The Moose Jaw (12 page)

With all our comings and goings, and dragging logs from the water up the bank, the bears near camp finally got disgusted and moved further downstream where they could pursue their fishing undisturbed.  I’m sure they were reluctant to give up such a guaranteed source of entertainment, but our dashing and splashing about, and shouting and swearing was, no doubt, a distraction they decided they could live without.  This was fine with us.  Fortune was smiling on us.  When they moved down, a wide stretch of fishing grounds opened up for us right there at camp.  We set aside two hours each evening and dedicated them to the catching of salmon.  Haywood, as an Alaska resident, could catch as many as he could use for his own personal consumption.  He’s a big eater.  We averaged fifteen per man per evening so, when it came time for him to return home, his little Piper Clipper was bulging with fresh fish.

On the second evening of fishing the mosquitoes were particularly thick over the creek.  I had some DEET in my fly vest so I broke it out and rubbed some into my forehead, neck and arms.  I offered it to Haywood.

He shook his head.  “Got something better,” he said, and trotted off up the bank and disappeared inside the tent.  I shrugged my shoulders and continued fishing.  A few minutes later he came back down to the creek smelling – dare I say it? – lovely.

I cocked an eyebrow at him.  “Chanel Number Five?”

He grinned conspiratorially.  “Nice ‘eh?  Believe it or not, this sweet smelling tonic is the world’s Numero Uno bug-keeper-awayer!”

This was hard to believe since the gnats and mosquitoes seemed to have completely abandoned me, and were all, now, swarming around Haywood.

“What is it?”

He winked and waved a hand in front of his eyes to clear the insect cloud that had gathered.  “Avon’s Skin-so-Soft!  Donna put me on to it.  Not only does it make your skin silky and fragrant, you mix it half-and-half with water and it serves as a great insect repellent.”  He slapped a mosquito that had landed on his cheek.  “Smells good, doesn’t it!”  Slap…smack…slap.

“Certainly seems to,” I observed.  I was wondering how long Haywood would endure the feeding frenzy he had inspired.  He was a proud man.  Slap…Smack.

Finally he could stand it no longer.  He dropped his rod and plunged his head into the creek.  He came up sputtering and scrubbing furiously at his face and forearms, trying to wash away all traces of the magic tonic.

“Damn it!” he roared.  “Must have got the mix wrong.
  I could’ve sworn she said fifty-fifty!  Fuckin’ bugs are eating me alive!  Quick!  Throw me the DEET!”

That evening, as we sat having our whiskeys by the fire, he entertained me with another of his astounding medical opinions. 

“It all has to do with body chemistry you see,” he began.  “Donna says everybody she knows swears by the damned stuff.”

I refilled my glass and settled my back against the rocks of the fireplace.

He puffed pensively on his cigar.  “But, it only works when your body chemistry sets up a catalytic reaction with the chemicals in Skin-so-Soft to produce a compound that insects find repulsive.  Obviously, there are exceptions to the rule.  I represent such an exception.”

I lit my pipe.  Sometimes these dissertations covered a lot of ground.

He went on.  “Now, clearly, my body chemistry is different from that of most humans.  I’ve given this a lot of thought, and I think I have it figured out.”  He paused to sip his whiskey.

I sat quietly, puffing my pipe and enjoying the sound of his voice.  He was full of shit, of course, but it was nice to have the company.

“Are you paying attention?”

I assured him I was, and asked him to please continue.

“It’s the double dose of sweetness, you see, that causes the problem.  You mix that sweet smelling Skin-so-Soft with my natural sweetness and the resulting compound attracts everything, even insects.  Thank god there wasn’t a bull moose in rut nearby.”

I got a little whiskey down my windpipe and had a coughing fit.  He shot me a look of disapproval.

“You laugh?  You Doubting Thomas,” he said, pointing his cigar at me.  “You have the sour bitterness in you that would make you the perfect catalyst for Donna’s toxic tonic.  I think we should douse you with it, head-to-toe, tomorrow night and conduct an experiment!  Stand you stark naked at the water’s edge and watch ‘em run!”

I explained that I too, had sweetened up a good bit since I’d come to Alaska, and respectfully declined.

He looked at me with sorrow in his eyes.  “Oh, ye of little faith.”

He stuck out his glass and I refilled it.   

We didn’t always have a failed tonic experiment to dissect, but most evenings, after a couple hours of fishing and another of dining we’d sit outside and play a game of chess.  Since the tent was large enough to accommodate both our beds and the plank table, we left the table inside for foul weather, and did our al fresco dining and drinking on the lid of the big cooler.  We also used its broad, flat surface for our chess table.  Haywood was impressed with the beautifully carved pieces of my new set.  He said they had a nice heft to them.  It was true; they were heavier than they looked, as each piece was mounted on a pewter base.  At least they wouldn’t blow over in the wind.  

On the eve of Haywood’s departure we had an early dinner and discussed the coming weeks and September’s moose hunt.  We put together a shopping list for his next visit to The Varmitage while we ate.  We also decided the water system was so important he would make a quick run in the morning and bring back the pipe before he flew out for good.  After that we played our customary game of chess, in which he check-mated my big grizzly king in less than a dozen moves.  Then we retired to the fireside, where we put a good dent in a bottle of Dew and chatted about nothing in particular.  I told him about my theory of the creek representing the complete span of time and about the salmon going upstream and the leaves floating down, and the rings upon the water.  He told me I was full of shit and that Hard Case had warned me about going loony.  He said he didn’t think a man could go completely crazy in three weeks, but, somehow, I’d managed it.  We both laughed.  Maybe I hadn’t explained it very well.

In the morning, over breakfast, we reviewed our strategy for the day.  We agreed he’d take off right after breakfast, go to Fairbanks, offload his salmon and get them on ice.  Then he’d pick up the pipe and fittings I’d need and bring them straight back.  Since this would be a relatively light load, we decided to have him include the cook stove as well.  Because of its weight, we had planned on bringing it in after the cabin was complete, but we decided to take advantage of this extra trip and move it now.  It was broken down into pieces, so Haywood was certain he could manage it himself.  After he returned with that load, he would head out for good, and I wouldn’t see him again until moose season.  That was almost two months away.  His mother was getting on in years and he’d promised to visit her in Missouri. He also had a conference to attend in mid-August.  Then, too, most of his staff took their vacations during July and August and someone had to mind the store.  There simply was no way he could get back before the second week in September.  As moose season ended on the fifteenth, he said he’d come in on the morning of the eleventh.  That would give us four full days of hunting.

After breakfast, we carried his gear and the empty chainsaw gas jugs up the path to the landing strip.  He said he’d see me around noon, and hopped in his little airplane and roared off into the sky.  I went back to camp to wash the breakfast dishes and tidy things up while he was gone.  As I was putting away the chess set I discovered that one of the pawns was missing, so I spent a few minutes looking for it in the dirt around the big cooler.  I didn’t find it, but knew it would turn up sooner or later.  I left the rest of the set laying on my bed until it did.

At one o’clock Haywood returned.  We offloaded the stove parts and the rolls of black plastic pipe, for which he’d included a bucket full of plumbing fixtures, fittings, and glue.  He’d also remembered three rectangular acrylic window panes he had in his garage and brought them along.  In addition to the ten gallons of gas he presented me with two new rip chains for the chainsaw.   Then he dragged out what looked like a carpet rolled up and wrapped in a blue tarp.

“No sense coming in with half a load,” he explained. 

“What’s this?” I asked.

“House warming present for the cabin.  Remember that bearskin rug I had in the Colorado house?  Got it out of storage.  It’ll fit perfect right in front of the stove.  Of course, you’ll have to make yourself a rocker.”

I was dumbfounded.  I remembered it; it was a beauty.

“What a fine gift, Haywood.  Thanks!  I’ll keep it wrapped up until the cabin’s built.”

   “You do that!  Oh!  Almost forgot.”  He reached back inside the airplane and hauled out a small stainless steel sink.  In it were two bottles of whiskey.

“Unlike you engineers, I hate clichés,” he said.  “I was afraid you’d say something like everything but the kitchen sink, so I brought it along.  The Dew’s to get you through the winter if I decide to leave you here.” 

I looked at the gifts and laughed.  “Thanks.”

We’d already said our goodbyes, and he was running late.
  He gave me a bear hug and jumped into the cockpit.  Then he was off again.  I hated to see him go.  Eight weeks was a long time to be alone.  But, that’s the way I wanted it, and the first three weeks on my own in the bush had gone quite well.  There was no reason to expect a longer stint to be any more difficult.  I killed a couple hours moving the stove parts, gasoline, rolls of pipe and other stuff down to camp.  Then I opened a Heineken and sipped it while I poked around looking for the missing pawn.  When I didn’t find it, I went into the tent and recounted the pieces on my blanket.  They were all there.  It was possible that I had miscounted them earlier; but, I was sure I hadn’t.

***

July and early August were warm, sometimes hot.   There were a lot of overcast days, and a little rain now and again, but for the most part it was like summer everywhere else, complete with bugs.  Every insect known to man hatched in the river and swarmed to eat me.  When it came to voracious insect life, the jungles of Southeast Asia had nothing on the Interior of Alaska.  I had learned a valuable lesson at Haywood’s expense and resolved to avoid smelling sweet.  That was no problem, when all I had to do was stop bathing.  That, of course was a little drastic.  I finally came up with a workable solution.  Instead of bathing with water in the morning, I’d wipe myself down with 100% DEET.  I’d brought in a good supply, and a little goes a long way.  I started taking my showers in the evening, after dinner, and before cocktail hour.  The water in the sun shower retained its heat nicely, and the smoke from the campfire kept most of the insects at bay.  If they were particularly thick on a given evening, I’d reapply the DEET.

Each morning, liberally doused with bug repellent, I’d venture out into the day and go about my business confident I’d survive until dinnertime.  I fell into a routine of putting the coffee on the Coleman, and leaving it to perk while I scouted the banks for fresh tracks, paid my morning visit to the woods, and returned to camp for my breakfast.  Then I’d spend the day working on the cabin, and when the spirit moved me, taking my rod down to the creek for a little sport.  The grayling were always cooperative and the Chinook were still moving up to their spawning grounds.  They were decreasing in number every day, but I’d get one every now and then.  I’d finally constructed a very small, stone smoker a couple hundred yards downstream of the cabin, back by the willows.  It would accommodate four salmon at a time, split to the tail, and hung from the high crossbar.

I’d heard there were pike in the creek and also burbot.  I tried a few streamers and a couple of big muddler minnows.  I even resorted to a little red-and-white flasher.  All to no avail; I caught no pike.  They probably disappeared with the rainbow trout back in the sixties.  As for the burbot, I decided to save them until the salmon run died down.  They were more like a cod, and one had to resort to bait fishing to catch them.  I think I mentioned I was a dry fly snob.  But, of course, if the salmon petered out and the grayling didn’t cooperate, I could, momentarily, set aside my snobbery.

The bears came and went with the salmon
and I slowly felt myself merging into the landscape and becoming one with the creek and the salmon and the bears.  The moon waxed and waned, and the wolves greeted her each night with their sad, mournful songs.  Each day I was treated to some new wonder of the wild.  One day a Canadian Lynx came down to the creek for a drink.  Another day, an eagle snatched a salmon out of the water as I sat having my morning coffee.  And, every day, I’d see the family of red fox playing on the far bank.  The vixen and her kits would come down to the water just as I started work on the cabin each morning.  They seemed as interested in me as I was in them.  I was glad they were on the other side of the creek; they can become pests.

What a wonder it was, watching the cabin go up a log at a time.  As if by magic, it grew out of the ground and, by the middle of August, it stood, solid and strong on its gravel knoll above the bar.  On the twenty-sixth day of the month, I moved from the tent into my new home and slept my first night inside its solid walls.  I was very happy with my efforts. 

The construction had gone a lot smoother than I had anticipated.  Three things allowed me to complete the cabin, single-handed, in one month.  First – I’d left the old stone chimney standing smack in the middle of my floor plan.  I used it to support a fourteen-foot gin pole, from which I could lift logs with a block-and-tackle.  Second – the chainsaw.  I had, at one time, contemplated building the cabin with nothing but the old, traditional hand tools.  Haywood had convinced me to reconsider, at least, the chainsaw.  I was glad I had.  Third – the come-along.  The block-and-tackle was handy, I used it every day, but the come-along was indispensable.  I used it, in conjunction with two skid logs, to slide the wall logs up and into place.  As the wall grew higher, and the skid pitch steeper, the come-along proved my most valuable tool.