by Ron Carlson
“They’re closed.”
“I’ll call him.”
“I’m not getting in a hot pool with you.”
“Vonnie, you can trust me. Look, you’re in my tent.”
“Mack, I came up here. And I’m glad I did. I trust you. I guess. But this trip is it. You know that.” She rubbed her ears hard and handed him the towel and smiled, all clean. “I’ll see you in town.”
He said, “From time to time. Maybe at the post office. I’ll carry your packages.”
“No you won’t.”
“This mess is ready,” he said, showing her the fry pan. “Let’s eat.”
She dressed and came out into the dark day. “Rain,” she said. He doubled the paper plates and handed her one with a fork. “One stop shopping,” she said, looking at the pastry and eggs. “I’m not set up for rain, but maybe it will hold off.”
“Maybe it will snow,” he said. “We’ll have to camp in, have you trust me all winter.”
The sky was a gray pillowed gridlock. They ate the eggs and tore the warm bear claws into sections which they dunked in the strong milky coffee. Mack wiped out his pans and handed Vonnie his plates. “Here, you do the dishes.” She slid the egg-smeared paper plates into the fire. He stood up and looked out over the sullen sheet of Valentine Lake. “Well,” he said. “Let’s get ourselves up to Clark and close this party down.”
They packed daypacks and rejoined the main trail, walking a mile and a half to the wooden bridge over the Wind in the long meadow. Sitting on the logs, they shook out their boots and retied them. “Oh my,” Mack said. He pointed to a thick line of white smoke above them in the river valley, rising and knotted and turgid in the overcast. “The undergraduates are having a big breakfast.”
“They need a lesson from you in campfires.”
He stood. “Let’s go around. We can go up to Lower Divide Lake and over from there.” The smoke drifted now along a distinct ceiling through the mountain valley. They turned and followed the main trail east past the Forest Service sign for Little Joseph Lake and on to the unmarked foot trail to Upper Divide. This side of the mountain cirque was open, tall brush, grass and willows ascending through a broad marshy drainage. There were plank and log bridges in the low places and in the warm close day they could smell the sweet marsh grass and pine. It felt good again to walk and they didn’t talk. About halfway up Vonnie stopped him with her open hand on his chest. He’d been watching his feet and he looked up to see the moose, a cow right next to the trail. She lifted her head and looked over her shoulder at them, chewing. Her coat was lush this late in the season, deep brown, and her eyes were calm. She chewed and held the stare. After a full minute Vonnie pushed him back and they retreated to a place where they could go up and around. They didn’t speak even regaining the trail on the other side of the meadow, climbing now through the switchbacks on the last hill below the lake.
“A lot of detours on a day,” she said.
Upper Divide was a ten-acre lake lined on the upper side by the rock slope. Mack and Vonnie followed the overgrown trail along the lake’s edge to where the trees gave onto the talus. She sat on a block of granite and pulled out her canteen. Mack sat.
“Our moose,” he said. They had camped here one year, across the lake in a place that had a huge log fallen across which had been all furniture to them, table, shelf, chair. They’d made love against it. “I know where your initials are right over there,” Mack said now.
“It’s not our moose,” Vonnie said, handing him the water. “You’re just full of ghosts.”
“I’ve got a living memory, if that’s what you mean.”
“You’re like a bus full of ghosts.”
“Perhaps,” he said. “Yeah, there are ghosts. You don’t have any?”
“No, sir,” she said.
“Not even me?”
“No, Mack, not even you.”
“That is one hell of a therapist you’ve got.”
“It’s dark as night,” she said. “I could use some sun.”
“Not today, I’m afraid.” She was already up and on the trail where it crossed away from the lake on its way up to Clark. Now the walking was level, traversing the mountainside in the tall trees, a quiet, humid twilight, and they breathed and talked as she led him five feet ahead along the way.
“What are your plans? And don’t make something up.”
“I’m going to get on top of my debts, save the ranch, most of it.”
“What was it, chapter seven?”
“I’m not talking about this.”
“Kent knows. Come on, Mack.”
“Kent knows all about it; he represents half my creditors. Chapter seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven and what have you. I’ll be good for every dollar, just not this year.”
“What’s that?” Vonnie said, lifting her head, smelling something. They stood as if listening and Mack could smell the powerful odor of loam.
“Dirt?” he said. They filed around a narrow corner formed by a rock palisade and were confronted by a fresh talus slide, the dirt and rocks rolled into a mound the size of three houses, fanning downhill. They stepped back and assessed the phenomenon.
“Wow,” Vonnie said. She looked at the rock pile.
“Let’s go down around,” he said.
“You lead,” she said. “When did this happen?”
“Probably last spring when it froze and thawed three times.” The huge spillage was a regular landslide and the leading edge abutted two great folds of torn earth and twisted trees, cockeyed and still growing at desperate angles. Grasses and tiny wildflowers were sprouting at the seams. They followed the far side up again under the mountain shoulder and into the tall trees which grew taller and then even more majestic as they walked. There was already a new trail around the obstruction, oddly well worn for a game trail. It dipped and followed up to the original path they’d been on and they continued into big timber. Here the trees were truly grand, twenty feet apart with trunks four feet in diameter and branches that started thirty feet from the ground. There was no undergrowth at all, just duff and packed earth in the dark place and it was quiet.
“This is weird here,” she said.
“Magical,” he said. They both saw it for what it was, the kind of grove where they would have stopped and made love in the old days. The privacy was overwhelming, a feeling in his chest. “Do you want me to tell you a story?”
“The cannibal was scrupulous and full of regret, but no story,” she said, “thanks.” Now there was the sound of a stream, but they came to none. The temperature dropped a little in the glade.
“What is that?” she said.
Mack stopped and said, “It’s raining.”
Now it could faintly be felt, the mist pooling from the interwoven canopy. The feeling of enclosure was complete; they walked on in silence through the forest rooms.
“I love this,” Vonnie said.
“These are the oldest trees up here.” They continued another hundred yards when Mack stopped short and, back against a tree, grabbed Vonnie’s arm and drew her to him.
“Don’t.”
“Quiet.” His serious face made her stop struggling.
“What is it?” She knew to whisper.
“There,” he tipped his head. “Look there.” Across the dark space made by the mossy trunks was a gray tent. It all came into focus: the fire ring and the big tent, and two gutted elk hanging by the heels from a horizontal log nailed to two of the big trees. He watched her face and whispered, “Anybody?” They were both still.
She looked over his shoulder. “No.”
“Smoke in the fire?”
“No.” She stood against him.
“Shit,” he said.
“Poachers.” She reached into her front pocket and withdrew a tiny camera and stepped to take a picture.
Mack had been jolted. The stark tableau was obscene in the dim forest enclave and had thrown over the day. There was blood on the trees. “Let’s go, Vonnie.”
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br /> “These assholes.”
He could hear the camera firing. “Enough, go back.” They turned and walked quickly up the way they had come, hurrying. As they proceeded, there was less cover and the rain now fell steadily, not a passing rain. At the rock slide they sat under a tree and broke out the canteens.
“Nice camera,” Mack said. “Kent give you that too?”
“Do you know where we are?” she asked him.
“Yes, I could report it.”
“Okay then.”
“You got your phone in your car.”
“In my pocket.”
“You had your phone?”
“Don’t act surprised. Kent told me to.”
“So much for our agreement,” he said. He heard the device chime as it powered up. Vonnie watched the screen. “No service.”
“We’re against this hill,” he said. “Let’s go up to Clark and you can make your phone calls.”
“Mack, we’re going back. We want away from these guys.”
He knew she was right; it was bad business in the woods. They looked real. This wasn’t a story; these were guys set up for butchering; there’d been other elk hanging here all summer. “Okay, let’s go.”
As he spoke, a figure came up from the torn earth out of the crazy tilted trees and behind him another man. It was everything Mack did not want to see; it was like watching an accident. They were carrying a twelve-foot pole on which was tethered a gutted cow elk, her head hanging and grazing the trail as they approached. Mack stood as the first man saw him, and then Vonnie stood. The man wore dirty khakis and a long-sleeve black T-shirt with a shooting vest over it. His rifle was shouldered with a strap. He was about forty and his expensive haircut was parted on one side. He didn’t stop but stared at the two, Mack and then Vonnie, walking closer. The second man was older and heavier, all in denim shirt and pants. This guy was chewing something rapidly and his eyes were glassed. His scoped rifle was shouldered as well and he had a homemade buzz haircut that was a week old.
Mack measured it all and took Vonnie’s hand and pulled her up behind him. “Howdy,” Mack said.
Neither of the men answered. The two men just looked, and then the first man, the younger one who had an actor’s narrow face, said, “Hello, Mack.”
Vonnie gasped.
“Canby,” Mack said.
They both looked at the elk tied to the pole.
“What the hell?” the heavy man said. His shirttails were out and there was blood on both thighs of his pants. He was the one with the big knife, Mack guessed. His face looked caught, scared.
“Such luck,” Wes Canby said. “You dumb fuck.” He shifted his load and smiled. “You going to kill me?”
“We’re fishing,” Mack said. “Just fishing.”
“Not anymore,” Canby said. The rain fell and sounded over them all. The two hefted their dead weight and the elk’s head bobbed below its slit throat.
“We didn’t see you,” Mack said. He pulled Vonnie past the first man, and past the elk steaming in the rain, ripe and gamy, and past the bloody man.
“Put it down,” Canby said to his partner, and they began to lift their burden to the side.
“Go,” Mack said, pushing Vonnie ahead of him on the trail. “Run.” She did. Two steps, and she was striding nicely through the wet track. Mack followed, and the first twenty steps he made sure he stayed between her and the poachers. He could feel the shot coming, and then they were down and around a turn, and then fifty yards and a hundred. The rain had dropped a notch and settled in for the long haul everywhere. It felt oddly warm. He hated running in the woods. Vonnie was sprinting and Mack fought to catch her daypack and pull her back.
“Just jog, watch your step. Don’t race and don’t fall.” The trail was wet and then became a stream, and they ran splashing along the mountain trail as it rose and dipped against the high slope. They ran and he waited for the adrenaline to subside and for his knees to burn, but it did not subside and they ran on. He hadn’t looked at his watch and he hated that too. He didn’t know how long they’d been running. The mud gathered in the cleats of their boots and all of their footprints were magnified; easy to see. It would be like following an elephant. They ran through the grass where they could, but always they had to return to the muddy furrow. His heart was hammering flint and then it too settled into a drum and he got his vision back and they dropped down the trail. They could not outrun a 30.06 or a 273. They couldn’t outrun a .22 squirrel gun. They ran out of the forest and through a meadow, willow green in the muted day, and then into the trees again where the footing was a touch more secure, the wet dirt without the grasses. Vonnie had always been a good runner; they’d done two ten-K’s when? Seven years ago, six? She made you want to run, because she was so fluid and it looked easy. When Mack ran it looked like work. She glided now five yards ahead of him, slowing sometimes to make sure of the trail, and twice they had to stop and back up to find it. Every time they came into the small meadows the rain seemed to have increased. They broke into a narrow meadow that Mack didn’t recognize and Vonnie slipped, clutched at a willow, and went down on her back, striking her thigh on the rocks. She hopped immediately up and fell down again.
“Oh shit, Mack.” Her cargo shorts were soaked and the wound was there on her thigh, a five-inch gash clawed by the stones and already printed with blue bursts. It looked angry and embedded with dirt. He fingered a small stone from her flesh and she gasped. “No no,” she whispered. “Don’t touch.”
There was no time to assess it. He pulled her backward, hands under her arms off the trail twenty feet, regretting the bent grass. Her eyes were open and she wasn’t pale. They were breathing heavily and still he left her there and he circled up and regained the trail and then ran along another fifty yards, making a big show there of turning into the upside woods. He stood a moment and then threw his fishing pole down, the coup de grâce. He couldn’t remember the last false trail he’d laid; it would have been in a game as a kid. In the duff he could walk without marking and he again circled and found Vonnie. Now she was truly pale and her eyes were saucered.
“I’m okay.”
“We’re ditching,” Mack said. He pointed. “We’ll go down deadhead and hide.”
He stood her up, and she fell over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry, and she said, “Oh,” quietly, but he felt her clench against the pain. Mack stepped heavily down through the branched deadfall and willows in a slow serpentine trying to keep from falling. Their breathing was synchronized now and they chuffed with each step. Two hundred yards farther and he was in the marsh, ankle deep which he hated, but every step allowed the willows to close behind them which he loved. He’d spent a lifetime taking the highline trails and now he was in the real muck. He continued swinging his steps down, trying to find anything elevated, some firm grace, but every weedy tuft turned out to be the same silt. He was glad he’d tied his boots so well. He was sweating in the rain and he marched left-foot-right until the adrenaline was off him, though he didn’t know if it had been a half hour or an hour. “I’m okay,” Vonnie would whisper from time to time into his back. “I hurt my leg is all.” Blinded by sweat, he stepped off the grassy bank into a beaver pool and went to his crotch in the water.
“Christ.”
He stopped and heard Vonnie say, “Water.” He located the dam, the mounded pile of sticks the size of a car and he waded slowly over to it.
“I’m going to set you here,” he told her.
“Oh,” she said. And with her heavily in his shoulder and tightly in his hands, he stepped up and leaned slowly forward until he was afraid he’d drop her and then he felt her bottom find the dam, and she held him now against her there as her face slid down along and past his own. “You can move your hands, mister. Thanking you very much,” she said. Her eyes were hooded and she boosted herself up out of the pond, her stunned face up in the rain, a tight-lipped grimace on her face.
“Okay a minute?”
“Okay a minu
te,” she said back to him.
Mack pushed around the pond, ten yards through the water now to his waist, and crawled out on all fours across the clearing from Vonnie. She smiled at him now and said, “It’s not bad,” but the corners of her mouth were tucked and trembling. Her beauty was a light in his chest, the delicacy of her face. He stood as best he could and stepped away into the marsh again looking for high ground and shelter. He crossed an acre of spongy grass and then mounted into the forest once more. It wasn’t dry ground but it was ground. He kicked his boots against a tree to free the mud, and he put his hands on his knees and tried to still himself and think of the next thing, but his thoughts would not line up. He had to get her. Mack stepped back into the swale and then the open pond and across to Vonnie who held her face down in the rain. She seemed now to be nodding at him for some reason, at everything.
“Are you okay? Can you hear me? Are you cold? I found a place we can hide.” He couldn’t lift her from where he stood, and so she turned and he put his hands under her arms. He could only drag her, her heels bumping and gliding through the wet place. Under the sketchy shelter of the pines, he examined the wound, careful not to press. It was a radical contusion but he didn’t think anything was broken. Her entire leg was covered with watery blood, but the bleeding had generally stopped and the rim of the cut was blue now and gray. Mack gathered a small bundle of kitchen match kindling, breaking the wiry leads from the underbrush, two handfuls, and he gave them to Vonnie and said, “Put this under your shirt against your belly.” She did. He gathered fifty finger sticks, all wet, and set them against a tree trunk. He gathered twenty branches, careful not to snap them, and laid them by the others in a loose stack which if the rain abated half would allow them to dry. He put his hand on Vonnie’s forehead.
“I fell, quite heavily, on my ass,” she said. “But I can tell you who is the vice president.” It was the question you asked concussion victims when they opened their eyes, an old joke of his father’s, because of a kid who fell off a horse when Gerald Ford was president.
“You want some tea,” he asked her.