NSummer

by Never Summer (retail) (epub)

  The pleasure of your peerless company

  Was everything in which my heart delights.

  Your lilting voice like some epiphany,

  The promise of a hundred carefree nights.

  Each playful syllable a fond caress.

  Each word a song, and in your childlike charms

  a world of feeling I could not express

  until I wrapped you in my aching arms.

  How sprightly you appeared upon the deck.

  Your impish smile, your knowing look a dare.

  I coaxed you gently once upon the neck,

  your slender fingers in my wavy hair.

  My hand upon your flushed and heaving breast.

  Another urgent look, and we undressed.

  FORTY FOUR

  Olsen’s tiny camper was parked on the edge of the landing, as before, surrounded by the usual flotsam and jetsam of a small post & pole operation: hand tools, drums of oil, one with a handle pump, five-gallon gas cans, a roll of steel cable, various lengths of chain, grappling irons, chain binders arrayed in a neat row, a cutting torch with gas and oxygen tanks, new and old tires, a pile of odd-shaped pieces of iron, miscellaneous gear...

  The dock though was strangely empty, vacant of product. This late in the season the landing should have been piled high with fence posts, sorted in different sizes and lengths. There also should have been a separate mountain of corral poles. Olsen’s flatbed was parked beside the antiquated crane that he had picked up for next to nothing. The year before, the old man had rebuilt its diesel engine at his yard and machine shop on the outskirts of Walden. Olsen had re-engineered the crane, customizing it to suit the small scale of his operation.

  But where was the old man? The tiny trailer was empty. The woods were silent. Yet, his pickup was parked nearby.

  Carl has to be around someplace.

  Tom walked aimlessly about the yard stretching his legs. He kicked a stone and whistled a tune. After a few minutes he returned to the Toyota and laid on the horn several times to announce his arrival. He switched on the radio and waited in the cab with the door open for the old man to return. A few minutes later Carl emerged from the trees behind the camper carrying a roll of toilet paper. The first thing Tom noticed was the paunch, or rather, its absence. Olsen was visibly thinner.

  Not good.

  It looked as though Carl had endured another operation. Tom drew some consolation from the fact that the old man moved with the same graceful step, like a cat. Olsen was as nimble as ever. Sympathy was out of the question.

  Best show no concern.

  Over the last few miles as he descended the north side of the pass and followed the access road up Snyder Creek, he had rehearsed how to dish up old “Battery Acid” a dose of his own medicine. Now, he meant to deliver.

  “Afternoon, Carl,” he said with a sweep of his eye across the near-empty landing. “I see you been terribly busy.”

  The old man grinned but he wasn’t buying. “I didn’t think you’d be back.”

  “I wasn’t sure myself. But here I am.”

  The old man rubbed his hand across a scratchy two-day beard. He tipped his sweat-stained fedora up in front, exposing his pale scalp which was nearly bald. The exposed flesh was white as snow, in contrast with his red face, fired by sun. His rough hands were akimbo, resting on his hips. “I wouldn’t a bet a wooden nickel on you coming back. You were so hot and heavy into the big stuff.”

  “Come on, Carl. I wasn’t that heavy into it.”

  “The hell you weren’t,” Olsen said. “You was shit on wheels to knock down everything this side of Chicago. So, what made you up and quit? Or did they fire your ass?”

  “Nobody fired me,” he shot back. Tom did not want to be having this conversation. He had not been here five minutes, and already he was fuming at Olsen. He was even more irritated with himself. He took evasive action. “I don’t see much in the way of production,” he said, motioning toward the empty landing. “What’s the holdup?” But there was more edge in his voice than he meant to deliver.

  Olsen was stone-faced. “You’re a funny guy, you know that?”

  “D’you want me back, or not?”

  Carl lifted a hand, as if to placate him. “Now don’t get all peeved. I was only being curious. Sure I want you back. You bet.”

  “I could start tomorrow.”

  Olsen nodded. “OK. That’s soon enough.”

  “If you don’t have any objections, I’ll camp where I did before.”

  “Camp where you please.”

  “Alright. I will.”

  There was a strained silence. But Carl’s craggy face slowly morphed into a grin. “For your information, smart ass, the landing’s near empty ‘cause I ‘jes sent out three big loads, day before yestidee. I had another cutter, guy was supposed to be here early this morning. But he’s a no show and...oh hey, your old pal Roper’s back. Drove in from San Francisca coupla’ weeks ago.”

  “Rope a dope!”

  “Late, as usual.”

  “That’s great. I haven’t seen him since last year.”

  “Don’t know if you heard, but after you and him finished last September, he went a gallivantin’ off to wild and wonderful California. Unless I’m mistaken, that was the last anybody around here saw of him. I only got a couple of postcards, and a short letter about six weeks ago. Roper didn’t like California.”

  “Did he say why?”

  “Ask him yourself. He’s working up the road a piece.” The old man chuckled. “Brought his new girl friend with him. Name of Rebecca.”

  “Yeah?”

  Olsen winked. “She’s a live wire.”

  Tom climbed back in his rig and motored up the road above the landing. A half-mile on, he found Roper sitting on a log by the side of the road, elbows on his knees. The large man was having a smoke. He had wood chips on his clothes and in his hair. A chainsaw lay beside his feet.

  “Make my day,” Roper said.

  “Good to see you, Dave.”

  The man blew smoke. “Where you been?”

  “You wouldn’t believe it.”

  “Try me.”

  “I will. But first I need to unload.”

  “Come by for dinner. Same as before.”

  “I heard about Rebecca.”

  Roper rolled his eyes.

  Tom reestablished his old camp on the same point of land where he had summered the year before. Why move? The site was unsurpassed. It lay on elevated ground in a stand of mature lodgepoles, at the confluence of Snyder Creek and a tributary branch. Firewood was abundant and close at hand. The site had plenty of cover and easy proximity to stream-side meadows, and superlative views in three directions; and it was optimal for another reason. The open aspect made the most of the slightest breeze, which helped to keep down the mosquitoes. A fast-flowing cold spring along the edge of the meadow about fifty yards upstream, supplied drinking water of unexcelled purity. Water suitable for washing was available by the bucket from a beaver pond closer still.

  Both branches were a succession of beaver ponds backed up behind well-maintained dams. The pools were full of native brookies. As Tom unloaded he watched them hit the surface.

  Shortly before sundown he showed up at Roper’s camp. His old friend had graduated from living in a tent and was now residing in the lap of luxury, a 25-foot Airstream camper. A woman was feeding a dog as he drove up. She was about six feet tall, had short blonde hair, and was very good looking.

  “Are you Tom.?

  “Yes. Nice to meet you.”

  “I’m Rebecca. This here’s Shep.” She motioned to the dog. “Dave’s expecting you. Go on in. Dinner’s on the stove.”

  Roper was standing by the table lighting a kerosene lantern. After he blew out the match, he carefully inserted the glass chimney back in the four-pronged holder. He adjusted the wick and slid the lantern to the middle of the table. Then he moved to the stove and lifted the top from a great steaming cast iron kettle and began serving up
a stew of some kind.

  “Goulash,” Roper said with relish, and handed Tom a large bowl full – big chunks of meat swimming in a sea of gravy. “Venison stew. Wait ‘til you taste it. This morning, the old man cut me some juicy steaks off that big buck he shot last week. The first of the season. Oh, sorry, I forgot what a finicky eater you are.”

  “Tom doesn’t eat venison?” Rebecca said. She had followed him in.

  “Well, I…” But Roper cut him off.

  “Why do you think he’s such a fly-weight? From subsisting on rabbit food.” The tone was mildly derogatory.

  The truth was, Tom did eat meat on occasion, though he eschewed the red variety.

  “It’s what there is. He’ll eat it or starve.”

  “I’ll manage,” said Tom.

  “Oh dear, if I had known,” Rebecca offered, trying to be helpful. “There’s taters and veggies in there, too. You can eat around the meat.”

  He made out OK though. In fact, the stew was delicious.

  It turned out that Rebecca was a radio talk-show hostess, and had her own midday show on a San Francisco station. Anyway, she did before she ran off with Roper.

  “We met in the tenderloin,” she said. “But I’m originally from Tucson.” She gave Roper a meaningful look that Tom was at a loss to cipher, some kind of private language. But apparently Roper failed to respond because she then gave him a vicious kick under the table. The big man took it without a flinch and went on eating as if nothing had happened. He had already loaded up on seconds.

  “If he thinks I’m going to be his squaw out here in the wilderness, and cook and clean for him…” Evidently too pissed to finish, she got up and began clearing the table. The moment she did, Roper smiled. He was down to wiping the bowl with his bread.

  “Carl’s got 200 acres of dog hair,” Dave said. “Enough pole timber to keep us busy ‘til the snow flies.”

  “Looks like he had another operation.”

  “Yes. Last April. They removed his appendix, among other things. He’s slowed down some.”

  “I noticed.”

  “Doesn’t do as much hauling as he used to. Another guy does a lot of it now. The other day I was kidding Carl about it. He showed me his new pink scar, across his lower gut. Almost with pride, like ‘Look at what I survived..’ I said, Carl, you’ll probably outlive all of us. I was only trying to commiserate but know what he said?”

  “I can guess.”

  “‘I aim to,’ he said. He wasn’t kidding either. He meant it, the old fart.”

  “He thinks he’ll last forever.”

  “So whatcha’ been up to?”

  He told them about Bobby Lighthorse, the mushroom and the wild goings on. He was not far into it when he saw Roper looking at him in disbelief. Roper’s face was stern but his eyes were neutral, maybe even smiling. “Lacey, you’re bat crazy. You know that?”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  Rebecca had been busy in the kitchen and now served up desert, pineapple upside-down cake which Tom thought was appropriate under the circumstances. It was melt-in-your mouth good. When they finished she cozied up beside Roper. The two kissed lightly on the lips. His cue that it was time to leave.

  He was going out the door when Roper said, “Let’s hit those high lakes, bud.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  “Next weekend.”

  “OK.”

  In subsequent days, the two fell into an easy work routine that never varied much. Sweat and wood chips became the order of things, bracketed by frequent good times. Tom usually finished work by 2 p.m., after which, he would clean up, then fish for his supper, or maybe go for a hike along Snyder Creek. Broad meadows up and down the stream were thick with willows, except where the beavers had thinned them out. There were also scattered stands of quaking aspen.

  High summer had come to the Rockies. The annual wild flower pageant was underway. The meadows were glorious, a mosaic of color. Some days he went upstream, other days down. The direction hardly mattered. Either way afforded equal opportunities to fish and view wildlife, and equally stunning vistas of dusk gathering over the Never Summer Range. The continental divide was only three miles upstream.

  Carl was visibly weaker and had lost a step. However, the old man was ornery as ever; he was hard to kill. After the operation his family had encouraged him to retire to an easy chair and be fussed over by daughters and grandkids. But Carl would have none of it. Long before, he had charted his path and he would stay the course. In Carl’s case it was the path of greatest resistance, forged out of sheer defiance. The old buzzard would work until he dropped.

  Though he had slowed, Carl remained as inventive as ever. He had bolted a small boom to the back of an ancient stripped-down jeep, which he also outfitted with a winch and cable. He was now using the custom-made rig to skid the poles and posts out of the woods. Not only did he handle all of the skidding, loading, and mechanical repairs himself, about every other week, when he felt up to it, Carl made a delivery to Denver or Greeley, and occasionally to points beyond. Somehow he got as much work done as most men half his age. This was due in about equal measure to his tenacity, his general cussedness, and to the fact that he knew how to conserve his energy. Carl never hurried. He had sworn off haste because, as he put it: “Ever’ time I hurry things go straight to the devil.” He worked in short and measured bursts of activity, between frequent food breaks and rest stops; and because he started early and was content to finish late, most days he managed to get in a full day’s work. Sometimes, to stay caught up, he even worked on Saturday; in other words, a six-day week; not bad for a tumorous seventy-eight year-old great-granddad.

  For all of that, there was no perceptible strain. The old man knew his limits. Though Olsen was as cantankerous as ever, there was no pressure to “get out the cut.” The atmosphere around the landing was relaxed and cordial. Carl set a modest weekly quota. He was happy to get out one load a week, and it was easily met. Production happened at its own speed. In the boss’s unhurried view of things, that was “damn soon enough.”

  Dave Roper, who was a minister’s son, was circumspect when Tom tried to engage him in philosophy. “Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies” was his catch-all comment about the human condition. Tom got the message and wisely refrained; but he often kidded his friend about his giantism. Roper, who was six-feet-seven, faced a multitude of challenges in a world designed for shorter men. Doorways were a constant challenge. Much of the time he had to lower his head to gain passage to wherever, and he often bumped it anyway. Beds were another issue as no ordinary mattress could accommodate him. The big man had grown accustomed to sleeping with his feet dangling in space; and he often suffered from cold toes. Showering posed another kind of challenge. Roper had to stoop just to get wet in his camper’s tiny shower stall.

  All the same, he never complained. His standard rejoinder was “Hey, it’s all relative.” When pressed, Roper would remind him “being an extra-large does have certain compensatory advantages, especially with regard to the ladies.” Roper’s relative advantage was eleven inches long.

  He and Rebecca were fortunate in that the Airstream had a propane powered water heater. It worked on-demand and afforded the luxury of hot water in their small kitchen, and hot showers. But the built-in storage tank held only about 30 gallons. So, every four or five days Roper had to motor down to the cold water spring near Tom’s camp to fill up a great cistern in the back of his pickup, using a hand pump. Which he would then download into the camper’s water tank. They used the same spring water for drinking and cooking.

  One day, when Roper had come for a refill, Tom fished two cold beers out of the spring and handed one to his friend. As usual, the big man had brought Shep along. The dog was about two-years old and loved to ride in the back of the truck with his nose in the wind. He was of mixed parentage, half Australian Border Collie and half coyote. Technically, he was a mongrel, but Shep was no ordinary dog. Roper claimed tha
t the animal was so intelligent that the only discipline he ever needed was an occasional mild scolding. He had never known a leash or a chain, nor had he ever been confined to a pen, not even in the big city. According to Roper, the San Francisco canine patrol picked him up on one occasion. Roper had been compelled to pay a stiff fine to reclaim him. However, the incident only proved the dog’s remarkable capacity for single-trial learning. Thereafter, Shep roamed as freely as ever, in flagrant violation of the city’s leash ordinance, and successfully evaded the dogcatcher. He was never apprehended again.

  “Did you hear the coyotes, last night?”

  “Yeah. They were howling up a storm. And really close.”

  “They were more than close. They came into my camp to check him out.” He indicated Shep.

  “Really?”

  “That’s the second time this week.”

  “Did they fight? I read somewhere that coyotes gang up on dogs and kill them.”

  “No. But it was pretty cool.”

  “So what happened?”

  “Tell you what. I’ll leave him with you. Maybe tonight you’ll get lucky and they’ll come back in. You need to see it.”

  “But Shep is your dog. Will he stay with me?”

  “Oh hell yes. Watch this.”

  When Roper topped off the cistern, he summoned the dog, talked to him, and gave him some friendly strokes. The tail-wagger nuzzled his hand with his nose.

  “Sit, Shep,” he said. The dog sat on command. “Now, stay, boy. You stay with Tom.” That was all. That was it. When Roper left with his load of water Shep remained behind and obediently followed Tom back to his camp.

  The last thing Roper said was, “Don’t yell at him. Just talk normal.”

  Later, that evening, when Tom had eaten and was cleaning up by the last light of his fire, he noticed a sudden flash through the timber, a light where no light ought to be. The weather had been overcast for several days.