“Good God,” said Haywood beneath his breath. “Look at the size of it.”
Each man stood frozen in place.
The whole face of the mountain seemed to be in motion, sliding in a great crust toward the timberline, its descent almost perpendicular. Snowballs the size of houses bounded down the mountain in advance of the plunging mass — sputtering, as Haywood would later describe it, like drops of oil on a heated surface. The timberline began to shiver well in advance of the descending mass. Within seconds the breath of the beast hit the tree line with a tremendous rush of air, rolling up the forest like a rug before it, uprooting a swathe of timber a thousand feet wide, snapping the mighty trees like matchsticks and hurling them hundreds of feet down the mountain. The slide gathered mass as it thundered toward the basin, pouring a dirty flow of snow and timber and rocks into the canyon, until the canyon was virtually no more, filled to the brim with hundreds of feet of rubble. When the rumbling ceased and the last of the rubble had sifted down the canyon, the ensuing quiet was almost as deafening. The men stood stupefied, gazing upon all that was left in the wake of the slide: splintered trees and great patches of bare earth and naked rock. And in his heart, every one of the men knew that it was only by some whim of fate they’d been spared.
“Thunderbird,” said Mather at last, breathlessly. “Of course!” He began to laugh. “Why didn’t I think of it before?” He laughed, and laughed heartily, as though the realization tickled his fancy to the very core. But nobody laughed with him.
been campin’
AUGUST 2006
When, after nearly eleven years in Port Bonita, Franklin Bell snuck his first look at the Thornburgh Dam, he refused to stray within four feet of the chain-link fence. Craning his neck tentatively for a peek, he straightened up immediately upon glimpsing the vertiginous drop. Everything about the place made him uneasy. The rumble beneath his feet seemed to suggest that the dam might give way at any second. Trudging back up the gravel path to the Taurus, Franklin opened the hatch. Rupert bounded out immediately, thrusting his square head to the wet ground and sniffing all around the car as Franklin unloaded his big blue gym bag with victoria clipper emblazoned on both sides in flaky white letters. He never did take that cruise. Passed up a week of his paid vacation that year and spent the other week looking for a hobby, unsuccessfully. Got a free bag, though.
Franklin wasn’t treating this like any vacation. The bag was stuffed to the gills with trail and topo maps, six cans of Chunky soup, two pairs of tan corduroys, three sweaters, a knife, a fork, a spoon, a plate, a tiny skillet, a pair of comfortable loafers, and four pairs of socks. The bag weighed roughly thirty pounds, distributed unevenly toward one side where all the soup cans nested. The second and larger bag, a hulkish black affair with many superfluous straps, contained a gallon of water, three Pres-to-Logs, eight books of matches, and the world’s biggest flashlight. This bag weighed roughly forty-five pounds and presented the additional obstacle of excessive lumpiness. To make matters more cumbersome, a two-man tent, an orange sleeping bag, and a foam cooler stuffed with turkey franks, spicy mustard, and two pints of eggnog were lashed to the bag with lengths of yellow nylon rope. As Rupert nosed around the parking lot, pausing to lift his leg on the back tire of a Silverado, Franklin fished the trail map out of the big bag and spread it out in front of him on the hood of the Taurus for final review.
All evidence suggested that Tillman had picked up the Crooked Thumb trailhead. The alleged cock-slap had occurred between trail miles 6 and 7 and was marked accordingly by Franklin with a red X. The “theft” had occurred just shy of mile 16. Tillman was heading in a southwesterly direction. He was probably not far off trail — probably somewhere in the vicinity of mile 20. On paper the plan looked feasible — a twisted line from point A to point B, but glancing at the endless green expanse spreading out beyond Lake Thornburgh, it occurred to Franklin, with a shiver, that he probably should have brought a few extra cans of soup. Maybe another pack of turkey dogs.
Who the hell was he kidding? He’d never find Tillman out there. And what if he did? What if the injury scenario Franklin had concocted was true, and Tillman was on the side of the trail with a busted kneecap? How the hell would he get him out of there — carry him? And what if Tillman didn’t want to be found at all? What if Tillman really was dodging the law? Why was Franklin convinced of his innocence in the first place? If Tillman was injured or innocent, why not get the law involved? Franklin tucked the map in a side pocket and hefted the smaller bag, slinging its thirty pounds over his shoulder, where instantly the edge of a soup can dug into the tender fat roll below his rib cage. The moment he tried to heft the second bag, he knew he’d badly miscalculated.
The Pres-to-Logs were first to go — plenty of logs where he was going, and he had plenty of matches to light them with. Next to go was the plate. He could eat out of the skillet, just like at home. He even opted to leave the spoon — since you could eat Chunky soup with a fork. He left two pairs of socks and one of the sweaters in the backseat. He drank one of the eggnogs and left the empty carton on the passenger seat. By the time he was finished consolidating, Franklin slung but a single bag and the foam cooler over his shoulder, then crossed the slab to the trailhead, where he began his journey up the squelchy trail. The midmorning sun slanted through the dripping trees. The mosquitoes were in hiding. Rupert sniffed along at Franklin’s heels, as he trudged up the incline, his quads already beginning to burn, the foam cooler squeaking incessantly in its halter, the rolled up sleeping bag bonking him on the back of the head with each step.
Shortly before noon, Franklin reached mile marker 4, huffing and puffing. He’d gained nearly a thousand feet in elevation, leaving the last vestiges of Lake Thornburgh behind. The mosquitoes were out in full force now. A blister had formed on the little toe of his right foot. He was sweating like Buster Douglas. Worst of all, he had a bad case of swamp ass further complicated by the leaking cooler, upside down in its rope halter. The lid had snapped like a saltine cracker just shy of mile marker one, and begun to crumble shortly thereafter. Stopping along a high crest overlooking the river, Franklin sat on a moldering evergreen beside the trail and fished a turkey dog out of the cooler, snapping off a bite as he loosened his shoelaces. For all his ailments, this outdoor stuff wasn’t so bad once you stopped to soak it up. A hot dog really did taste better outside. Even cold. Not until Rupert started mooching did Franklin realize he’d forgotten the dog food.
“Doggonit, Rupe.” A quick mental inventory of the food stores — six cans of Chunky soup, fifteen jumbo turkey dogs, and a bag of Funyuns — eased Franklin’s mind somewhat. Hell, he could probably stand to lose a few pounds anyway. That jellyroll had really slowed him down coming up the steep parts. His tits had gone soft, too. Lobbing the last half of his turkey dog to Rupert, Franklin fished out the map again and traced his path in red pen from the head of the trail through mile marker 3.
“Damn if it don’t look like a straight line on the map, Rupe.”
But Rupert was busy rooting around a rotten stump. Once Franklin retightened his laces, got to his feet, hefted his gear, and began plodding onward, Rupert abandoned his stump and loped into stride behind Franklin, nose to the ground. The second leg of the hike proved considerably less grueling. The trail leveled out for several miles along the ridge before descending into the dark bottomlands, where Franklin could hear the river once more. While the ridge had smelled of summer, of warm cedar and dry air, the shady lowlands smelled to Franklin like a flooded basement or a wet carpet. The ground softened beneath his feet. Rainwater gathered in footprints along the path, collected in puddles along the edges of the trail. The squeaking cooler continued to crumble, dropping little foam pebbles in Franklin’s wake. Marked with a rough wooden sign depicting a triangle, he soon came upon a little side trail wending its way through a patch of gold-leafed trees to the riverbank, where the sunlight flooded in, and the Elwha ran fast in silver ropes. Here he found a raised dirt clearing, a c
rude fire pit, and a notched log bench with initials carved into it. Franklin plopped his bags down on the tent pad and sat heavily upon the bench, where he ran a hand over the surface as he surveyed the initials looking for T. T. And though Tillman’s initials were not to be found, he had left what Franklin imagined to be his his mark in other ways: a pair of crumpled Snickers wrappers in the brush, an empty pint of Smirnoff along the riverbank.
“I’ll be damned, Rupe. Looks like we’ve got a scent.”
For fifteen minutes, Franklin walked along the riverbank collecting firewood. Pausing on the gravel bank drenched in sunlight, with the river rushing by and the mountains looming in the distance, he told himself he could get used to this camping business. It was quiet out here in nature. A guy could experience a different kind of aloneness than the loneliness of a dateless Saturday night spent on his bile-colored sofa or the loneliness of strolling the aisles of Safeway late at night with a heaping cart of Chunky soup and four gallons of eggnog.
The problems began back at camp when Franklin burned through three books of matches trying to set fire to a sizable log without the aid of paper or kindling. How hard could this be if a caveman could do it? Finally, he got the splintered edge to take, and spent the next forty-five minutes blowing on the flame until he became so lightheaded that spots threatened to blot out his vision. When, an hour later, he’d finally succeeded in starting a cooking fire that actually crackled, he unpacked the skillet and a can of soup.
“Mm-mm, Rupe. You’re eatin’ like a king tonight, old boy.”
Rummaging through the bags, an unsettling realization began to take hold: he’d forgotten the can opener. He spent ten desperate minutes stabbing at the top of the can with a table knife before he finally staved it in with a river rock on the edge of the fire pit in an explosion of brown goop. Rupert lapped the lion’s share of it off the ground in a frenzy. Franklin forked out the few remaining chunks and ate them straight from the can. To top the meal off, he inhaled a cold jumbo dog with a snake of mustard running down its spine and washed it down with a pint of eggnog.
Even as evening fell, and the light drained from the forest, Franklin found himself surprisingly at ease in the darkness. What was he afraid of in the first place? The wilderness was so expansive, so big and serene and passive, it didn’t seem to notice he was there. Where was the threat in that? It wasn’t until he awoke from a dreamless sleep that Franklin realized he’d nodded off by the fire. The log pulsed orange in the fire pit. Rupert slept curled at his feet. There was a chill in the mountain air and the buzzing of crickets from as far as the ear could hear. The river roared in the darkness. Through the treetops a smattering of stars winked down on Franklin. He sat soaking it all up with a great satisfied yawn welling up in him. Not too shabby.
“What say we hit the sack?” he said, patting Rupert’s ample rump.
In his sleeping bag, on his back, with Rupert smacking his lips and breathing sleepily at his side, Franklin savored his final waking moments staring up through the mosquito net at the treetops and the stars. The next time Franklin awoke, he awoke to sounds — a can skittering across hard ground, followed closely by the familiar squeak of foam rubber. Some snorting, some sniffing, then the violent scattering of ice. Finally, a deep guttural growl — a growl with saliva clinging to the edges. Franklin shot upright in his sleeping bag. Sweet Jesus, what the — ! Rupert began to whimper and got to his feet as Franklin tried to settle him. The intruder rummaged about the fire pit, chortling and sniffing at the air. As the beast drew nearer to the tent, Franklin felt his scalp tightening, felt the blood beating behind his eyes. A dark snorting form began circling the tent just below the mosquito dome. Suddenly it stopped in its tracks and began sniffing. Even the crickets fell silent. When the snorting nose pushed at the fabric of the tent, Franklin swooned with a rush of fear. The instant the beast reared up on its hind legs, something in Franklin snapped.
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!”
Rupert began to bark wildly.
Franklin rolled to his left, snapped on the flashlight, and aimed it right up into the shining eyes of the beast, which let loose a roar that seemed to come from the center of the earth. Scrambling for the entrance, Franklin fought with the snagged zipper. Rupert squirmed out before him and charged straight at the intruder with such rabid intent that the beast seemed confused as Rupert lunged snarling at it, driving it back. Franklin hit the bear again with the beam of the flashlight, and it irritably tried to shield its eyes from the light. Finally, it swung around on all fours and charged off into the woods. Franklin’s relief turned to panic as Rupert took off after it, hurtling through the darkness full speed ahead, howling, crashing through the underbrush on the heels of the bear. His trumpeting grew fainter and fainter until the night swallowed it up altogether. Weak in the knees, with the river ringing in his ears, Franklin pointed his flashlight out into the impentetrable wooded darkness. The smart thing to do was to stay put. Stir those coals up. Find himself a big stick. Rupe was probably already on his way back. Prodding the embers until their orange bellies were up, Franklin scattered some twigs on top and blew into the center, and the flames flared up in his face, casting a pale glow all around the clearing.
drip, drip, drip
AUGUST 2006
It was still raining when Timmon awoke at dawn. Inertia was his instinct. Sneezing, he forced himself upright, where he soon discovered that groundwater had leached into the tent from the corner nearest his head and ran a channel down the length of the tent, gathering in an elliptical puddle near his feet.
“Fucking shit on a stick,” he said.
After a hissing fire and a cup of hot water, Timmon readied his tackle and made the half-mile trek downstream to the Elwha, where he chose a level stretch of low bank from which to cast. Though he didn’t have his bow, he was heartened almost immediately by the appearance of a buck on the far shore. Watching the beast saunter off into the brush, Timmon felt certain his luck was changing. The rain was sure to stop. Nature would surrender its bounty yet.
He fished until late in the afternoon and caught nothing. He hunted until dusk and succeeded only in getting wetter. In the evening he sat shivering by the fire, cursing his misfortune. But things only went from bad to worse. By the next afternoon, the hunger expanding like a balloon in his stomach could no longer be ignored. In a moment of weakness, knee deep in the riffle with another snagged lure at the end of the line, Timmon, cold and hungry and sleepy, wept like a child.
For the better part of three interminable rainy days he fished and fished — from the bank, in the riffle, up to his waist in deep, dark pools. He pulled nothing out of the Elwha, did not enjoy so much as a bite. In the crepuscular hours, Timmon stalked the forest all around the creek, wild-eyed with hunger, clutching his bow so tight his knuckles were white, crouching in the brush, lurking in the shadows, scanning the understory with his desperate gaze. He did not encounter so much as a doe or a chipmunk in all his scouting.
After dark, he busied himself to avoid the hunger. He dug a pit and fashioned a smoker around it with river rocks and fir boughs, though he had nothing to smoke. He constructed a gangly bed frame four inches high, lashed with salal vines, and crossed with thin green cedar boughs to combat the groundwater. He hung the rain tarp inside the shelter above his bed. He washed his socks and hung them over the fire to dry. He nested and renested his pans. He organized his fishing tackle. He emptied every pocket of his fancy pack of pennies and lint and burs. His fingernails were down to nothing. But in the end there was still the hunger, black and eclipsing. As a last resort, he consumed creek water by the quart to fill the hunger balloon and was awakened in the night by explosive diarrhea.
Though the rain finally let up by morning, Timmon’s fortunes only worsened. Further weakened by dysentery and fever, he could not summon the will to mobilize himself. He could not bear to face the barren Elwha another day, could scarcely bear the thought of gathering wood for a fire, or boiling water, or le
ast of all tramping around in the wet foliage looking for movement. Instead, he lay on his back and stared up at the rain tarp until his eyes felt heavy, though not with sleep. In his feverish apathy, he could scarcely even rally his self-contempt. So he was a big fat bust in the wilderness, same as he was in civilian life, so what? None of it seemed to matter. He wasn’t even hungry anymore. If he died there in the middle of nowhere — or in a room at the Wharf Side for that matter — who would really care? He wouldn’t even miss himself — if that wasn’t a good measure for the value of his life, what then?
The urgent and burning chill of dysentery finally stirred Timmon into action early in the afternoon. Scrambling free of his sleeping bag, he scurried out of the shelter, clipping the doorway on his way, thus caving in a small portion of ceiling. He couldn’t make it halfway to the creek before he was forced to drop his pants not three feet from the smoker, where he squatted gurgling for fifteen minutes in his own sweet stench, bathed in a film of sweat, too weak and miserable to even swat at the cloud of mosquitoes enveloping him. When it seemed he was empty of everything he’d ever eaten plus half of his stomach lining, Timmon staggered back to his shelter, stepped over the collapsed portion of ceiling, and fought his way stupidly into his sleeping bag. There, he lay on his side staring at the small square of light that was his doorway, unable to think of anything at all until sleep came for him.
He was awakened by a trilling. He opened his eyes to find a chipmunk standing in the doorway. “Tweeeel tweeeel,” it said.
“Get lost,” groaned Timmon.
The chipmunk was doing funny things, things Timmon didn’t know chipmunks could do, making its head bigger and smaller.
“Don’t fuck with me,” Timmon said.
The chipmunk was definitely fucking with him. “Tweeeel tweeeel,” it said, its head the size of a grapefruit.
West of Here Page 40