“I want to thank you for your help,” she said, smiling at Cap as she slid his bill under hers and got up.
“I'll take care of that,” he said, pulling out his wallet.
“Please,” Mara insisted, “Please let me do this small thing to thank you for your kindness—not just today, but also the other day when you found my ring.”
Wrapping a piece of sausage she had saved from her plate in a napkin, she handed it to him. “And would you give this to Thor for me?”
“Well, next time I'll pick up the tab,” Cap told her, returning his wallet to his back pocket and accepting the morsel for his dog. “Thor's gonna love this treat, too, and I'll be sure to tell him it's from you.”
“See you,” she said, stopping at the check stand to pay the bill before walking out the door to her car, leaving Cap to explain to Ben why he let ‘a gol danged woman’ pay for his meal.
Pulling an extra sweater out of the bag in her car, Mara saw the feather fall onto the snow outside the door. Picking it up she thought of Joe and his words once again,
Your present is the future of your past.
You will need this to protect your future from your past.
All who come here seek the future of their past.
Placing the feather safely back in her bag, she put any thought of trying to interpret the meaning of those words out of her head, climbed into her vehicle, and drove onto the highway out of Kluane.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Alaska or Bust
CONDENSATION WAS FREEZING ON THE WINDOWS INSIDE MARA'S SUV AS she inched down the mountain out of Kluane to the edge of Destruction Bay. Twisting the heater knob on the dashboard as far as it would go proved to be to no avail. The defroster was no match for the sub-zero temperatures outside. Her hands were cold from constantly scraping a clear spot on the frosted windshield with her now wet mittens. Her shoulders involuntarily cringed in a shiver. How desolate it felt here.
The descending road soon dropped into the thick gray clouds that were quickly obliterating the morning's blue sky. Windswept, with little vegetation and only patchy splatters of snow, the landscape looked barren—almost eerie. Thanking the Almighty for giving her the good sense to bring survival gear, Mara turned into a wide spot in the road just past a sign that read Burwash Landing—Population 77. It housed the first service station she had seen since leaving Kluane.
Leaning to turn the volume down on the Zucchero cd she had been listening to, she mouthed the words ‘fill it up’ to the station attendant through her closed window. Listening to the Italian blues singer had at least helped make the dreary day more bearable, and she let the current song finish before ejecting the cd.
She watched the attendant work. How ironic that after driving nearly four thousand miles she had finally found a service station in virtually the middle of nowhere that still provided actual service. Just seeing another human being at this point made her feel strangely giddy. She surmised that in the stress of the day she was succumbing to the silliness of fatigue. Bundling her jacket up more tightly against the cold, she looked at her surroundings.
There was a small, insulation foam-covered dome building attached to the business. The smoke pouring out of its smokestack formed a thin, horizontal line over the rest of the building, and there was a light on inside. Through the single window she could see a table, chairs and a few household appliances. A yellow tabby cat jumped down from the windowsill and scurried across the table while she watched.
The adjoining convenience store had a sign in the window reading Groceries and another beside it reading Mail. Attached to the other side of the store was a two bay garage bearing a sign on the outer wall that read, Engine Repair and Tires.
“Looks like a front coming in,” the attendant said to her matter–of-factly as she cracked the window to hear.
“Want me to check your anti-freeze and fluids?” he asked, while reaching for paper towels from a container attached to the gas pump.
Not waiting for an answer, he moved to the front of her vehicle, motioning for her to pop the hood.
“Yes, definitely. Check everything,” she answered as she stepped out of her SUV and ran to the convenience store, anxious to get inside and escape the cold.
Once her hands had warmed she tried to dial Sarah on her cell phone, but there was still no signal. While the attendant worked outside, twisting knobs, pulling dipsticks and generally inspecting all of her vehicle's fluid levels, she wandered through the store, gathering enough items to sustain her for the next leg of the trip. From the looks of things as she glanced out the window, he was doing a thorough job. She had to give him credit for even tackling it in this kind of weather.
Throwing a last bag of chips on top of a bag of jelly beans, she added a couple of cans of soda and some beef jerky to her basket, arriving at the cash register just as the attendant was coming in. He moved a large box on the counter aside to make room for her items.
“You were a little low on anti-freeze and windshield washer solution, so I topped them off for you,” he told her.
“I appreciate that,” she answered, handing him her credit card.
Waiting while the attendant with the name Mike embroidered above his shirt pocket fumbled with the machine that was supposed to read her credit card, she scanned the numerous notes posted in the checkout area before grabbing a tabloid out of the magazine rack. Flipping through it, she realized she had already read it last week and put it back. With Mike still fumbling with her card, she glanced around the counter. The Venezuelan postmark on the box in front of her caught her eye. The box was addressed to a Rev. Adam Carlson, c/o General delivery, Burwash Landing, YT, Canada. Interesting, she thought, that someone way out here also had ties to the Amazon.
“Small world,” she said out loud.
“Huh? Sorry, Ma'am, what was that?” Mike said, looking up.
“Oh, I was just noticing the address on this box was from South America and I used to live down there. I'm sorry. I was just killing time. It's none of my business, reading other people's mail. It's just that it was right in front of me,” she rattled on. “It looks like you're the postmaster, too.”
“That's right,” Mike answered, moving the box to a shelf under the counter. “We get a lot of truckers and a few other regulars like the missionary here,” he said pointing to the box from Venezuela. “They move through here in the winter and in the summer it's tourists. Don't worry. It isn't your fault I left the mail in your way on the counter. No harm done.”
Finally the machine accepted her card. Mara signed the receipt and handed it back to Mike, who stapled it to a copy of the register receipt and stuffed it under the tray inside the cash register.
“How cold is it, anyway? I can't seem to get my heater to warm up inside of my truck,” she asked, changing the subject.
“Minus forty but more like minus eighty with the wind chill,” Mike answered. “I know a little trick that might help some,” he said, walking to the back of the store and rumbling around in a back room before returning with a piece of thick cardboard.
“I'll attach this outside the grill in front of the radiator,” he told her. “It'll keep the engine warmer. The other thing you're gonna want to avoid is opening your windows or doors—except leave a small crack at the top of one window. That'll keep the frost from building up inside.”
“I appreciate your advice,” Mara told him.
“Make sure you keep moving,” Mike added. “The wind's supposed to let up this afternoon and that'll help with the wind chill a lot. Snow's moving in, too—means it's going to get warmer.”
Mike handed her a small ice scraper that he retrieved from a shelf behind him.
“Use this instead of your gloves,” he said with a wink. “It'll save your hands from getting frostbit.” I'll radio Sgt. Kerns—he's our local Mountie—and let him know you're heading west outta here. Just keep moving and you should be fine.”
Mara didn't know whether to feel afraid or reassured by her
conversation with Mike. Throughout most of her trip she had been around other travelers. Now there was nothing but the endless, bare land. She didn't like this place and felt uneasy. She thought of the feather Joe had given her. Reminding herself that he had said it would protect her; she reached into her bag to see if it was still there. It was and she felt somehow better knowing she had it.
Once back on the highway she followed the road that rose out of Destruction Bay. Inching along, she could see a flat expanse of tundra ahead that went on for as far as she could see. Mike had warned her to be on the watch for the Nelchina caribou herd that wintered in the area. He said they often moved onto the road. The way the windows kept frosting up, she was afraid she might not see them and might even hit one. She used the small scraper Mike had given her to keep a spot on the windshield clear as she drove slowly along. By the time she reached the summit of the hill leading out of Destruction Bay, she had heat again and the frost build-up on her windshield was gone.
Along the shoulder of the road, she saw tracks in the snow of what must have been hundreds of animals. Telling herself she dare not look away, she followed them for another quarter mile before they veered off across the tundra. The back of her neck was starting to get stiff from craning to see the highway all morning. Once, she thought she saw something move out to the right, but it turned out to be only a branch waving in the wind. She took off the wide-brimmed felt hat she had worn most days on the trip and adjusted the seat to help relieve the soreness. Snatching a bag of chips from the plastic grocery bag, she tore it open using her teeth and one hand while continuing slowly down the road.
It looked like the worst was over. She could feel the tension in her neck easing. She continued to drive cautiously, though –just in case. So far, she had seen nothing more than an occasional moose browsing in the spruce forests beside the road. It was amazing to her how easily such a large animal could conceal itself behind the scraggly spikes of trees that made up the landscape. After a couple of hours of straining to examine every inch of the tundra, she gave up looking for caribou. If they were there, she couldn't see them.
Although still overcast, the sky seemed less oppressive than earlier. It felt good to stop along the way to stretch her legs and use nature's restroom. She would never admit this to anyone she knew, but the fresh air felt good on a girl's bare self. For a moment, she imagined how life had been for pioneers, and envied how they had been able to enjoy enough open space to regularly indulge in this simple freedom.
Back on the road, a glance in the rear view mirror jolted her from the solitude that had been more of a blessing than the curse she feared it would be. The truck coming up quickly behind her seemed like an intrusion. Inside its cab, she could see the silhouettes of two men. A dog kennel and several canvas bags stuck up from the sides of the bed of what she could now see was a large pick-up truck.
It was Doug Williams for sure, but the passenger had his head turned away and was reaching for something on the floor. She waved back at Cap's friendly salute when he passed her. His truck kicked up a cloud of white on the snow packed road, making it hard to see for a minute. She watched the snow dust fall to the ground in sparkles made by the sun.
Doug Williams hadn't said anything about having a traveling companion when she breakfasted with him back in Kluane. There had been a couple of abandoned looking vehicles just outside of Burwash Landing. Maybe he had picked up one of the occupants who had broken down on the road. In these parts, it would be almost criminal to leave someone standing alongside the road. She could easily see why a person, especially someone as thoughtful as Doug Williams, would not hesitate to help someone out along the way. He certainly seemed near to help whenever danger lurked. She was glad he had befriended her and she felt a sense of security in knowing that it was he in the only other truck she had seen for miles on this desolate highway. She didn't see him again for the rest of the day, although she did see his fresh tire tracks in the snow ahead as she drove. Hours later, when darkness on the desolate, lonely road prompted her to shut down for the night, she turned into the tiny roadside truck stop at Beaver Creek.
The clock on her dashboard read 8 p.m. and the thermometer on her rear view mirror read minus twenty-five—slightly colder than it had been when she left Destruction Bay. Except for Doug Williams and his passenger, she hadn't seen another person since Burwash Landing.
She drove slowly up to the log building. Although there were several vehicles parked in front of the strip motel, Doug Williams’ truck was not among them. The darkened gift shop displayed a sign in the window that read closed, but the attached office had a light on, so she walked up the wood plank stairs, opened the heavy door, and went inside. As far as she knew, this would be the last opportunity for lodging for the next one hundred or so miles.
A wiry, middle-aged man got up from the chair where he had been watching TV. Stopping momentarily, he stubbed out a cigarette in an ashtray next to the chair, wiped his hands on his pants and walked up to the desk. “Fifty-eight bucks, Miss,” he said without making eye contact. “Cash only.”
Mara paid in Canadian currency.
“Check out's at ten and no late night hollerin,” he said, looking directly at her and squinting as he spoke.
Mara carried her bags down the short stretch of boardwalk to room eleven, which was second to the end of the row. The room had no windows and smelled of stale cigarettes and disinfectant soaked urine. A small bathroom off to the side held a toilet with an orange stained bowl. Beside it stood a rusted metal, single stall shower. Hanging by less than a handful of hooks from a corroded rod in front of the shower stall was a yellowed plastic shower curtain that had several tears taped together with clear tape.
She flicked on the light switch. A single dim bulb in a ceiling fixture cast a dingy pall over the entire room. The carpet was covered in a dark red stain, making Mara wonder if someone had gutted a moose inside. The place was as disgusting as any she had ever seen.
She went back out to her rig and brought in the Sunday newspaper she had purchased in Haines. She spread the sections over the carpet and threw her sleeping bag on top of the bed. Somehow, she managed to crawl into it without touching any of the bedding. Her sleeping bag caved into the middle of the smelly mattress once she crawled inside. Folding up her sweater to use under her head, she threw the lumpy pillow that came with the room on the floor. Exhausted, she fell asleep, sure that no one but a fool would have ventured past Beaver Creek in these weather conditions, and barely having the energy to wonder what had become of Doug Williams and his passenger. By 5 a.m, she was back on the road, leaving the grungy shower in her room untouched and the newspapers still on the floor. In her hurry to get to her car, she didn't see the black shirt with its white clerical collar attached, sticking part way out of the dumpster in the parking lot near the edge of the road.
“I had no idea the border was so close,” she said to the customs agent at the American border, after driving only five miles from the Beaver Creek Lodge. Waiting for clearance, she was stunned to see no fewer than six motels across the border. One of them had a truck sitting out front that looked very much like the one that had sped by her outside of Beaver Creek yesterday.
“You're not the first Cheechako to think that Beaver Creek was the last stop for miles,” the agent said, clearing her for passage across the gate into Alaska.
“Cheechako?” Mara asked.
“Newcomer to Alaska,” the customs agent laughed. “Have a safe trip and thank you for visiting Canada.”
CHAPTER NINE
The Aurora
MARA WASHED HER SLEEPING BAG AT A LAUNDROMAT ACROSS THE STREET from one of the motels, to rid it of the stench from the motel room. While she waited for it to tumble dry, she went back across the road to the turnout. The panoramic vistas that spanned hundreds, if not thousands, of miles of untouched wilderness were unparalleled. Alaska was everything she had imagined it to be and more. Maybe it was the after effects of the scare at Destruction B
ay, or the horrible accommodations of last night, or maybe a combination of everything; but suddenly she was sobbing uncontrollably.
“Brad!” she cried. “Why did you have to die?”
She and her husband had planned to move here together after finishing their work in the Amazon.
“He should be here now,” she whispered into the wind, as tears rolled down her cheeks.
Maybe thinking she could come here without him had been a mistake. Maybe she should get her sleeping bag out of the dryer and turn right back around and abandon this whole idea. For whatever reason, suddenly she just wanted to go home. Forcing herself to stop the self-recriminations, she blew her nose and walked around for a bit, taking in deep breaths of the pure Alaskan air. The thought of backtracking and going through another two days like the last two brought out another round of sobs, before she decided that she would move ahead, just as she had planned, to begin her new life in Alaska.
Grappling in her pocket for a tissue with one hand, she used the other to finger the two St. Christopher medals that she wore around her neck. Brad had purchased the identical medals to protect the two of them in their travels. Strangely, in the plane's wreckage, found securely wrapped around the yoke, had been his medal. It had been the only personal item recovered from the plane, and she had vowed on receiving it that she would never take it off until they were together again. In this case, she reminded herself as she felt the threat of more tears return, that would be for the rest of her life.
BACK AT THE LAUNDROMAT, MARA WRESTLED HER SLEEPING BAG OUT through the small door of the dryer, and rolled it up, and stuffed it on top of her other luggage before resuming her trip. She planned to stop early today— just as soon as she reached the next big town, which according to her Mile-post, was Glennallen.
Feather From a Stranger Page 5