by Dave Butler
When he reached the parking lot ten minutes later, the wind was blowing heavy, wet snow horizontally through the air. It stuck to everything like a plaster cast. He laid the pack in the back of the truck, grabbed his shoes and keys, and dropped the canopy door — the hinges squealing in protest. He started the engine and let the defroster clear the foggy windshield while he peeled off layers of clothes and wrestled with his wet boots.
As he drove out of the parking lot, he glanced in his rear-view mirror at a battered blue pickup truck parked at an angle. He was disappointed to see British Columbia licence plates. “I hate it when assholes come from my home province,” he muttered.
Canon steered the truck onto Highway 93, pointing it south toward home. As the truck dropped out of Sunwapta Pass into the valley of the North Saskatchewan River, Ian Tyson’s voice poured out of the CD player, telling him, “Summer’s Gone.”
“No kidding, Ian,” he said, “no kidding.” With his last mug of lukewarm coffee in hand, Canon toasted the worsening weather outside the truck. He gave no more thought to the two men on the trail.
Chapter 5
November 24
Bernie Eastman again hiked up the trail into Wilcox Pass, his stained cowboy hat tilted back on his head. It was late afternoon, the day cloudy and cool. An icy breeze blew intermittently from the south, chilled by the glacier on the north side of Mount Columbia. Behind him, Eastman could hear the bootsteps of the black-haired man, the same one who’d shot the elk in Banff three weeks earlier.
Stopping on the trail as it emerged from a small copse of subalpine fir, one of the few stands of trees remaining at this elevation, Eastman raised binoculars to his eyes. He tipped his hat further back, took a few seconds to slow his breathing, and then began a surveillance of the surrounding terrain. His field of view, framed by dark, overlapping circles, changed as he swung his head slowly from right to left. When he’d traversed the entire meadow, he raised the glasses a few degrees and then began another traverse, this time from left to right. Occasionally he paused, studying specific places with care, ensuring he missed nothing. In ten minutes of searching, he covered the whole pass. He then let the glasses drop to his chest.
“We got three different bands of sheep,” Eastman, pointing with a finger the size of a small animal. “The rams are there and at least two of ’em are big sons of bitches you’ll want to get a closer look at before you choose.”
He saw the black-haired man smile, a thin smile that was more sneer than expression of pleasure. “Vamonos,” he said.
“What?” Eastman’s face was scrunched in confusion.
“Let’s go,” the man said.
The two men continued the trek upward, Eastman leading. He knew they should stay in the open and make noise, but not too much. He wanted the sheep to see and hear them but not be startled or surprised.
Twenty minutes later, Eastman paused a dozen metres from a band of bighorn sheep rams scattered along on the edge of a rock rib. Like many sheep in Canada’s national parks, these animals had seen humans many times and were unfazed by their close proximity. Both men stared in awe. The ram’s chests were thick and powerful, their coats a deep brown. The patches of white on their rumps, inside their ears, and on their muzzles were a dramatic counterpoint to the dark fur. But most impressive were the massive horns.
As Eastman had observed earlier, two of the rams were bigger than the others. By counting the rings on the horns, he could tell that the largest was around twelve years old. He estimated its weight at about a hundred kilograms. The tips of its horns were broken and tattered, like the end of a worn toothbrush, a sign that it had been an active combatant for many seasons, earning the right to pass its DNA on to future generations. The other ram was slightly smaller, and Eastman guessed he was a year younger.
“Those are remarkable,” said his companion, pointing at its horns. “Thick, well beyond full curl, and very little brooming on the tips.”
Eastman studied the spread, length, and circumference of the horns, the lack of wear or breakage on the tips, knowing that the other man cared about how the animal would score in the Boone and Crockett trophy system. “I’m guessin’ he’ll go over two hundred points,” said Eastman. “That’s a nice ram.”
The black-haired man stared at the younger ram for a moment longer and then said to Eastman, “He is the one.” Then he pulled a compact digital camera from his pack’s shoulder strap and handed it to Eastman.
The outfitter watched him move up beside the younger of the two rams, remove his pack and drop it to his right, then lower himself to the ground only two metres from the ram. Eastman snapped three images of the scene, the ram unaware of the men’s intentions.
Eastman watched the man turn to his right and open his pack, slowly, carefully, with no sudden movement. With his right hand, the man slid a Magnum .44 pistol from inside a fleece jacket. Holding the large gun in both hands, he cocked the hammer with his right thumb and took aim at the point on the ram’s chest where the heart was. Eastman noticed the ram’s ears perk forward at the sound of the click. The man slowly squeezed the trigger.
Eastman, an experienced hunter, had expected the clap of thunder from the gun. It echoed around the basin in which they stood. But what he hadn’t planned for was the stampede of bighorn rams terrified by the sound. They scattered in all directions at a full gallop, their eyes wide with fear. The largest ram raced by him, nearly catching his pack straps with its massive horns.
The younger of the two rams followed the others for about five metres. But the bullet had done its work, tearing a bloody path through the ram’s chest and heart. Eastman saw the animal drop to its four knees, heard it bark out a racking cough, and then topple on its side.
The two men stood over the animal for a few moments. The shooter stooped to stroke the ridges of one thick horn, pleased the trophy was intact.
Eastman heard the man humming as though he were enjoying a good meal. The sound stuck a chord with him, and it was off-key. For the first time in many years, a sliver of doubt worked its way into Eastman’s brain. For a man so sure of himself, it was an uncomfortable feeling. His father had taught him to hunt and had always impressed on his son the need to act ethically. Hunting, he’d said, was a source of food for the family table, nothing more. Eastman’s move into the guide outfitting business at a young age had created a wedge between father and son, a divide that lasted until his father’s death. Standing where he stood now, looking down at a magnificent animal whose death he’d facilitated for the sake of a trophy, Eastman knew that his father would be angry, ashamed, disgusted at how far his son had strayed from the path he’d tried to set. But Eastman pushed those uncomfortable thoughts to the corner of his brain where they’d hidden for decades, forced there by constant money problems and his wife’s relentless badgering.
Eastman cleared his throat and shook his head as though to focus his thinking. “Let me get started before someone wanders up here,” he said.
Thirty minutes later, Eastman had carved and sawn the head and hide off the dead sheep in one piece. He rolled the hide under the head and, using white parachute cord, lashed the entire package to an aluminium pack frame.
It was nearly dark when the two men moved down the trail toward their vehicle, Eastman again in the lead. Their earlier footprints were melted dark and large on the snowy trail. About halfway down, when the trail reached a thick stand of spruce, Eastman slipped a headlamp from his pack. The bright LED light illuminated their path through the trees, casting shadows to each side as they moved downhill.
When Eastman reached the edge of the parking lot, he paused in the trees for a few moments, ensuring their truck was the only one there. Then they walked quickly across the lot, stowed their packs and the ram head and hide under a blue nylon tarp in the bed of the truck, and climbed into the cab.
When they were seated, with the engine started and the heater on, Eastm
an watched his passenger reach into the glove compartment for a silver flask. The man unscrewed the tiny lid, took a long swig, and then sighed. Eastman reached for the offered flask in the darkened cab. He took the same long swig, pausing for a few seconds as the smooth warmth of single-malt scotch slid down his throat and into his stomach.
“Thank you,” the black-haired man said. “Un buen día. That was a good day.”
Chapter 6
January 27
Jenny Willson parked her Subaru Outback with two wheels in the gravel driveway and two on snow-covered grass. As she climbed out and stretched, her arms high in the air, she gazed up at the Rocky Mountains. Only the summits were lit by a late-January sun, which was quickly dropping behind the more subdued Purcell Mountains to the west. After a half day in the office in Banff and then a three-hour drive to Jim Canon’s house at Fort Steele, in the south end of the Rocky Mountain Trench near Cranbrook, Willson was weary. But coming here for the weekend was like coming home. After growing up two and a half hours to the north in Golden, she found comfort in this wide valley, a sense of welcome that was as powerful as it was inexplicable. With her right hand, she ensured that her fat-tired mountain bike was still secure on the roof rack.
Willson raised a hand when she saw Jim Canon sitting within view at the front picture window of his log house. Each time Willson came here, she not only marvelled at the incredible views east and west, but also envied the solitude that Canon and Sue Browning had found here. It was clear why he’d picked the property, not only as a place to live, but also as a home for his photography business. Willson reached into the passenger seat for the bottle of Talisker single-malt scotch that she’d brought from Banff, a housewarming gift that was as much for her as for her friends.
By the time she climbed the front steps, Canon was outside to meet her with a hearty hug. “So glad you’re here, Jenny,” he said, a warm hand on her shoulder. “Come in and have a cold one. Sue’s in the shower so I’ll let her know you’re here. How was the drive?”
“It was good,” Willson replied. “As always, I had to avoid a couple of bighorn rams south of Radium … and then I had a near miss with an elk crossing the highway near Skookumchuk. Other than that, all good!” She understood the horrible irony that would have come from a national park warden taking out large mammals with her vehicle and silently thanked the goddess of luck.
With Canon following and then closing the door behind her, Willson entered a large room that was kitchen, dining room, and living room in one. She leaned her hip against a wooden island, accepting a cold beer from her host. They toasted with a clink of the long-neck bottles and both took a satisfying first sip. She sighed. It was good to be away from the office, off the highway, and with close friends again. It truly felt like home here.
“Make yourself comfortable, Jenny, while I tell Sue you’re here.” Canon placed his beer on the island and grabbed another from the stainless-steel fridge.
Willson watched him disappear down a hallway, and then she wandered aimlessly around the room. A massive wooden table, its shiny top reflecting the setting sun, sat near the front window. The warm pine walls were a gallery for Canon’s wildlife photographs, many enlarged to near life-size. Where the walls were free of pictures, bookshelves were abundant. She ran her finger along the spines of first-edition novels, tall volumes of photography, histories of western mountain ranges. Leather furniture, heavy coffee tables, and thick rugs were scattered around the room.
As she took another sip of her beer, she heard a shriek from the bathroom and then pounding feet as Canon ran down the hallway.
Willson heard Browning’s voice from the back of the house. “Asshole!” she yelled.
Canon was laughing as he picked up his beer from the island. “Geez, I bring her a nice frosty beer and that’s the thanks I get?” he said. “The fact that it touched her bare ass as she bent over to dry her hair is no reason to be ungrateful.”
Looking at Canon’s mischievous grin, Willson joined in the laughter. Whenever she was with her two friends, she saw a relationship that made her emotions flip between happiness and envy. Willson had shared a house with Canon and two others while they were studying resource conservation at the University of British Columbia. They became close friends but nothing more than that. The year after she graduated, Willson met Browning at her first warden climbing school. Browning was an instructor, Willson a rookie warden. It was on a cold night, jammed in a cramped tent high on a rocky ledge between Mounts Edith and Louis near Banff, when Willson told Browning about her photographer friend. While her heart swelled with pride to see that the two had formed a bond that was deep and strong, Willson felt a parallel ache for something she didn’t have.
But Browning gave her no time for melancholy as she swept into the room in a plush terry robe, her feet bare, her hair twisted in a thick towel. “Jenny,” she said as she wrapped her strong arms around Willson, “I’ve come to save you from this incredible jerk of a man.”
They all laughed as they raised their bottles in a toast.
“Jim, what time are the others coming?” said Browning.
“Uh, I think I said six … but I might have said seven,” Canon replied. “But you know those guys — if they arrived here at the time we asked them to, it would be pure coincidence.”
“I better get dressed,” said Browning, finishing her beer with a flourish and a loud burp. “While I’m gone, Jim, try to be less of a jerk to Jenny than you are to me.”
Just as she left the room, the front door opened with a bang. Willson turned to see the evening’s other invitees — Brad Jenkins and his fiancée, Kim Davidson — barge into the living room in the midst of a hockey debate.
“They shouldn’t have pulled the goalie so early in the game,” said Jenkins.
“Don’t be such a conservative candy-ass,” Davidson replied. “The coach had to do something. His job was on the line if they didn’t win.”
This wasn’t the first time Willson had met Brad Jenkins. She knew him to be a twenty-eight-year-old conservation officer and a former student in a photography course Canon taught at the local College of the Rockies. Canon called him his keenest student and the only one to show talent. Jenkins was a tall, trim man with a blond, military-style crewcut. He attempted, like many young conservation officers and wardens, Willson included, to maintain his idealism about the world around him, despite the politics and bureaucracies in which he worked. She liked to tell herself it was that common ground that drew her to him. But when she looked at his soft brown eyes and sincere smile, she knew it was more than his idealism that raised her heartbeat.
Willson had never met Kim Davidson before, but Browning had filled her in on the woman’s background. She was a physical education teacher at a Cranbrook high school, with broad shoulders that hinted at a history in competitive swimming. Davidson and Jenkins had apparently built a relationship based as much on competition as anything else. They’d met at a triathlon and still argued about who’d finished first that day. Willson’s eyes dropped to the engagement ring on Davidson’s left hand. Her heart sank as she realized that Jenkins was truly off the market.
When she looked up, she knew — by the sly smile on the woman’s face — that Davidson understood what she was thinking. For a moment, Willson locked eyes with the woman’s penetrating blue ones, and then saw Davidson raise her beer in a kind of toast, perhaps signifying a truce … or a warning.
“So, Jenny,” said Davidson, “Brad tells me you’re a park warden in Banff. How did a woman like you get into that line of work?”
Willson wondered what Davidson meant by “a woman like you,” but considering she was surrounded by friends, chose not to pursue it.
“My dad passed away in a railway accident when I was ten years old,” she replied. “My uncle Roy, my father’s brother, was in the RCMP and became a de facto father. He tried hard to persuade me to join the force. But I
really love the mountains and couldn’t risk being posted to Moose Crotch, Saskatchewan, or Out-of-the-Way, Newfoundland. So I went to UBC and got a degree in natural resource conservation. That’s where I met Jim.”
“And now you’re a warden in Banff? Geez, what a cool job. It looks like you made the right decision.”
Willson looked at Davidson and couldn’t help but smile. She realized that it was going to be tough not to like this woman. And that pissed her off.
Half an hour later, the five friends sat down to a feast of barbecued steaks, home-baked buns, and broccoli coleslaw. When Willson helped Canon bring the steaks to the table on a large platter, she saw the glint in his eye. “Tonight, I wanted to show you how good this marinade would be with barbecued Spam,” he said with mock sincerity. “Spam’s just as good as steak. But Sue wouldn’t let me. So you can blame her.” Buns flew at him across the table.
During the meal, Willson lost track of the number of times that either Canon or Browning filled her ceramic wine goblet with a dark merlot, its dry, oaky flavour an ideal complement to the spicy beef.
The banter during dinner was irreverent and, like the wine, free-flowing. Browning regaled them with stories of the heli-ski lodges where she worked as a guide. “Some of them are calm and relaxing,” she said, “where the guests ski hard all day and then sleep hard all night. Others, yeah, not so much …” She told them about an Austrian mountain guide who was infamous for the number of women he’d bedded in his career. To achieve his objective, he’d impersonated a ski instructor with a broken leg, a foreign airline pilot, and a German investment banker. By the time Browning ran out of stories an hour later, tears of laughter streaked their cheeks.