Surviving Bear Island (15 page)

I took a hunk of fish and put it into the bowl, raked some coals to the side of the main fire, and centered the bowl on top of them.

“Fish soup,” I said. “I'll eat hot fish soup.”

The water got a brownish tinge to it as more of the fish gave itself over to the boiling liquid, and a rich, fishy odor filled my sorry little shelter.

I put on my ragged wool gloves, lifted the bowl off the coals and set it on the ground.

Little bits of salmon hung suspended in the liquid, like the silt in the Tanana River in Fairbanks. We'd scooped river water for a science experiment last year. At first it seemed like there was more silt than water, but after it settled to the bottom of the container, I was surprised by how little there was.

After a few minutes I took my gloves off and felt the side of the bowl. It was warm but not hot, so I lifted it. I let the steam warm my face, then gulped a couple mouthfuls of broth and set the bowl down.

I wanted it to last forever. To sit here and sip warm broth until a boat buzzed into this cove and found me. A boat with my dad on it.

After the broth was gone, I ate the clumps of warm, mushy fish, then licked my fingers.

Week-old, mushed-up, boiled-up salmon—I loved it, every mouthful. I'd eat it three times a day if I could. Or twice a day, I'd settle for that. Even once a day would be great, as long as I knew it was coming.

The rain didn't let up. A continuous drip of water formed at one corner of the shelter, so I put the bowl under the drip.

I draped an emergency blanket over my shoulders and leaned toward the fire, keeping the blanket open a little so it'd trap the hot air.

The bowl, I thought. It rocks. And it couldn't have come from very far
away, because once it filled with water it would've sunk. Probably fell out of a boat, but when? Or someone left it on the beach. How long ago?

Maybe it really was a gift from Mom. I felt my cheeks lift a little. But how could it be? Like it really couldn't be the bowl we used at home. Like one of those
Hunger Games
magic parachutes had delivered it. But still, here it was, and I'd found it mostly buried in dead seaweed.

The warm air was building under the blanket, surrounding me while the broth warmed me from the inside. Sleep. I just wanted to sleep. Could fall asleep right now.

Sleep and dream about being with Mom.

Eating popcorn.

With butter.

And salt.

Maybe even hear Mom's voice.

I heard a pop, and a crackling noise. And I smelled the popcorn. I was there, warm, with her.

I felt the heat on my face and jerked my head back.

My blanket. A whole quarter of it was gone. Burned up on the coals.

Another stupid mistake.

I'm just lucky the whole thing hadn't gone up in flames or melted onto me. Or that I hadn't collapsed onto the fire.

One of my mom's friends passed out by a campfire and burned up her hands. She was standing up and fainted. Fell right into the fire. She had to wear bandages for weeks, and have surgery. “If I burned myself like that,” I whispered, “I'd be done.”

I had Dad to thank for the blankets. For everything. Not just the knives and matches and fishing lures, but what he'd taught me. And not just skills, but ideas about how to live. And Mom, too. Her songs were all about living, and risk taking, and paying attention.

Yeah, I'd made some mistakes, but I was still alive.

The less I have, I realized, the more thankful I am for what I do have.

Like the bowl. Who'd ever think to be thankful that they had a bowl?

And out here, I wasn't using my bowl as just a bowl—I used it as a pot, too.

The bowl was half-filled from the drip. I raked some coals to the side of the fire, flattened them a little and put the bowl on. I slipped another hunk of fish in the water.

Only a half a fish left.

Never enough food.

And firewood. The pile wasn't as big as I'd like it to be. I stayed warm enough when I hovered over the fire with my blanket open, but I couldn't trust myself to not fall asleep and land in the flames.

If only I could take a break from this. Just for one day. If I could be back at home for one day. Just to sleep in my bed. And rest, and eat, and take a long, hot shower. And put band-aids on my blisters and some stuff on my neck to keep it from itching. Just one day to block it all out and pretend everything was normal.

The next morning I stirred the coals in my fire ring and a few red embers surfaced. I must've fallen into a deep sleep. Deep enough that I wasn't constantly stoking the fire. And I hadn't seen Dad bobbing in the waves. I hadn't seen Mom either.

I placed twigs I had dried by the fire onto the coals, and blew until tiny flames licked upward.

I fed the flames with larger and larger sticks.

Warmth.

Warmth.

Warmth.

When you slept were you somehow shielded from the cold? I mean, I had crashed but now that I was awake, I was cold. So many things I didn't understand.

I stuck my feet in front of the fire. They had way more blisters than normal skin.

The bowl had filled with rainwater overnight, so I put it on the fire. When the water had warmed just a little I scooped handfuls onto my feet. It felt like I was throwing boiling oil on them, but I thought it was a good idea to rinse them. They were really red. Like maybe they were infected. I dabbed some warm water on my neck too. The swan bite had closed up but the skin around it itched. I knew the less I touched it the less it would itch but it was hard not to scratch it. Especially at night when I was sleepy. It was just natural to scratch an itch.

I had to be my own doctor out here. My own everything. And since I was my own everything that meant I was the boss. I could do whatever I wanted: cuss, scream, run naked, scratch an itch until it bled, whatever.

But all I wanted was to stay here, and fill my stomach with hot liquid. Just for a day. To rest. To let my blisters air out by the fire.

I'd need more wood if I stayed. But I'd only have to wear my boots while I collected it. Then I could really let my feet heal. And if I could keep my hands off my neck, maybe the itching sensation would go away too.

If I could start off the next day feeling fresh, then the Sentinels wouldn't feel so far away.

When I was tired from walking and my blisters were burning, the negative thoughts crept in. The thoughts that said I'd never make it to the Sentinels. It was just too far.

I pulled my socks and boots on, then set off to search for more wood. Every step hurt. I hauled a few loads of firewood to camp, and worked up a sweat, but I was warm as long as I kept moving. And yeah, the sweat made my neck itch even more, but so far, I hadn't scratched it yet today.

The rain faded to a fine mist, and hints of blue appeared in the sky. Just a little more wood, and then it'd be boots-off, feet-by-the-fire time. Maybe I'd even take a bath with warm water. And then tomorrow I'd be rested and I'd get an early start for the Sentinels.

On a trip upslope in search of more wood, I got dizzy, a little light-headed, so I just stopped and took deep breaths. Stopping seemed to work because I could always keep going afterwards, even if it was only for a few more steps before I had to stop again.

It was when I was standing still, taking deep breaths, partway up a forested hillside, that I heard the scratching noise.

I WORKED
my way upslope toward the downed tree where I thought the noise was coming from. It was a monster of a tree, the top of the trunk even with my shoulders, and it'd taken a bunch of smaller trees down with it, creating a jungle of deadfall.

I stopped to rest, and heard the scratching noise again. Up by the root wad, I thought, that's where it's coming from.

“Hey bear. Hey bear,” I called.

I heard it again. And shouted “hey bear” again, but saw nothing. If it was a bear, I think it would've run away or come to check me out. But you never know. Sometimes Dad would get quiet when he'd hear a noise and sometimes he'd make noise back. I'm not even sure how he decided.

Whatever it was either didn't know I was here, or didn't care, because the scratching stopped and started regardless of whether I yelled. So I decided to just shut up.

Maybe it was a squirrel or a porcupine. I didn't know.

I moved parallel to the huge tree and climbed over branches and smaller trees that lay on the ground, pinned by the fallen giant.

I stopped just downslope from the root wad. Even that was huge. Probably twelve feet high.

I heard a fury of scratching, and then quiet. Then more scratching.

I moved closer. The scratching stopped.

I reached the edge of the root wad and stopped again to listen.

Nothing.

It must know I'm here, I thought. Whatever it is. It doesn't want me here. Doesn't want me to know it's here. I'm not sure I want to be here. But I had to know. Wanted to know. Just like figuring out that the fish ran with
the tide, and that storms came from the south, every little thing I learned was helping me. Plus, I was just plain curious.

In the center of the root wad, a massive, square-shaped boulder, crisscrossed with roots, hovered over the hole that used to be its home.

I stepped to the side of the root wad, peered into the hole, then jumped back. My heel caught on a rock and I landed on my butt.

I stood up and took a couple steps forward.

Lying on its stomach, eyes wide open, was a small Sitka black-tail deer.

I leaned forward to get a closer look and the deer's hind legs exploded, kicking at the dirt wall, causing chunks to break off and roll into the hole.

The deer kicked again and again but never stood on its front legs.

It must've hurt itself.

Broken its front legs.

Could've fallen in the hole and hurt its legs.

Food. Meat. All that meat.

Kill it. Kill it. Kill it, my mind screamed.

The deer kicked, like it could read my mind, and then grew still again.

“But you're so small,” I said. “A fawn.”

And no antlers. Probably female. A baby girl, born this year.

She had a white patch of fur on her throat. And a black nose and tail. And mixed black and brown fur between her eyes. And cottony-white fur inside her ears. Walnut brown eyes.

She's beautiful.

Kill her.

She's beautiful and I needed to kill her.

I shook my head.

But I
needed
to do it.

I hadn't thought about beauty when I'd stalked the porcupine in the dark and stabbed it. I'd just done it. But to kill an animal that you could look in the eye? And a deer? It felt more like a person than the porcupine. Just like the porcupine felt more like a person than the salmon.

But the deer, there it was, all that meat. A goldmine of meat.

And the deer couldn't survive in the hole. Even if it got out, with two injured legs…I shook my head again.

If I didn't kill it, something else would, like a bear. And a bear might eat it alive. Eat while it screamed in agony, the deer feeling every bite.

I searched the area for something substantial, then pried a rock the size of a salmon from the ground.

I watched the deer kick the dirt wall, and waited until it became still.

My heart hammered away. I raised the rock over my head with both hands.

Right on top of the head. One hard hit. Just one, and it'd be over. No suffering.

I couldn't miss.

I slammed the rock downward and let go.

But the deer jerked sideways, and the rock grazed the side of its head. And then it kicked harder than it had before. It rose up on its front legs for a second, then collapsed again.

I could see a dark area where the rock had hit.

Blood.

Must be blood.

My spear.

I ran downslope, light-headed, on rubbery legs and burning feet.

The sun was peeking through the clouds.

I was energized. Like I'd just been given another chance at life.

But I worried about a bear finding the deer. I needed to get back there—fast.

At my shelter, I threw two pieces of wood onto the bed of coals, grabbed my spear, and started upslope.

Out of breath, at the edge of the hole, I faced the deer. My body trembled.

I had to stab it. But where? I knew hunters shot moose in the heart and lungs. But I couldn't get a shot like that because of the way the deer was sitting.

The neck. I'd go for the neck; it'd worked with the porcupine. And it'd died quickly.