The Moose Jaw (3 page)

***

The sun still hung well above the western horizon when my flight arrived in Anchorage a little before ten o’clock on Monday night.  I’d visited Alaska many times before, but the “midnight sun” always surprised me.  I don’t think it’s something one ever gets accustomed to.  It’s a bit surreal, and there’s this other-world quality to it that always gives me the illusion of having stepped into another dimension.  But, of course Alaska is, in many ways, a parallel dimension to the rest of the world.  It may exist upon the same planet, but it is a remote and distant place, seemingly suspended in another time. 

I spent the night at the Susitna Lodge
, one of the three best hotels in Anchorage.  I often stayed there because it was clean, had a well-stocked bar and was close to the airport.  My room, on the top floor, had a view of Cook Inlet, and beyond that, Mount Susitna, called The Sleeping Lady by the locals.  I knew there was a Native American legend having to do with a young lady who went to sleep on the mountain while waiting for her lover to return from battle.  I couldn’t recall the details of the story, but looking across the water at the mountain, I could see how the ridgeline resembled the silhouette of a reclining woman.  I suspected it was that feminine form that had inspired the legend.  I said good night to the slumbering beauty, closed the curtains, and went to bed.

On Tuesday morning I ate a traditional Alaskan breakfast in the hotel restaurant: three eggs easy over, reindeer sausage, home fries, sourdough toast and lots of coffee.  Sated, I left the dining room and crossed the lobby to The Sleeping Lady Gift Shop where I knew they carried my preferred pipe tobacco.

The clerk was busy with a customer and there was another waiting in line, so I browsed the gifts while I waited to pay for my purchase.  A hand-carved chess set caught my eye, and I spent some time admiring it.  It was beautifully done, with the white pieces carved of walrus tusk and the dark ones from polished moose antler.  The pieces were not the typical renderings of human figures; they were of symbolic Alaskan creatures.  Each king was represented as a giant Grizzly bear; the bishops were bald eagles; the knights were wolves; and the rooks were cleverly scribed moose heads, complete with antlers.  The only human forms were the pawns, which appeared to be kneeling gold miners, and the queen, who was a tall, slender woman with subtle curves, long tresses and lovely features.  I looked closely at her face and discovered that her eyes were closed.  I assumed she represented The Sleeping Lady.

Haywood and I always took a miniature magnetic chess set along with us on our floats and hunts.  We often enjoyed a game in the evening over our after dinner drinks.  I thought that a fine chess set, like the one I was admiring, would be nice to keep at the cabin.  I decided to buy it even though it was a bit pricey. 

 Tobacco and chess set in hand, I went back to my room, packed, took my luggage down to the lobby and checked out.  The staff recognized me as a regular, and the bellman agreed to keep my bags in the storeroom while I did my business at the title company.  I told him I’d be back to collect them about eleven o’clock, gave him a respectable tip, and he handed me a claim check.  The doorman, another old acquaintance, flagged me a taxi and, after pocketing his gratuity, held the rear door open while I got in.  As I gave the driver the address of Last Frontier Title Company it occurred to me that I was happy.  It was the first time in a long time I’d felt relaxed and untroubled.  I knew I had made the right decision.  If I were to ever sort things out, Alaska was the place to do it. 

The taxi ride into town took less than fifteen minutes.  Downtown Anchorage, after all, just isn’t that big.  I paid the driver and, as he pulled away from the curb, checked my watch.  I was ten minutes early but doubted that would present a problem, so I went right in. 

The receptionist looked up and smiled as I entered.  She was a plump woman with a round, happy face.  Her nametag identified her as Alice.

“Good morning,” she said.  “Are you here to see Mr. Manning?”

I returned her smile.  “Yes.  Gus O’Neill.  I have a ten o’clock appointment.  Afraid I’m a bit early.”

“No problem,” she said.  “Charlie will see you as soon as he’s off the phone.  Why don’t you have a seat while you wait?  Would you like some coffee?”

I told her I’d had a gallon with breakfast and couldn’t face another drop.

“Just as well,” she said.  “Charlie makes awful coffee.  I bring my own.”  She pointed to a thermos on her desk.

I selected one of the three metal folding chairs that lined the wall near the front door and sat down.  While I waited for Mr. Manning I studied the inevitable prints of fishing grizzlies, prowling wolves and soaring eagles that decorated every office in Alaska.  In the midst of them, I was surprised to see a work I recognized – a beautiful Celtic princess, seated in a boat at the water’s edge.  It was The Lady of Shalott, a classic Waterhouse; I’d always loved it.  The original hung in the National Gallery in London.  I had often stood before it, captivated by the loveliness of the woman and the serenity of the scene.  It was a painting that had the power to draw one out of oneself and into the mystic landscape portrayed on the canvas.  The lady’s fragile beauty seemed completely out of place, surrounded as it was by the images of eagles, wolves and bears.  

“Beautiful isn’t she?”

As always, I had drifted off into some other time and place as I gazed at the Waterhouse.  I hadn’t heard anyone approach, so the voice startled me back to reality.  I laughed a little to cover my embarrassment.

“Yes.  She is.  You must be Mr. Manning.”  I stood up and offered my hand.

He shook it.  He was a small man, late fifties, and neatly dressed.  His grip was firm.

“Everyone calls me Charlie,” he said.  “Come on back to my office, I have all the documents ready for your review.”

As we passed the reception desk he said, “Can I get you a cup of coffee?  Made it myself, fresh this morning.”

I declined, shooting a quick glance at Alice.  She made a face, and I smiled.

Charlie Manning’s office was small but comfortable.  He closed the door and offered me a chair.  When I was seated he went around the desk, settled in his own chair and tapped a manila folder that lay in the middle of the desktop.

“Your Moose Jaw property,” he said.  “The title papers are originals; the plot plan and maps are copies, but they’re clear enough to read.  According to the terms of the contract, you have purchased the place as unimproved land since there is nothing left of the old cabin but a ruined chimney.  There’s a copy of the contract in here too.  I think you’ll find everything in order.”

He slid the folder across the desk to me, and I opened it and scanned the documents.  Charlie Manning seemed quite capable.  I had no doubt that everything was, indeed, in order, so I didn’t spend a lot of time scrutinizing details.  When I’d finished, I closed the folder and stood up.

“Looks like it’s all here,” I told him.  “I know you’re a busy man, so I won’t take up any more of your time.”

As he had remained seated, a handshake would have been awkward, so I just thanked him, said good-bye and turned to leave.  I was reaching for the door handle when his voice stopped me.

“Ah, Mr. O’Neill, there is one more matter regarding your property.  If you could spare a few more minutes…” he trailed off.  “It won’t take long.”

Something in his tone brought me up short.  I returned to my seat, studied his face, and waited.  He appeared very uncomfortable, as if trying to decide how best to begin.

“Another matter…” I prompted.

He remained quiet for a moment longer, then stood and looked out the window before he spoke.  “Yes,” he began.  “It’s probably nothing, really.  Still, I thought you should know.  And, of course, it’s not something that would be mentioned in those documents.”

“Go on,” I urged. 

“Well,” he paused.  “As the Deed of Trust indicates, you purchased the property from a Mr. Larkin, of Cleveland, Ohio.”

I nodded.  I’d seen the seller’s name on the papers I’d signed.

Manning went on.  “He inherited it two years ago upon the death of his uncle, Jake Larkin, who had homesteaded the place and built the original cabin in 1961.  Jake was a trapper and worked his trap line along the Moose Jaw until sometime in the late seventies, when he pulled out.  In 1985 The Nature Conservancy tried to buy the place from him.  It was one of the last fee-simple properties along the river, and they were trying to work a three-stage sale that would transfer title to the Nature Conservancy – then to the State of Alaska – and, ultimately, back to a native corporation.  They tracked Jake down to a nursing home in Seattle and, after a bit of haggling, he agreed to sell.  They were in the process of getting the final approvals from the state when a group of Athabascan elders pulled the rug out from under the whole deal.  They refused to accept the land.”

“Refused?  Why?”   I still didn’t know where all this was going, but I had to admit I was intrigued.

Charlie turned away from the window and faced me.  “Yega,” he said, as if the word should hold some meaning for me.

I waited for elucidation, but it wasn’t forthcoming.

“Yega?”

He smiled, looked a little sheepish, and shrugged his shoulders.  “Yes,” he said
.  “It’s an Athabascan word.  It means spirit, or something like that...ghost, perhaps.
 It’s hard to say, exactly.  Athabascan is a complex language.  Certain words have many connotations.  It was never clear, specifically, what the elders meant by it.  All that was certain was they wouldn’t take the land.  Keep in mind, I was just handling the title work.  Never got involved with the negotiations, so everything I’ve told you is second-hand information.”

“I see,” I said.  I didn’t, of course.  It was just something to say to fill the awkward silence that followed his eerie revelation.

“Are you a superstitious man, Mr. O’Neill?”

“No,” I told him with more certainty than I felt.  I was, after all, of Irish extraction.  I knew there were some deep rooted superstitions lurking in my subconscious.  I’d felt them stir on occasion.

“Good.  Then all this yega business shouldn’t trouble you,” Manning said, with evident relief.  “I’m sure there is no more to it than the stories of the Abominable Snowman, Big Foot, or the Snow Viper.  I’m sorry to have taken your time with such nonsense.  But, I thought you should know.”

“Yes,” I said, rising from my chair.  “Thank you for telling me.  It’s good to know a little history of the place.  Gives it a personality, so to speak.”

Manning gave me a wry smile.  “Considering some of the meanings of yega, let’s hope that’s not the case.”

“Right,” I said.  “Bad choice of words.”

His phone rang as we were shaking hands, so I indicated I could find my way out, left his office, and quietly closed the door behind me.  Alice was also on the phone when I passed her desk so I just gave her a wave and a smile, and she winked and blew me a kiss.  It’s a fine thing to meet a happy woman.  It puts everything right.  I went out into the sunshine, still wearing my smile.  Ghosts and spirits, like vampires, don’t fare well in daylight.  The uneasiness I’d felt upon hearing Manning’s story evaporated into the cloudless sky.

***

Calvin’s Hangar is not, as the name implies, a hangar.
  It’s a greasy spoon over near Merrill Field, a small airport that serves private aircraft such as Haywood’s.  The space is cramped, the food adequate, and the service good-humoredly hostile.  But the location makes for a handy rendezvous among the flying fraternity so it always does a good business.  Although the Lake Hood strip is much closer to the big airport, Haywood prefers Merrill Field because it isn’t so busy.  He was already there when I arrived.  He wasn’t hard to spot, even in the crush of the lunch hour mob, since he stands a head taller than anyone else in most crowds.  He has a full head of bushy white hair and eyebrows to match.  With his thin, wiry frame he somewhat resembles a large dandelion gone to seed.   In physical appearance we’re pretty much opposites.  I’m medium height, solidly built, and have salt-and-pepper hair.  Suffice it to say, I didn’t have any trouble picking Haywood out, especially with him waving and flashing his big, toothy grin.

We ate a quick stand-up lunch, then walked over to the airstrip.  I’d left my two river bags outside, against Calvin’s wall, and we each shouldered one before crossing the street and the airport parking lot, en route to Haywood’s airplane.  Like its owner, the old blue-and-red Piper Clipper is a standout.  Vintage 1949, it is a short-winged tail dragger.  Since its frame is of tubular aircraft aluminum and its skin of fabric, rather than metal, it is referred to, in flying circles, as being of “tube and rag” construction.  This feature, plus its somewhat oversized engine, makes it a bit noisy inside the cabin during flights.  Nevertheless, the short winged Pipers had become favorites among Alaska’s bush pilots.  Aside from their light weight, compact wing structure, and exceptionally powerful engines, they adapted easily to tires, floats, or skis.

By one-thirty that afternoon we were airborne, bound for Fairbanks. The trip normally takes just under three hours, but since it was a clear day we circled Denali, or Mt. McKinley as it’s known in the Lower Forty-eight.  It was a rare treat, seeing the entire twenty thousand feet of it without the usual cloud cover.  Haywood pointed out a small herd of Dall Sheep as we rounded the west slope.  They are a close relative to the Bighorn Sheep we have in Colorado, but their horns are not as heavy and massive.  Because of this, they are often called Thin-horn sheep.  They were, more-or-less, at our altitude, but as Haywood was keeping plenty of distance between the airplane and the mountain, they were nothing more than a cluster of white dots against the darker backdrop of rocky escarpment.  They were too far off for a photo, so I saved my film.

The rest of the flight was uneventful and, with the engine noise and wind rush, conversation was impossible without shouting, so we didn’t try.  We’d been friends long enough to be comfortable with extended periods of silence.  There had been times, in duck blinds, or in hunting camps, when we’d gone hours on end without speaking a word to one another.  If we had something to say, of course, we’d say it.  If we didn’t, we didn’t.