a spacesuit. In the right clothes, an Eskimo can fall into the sea and stay dry. And the main problem is the wind. When it gets properly cold, 50 and more below, breathe through a veil or you’ll get frostbite in your lungs. If you’re outside you need to cover your face. A wool scarf will just ice up. A mask, with goggles…the skin always needs to be covered.”

  “Oh my God,” said Bess. “This is so icky, Bob. You want us to dress like animals?”

  “We are animals, Bess,” Louise replied. “Bob’s right. We need to be fit for the weather, like they are.”

  “Mukluks are best when the snow’s dry,” he continued. “They may look fancy, but they’re moose hide, with layers of felt, and what works for the moose will work for you. If it’s wet, though, they’re no good. Never wear tight boots. Two pairs of gloves, cotton first, then moose-hide mitts. When you’re outside, watch each other for frostbite, like Mary says. It’s easy not to realize you’re getting it. The skin goes white and hard, or black. Don’t try warming it up, carry a dressing in your pocket, slap it on, and get back here as fast as you can. But frostbite means you’ve been stupid, not brave.

  Once you’re inside, first thing, always hang everything up to dry, only not directly over the stove. If they’re damp when you go out again, you’ll freeze. Any questions? No? Now remember, it’ll get colder up here than it ever was down in Anchorage. Be prepared.”

  “It’s like living in the old times,” said Louise.

  “Exactly. We have to start thinking like they did. Don’t rush at anything, don’t build up a sweat. And learn to improvise. If you need lip salve, for instance, wax from your ears is as good as anything you could buy in a shop.”

  “Yuk,” said Bess. “That’s tacky. I don’t even have any make-up, and now you want us to use earwax? What next. Snot? Piss?”

  “Good point, Bess. Piss is really useful when you have skin stuck to metal. Back when I was in…”

  “That’s enough, Bob, thank you,” interrupted Mom, firmly. “We’re closing this subject now.” Sue was looking on wide-eyed.

  “Hey, Bess,” Jessie added. “It’s not so bad, just that it doesn’t come out of a tube.”

  “I don’t think we’ll be going out the next few days, though,” Dad said. “I was on the radio this morning, there’s this one guy who seems to know about the weather, says there’s a deeper cold front following this one.”

  “Jessie, I think we’ll have to move back to the lodge till it gets warmer,” I said later that night. “Look at this, the sleeping bag’s frozen to the wall on my side.”

  “Whatever you say,” she mumbled. “I’m cold.”

  I was up several times in the night putting more logs on the fire. One time I woke thinking there was something strange in the room. It was the stove, glowing red-hot. Sparks were jumping from the open damper on the door. “Hell, Jesus!” I exclaimed. The stovepipe was glowing red. It looked like it was going to explode. The chimney was roaring. I grabbed the glove, opened the door and threw the bubbling bucket of water on top into it. Steam hissed out and the room filled with smoke and the stink of burning tar. Black creosote ran down the pipe.

  “Damn, hell!”

  The temperature in the room immediately plummeted. By the time we’d got some clothes on, we were shivering with the cold, teeth rattling. We ran the few steps to the lodge, our breath freezing to ice, the cold clawing into our veins, and stumbled in.

  Bob wasn’t sympathetic. “Should’ve been knocking the stovepipe to bring the creosote down, but don’t do it when the fire’s alight, you’ll crack the pipe.”

  The next day the temperature was down to minus 35. “This isn’t so bad,” he said. “Up in the Yukon it’s often thirty, fifty degrees colder.”

  The sound of a shot came from outside. We jumped up. Then another one.

  “What’s that? Bob?”

  He was still sitting, unperturbed. “Trees cracking in the cold.”

  “Why did people ever come here? How long’s this going to carry on for?” Bess asked.

  “We don’t know, Bess,” Dad replied, stoking the fire. “It’s just weather. We’ll survive.”

  “What’s the point of just surviving? Same shit, different day? I want my life back. I hate this. It’s crap.”

  “People will live anywhere they can,” said Louise, wrapped up in furs in front of the fire. “Even here. Life will always go anywhere it’s possible.”

  “Bess, it’s OK,” Jessie said. “I know it looks like shit, but we’ll get through the winter, and it’ll get better.”

  “OK for you.” Bess snorted. “You can fuck all night. You’re in too deep to say “hi” to me. What do you expect me to do?”

  Mom looked as if she was about to say something but I waved her down.

  Jessie looked upset, but knelt down and took Bess’ hands. “Bess, we’ll find someone for you next year, OK? Not a lanky geek like Jim here, but someone you’d like.”

  “If we get that far,” Bess muttered, still far from happy.

  Bob and I checked our cabin. He was up the ladder looking at the roof. “Lucky, Jim, we’ll need to patch this before you can use it. But at least it didn’t set the whole roof alight. We’ll need tarpaulin, moss, a couple of poles, let’s get to work. Don’t make a boo-boo like that again.”

  The next day it was minus 40. The wind was careening around, the sky ragged grey, snow streaming off the tops of the mountains. Going out hunting or doing work was impossible, even with masks and goggles on – with all the mittens you needed to keep your hands warm it was too hard to handle tools, let alone shoot a rifle.

  Some jobs still had to be done; though doing anything outside was a pain. One chore that was u
navoidable was to get wood.

  “Get the birch logs rather than the spruce when you go out, Jim,” Bob said. “They burn hotter.” We had to keep shoveling snow off the porch to avoid being blocked in. And we shoveled up more snow around the lodge as insulation. Stepping outside was like drowning in a frosted lake, the cold searing the lungs. Thumbs would get cold first and it would creep down the wrist. Any spot that wasn’t always wrapped up, it stung. After a minute, eyelashes and nostrils gummed together with ice. At least the outhouse no longer smelled – everything immediately froze solid.

  Which led to other problems.

  Bess came raging through the door. “I can’t crap in the loo. It’s made an icycle, sticks up my bum when I sit down. What the hell’s going on?”

  “Damn,” Bob replied. “We should have thought of that. You need to spread the shit around before it freezes, even before you wipe yourself.”

  “Oh my God,” Bess muttered.

  “Jim,” Bob continued, “a job for you. A shit one.” He laughed. “You’ll have to take a hammer and chisel to it. Make sure you strip down and clean up when you come in, because you’re going to be covered in the stuff, and it will stink when it thaws out.”

  There were a few hours of grey light every day, but the sun never rose above the hills. Most of the time it was pitch black, cold and windy, and we gave up going to the outhouse. We started using pails inside; the place soon stank of shit and urine, wet clothes, sour skin, defrosting meat and fish. We were getting lethargic, with not enough body fat, and grimy, using hot wash cloths rather than stripping for a bath. We got scratchy. We slept a lot, partly to conserve energy, partly because we’d lost the will to do anything else. But we never rested well…it was more like dozing…off and on. We usually ended up sleeping around the stoves for warmth, and every half hour someone had to get up to stoke the fires, or shovel snow away from the door, letting the cold in. When the stoves weren’t roaring, our breath would rise and freeze to the roof, forming a blanket of frost which would then melt as the fire was stoked again, dripping down onto us. We were too hot, and sweaty – or too cold, and frozen. It was a miserable time.