NSummer

by Never Summer (retail) (epub)

  A wild fire?

  Almost immediately, though, he dismissed the notion. He also ruled out lightning. There was no indication of a storm, nor any wildfire. What, then?

  He set aside the half-scrubbed cook pot, rinsed his hands, and moved away from the circle of light. He stepped out from under the lodgepoles into the pitch-dark meadow. Gradually, his eyes adjusted.

  The evening was brisk. A stiff breeze was in the works. The sky was a scrambled sea of clouds. Shep was beside him now, nose high in the wind. The same strange light briefly reappeared, in the direction of Radial Mountain. It was kind of diffuse, but when the clouds briefly parted the sky yielded up its secret. It was the full moon rising.

  Damn.

  Now, came an unearthly howl from somewhere behind camp. It was not far off. One lonely yowl followed by many others, a high-pitched chorus of yips.

  Shep pricked up his ears. The dog was now agitated and began to speak, not a howl, more like a low moan. His nose tested the air in different directions. Suddenly, Shep disappeared into the dark timber.

  Tom followed.

  There was no seeing, now. The moon had retreated. Tom had to feel his way in darkness so complete he could barely see the nearest trees. The yowling and yipping intensified until the roiling mists, back-lit more and more brightly by the diffuse light, gradually parted, and the cool and crazy rays of the full moon filtered down, gently illuminating the vertical face of every lodgepole in a faint blue light.

  The howling was louder now and very close. Shep seemed drawn to it as if by some ancestral tide. No mistake. It was the call of the wild. Instead of trying to restrain him, Tom spoke soothing words. The pack was now within maybe fifty yards, just out of sight. All at once, the howling stopped. He could hear the troop moving about in the timber. Now, there was a renewed series of gentle yips. They were speaking to one another.

  Shep moved cautiously forward. The moon was full up, now, the woods backlit brightly, almost as bright as day. The leader came in closer than the rest of the pack.

  There followed an exploratory meeting in the moonlight, nose to nose, a kind of canine reunion as they sniffed each other, but only briefly. After maybe half a minute the ways parted and the true bloods were gone in the night.

  Later, the howling resumed from a great distance.

  FORTY FIVE

  That weekend Tom and Dave fished the high lakes at the head of the Michigan River. The lakes were like a string of pearls, each at a different elevation, all nestled in a spectacular bowl on the east side of Mount Richthofen, one of the highest peaks in the Never Summer Range.

  They set out after work Friday afternoon in Tom’s rig. Earlier, Rebecca had conscripted Roper’s truck and headed off to Denver to visit a girlfriend.

  The trailhead was at the end of a passable jeep track, about a mile beyond where the highway over Cameron Pass leaves the valley floor of the Michigan River to begin its steep ascent. By the time they reached the end of the road the sun had already dipped behind the Nokhu Crags, a jumble of pinnacles that dominate the western skyline in that part of the valley. The jagged peaks were punctuated by graceful snowfields.

  It was a five-mile hike up the valley to the string of high lakes. Roper had brought Shep along – not that he stayed with them. Most of the time the dog ranged far ahead, checking out everything, though sometimes he also backtracked to the right or left, following his nose through his olfactory world.

  They reached the first small lake before dusk, but pushed on past it, climbing steadily through a rocky garden of wild flowers.

  They moved up the string until they reached the largest lake. Immediately they dumped their packs, pulled out their rods and began fishing from the shore. Within ten minutes they had their supper, a mess of pan-sized native trout. Roper pulled out a fillet knife and went to work cleaning the fish while Tom stumbled about the gathering dark collecting wood, then built a fire. They cooked them up in butter, with a dash of salt and pepper. They fried potatoes in a second skillet. The fare was simple, nothing fancy, but the taste was out of this world. They washed it down with a bottle of red wine Roper had packed in.

  They were in complete darkness by the time they finished eating. The crackling fire was burning down to a red pile of coals. The night was warm and clear, so they decided to forego the tent and sleep out under the stars. They emptied their stuff sacks, plumped up their down bags, and stretched out with their hands beneath their heads under a dome big enough to make any mortal feel small and insignificant.

  The thin mountain air was like an open window, into…what? Infinity, maybe. The dark sky was a swathe of glittering diamonds.

  “Can you believe it? So many stars…”

  “I think I must have died and gone to heaven.”

  “Yeah.”

  “It doesn’t get any better than this.”

  “Just think of all those poor city folks. In their ticky-tacky homes and cramped apartments. With noisy neighbors and grouchy landlords. People who in all their lives have never seen the sky like this. The way it really and truly is.”

  “They don’t know what they’re missing.”

  “If we could figure out a way to bottle this and market it, hell, we’d be millionaires.”

  It was true. Tom had never seen the Milky Way so bright, not even the night he did the mushrooms. The aching beauty of it and the vastness canceled their conversation. What was the point? For a long time they studied the heavens, contemplating the wonder of it all. Occasionally, a silent meteor streaked across the vault.

  “Roper, what are we doing here?” Tom finally said.

  “Fishing.”

  “Come on. You know what I mean.”

  “Tom the philosopher.”

  “I know you’re deeper than you let on.”

  “You think too much.”

  The only answer was an all-encompassing beauty more profound than Kant, or any book about philosophy.

  Next day, they fished all of the pools, up and down. Soon they had plenty and were throwing them back, fishing for the fun of it.

  Sometime about noon they built a fire and had their lunch. Afterward, they set out to explore the tundra bowl beyond the lakes. The entire basin was above timberline. A person could walk for miles in just about any direction.

  Roper produced a camera from his pack. That was when they noticed a group of large animals grazing on a distant slope, across the basin. Roper identified them through his viewfinder.

  “Dahl sheep.”

  “Big horns!”

  “Yeah.”

  The sheep, about two dozen in number, were contentedly browsing a lush meadow just below Thunder Pass, on the border of Rocky Mountain National Park. The small herd was about a half-mile off.

  “This must be the group Carl’s been talking about. He says they’ve never been hunted. They live mostly inside the park.”

  “Let’s see how close we can get.”

  They set out and within about twenty minutes had covered most of the distance. As they hiked Roper used verbal commands to restrain Shep so the dog would not run ahead and spook the herd. Before they covered the last two hundred yards he ordered the dog to sit and remain behind. On command, Shep sat down and waited, just as he was told.

  At the last, the slope was very steep. Tom expected the sheep to bolt at any moment. But they never did. The bighorns had no fear whatsoever. Carl was right. They held their ground. They actually turned from their meal of grass to watch the humans. The sheep seemed genuinely curious. They were shedding the last of their heavy winter coats. Loose tufts of wool hung from their bellies, drifting in the gentle breeze.

  They got in very close, within about twenty feet. The killer was that, by then, Roper had shot all of his film.

  FORTY SIX

  The fishing was so good they stayed an extra night. Sometime Monday after lunch, they started back. Instead of retracing their steps down the valley though they clambered up and over the ridge north of the high lakes, and with Shep
in the lead made their way over some rough and trackless back country toward the Nokhu Crags.

  They came down about a mile from the crags through an old timber sale. The entire side of the mountain had been ripped apart by tractors, hundreds of acres thrashed beyond belief. They stumbled in shocked silence through a scene of devastation, a ragged stump field as far as they could see. Deep tractor ruts exposed forlorn masses of dead roots like wild beards. Whole stumps had been disemboweled along with their root wads and lay tipped at crazy angles. They climbed over man-made moraines of rocky earth and skirted piles of logs left behind to decay. Water was everywhere and on the move. An icy brook coursed down an anonymous access road through deeply rutted tracks. The road had washed out long ago, another scar from a forgotten past, the work of unknown men who had since moved on. It was mid-afternoon when they made it back to the pickup.

  After regaining the highway, Tom pointed his truck south toward Willow Creek Pass. As the miles sped by the subject of Tallie arose again. They had talked about her often, because Tom could not get her off his mind. Roper listened.

  “Sounds like you got it bad, man.”

  “I just can’t throw this one back.”

  “Well, partner, I hope you know what you’re doing. I never heard of an anorexic who ever had it together. Or much of anything on the ball for that matter.”

  “You haven’t met her.”

  “From what you’ve told me, I’m looking forward to it.”

  “You’ll get your chance. She’s coming.”

  “Yeah? When?”

  “Don’t know, but soon. I talked with her last weekend.”

  When their conversation played out Roper picked up a Denver station on the dial. It was Gordon Lightfoot singing Carefree Highway. After the song they got some news, including a breaking story about Bowen Gulch. “Turn it up.”

  The story was sketchy. Apparently some of the details had been made public about how the deal went down with Western-Pacific. Governor Roy Romer had played a key role. Someone had just leaked a copy of his letter to the Forest Service regional office in which he urged the agency to arrange either a buy-back of the timber in Bowen Gulch, or work out some kind of trade. Public opinion had turned decisively against the timber giant. Badly stung by negative publicity, Western-Pacific had reluctantly bowed to the inevitable, and agreed to the latter option, a trade in timber volume. Leading Republicans had responded with outrage and openly rebuked the governor but to no avail. The segment ended with an interview with an octogenarian grandma, a long-time Granby resident and a well-known pillar of the community. Her great granddaughter had been arrested at the gate with the other protesters. In an aging nasal voice the elderly woman told the reporter, “If I had known what Shelly was doing I would have been there myself. I’m a hiker, you see, an outdoors person. Have been all my life and proud of it too, an’ I didn’t live 88 years to see those bleep destroy that beautiful place. Not for a chintzy buck...”

  “Hmm, I never met Shelly.”

  A half-hour later they reached the landing.

  “Carl won’t be thrilled that we missed a day’s work.”

  “He’ll get over it.”

  “We’ll make him an offer he can’t refuse.”

  Olsen’s skid-jeep was parked outside the tiny camper. He was apparently inside, probably on break, and they heard him as they approached. Carl was talking to somebody in a foreign language.

  “Omigod,” said Tom.

  They banged on the screen door.

  “They’re back,” said Carl. “Come in.” He was seated at the small table across from Tallie. The two were carrying on a spirited conversation in Norwegian. The tiny trailer was barely big enough for three let alone four. Somehow Roper ducked in. He stood cramped in the kitchenette.

  “Well if it isn’t the happy hooligans,” the old man said with a harrumph. There was not a trace of the usual vinegar. Tom was startled. Carl was anything but his usual gruff self. He was bare headed, which was also strange. The sweat-stained fedora was sitting on the table next to a teapot and a pair of mugs. The old man was in a jovial mood. Tom had never seen him so expansive. The conversation continued in a lively manner. Tom understood not a word of it. Tallie was apparently explaining something to Carl who exploded with one of his idiosyncratic belly laughs. When it had run its course he pulled out a rag and blew his nose with conviction. Then, he straightened his bifocals and grabbed his fedora. The old man started to slide out of the seat, though the place was packed.

  “Now, if you two delinquents will clear me a path,” he said, “I’ve got work to do.” Carl cleared his throat. Roper made way. Carl said something to Tallie on the way out but Tom missed it. The old man was straightening his suspenders as he stepped out after them. Carl laid a firm hand on Tom’s shoulder and gave him a wink. “Take as much time as you need, son,” he said. Then, he shuffled off toward the antiquated crane, still chuckling to himself.

  Tom introduced Tallie to Roper, who was looking at her inquiringly. “Dave, this is Tallie McPherson. Tallie, this is Dave Roper.”

  “Very pleased to meet you.”

  “We’ve heard a lot about you,” said Roper.

  “You have?”

  Roper shrugged. “Oh hell yes. You’re all this harelip ever talks about.” He smiled wickedly.

  Tom took her by the hand and led her down the road toward his stream side camp. They left his pickup on the landing. Shep started to follow but Roper called him back. Tallie had slung her day-pack over one shoulder. She was also carrying something in a paper bag. He kidded her as they strolled arm-in-arm.

  “So what’d you do to him?”

  “Do what to whom?”

  “To Carl.”

  “Didn’t do anything.”

  “Yeah you did. I hardly knew him.”

  “I was just me. What can I say?”

  “You charmed him out of his fedora, nearly out of his suspenders.”

  “I did not.”

  “What’d you two talk about?”

  “Norway, mostly. Carl’s from a small village not far from where one of my cousins lives. South of Oslo, on the coast. He still has family there.”

  “I’ve never seen Carl like that.”

  “He’s a sweet old man.”

  “Sweet? You’re kidding!”

  “No.”

  “He’s as tough as old shoe leather.”

  “He’s the nicest sweetest person.”

  “Carl’s as crusty as burnt toast.” There was a pause. He added, “But we like him anyway.”

  So it went. They swung their arms. “So, you were able to read the map OK?”

  She nodded. “And when I showed it to the bus driver, he knew where to stop. The hike from the highway was longer than I expected though.”

  “It’s almost two miles from the turn-off. So, what’s in the bag?”

  “Go ahead. Look.” She showed him.

  “Fresh tomatoes. I love it.”

  “They’re beef hearts. From my aunt’s garden.”

  He looked closer. The tomatoes were plump and ripe as a dream. “Now, we’ve got all the fixings for a humongous salad. I got a cold-water spring full of watercress; and we got dandelions. They’re bitter, you know? But good. Plus other stuff, carrots and wild onions, herbs...”

  They walked in silence. When they reached the camp she pulled his arm and kissed him on the mouth. He was already firm.

  There was no head-room in the tent. They undressed in the clearing among the lodgepoles. As Tallie slipped her blouse over her head he tickled her. They tussled and fell into the tent, wrestling. The match was a draw. Slowly, their laughter subsided.

  There was no shivering. He had prepared a deep nest of blankets, covered by his goose down bag which, unzipped, served as an ultra-lite comforter. Anyway, the day was warm and the evening likewise. The gentlest of summer breezes lulled the tent and the fly. They felt everything around them, the gentle sway of the lodgepoles, Snyder Creek, the sound of water plung
ing over a beaver dam.

  They ended outside of time.

  FORTY SEVEN

  The sun was more than halfway to its zenith when they finally emerged from the tent, next morning. They made do with a light breakfast of granola, milk and fruit, then lolled about camp in the nude. Tallie was barefoot, in the midst of brushing her silky brown hair when Roper showed up. He had come for a load of spring water. Tallie ducked behind the tent and dressed.

  Roper was covered with wood shavings.

  “You been working,” Tom said as he pulled up his trousers. “I didn’t hear your saw.”

  “I put in a few. I see you’ve been busy, too.”

  Tom laughed. “Hey, Dave, we’re thinking about climbing Park View.”

  He and Tallie had discussed it earlier, as they stood in the meadow admiring the enormous mountain that dominated the southwest skyline. Fortunately, she had worn her boots.

  “There’s an incredible view, up top,” Roper said. “You can see most of the state from up there. Windy though.”

  Tallie joined them. “Morning, Mr. Dave.”

  “Morning.”

  “So, you’ve climbed it?”

  “Oh sure. Couple of years ago.” Roper got out of the truck. He seemed in no hurry to load up his water. He lit a Camel, inhaled deeply, and blew smoke. He stood leaning against the truck.

  “It’s so amazingly huge,” she said.

  “It’s twelve and a half thousand feet. One big rock pile.”

  “There’s a lot of snow.”

  Roper turned his head toward the mountain. “Yeah, but the snow is no problem. It’s mostly on the north side. You climb it from the southeast.” The cigarette bobbed up and down. He removed the Camel. Smoke scuffed off his tongue. Roper’s grin was almost a dare. “It’s an easy walk up. You don’t need any special gear or anything.”

  “I have a topo map,” said Tom.

  “There’s an old broke down fire lookout up there. From the 1940s. It’s been abandoned for years. Must have been a job building it, ‘cause there’s no road. There’s a huge cairn of stones at the very top, and a survey marker. Carl says he planted it back in ’48 or ’49. I don’t recall. Going on forty years ago.”