The Last Homestead

by Warren Troy

  THE LAST

  HOMESTEAD

  Further Adventures of Denny Caraway, Alaskan Homesteader

  Warren Troy

  PO Box 221974 Anchorage, Alaska 99522-1974

  books@publicationconsultants.com—www.publicationconsultants.com

  ISBN 978-1-59433-366-8

  eBook ISBN 978-1-59433-364-4

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2013931661

  Copyright 2013 Warren Troy

  —First Edition—

  All rights reserved, including the right of

  reproduction in any form, or by any mechanical

  or electronic means including photocopying or

  recording, or by any information storage or

  retrieval system, in whole or in part in any

  form, and in any case not without the

  written permission of the author and publisher.

  Manufactured in the United States of America.

  Content

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Other Books By Warren Troy

  Chapter One

  Denny Caraway was relieved when his gloved hand grasped the wooden latch to the door of his cabin. It had been a long trudge from where he had taken a full-grown bull moose, carrying a front quarter on his pack frame, the straps digging deeply into his shoulders by the time he reached home.

  After walking into his small plywood cabin and removing the burden from his back, Caraway started a fire in his cast iron wood stove. He put a lit match to the kindling he’d stacked in the firebox and was pleased when it took the flame well, making it possible to quickly add larger wood. Within minutes he could feel the warmth emanating from the stove, though it would take a solid hour to heat up the cold cabin to a comfortable temperature.

  Looking into the tea kettle on the stove top, Denny saw there was enough water in it to make a cup of something hot to drink, once it melted back down from ice and came to a boil.

  The meat he had now brought in was the final load, the fifth such trip since he had shot the moose. He considered how the treks back and forth had seemed a lot longer with each successive one, but necessary, nonetheless, to have a good supply of winter food. He had made three trips the first day, wanting to get the meat home as quickly as possible.

  Denny regretted making the kill in a thickly-wooded area. He had trailed the moose through the trees into a small clearing that allowed a good clean shot. Though pleased such a large animal would yield plenty of food, he also realized he would not be able to use the snow machine and sled to haul it home, due to the dense undergrowth.

  The kill was over a mile away, and while the amount of soft snow on the ground wasn’t enough for snowshoeing, it did make walking a hard task. Following his own footprints had made it somewhat easier, but though he was fit, he was weary by the time he was through.

  Denny had been living by Lanyard Creek, a branch of the Salcha River, for over three years. Far from civilization, he embraced a rough life in the Alaska bush as the price he had to pay for the peace and solitude he valued so highly.

  He was no stranger to remote living, but his first attempt at such an existence had failed, the close proximity to other homesteaders proving to be his downfall. After moving out to this more isolated country, he succeeded in finding the life he needed—a truly solitary existence.

  Such self-imposed exile, away from all the everyday conveniences people take for granted, is only possible for a small number of people who have the mental desire, physical capacity, and the sheer grit to exist in the wilderness. Caraway was such a man, though it had taken time for him to clear the debris of his previous mainstream life enough to fully realize this was what he wanted and that he was capable of handling it.

  The cabin was nicely warmed now, and the water in the tea kettle was heated to boiling. Denny put a big pinch of Labrador tea into an old, heavy ceramic mug, poured in some boiling water, and put a saucer over the top to let the natural tea steep.

  Denny unstrapped the massive moose quarter from his pack rack, and then cut a slot in the smaller lower end between the massive knee tendon and joint. Running a piece of heavy cord through the slot, he picked up the leg and took it outside to where the other moose meat he had brought back was hanging from a cross pole tied between two trees. Tossing the end of the cord over the pole, he hoisted the quarter well clear of the snow-covered ground, tying the line to one of the supporting trees before going back inside to the welcome heat of the stove.

  The weary man was finally able to sit back in his cabin, the hot mug of tea in hand, his pacs off and drying near the woodstove. Denny thought about the second trip he had made back to the downed moose.

  When he had gotten within sight of it, he stopped to observe the scene in front of him. Caraway saw the snow had been disturbed in a wide area around what remained of the moose carcass, which was not in its original position. There were large, familiar tracks in the snow. With a well-conditioned reflex, he slipped the old Winchester 30-06 off his shoulder, and stood ready.

  A few seconds later there was a crashing in the willows, and with a loud roar a young grizzly bear had come charging out directly at him. Reacting instantly, Denny fired a round into the snow in front of the angry bruin, which had the desired effect of turning it away. It continued running, bawling loudly as it went, until it was out of sight and earshot. Denny didn’t stand down until the bear had been gone for several minutes.

  Though he was glad it hadn’t been an older, more determined bear, it could just as well have done him in, badly mauling or killing him. Luckily, it had chosen to leave the kill behind. The bear hadn’t been feeding long, and the meat was still in good condition. In the years he had been living in the bush, eight in all, he’d had his run-ins with bears. It was a fact of life in the Alaska wilderness. This incident had, as with previous confrontations, given him chills and goose bumps once it was over.

  Though snow had come early—the beginning of November—Denny wasn’t worried about dealing with another Alaskan winter. He had plenty of firewood and now meat. The last time he’d gone to Fairbanks for supplies near the end of the previous winter before spring break-up made travel impossible for weeks, he had stocked up on dry provisions such as flour, coffee, and sugar, as well as perishables that needed replacing more often. But soon, he would have to make a run to replace the goods he had used through the spring, summer, and early fall.

  He didn’t look forward to the journey. It wasn’t because of the long day’s ride to the Richardson Highway from his homestead, and another long run up the road to Fairbanks. Denny just didn’t like having to leave his isolated paradise to go into any crowded center, even Salcha, which had a population of less than 900 inhabitants. But he had long ago learned that if something had to be done, you didn’t hang fire over it, you did what was necessary.

  For the time being, Denny dropped the idea of another supply run, which coul
d only be made when the snow layer was deep and firm enough to allow him to pull a freighter sled behind his old snowmobile. Right now, he needed to cook and eat some of the fresh moose meat to replenish what he had lost physically on the trail carrying those heavy loads. He had stashed half the back straps in the cooler box, along with the heart and kidneys.

  The stove was now hissing hot. Denny lifted the larger of two cast iron skillets hanging on spikes driven into one of the walls. Placing it on the top of the stove, he took the quart jar of cooking oil rendered down from the fat of the black bear he had shot more than a year ago. Sniffing it, he was happy to find it still smelled sweet. Caraway had come to favor bear oil for cooking and baking over any store-bought oils. It didn’t seem to saturate whatever he was cooking, and it adds to the food’s flavor.

  Pouring some oil into the already-heated skillet, he walked over to the sheet metal box made from an old fuel can that he had set into the floor in one corner, for a cooler. Taking out a kidney, he rinsed it off in clear water, and cut it into thick slices with his hunting knife, laying them in the oil bubbling in the hot skillet. The meat immediately began sizzling. Not having eaten since early morning, the sound and smell of frying meat filled his senses, making his mouth water.

  Denny found one sorry-looking little onion left in the sack under the counter. After trimming the bad parts away, he still had enough left to cook with the meat in the skillet. He really liked fried onions, especially with fresh game.

  It took only a few minutes for the meal to be ready. Placing the food on a plate, he went over to the counter again, lifted the lid to the Dutch oven, and took out a piece of the fry bread he had made several days earlier. A teaspoon of instant coffee in the old mug, boiling water added, and his dinner was complete.

  Eating was not normally a special event for Denny in the urban mainstream life he had lived before coming to Alaska. He rarely cooked then, usually eating at a coffee shop or restaurant, so a meal was just a meal. On his remote homestead, the most basic priorities of life regained their true meaning for him. Besides needing to replenish himself, Denny looked forward to meals usually made of what he himself provided. This was one reason Caraway loved the arrival of spring in his northern home. He knew all the edible plants would be coming up soon, adding much needed greens to his plate. He especially liked fiddleheads, immature ferns picked just after they rose up from the forest floor. Steamed and slathered with butter when he had some, plain when he didn’t, they were really delicious. Baby nettles were a real tonic in spring, too. But this simple plateful of game meat, onions, and homemade bread would do just fine for now.

  Denny paused with a forkful of meat halfway to his mouth. The shrill call of a solitary wolf had sliced through the stillness outside the cabin. Denny walked to the door and opened it slightly, listening intently. Again the call broke out, this time being joined by another voice, and another. Caraway knew he had to get the meat cut up and into his cache right away, remembering an earlier moose he had left too long on the cross pole. He had come out to find over half the meat gone or torn up by sharp fangs and claws. A bear had come in and wreaked havoc on the hanging flesh. Strangely, Denny hadn’t heard a sound, nothing awakening him from sleep. It still puzzled him that he hadn’t been aware of what was going on.

  He hadn’t tracked the animal which had ruined his supply that time, knowing the meat was either ruined or digested already, and the idea of shooting the bear that had done the damage didn’t sit well with him, unless it came back. It hadn’t returned, but Caraway had learned his lesson, and afterwards had stored meat away quickly where nothing could reach it.

  Tired as he was, the homesteader set about the task of bringing the partially frozen meat into the cabin, one large section at a time, cutting it into appropriate pieces, and putting it up in game bags he had sewn from heavy cotton muslin. It took him several hours to get it all done, but the moose was now fully processed and stashed in the high cache behind the cabin.

  Standing outside the cabin door, admiring the clear, star-filled night sky, Denny had the sense of accomplishment he’d often felt since becoming a homesteader after he had done something to insure his survival, proving his ability to continue the life he had chosen.

  Now, it didn’t matter if the wolves he’d heard came in the night; his food was secure. Denny went back inside, threw a big piece of seasoned birch in the wood stove, damped it down, and went to bed. Perhaps he would wake up this time if something was prowling outside.

  Morning broke clear and a lot colder than the previous day, though darkness would remain until ten. Denny woke up to a cold cabin. He lay in bed a while, not wanting to leave its welcome warmth. His mind settled on the wolf calls from last night. It motivated him to start his day. Slipping out of bed, he pulled on his ratty old insulated Carhartt bibs, a rough wool shirt, and wooly slippers. The fire in the stove still had some glowing red embers, so all he needed to do was toss several pieces of wood in and leave the door and damper open for the fire to be renewed. He checked the teapot. There was plenty of water in it for coffee.

  Waiting for the water to heat would take a while, so after shutting the stove door he slipped into his pacs and beaver skin hat and went outside to answer nature’s call and breathe in the fresh pure air of an Alaskan morning.

  The sight of several sets of wolf prints brought him out of his morning reverie. They were a couple dozen feet from the cabin, and about the same distance from the empty meat pole.

  Then he found markings in the snow suggesting that at least two of the wolves had lain facing the cabin door, if he was interpreting them correctly, as if they were waiting for him to come out. Denny pondered why the wolves would do such a thing, but he had long ago learned not to assume anything in the bush. The unexpected was always possible, the unexplainable always around. The cold was really soaking into him now, so he went back in to warm up and eat breakfast.

  Chapter Two

  A solid foot of snow fell about a week after Denny had stored his moose meat. Now he could make a run to restock his dwindling supplies. The night after the snow fell, Caraway sat at his little hand-sawed spruce table, making a list of what he needed.

  His first homesteading location hadn’t made things difficult when it came to resupplying. He had been well within reach of the stores and shops in the town of Hazel, making the trip in a few hours in winter or summer. But now, his home on Lanyard Creek required a much longer ride on his snowmobile to get to the road system, coming out at the little community of Salcha, and then a run up to Fairbanks by pick-up, to get everything he needed.

  The homesteader double-checked his list: foodstuffs; clothing to replace worn-out pants, socks, and shirts; some tools; and parts for his chainsaw. As always, the list included some treats: a big bag of the licorice whips he loved, some chocolate chip cookies, peanut butter, and a small bottle of good bourbon for special occasions. He also needed to haul in twenty-five to thirty gallons of gas, and five gallons of kerosene for his lantern.

  Denny had originally bought a supposedly heavy-duty plastic freighting sled for hauling, but it had lasted only a winter and a half before breaking up on a rough stretch of trail halfway home, with about 500 pounds of supplies in it. He’d made repeated runs to get all the goods to the cabin, carrying what he could in the snowmobile’s rear rack and on the back portion of its seat. It had taken most of the night to get it all in to his homestead. A week later, he rode back out and drove up to Fairbanks to buy a sturdier sled.

  Denny had found the hauling sled he needed in an outdoor supply store in Fairbanks. It had a heavy aluminum frame and body, and four skis, the two in front swiveling with the hitch bar for better handling. It had been built for expedition and rescue work, and was a fine rig. He had to pay a steep price for it, but Caraway knew it could easily handle a heavy load, and would last as long as he did. It was worth the trip to find such a great piece of equipment.

  Now, he was prepared for another run up to Fairbanks. The skidoo wa
s all fueled up and ready to go. The sled held his emergency pack, snowshoes, and six empty five-gallon plastic gasoline containers.

  The weather was clear and crisp, almost fifteen degrees below zero. Denny had experienced much colder weather, so this was no deterrent. The temperature had made the snow perfect for riding. Denny hated to run over wet, clingy snow, especially with a loaded sled, which could bog down easily and be a rough go to get unstuck.

  His Skidoo came to life with two pulls on the starter cord. He marveled that the twenty-year-old machine still ran so well, even in sub-zero weather, and he dreaded the time when it would ultimately wear out. If he could, he’d try to find the same kind of machine to replace it when necessary.

  Denny always got what he called “trail jitters,” a mixture of excitement and nervousness, just before every ride. He never knew what lay waiting for him amongst the hills and valleys and in the forest. Still, he was always glad to start his journey and experience the adventure of the trail.

  Dressed for the trail, the 30-06 slung on his shoulder, Denny mounted the snowmobile. He pressed down on the thumb throttle and the machine jumped forward as if it too was looking forward to the run. If all went well, by late afternoon Caraway would reach his destination.

  Chapter Three

  Charlie Brady owned and operated the North Star Cafe, in the town of Salcha on Richardson Highway. He had been an Alaska State Trooper for twenty years, the last thirteen as a wildlife officer, before retiring in this area of Alaska where he had always been assigned.

  Brady had come up from Montana to work for the troopers, with a powerful curiosity about Alaska. Now, twenty years later, his interest had not diminished, and he still enjoyed traveling in the areas he used to patrol when investigating illegal hunting cases and other bad behavior in the deep bush country. Charlie still loved to make snowmobile runs on the area’s established trails and other stretches not so well known to outsiders, and he hunted for caribou and moose when he could get away from the cafe.