Whiskey Creek

by Dave Hugelschaffer

  Copyright © 2012 Dave Hugelschaffer

  First ePub edition © Cormorant Books Inc. June, 2012

  No part of this publication may be printed, reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the publisher or a licence from The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (Access Copyright). For an Access Copyright licence, visit www.accesscopyright.ca or call toll free 1.800.893.5777.

  The publisher gratefully acknowledges the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for its publishing program. We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund (CBF) for our publishing activities, and the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Media Development Corporation, an agency of the Ontario Ministry of Culture, and the Ontario Book Publishing Tax Credit Program.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Cataloguing information available upon request.

  Hugelschaffer, Dave

  Whiskey Creek/Dave Hugelschaffer.

  EPUB ISBN 978-1-77086-108-4 | MOBI ISBN 978-1-77086-109-1

  Cover design: Angel Guerra/Archetype

  based on a text design by Tannice Goddard, Soul Oasis Networking

  CORMORANT BOOKS INC.

  390 STEELCASE ROAD EAST, MARKHAM, ONTARIO, CANADA L3R 1G2

  www.cormorantbooks.com

  For Peter Denney,

  who would have enjoyed it.

  1

  •

  I’VE GOT BOTTLES on my mind lately — whiskey and rum. Captain Morgan. Canadian Club. My drinking problem is in the past, but I’ve got another problem, more abstract. These bottles keep showing up at wildfires, blackened and broken into shards. I’ve spent a lot of time these last two weeks gluing shards of glass together like an archaeologist reconstructing Bronze Age pottery. My latest project sits on the pressboard dresser at my bedside, several pieces missing, jagged like someone shot off the top.

  This bottle wasn’t shot, but thrown. It shattered against a tree.

  I sit on the edge of my bed, in a tiny room in a trailer complex at the edge of the Fort Chipewyan airport, and ponder the reconstructed bottle. Thin trails of glue have exuded from between the cracks, like grass growing through the gaps in a cobblestone drive. It’s not quite five o’clock in the morning and I’ve been awake for an hour, unable once again to get a good night’s sleep. Over the past few months I’ve grown increasingly tired. Perhaps it’s age — I’m forty now. Perhaps aging is just accumulated sleep deprivation. Eventually you become so tired, you just lie down and sleep forever. Catch up. Not a very lucid theory but it’s five in the morning. I turn over the bottle, run my fingertips over the ridges.

  The bottle was most likely filled with a mixture of gasoline and diesel, a rag stuffed into the open throat, then lit and tossed into the forest. A simple Molotov cocktail; classic of rioters and revolutionaries. Puzzling, as there’s nothing to protest in the forest and it leaves behind plenty of evidence. In my experience as a fire investigator, most wildfires are started in a manner that leaves little or no evidence. A match. A wad of burning paper tossed into dry grass. Usually, the ignition source is simple and nearly impossible to find. If the arsonist leaves evidence, he’s either careless or wants to leave a calling card — which appears to be exactly what’s happening with the bottles. They all have three letters etched about an inch above their base.

  F.T.C.

  I hold the bottle up in the light, examine the etching. It was likely done with a small rotary drill; the type used by hobbyists and available everywhere. What the letters mean, I have no idea. Obviously, it could be someone’s initials — the simplest of calling cards — and I’ve compiled a list from the local phone book of names that contain matching initials. It’s a fairly short list; Fort Chip isn’t much more than a sneeze on the map. Nine hundred people. Two stores. Two restaurants. Plenty of bored kids, which so far is my only theory. But why the letters?

  The bang of a door. Heavy steps in the hallway. A heavier knock. “Cassel — you up?”

  “Yeah, come in.”

  “No time,” says the voice. “We got another one.”

  The steps recede down the hall as I set the bottle back on the nightstand. Number five, more than likely. I pull on yellow Nomex coveralls, grab my hardhat, belt and pack — which seems inordinately heavy this morning. The belt clicks shut and sags against my hip, loaded with water bottle, radio, first aid kit and other assorted indispensable goodies. When I turn on the radio, voices blast like the staccato burst from a machine gun and I wince, turn down the volume. Dispatch is giving directions — the fire is northeast along the lake, in the vicinity of Whiskey Creek. The crew leader responds; tells dispatch they’re on their way. Overlaying the voices, the steady thump and whine of rotors and turbo engine — they’re leaving without me — and I scramble to pull on steel-toed boots, rush out the door.

  I make it outside just in time to see a large white-and-blue helicopter rise off the ground, tilt forward and thump upward into the sky, leaving me to shield my eyes against a blast of sand. When the dust settles I watch the departing helicopter grow smaller. Four other firefighters join me, geared up and ready. They’re Native — the local Initial Attack Crew — and normally they would be in a helicopter, headed for the fire. Lately, though, they’ve had to take second seat to a seven-man HAC crew — specialized firefighters trained in rappelling down a rope from a hovering helicopter. They don’t often get a HAC crew staged in Fort Chip, and the local boys aren’t thrilled at playing second fiddle to a group of young white university students.

  “Scooped again,” says Rolly, the crew leader, lifting his hat and rubbing his forehead.

  “Yeah,” says another. “That’s a humbug.”

  They wander away, sit on drums of turbo fuel by their own smaller helicopter.

  I’m not surprised the HAC left me behind; the last fire when I flew with them they had to rappel and were delayed — they aren’t allowed to rappel if there is anyone not rappel-certified on board. They had to divert and land me in a meadow a few miles away. I understand their reluctance at taking an uncertified passenger, but I prefer to see the fire upon first discovery, to note the colour of the smoke, initial fire behaviour and — if it might be an arson — any indication of a suspect fleeing the scene. I hate working with less than the optimum amount of information, but this morning I have no choice. I head to the smaller helicopter.

  “Let’s roll. I need to get out there.”

  The local boys perk up. Rolly grins, displaying broken teeth and a scarred lip. The pilot, disconcertingly young, is already in the helicopter. He flips switches as we climb in and click together our seat belts, don headsets. I’m in the front; there’s only room for three in the back. Sachmo, the youngest of the crew, has to remain behind — another accommodation for the Fire Dick, as I’ve become known. I signal that one more of the crew should stay behind — with the amount of fire equipment on board, it would be easy to overload the Bell 206. Rolly makes his choice and Sachmo has someone to play ping-pong with while he waits.

  The helicopter shudders and the ground drops away.

  We bank left over the trees and Lake Athabasca comes into view, deep blue and vast. Despite green leaves on the trees and daytime temperatures that make your skin crawl with sweat, there is still ice far offshore. Spring comes late this far north. The fire season comes earlier — grass is dry and trees are dehydrated, straining to raise moisture from frozen ground. Perfect conditions for the arsonist who’s tossing blazing bottles into the bush. I look ahead, over a carpet of undulating Jack pine, and see a distant pall of smoke, miles inland from the lakeshore.

  Behind me, Rolly peers over my
shoulder.“That bottle guy again, you think?” he says, his voice riding static in my headset.

  “Maybe,” I say. “We’ll see soon enough.”

  You can tell a lot about a fire from the smoke — behaviour, fuels, moisture — and this smoke looks different from the four previous bottle fires. The previous fires had typical wildfire smoke, white or grey, while this fire is puffing up dark, blackish smoke. Normally, black smoke indicates extreme fire behaviour; ignition proceeding too quickly for complete combustion, but this fire started at night when the humidity was relatively high. In fact, burning conditions are still subdued; the smoke is drifting low and thick. As we approach, I notice the black smoke is originating from a point source on the ground and mixing with lighter wood smoke. Something alien to the forest environment is burning. Ahead and below a thin ribbon opens among the crowns of pine and spruce, vanishing just as quickly as we cross over — a trail, wide enough to be used as a road, and my first thought is we have a vehicle fire. The HAC helicopter swirls smoke through its rotors as it makes a preliminary pass around the fire. I’m about to key my mic and ask them what they see when the voice of the HAC leader breaks in, passing his initial report to dispatch.

  “Dispatch, this is VXH. We’ve got a cabin and vehicle on fire.”

  “What state is the cabin in?” says dispatch.

  “Not much left,” says the HAC leader. “Can you see anyone on the ground?”

  “Negative.”

  The HAC machine banks, glinting in the sun. We arrive at the fire and take our smaller helicopter to a higher elevation, safely out of the way, begin circling, all eyes focused intently on the ground. Treetops float beneath us, dense green and conical in the drifting smoke. Patches of brown and green earth flash between the trees, intermixed with the bright orange of low flame. I’m hoping to see an upturned face, waving arms. What’s left of the cabin rotates into view — a black rectangle sending up tendrils of dark smoke. Sheets of what must be metal roofing form a crumpled black shroud over whatever remains beneath. Whoever remains beneath — no one has broken the ominous radio silence. Finally, dispatch breaks in.

  “What are you guys seeing?”

  Dispatch doesn’t sound calm anymore. I’ve an anxious clench in my gut.

  “This is Cassel in TRT. I see no one on the ground.”

  “What about you, VXH? You see anything, Hendrigan?”

  A long pause as the HAC machine circles below us. “Nothing, dispatch.”

  Another pause as the duty officer thinks. Carter Spence is on the desk — a young red-haired Forest Officer on his first posting. I doubt he’s ever had a building fire. Or what this could turn into when we get on the ground, search what remains of the cabin. I wait a minute, give him a chance — everyone needs to learn. But I’ll only give him a minute before I take charge. As a certified Incident Commander and Fire Investigator, I have as much experience as the Chief Ranger, who I’m hoping is in the duty room by now, looking over Spence’s shoulder. As I wait, I concentrate on what I can see on the ground, mentally prepare an assessment.

  The fire is about ten acres, although with the drifting smoke, it’s difficult to determine an exact perimeter. Terrain is a shallow valley, blocked to the northeast by a rock ridge, which would make a good control point as it is sparsely treed. A narrow creek flows through the fire, close to the cabin, suitable for a pump set-up. Fuel in the valley is dense mature spruce, of considerable height, surrounded as the terrain rises from the valley by dense pine — bad news if the wind picks up and pushes the fire into the crowns of the trees. Vehicle access from the southwest. No visible landing spot close to the fire.

  “Dispatch, this is VXH. Commencing rappel.”

  Dispatch acknowledges, requests the White Message. I pass on my assessment, finish by requesting additional manpower and gear. Hendrigan, the HAC leader, will be the Incident Commander — I’ve another job to do. The local initial attack crew will return to base, ready should there be another fire. Arrangements made, I tell the pilot to swing wide and look for a landing spot as close to the fire as possible. As we bank away, I catch a glimpse of the big HAC helicopter, hovering above the treetops, and of a firefighter in yellow, rapidly descending a rope into the forest canopy. Then a blur of trees and we’re following the trail southwest. It’s narrow, meanders through the trees like a game trail. No landing sites possible for miles, which is a shame — I want to walk the road for transfer evidence such as tire tracks, paint scrapes on the trees, anything that might have fallen off or been thrown from a vehicle. This might be another bottle fire, or just an accident, like smoking in bed, but I want to cover all the bases, check the road before a convoy of approaching vehicles obliterates any evidence.

  I don’t have the time and signal the pilot to look elsewhere.

  We try the creek, flying upstream from the fire, and don’t go far before the valley flattens out completely into a narrow grassy marsh. It looks soft, but it’s covered with patches of low shrub. Most importantly, it has plenty of room for the rotors and I answer the pilot’s questioning look with a nod. We drop quickly and the pilot eases the small helicopter into the best spot, close to the stream. The ground is hummocky and we can’t touch down so the pilot hovers the machine, one skid on a hummock the other in air, his face intent as he concentrates.

  “This’ll have to do,” he says.

  “It’s fine,” I tell him, and unbuckle, slip off my headset.

  The ground is mushy under my feet as I step off the hovering skid, dry yellow grass sinking beneath my boots. A divot forms around my feet, filling with water. As soon as the pilot sees that I’m clear, he pours on the power and the skid rises past me, at the periphery of my vision. Cold air presses me forward, challenging my balance, then I’m alone in the marsh, the only sound the receding thump of the helicopter.

  It becomes very quiet and still.

  I take a step, find more uncertain ground, which yields alarmingly under my boot as dead stalks of grass tilt in around my ankle. If I’m not careful, this marsh will swallow me whole. Some muskegs are nothing more than a skin of vegetation that has grown like a scab over an ancient lake. You can easily fall through and vanish in the muck. I hadn’t expected this marsh to be so soupy so early in the spring. I take a few less-than-graceful steps toward the tree line, my pack flopping over one shoulder, ground sinking. No good — I’m going down, nothing but loon shit beneath me. I have just enough time to heave my pack clear, onto a patch of dry grass, then I’m up to my armpits in icy water, gasping from the shock. I flail at a hummock in front of me, terrified I’ll go right under into the brackish water. Fortunately, my boots hit ice, which doesn’t help my thermal issues, but is solid. I tug myself out of the muck, on hands and knees, gasping, my chest heaving, spider walk to my pack and drag it to firmer ground.

  “Jesus Christ!” Baptized in Whiskey Creek.

  When I’ve collected my wits and my heartbeat has returned from the panic zone, I shoulder my pack, turn on my radio, which thankfully still works despite the soaking, start walking downstream toward the fire. I’ve got about a mile-and-a-half to go.

  My belt radio crackles. It’s Hendrigan. “You there, Cassel?”

  I fumble the radio out of its holster, my hands rubbery from the cold water.

  “Yeah, I’m here.”

  “I saw you flying up the creek, thought maybe you went fishing.”

  It’s five-thirty in the morning; I’m tired and soaked in black icy water. My sense of ha-ha is at an all-time low. Hendrigan must read my tone, because he turns business, gives a quick update. Rappel complete. Cabin burned to the floor line. Truck burned to a husk. No sign of the driver or owner of the cabin. One dog tied in the bush, scorched but alive. Fire behaviour is moderate, crawling on the ground, the odd tree starting to candle. Pump being set up and should have water flowing shortly. I remind Hendrigan not to touch the cabin or truck and to be on the lookout for anything unusual. He signs off, sounding vaguely offended.

 
Dispatch barks out of my radio. “You at the fire, Cassel?”

  It’s Mark Middel, the Chief Ranger. Spence has been benched. “What’s your take?” he asks, before I have a chance to respond.

  “I’m on the ground, but not at the fire yet,” I tell him, explain about the diverted landing. Middel doesn’t sound impressed at having to wait for my detailed assessment. He’s had four previous confirmed arsons in the past two weeks and is feeling a bit of pressure, which he generously passes on. He tells me to double-time it to the fire, which works well with my plan to avoid hypothermia. Coveralls cling, cold and heavy, slow me. Water squishes in my boots. A dog howls in the distance, forlorn, and I hope it’s not badly burned. A pump starts at the fire, its distant whine steady and familiar.

  I move out of the willows and buck brush, away from the creek to where the timber is tall, the understory sparse, pick up the pace. I’m chilled, but fortunately it’s been unseasonably warm lately and this morning is no exception. Sunlight dapples the forest floor, spackles Labrador tea and moss with brighter splashes of colour. As I walk I think about the previous arsons. The four bottle arsons were close to established gravel roads, the arsonist likely tossing the bottles from a vehicle. It’s tempting to consider this fire might be related but it’s never good to assume early in an investigation. You start looking for evidence that fits your theory; ignore what doesn’t. I focus instead on my surroundings. An odour of smoke and damp moss. And something else.

  I walk a bit further, sniffing the air. No doubt now — rotting meat.

  In the forest, rotting meat usually means a bear in the vicinity. A bear can smell decaying flesh for miles and will aggressively protect its dinner, remaining close to the carcass until it is completely devoured. Alone and unarmed, you don’t want to place yourself between a bear and his food. I look for the source of the odour. To my left is a border of willow along the creek; perfect cover for a snoozing bear. A twig snaps loudly under my boot and to my right several large black birds squawk in the trees — another subtle warning sign. Ravens are scavengers and will sit in the trees around a kill, waiting for their turn at the prize.