Window In Time

by David Boyle

  Hayden pulled what he needed from the cookbox: dishes, a pan, salt and pepper, and all the necessary utensils. A clever bit of engineering on Mark’s part, the cookbox could, at times like this, double as a small table. Hayden set the coffee pot on a rock beside the fire, then opened all the cans, and with a one-pan-cooks-all approach laid in the bacon and a fistful of potatoes.

  He watched impatiently, and not long thereafter added three of their surviving eggs.

  An acrid haze swirled through the campsite, the alarms in whatever fire departments were nearby likely already blaring when Ron and Charlie, and finally Tony stumbled from the tent. They ran to the fire and gaped at the yellow-brown mass festering in the pan.

  “Just in time,” Mark said, swiping with his hat. “This batch is just about ready.” Hayden nodded. He thought so too.

  “I got two kinds,” said Mark, hacking with the spatula. “Crunchy and golden black. Which would you like better?”

  They were staring at the first and last of the only real eggs they’d brought for the trip, and which, after having been transported over a thousand miles, now had the appeal of a burnt offering. Ron’s eyes became unusually large, and when finally he was able to speak, his animation was remarkable. He didn’t make much sense; but then, he never did when he was hopping up and down like that. Ron strung together so many curses that he might well have created some new ones.

  “You guys screw breakfast up again,” Charlie snarled, “and I swear I’ll stake you fuckers over an ant hill!”

  “Okay already. We got the idea,” Hayden said, cringing. “We’ll eat what we got here. You guys can cook your own.”

  “No shit you will,” Ron grumbled. “And nice job screwing up the pan….”

  Hayden and Mark retreated to the safety of the tent, both promising to never again cook without adult supervision. They laughed and ate between sips of coffee, both propped on bedrolls, each of them now and again picking bits of eggshell from between their teeth.

  The various dry bags were stuffed and sealed, and Ron’s tent disassembled, every scrap of garbage either bagged or burned until all that remained of their overnight stay was a blackened ring on the terrace. They suited up, finally, the task of donning already wet wetsuits a frigid, near agonizing experience. Ron and Charlie packed out their dry bags, the two then working to line his canoe while the others shuttled gear along the trail and down to the put-in. With packs secured and tarps again lashed into place, Mark and Hayden did a final sweep of the campsite, the other boats already on the water when they assumed their places in the Discovery and headed downstream.

  Meyer’s Falls slipped away, the rumble quickly fading, the near-vertical walls of the gorge easing gradually into slopes ever more covered in pines.

  The fast water held only chop. And soon crews were jockeying for the lead, Ron and Tony at length pulling up alongside the Discovery. “How far to the fun stuff?” Ron asked, seeing only flatwater ahead.

  “Hard to tell the way the river curves around,” Hayden said, consulting the map. “A couple of miles maybe. Should run into some little stuff around the next bend. We get a break, then two fairly long Class IIs, and after that nothing all the way to camp. If you want to play, the next three miles or so will be the place to do it.”

  As predicted, their hunger for action was appeased when the river turned southeast. Yesterday’s rapids had pressed their limits, and had done so with loaded boats. Now they were down the weight of two meals and an entire case of beer, and while the impact was marginal, the canoes were a bit more maneuverable, a trend that would continue throughout the trip. Mark and Hayden took the lead, the other boats following—or not—depending on conditions. Rapids came and went, glistening in the sunshine, the river enlivened with fuzzy pockets of white into the distance.

  With time to kill, and slim chance they’d ever again paddle the Powderhorn, they played every rapid to the limit, on occasion eddy-hopping upstream in order to re-run the more exciting sections.

  They were happy with all the rapids they’d run, and at the same time glad when the river eventually flattened out. Hats replaced helmets, life vests were stowed, the crews by mid-morning at last able to play tourist and focus on the scenery. They drifted or paddled, the sweep of the hillsides ever changing, the canoes making respectable headway despite the sometimes gusty headwinds.

  Stands of aspen had started showing not long after they’d gotten on the river, the invasion seeming to have reached at a point of stasis now that meadows too had begun claiming swaths of the hillsides. The greens and browns, the vertical flecks of the aspen. It was like paddling through a still life, clouds of cotton-candy drifting above, the world below a kaleidoscope of colors as sunbeams and shadows washed across the hills.

  Constantly on the lookout, Ron was first to spot game. “There we go. Up there, fellas… along the ridge.”

  Tony came around. “Wow! They’re way bigger than the deer back home. Mule deer, right?”

  “Bigger maybe, but not by that much. The thing to watch is the ears. With mule deer they’re damn near as long as their heads, on these guys they’re better proportioned. The real giveaway is the lighter patch on their rumps. What you’re looking at are elk. It’s too early in the year for antlers, but the bigger ones are probably bulls.”

  “I take it they’re not in season.”

  “Not until fall, unfortunately.” Ron watched until the shifting tree line cut their view. “Too bad, too. Otherwise I can almost guarantee we’d be eating like kings tonight.”

  They paddled around the next bend, Ron and Tony searching when they heard the gurgle.

  “Now that’s pretty,” Tony said of the rivulet tumbling down the hillside.

  Alongside the stream were the remnants of an entire grove of aspen. Stumps poked from the tall grass like broken pencils stood on end, some nearly two feet in diameter, the trunks nearby with every last branch and twig meticulously stripped down to bare wood. A handful of what constituted the grove were still standing, each with deep conical cuts at what Ron suspected had been the snow line. Wounded but standing, their fate was sealed. Beavers rarely left survivors.

  Laying the grove to waste did have its beneficiaries, for perched atop the uppermost branches of a now lonely aspen was a pair of bald eagles. Peering down from their lofty perch, the birds were clearly wary of the approaching flotilla. One bolted, then quickly its mate, the pair soaring south along the river.

  There was power and majesty in how the birds flew, the big wings….

  Ron did a double take. “Hold up…!” he whispered harshly, slowing the boat. “Get your paddle, Tony. And be quiet about it.”

  While the river ahead had barely a ripple, after yesterday, Tony knew better than to ask questions. Careful not to splash, he began slowly backstroking. He felt the shift in the boat, and twisted on his seat to stare at his partner.

  “Look river left,” Ron whispered, “just out from shore and a quarter mile down.”

  There was nothing out of the ordinary—pines crowded the river, a big boulder—and Tony was still searching when the ‘boulder’ turned its head! “That what I think it is?”

  “Sure as hell,” Ron answered, suddenly all business. The bear waded hump-deep into the river, sinking until only its head showed above the water. It lumbered forward, disappeared… then popped back up again, waves sloshing over its head when it reached mid-river.

  “Watch for rocks. And don’t move, not even to breathe if he looks in our direction.”

  The bear hunched forward and splashed across the river to shore. It stood there, nosing the air. The head started shaking, then the neck and on down, a misty ball enveloping the animal as its coat flopped one way and its body the other, the nose up again immediately after.

  Ron managed not to laugh. They’d been knocking heads with the wind all morning, and now he realized—How about that shit?—it had been in his favor all along. Ole blackie could test the air, sure. But catch their scent? No friggen way. />
  After locking in the landmarks where the bruin eventually disappeared, Ron shifted his focus to shore. “There’s a spot. Tony, swing her around.”

  Tony was ready, his paddle scraping bottom while Ron drew the stern around. They ferried toward shore, rocks scraping the hull until they finally ran out of water. Tony leaned and threw a leg out. “Give me a second and I’ll—”

  Ron splashed overboard and ran the Tripper to shore. “Try to drag this up a little higher. I need to give Bull a heads up. And untie the tarp,” he said, and trotted away.

  Mark and Hayden were turning in. “What’s up, McClure?”

  “Just get to shore,” he said, huffing past. “I’ll fill you in in a minute.” Ron hurried a few steps further and trotted over when Charlie headed for shore.

  “Guess you didn’t see him, either.”

  “The elk?” Charlie said, out in a brace. “Yeah, I saw them.” As far as he knew, they were still a good five miles from camp. “So’s it break time?”

  “Actually, I was wondering if you’d like to take a hike.”

  “Sure, once we reach….” Charlie caught the gleam in Ron’s eye. “You weren’t talkin’ elk were you? You see one?”

  Ron caught the end cap riveted to the hull. “Yeah. A nice one, too.” The Grumman scraped to a stop. “Spotted him crossing the river not more than a couple of hundred yards from here.”

  “You’re shittin’ me.”

  “Later maybe, but not this time. How deep is the ammo box buried?”

  Charlie’s jaw dropped open. “You’re serious? Really?”

  “I was hoping to surprise you, Bull. But now we’re wasting time. Come on and get moving. I’ve got a feeling this is our lucky day.”

  Though the risk of being stopped by a game warden was slight, the penalties were severe enough that they’d packed the ammunition in Charlie’s boat and the firearms in Ron’s. The ammo box was military issue, with a waterproof, dual latch lid. There were five boxes stacked inside: three labeled .30-06; the other two .44XX Magnum.

  “I was wondering why that thing was so heavy. You got enough ammunition there to start a war.”

  “Not when they’re mostly empty.” Ron got one of the boxes. “Fisherman grab their tackle box; I grab this one is all.” He spilled out a handful of magnum rounds and handed them to Charlie. “You ever handled a handgun?”

  “Once or twice. I’m gonna be your backup, aren’t I?”

  “Tell you what. If I don’t connect in the next hour or two, I’ll be your backup for the rest of the trip,” he said, pocketing six shiny 180-grain soft points. “Deal?”

  Charlie knew the odds of stalking within bow range. “Probably the only bear we’re gonna see on the trip anyway. Yeah, sure… why not?

  “Mind if I dig out some camo?”

  “A couple of minutes won’t matter. But try not to stretch it,” Ron said, starting back. “We wait too long and who knows where he’ll end up?”

  “You guys can screw around here while we’re gone,” Ron said while Charlie strapped on the holster. “Up river is fine, but not down. Bears can’t see worth a shit, and the wind’s in our favor, but they’ve got great ears. So keep it quiet.”

  “Any idea how long?” Hayden asked.

  “An hour maybe. Two if we get lucky.”

  Mark yawned. “Uh huh, like that’s gonna happen.”

  “Remember, Bennett… he’s going in your boat.”

  “No problem. I’ve got room under my seat.”

  Charlie buckled his fanny pack, then felt to make sure the clasp across the revolver’s hammer was secure. “All set, McClure. Where to?”

  “I’ll let you know when we get there,” Ron said, breaking into a trot.

  “Good luck, fellas. Try not to get lost.”

  “Thanks, Tony. We won’t.”

  “Now that I believe,” said Mark, grubbing under the tarp for his fanny pack, which not surprisingly was still wet from yesterday. “Either of you guys up for a snack? I got a gorp bar or two I can spare.”

  Tony raked a knot from his hair. “A what bar?”

  “A gorp bar. You know, good ole raisins and peanuts?” He handed one to Tony, and tossed another to Hayden. “Marie made ‘em special for this trip. Says they got lotsa carbs.”

  Tony straddled the bow of Ron’s boat, using the Styrofoam for a seat. “Funny I haven’t heard the name before.” He took a bite. “Has a nice crunch to it. Think she’d mind if I asked for the recipe?”

  “After my telling her what a great cook you are, I’m sure she’d be tickled pink that you’d even ask.” Mark glanced at his watch, and by chance glimpsed a silver reflection in the water. “Prentler, where’d you pack the poles? Looks like a nice place to try wetting a line.”

  “They’re pinched along the hull here somewhere.” Hayden loosened a bungee cord. “You catch anything, I might even join you.” He pulled a beer from one of the cases, and gave it a toss when Mark nodded. “As far as that goes, if the fish are biting we can rustle up lunch right here.”

  Ron and Charlie disappeared into the woods. Mark snapped open the can. “You mean you’re not going to save room for bear steaks?”

  Hayden chuckled. “I think we can risk it.”

  4

  Ron went to a knee, studying the scuff marks, traces of mud smeared across the needles. “They’re his alright,” he mumbled, and got to his feet. “I hope the fuck you’re good at this, cause this sure as hell isn’t going to be easy.”

  “You can ease off on the throttle, McClure. It’s up hill, okay? And as long as it doesn’t get too rocky, we’ll find ‘im. I mean shit… it’s not like he’s got retractable claws.”

  The more he looked the more Ron started noticing the darkened tufts winding through the trees. “Sorry, Bull, I’ve never had to track anything in a pine forest before, and the needles had me going for a second. But I’ve got him now.

  “Stay left of the trail,” he said, and moved out. “I’ll take right.”

  “Okay, will do.”

  They followed the spoor up the hillside, moving cautiously while scanning for signs of movement. The forest exuded a primal feel: quiet, dark, and as yet untouched by the woodcutter’s axe. Shooting lanes stretched for a hundred yards in almost every direction, which by itself was a change from Wisconsin where the visibility could often be under twenty. There, too, you could peel away the leaves and find the tracks you were looking for. Here it was nothing but pine needles, the only traces of an animal’s passage being depressions or scrapes in the sometimes slippery carpet. Twice already, Ron was sure they’d lost the trail, and both times it was Charlie, after circling uphill through the trees, who picked it up again.

  Within half an hour, slivers of daylight were showing at the top of the ridge. The trees were smaller, and more spread out. There were more rock outcrops. And here and there the first scrawny bushes, not yet fully green. But still no sign of the bear.

  Charlie joined Ron on the way to the top. “Down to the wire, huh?”

  “Maybe. But all the cards aren’t on the table yet.”

  They slipped toward the ridgeline, crouching when trees across the valley came into view, and covered the last few yards on their hands and knees.

  Waist-high scrub stretched along the ridgeline, the hill beyond sloping gently for thirty yards before dropping almost vertically to the edge of a marsh that reached to the woods opposite the valley. The rotted hulks of long fallen aspen lay scattered amongst a veritable forest of stumps, notches chewed in the bases of nearly every tree still standing; peaks like teeth reaching across the horizon, the tallest licking at the clouds.

  “Least ways we know where the beavers came from.”

  Ron shuffled loose stones from beneath his elbow. “That last card I mentioned…?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Caught a deuce. Check out the third island on the left.”

  Partially screened by a clump of bushes was their long sought quarry, the bruin busy tearing apart
a log. “Told ya we’d find ‘im. Things go right, you can pull to an inside straight.”

  Ron was easing the sling off his shoulder. “Yeah, well, it helps to have help.”

  “Any time,” said Charlie, yard long hunks flying as the bear ripped into the log. “He’s a beauty, man. Gotta love that coat….”

  Wisconsin had been a bust, twice. Not this time. Finally he was going to have his bear. Over the years he’d taken two good whitetails, a so-so four-point muley, and a nice Russian boar, that one during a packaged deal that he’d organized more as a present to his dad.

  Ron could already visualize the lustrous black rug splayed across the floor of his den—a ferocious expression forever frozen on the bear’s snarling face.

  “…searchin’ for grubs is my guess.”

  Ron wagged his head. “Say again.”

  “Never mind.” Charlie smiled. “Think you can take him from here?”

  “Range-wise I’m okay. But I am a little worried about sneaking it in there….” The shot was quartering away and would have to clear the jumble edging the island. Ron checked along the ridge. “Be different if I had a scope. But from this angle I probably shouldn’t chance it. I don’t want to wound him, and sure as hell don’t want to drag him any farther than we have to.”

  “Or have to go wading.”

  “Yeah, that too.” The ridge curved south behind a series of outcrops stacked along the drop. “That point with the gnarly pine looks in about the right place.” Ron hiked a thumb at the woods. “Let’s head back. We’ll swing around and catch him from behind.”

  They backed away and slipped below the ridge—“This is the part I like,” Charlie said—then hurried through the forest. Checking mid-way to verify their position, Ron made a final loop before easing into the open. Safely hidden by the granite outcrop, Ron slipped the rifle from his shoulder and, motioning to Charlie, hurried down the incline.