Summers of Fire

by Strader, Linda;

  “Trouble at twelve o’clock,” I said.

  “What seems to be the problem here?” Strudel elbowed his way between Rob and the door. “Let me see.”

  Rob rolled his eyes and stepped back.

  Strudel ripped out a handful of wires which resembled a pile of rainbow spaghetti. He glanced at his watch. “I don’t have time for this, you’ll have to finish up.” He jumped into his truck and drove away.

  We stared at the disaster left in his wake.

  Rob leaned against the truck, hand on forehead. “Oh, brother, it’ll take me forever to figure out how to put those wires back.”

  In case Strudel returned, I posted myself as lookout. I planned to tell him we’d already fixed it so he’d leave us alone.

  On Saturday, I joined Rob, Craig, Sean, and Dan, and after squeezing into Fred’s car, we were off to Homer Spit, a tiny fishing community eighty miles south of Kenai. All the way there it sleeted, and it continued to do so after we arrived. We sat in the car, watching the windshield wipers slap back and forth. No point in just sitting there, I pointed out.

  We walked the pier, misty white vapors appearing when we spoke. Menacing clouds loomed low in the sky, matching the color of the ocean, suggesting dusk, even though it was barely noon. Subtle activity took place on the colorful fishing boats. Pale-yellow lights glowed from cabins and decks. Fishermen huddled under plastic awnings near portable heaters, busy mending nets with fingerless gloves. How could they not be freezing to death? What a hard life. It made me appreciate how fish got on my plate.

  Undeterred by a week of wet, I accepted Craig and Sean’s invitation to Russian Lake the next weekend. Although not a fan of hiking in rain, I decided I had to get over it. If I waited for the rain to stop, I’d never go anywhere. So far, only wispy horse-tail clouds streaked the sky, but I still added a poncho to my daypack. One could almost guarantee it would rain at one point or another. Craig opened the camper shell door and removed his hiking gear. He reached in again and produced a rifle.

  Carrying a weapon on a hiking trip? I didn’t like hunting and hoped that wasn’t his plan.

  Craig noticed my wide eyes. “This is serious grizzly country.”

  My enthusiasm waned. “So … is it safe to go?”

  Sean laughed and pointed at Craig. “We don’t have to outrun the bear, we just have to outrun you!”

  I laughed nervously, not at all comforted. Staying behind wasn’t comfortable either, so I joined them. The narrow path led us through acres of downed black spruce, scattered like a game of pick-up sticks. Powerful storms often blew over the shallow rooted trees, which were unable to penetrate the permafrost. But nature had a plan for the newly opened meadow. Tall, hot-pink fireweed, purple monk’s hood, and Alaska cotton, with its cotton-ball top begging to be touched, sprouted amidst the fallen.

  Entering dense woodland, Craig froze, raising his hand for us to stop. “Did you hear that?”

  An urge to flee kicked in, but I couldn’t make myself move.

  Craig placed a finger on his lips. “Shhh …” He took the rifle off his shoulder.

  More rustling. Please don’t let this be a grizzly. Sean’s joke aside, should I run? Craig had never said. Then velvety antlers appeared above the thick brush—it was a huge moose, at least eight feet tall. Craig lowered the gun. I let go of the breath I held, but still didn’t move. I wanted the moose to leave first. My first week in Kenai, I’d snapped moose photos like crazy. Then I discovered they were as common as cotton-tailed bunnies at home, often wandering Kenai streets. About as threatening as a herd of dairy cows: until I heard about one that trampled a man to death when he got too close.

  Mr. Moose went on his way; our partly-sunny day vanished. Light mist dampened my jacket, and I felt the chill seep through my layers of clothes. Even though I wasn’t too keen on getting wet, I didn’t want to turn back alone, either.

  By late morning, we reached the frozen lake. Craig inched out onto the ice. “C’mon, Sean, let’s toss in our lines and see what bites.”

  “Are you sure it’s frozen solid? I can guarantee I’m not diving in to save you,” I said, laughing, but completely serious.

  Craig assured me all was good. They found a place to drop their lines. I waited for them on a cold rock, slightly preferable to the wet ground, and watched. They finally gave up, one degree before my posterior suffered frostbite. Halfway back, Craig admitted that using the trail would take us too long.

  “I know a shortcut,” he said. “We’ll follow the Russian River.”

  I didn’t like not knowing exactly where I was, and shortcuts made me nervous. But what could I do? I followed them.

  The Russian River blasted its way to the Kenai River, and eventually the Cook Inlet, with roaring whitewater drowning out a voice right next to you. Glacier melt colored the river an odd, iridescent green.

  “Watch out for grizzlies,” Craig yelled over the tumbling rapids.

  Oh, just great. Super-vigilant, I strained to see animal movement, ankle-twisting rocks, and downed trees, in the waning light.

  “Are you sure this will come out at the truck?” Sean asked for the third time.

  Craig marched ahead with determination. “Yes, yes, we’re almost there.”

  How he knew where to turn, who knows, but we walked up on a much-welcome view of Craig’s truck. Not sure how far we hiked, but my feet were frozen, and I couldn’t tell if I had ten toes or two. Craig cranked the heat up full blast, and we started the drive home. Exhausted, I leaned against the headrest and closed my eyes.

  “Uh-oh,” Craig said.

  I sat up straight. “Uh-oh, what?” I hated uh-ohs, and late-night ones were the worst.

  Craig stared at the dash. “I forgot to buy gas.”

  Sean leaned over from the back seat. “You’re kidding. Right?”

  The gas gauge pointed to “E,” and the “low fuel” indicator light glowed.

  Craig offered a sheepish smile. “What’s worse, there aren’t any gas stations open.”

  Sean groaned. “Craaaig.”

  “Maybe we’ll find someone open late,” Craig said, ever the optimist.

  A confirmed pessimist, I envisioned a long, cold night sleeping in the truck. We drove for a long time, finally cruising into a gas station on fumes. There were no lights on, and a “Closed” sign hung crooked on the door.

  “This is just great. Now what?” Sean sounded exasperated.

  “I’m gonna go to the house next door. Maybe they’ll let us buy enough to get home,” Craig said.

  “Be my guest,” I said, sliding down into the seat. I so did not want this to be happening.

  Craig banged on the front door with his fist. No response. He knocked again. A light came on in an upstairs window, and the sash flew open.

  “What?” a man hollered.

  Craig turned on a polite and contrite voice, asking if we could buy five dollars worth of gas. The window slammed shut. Oh great, he’s not going to help us. But then the front door opened, and the man came out with a set of keys.

  “See, it all worked out,” Craig said as we drove away.

  I slunk down into the seat and frowned. That’ll teach me. No more hiking with these guys without a map and a full tank of gas.

  AS HE OFTEN did, Dan came over after work, and together we walked to the cafeteria for dinner. We read the posted menu.

  “Oh no. Mystery Meatloaf again,” he said. “I shoulda known it’d be meatloaf, since yesterday they served hamburgers. I just know they’re grinding up leftovers to make meatloaf.”

  At least with C-rats, I knew what I was getting. Here, everything was a mystery.

  The next morning at breakfast, Rob, Dan, and I stood in line, watching the cook, Woody, prepare Rob’s order. Woody had that hard-life look about him. We swore he’d just been released from prison. Bones poked through his sallow skin and bloodshot eyes stared above a perpetual five o’clock shadow. Black tattoos ran up and down both arms. Then there was that filthy, stained
apron he tied on every day—it was enough to warrant a health department inspection in itself. Woody dipped a miniature string mop into a bucket of oil and slathered the grill. He cracked Rob’s eggs into the sea of grease, where they skated across the hot griddle. Woody flipped them over once, slid them onto a plate, and shoved it so hard at Rob, the eggs glided to the rim, nearly spilling onto the floor.

  Dan gave me a look of disgust.

  Woody glared at Dan. “What’ll ya have?”

  Dan deferred to my order. I shook my head, “no.”

  “Well, c’mon, I ain’t got all day.”

  Dan raised his voice. “Two eggs, over-easy, and hold the grease.”

  I giggled.

  Woody stared at us for a moment, then, mumbling unintelligible words under his breath, defiantly grabbed the mop, smothered the grill and cracked two eggs into the oily mess. Dan rolled his eyes. My stomach rolled. I couldn’t take this anymore. I didn’t care how much it cost, I would not eat this awful food one more day.

  After work, I bought the least expensive groceries I could find—but still far more expensive than the four bucks a meal at the cafeteria, but hey—this was necessary. I set the bags on the kitchen counter and opened the fridge to put away perishables. What in the world? Packages of crab filled every shelf.

  “Teresa? What’s with all the crab?”

  She joined me. “It’s that new diet I read about. You can have all the crab you want, and you’ll lose weight. Plus, it was on sale! I stocked up.”

  “Crab? Just crab?” Certainly there was more to this diet than just crab. After all, how much crab could one person eat in a day?

  I tried reasoning with her. “But, Teresa, do you really think you can stand to eat that much crab? Plus, won’t it go bad in a couple days? I mean, seriously, you’ve got enough here for twenty people.”

  She looked thoughtful. “Well, yes, I suppose. But it was on sale.” Her face fell.

  I hugged her. “I’m sorry. I hope this works.”

  Sighing, I rearranged the shelves so I could put my food away.

  STILL NO FIRES, and still no projects. I worried I’d get so used to not working, that if we did go to a fire, it would kill me. I missed trail work, fence building, station maintenance, even cleaning outhouses. (Okay, not really.) We all were unhappy, but I probably complained the most. Rob appealed to Strudel for something constructive to fill our days.

  “You need to be fire-ready at all times,” Strudel said. “If you’re on a project when we get a fire call, the whole forest could burn down.”

  Outside the lounge window, steady rain fell in visible sheets. Yeah. Right.

  Maybe Rob finally got through to Strudel, or maybe a coincidence, but our boss finally gave us something to do. It sounded a little suspicious, though. Strudel wanted us to harvest a large quantity of trees. Not one word about why or what for. Maybe Rob pinned it: “I’ll bet he’s building himself a log cabin. This has nothing to do with BLM.”

  A couple hours later, I stood with my crew in front of the thickest forest growth I’d ever seen. How in the world would we walk through this jungle, much less tote a chainsaw and gear? What lurked in these impenetrable woods? Lions and tigers and bears, oh my! Me and my big mouth.

  THIRTY-TWO

  WITH A CAN of orange spray paint and a cloth tape measure in my daypack, I turned to Fred. “Join me?” Not that I couldn’t work alone, but I didn’t want to get lost, and Fred looked like the kind of guy who didn’t get lost.

  We waded through thick grass, some of it over my head. Unable to see the ground, I evaluated each step for secure footing. One step my foot landed on nothing but air, and I plunged three feet downward with a shriek. After mentally checking for injury, I climbed out. Hummocks were giant grass mounds that rose like tiny islands above the forest floor, and I’d just stepped off of one. My choices were to hop from plant to plant, or to walk around. Coming from snake country, I feared sticking my appendages into places I couldn’t see, even though Fred had told me Alaska had no snakes. I decided to step in between the hummocks, the lesser of two evils—maybe. I was still jittery about unknown, scary, biting things, though.

  Little sunlight shone through the canopy of dense woods, so when a cloud shadowed what little light there was, I turned to look up. Oh no. It wasn’t a real cloud—it was a storm cloud of mosquitoes. I waved my arms to disperse them, swallowing the dread rising in my throat. I tore through my daypack. Where is that headnet! Although the net kept them from biting my face, they still bit through my pants. Desperate, I fogged DEET on my clothing, hoping for no allergic reaction.

  At the end of a long, bug-infested day, we met at the trucks. Fred asked something I hadn’t thought to ask. “So how are we going to get those trees out of there?”

  Rob paused. “Hmm … Good question. I don’t know.”

  We speculated that either Strudel didn’t want to share his secret plan, or he didn’t know either.

  Two days later, we loaded up our chainsaws.

  “Are these brand new?” I asked Rob.

  Rob swung one into a side box on our truck and nodded with a smile. “Another one of Strudel’s ‘special’ purchases.”

  Ah, yes, one of those.

  At the harvest site, I strapped on heavy chaps, required safety gear for sawyers to protect their legs from injury. Staying ahead of the game, I also donned my headnet, as mosquitoes were already searching for a backdoor entrance. Fred and I again teamed. I walked around the hummocks, while he leapt from one to another.

  Over the next hour, we searched and searched, but couldn’t find one single marked tree.

  “What do you think, Fred?” I said. “This one looks good.”

  I set the saw down and removed my gloves to fill the gas tank. Within milliseconds, mosquitoes zeroed in, inflicting multiple bites, including, unbelievably, around my cuticles. I put my gloves back on. So much for B-12 and garlic—what a waste of money.Not one mosquito buzzed around Fred, and he wasn’t wearing a headnet.

  “How come you aren’t wearing a net?” I asked, waving my hand to disperse the swarming vampires.

  “They don’t bother me.”

  “They don’t bother you as in … you don’t care, or as in they stay away from you?”

  “They don’t bite me, never have.”

  “Well, lucky you,” I said, sarcastically. Ah-ha! I actually got a smile out of him.

  With a pull of the starter cord, the saw roared into life, puffing blue smoke. I revved the engine to keep it from stalling and studied the angle of the tree, which dictated the most likely direction of fall. I made a horizontal cut, feeling the weight of the saw, then the easier cut, at an angle downward to meet it. Fred and I dashed out of range. The tree groaned, swayed slightly, then toppled with a swoosh, crashing out of sight.

  “You know, Fred, the minute we walk away from here, no one will ever find this tree. We would probably never find this tree, even if we came back in five minutes.”

  That actually earned a laugh.

  We felled six trees, none of which were marked. At the trucks, I asked Rob what they’d found. Like Fred and I, they’d cut trees without markings.

  “No one is ever going to find those trees,” Rob said, storing away our gear.

  I figured he was right. How terrible to cut down trees for nothing.

  STRUDEL WALTZED INTO the lounge with a big grin slapped on his face. “I’ve got a big surprise.” Glances with raised eyebrows passed between us. What now?

  “I’m gonna take you guys out on the Kenai River in my new boat,” he said with marked enthusiasm. No one said a word. “Oh come on, you guys, this’ll be an adventure.”

  Somehow, Strudel talked Rob, Dan, Fred, and Fogie to go for a ride. Not wanting to appear a poor sport or miss anything fun, stupid me joined them. In retrospect, I blame severe boredom.

  Forty minutes later, we pulled up to the boat launch. The Kenai River, cast a glacial-green, churned wildly before me. White caps formed on its surfa
ce, hell-bent on reaching the Gulf of Alaska, like a horse galloping top speed for the barn after an all-day trail ride. It looked like pretty rough boating to me.

  Strudel handed us orange life vests. “Wouldn’t want to take any chances.”

  Rob cupped his hands around my ear. “Five minutes in that frigid water, and we’d be dead of hypothermia long before we drowned.”

  My eyes widened with alarm. Now, wasn’t that reassuring?

  While I watched Strudel prepare the bucking boat in the choppy river, my apprehension rose like a mercury thermometer on a hot day. My boating experiences were relegated to a rowboat on Lake Ontario as a kid.

  Strudel sat at the rear by the outboard motor, while the rest of us settled in the seats toward the front. I sat next to Dan, closest to the bow. A frantic check for seat belts proved futile, so I grasped the cold metal railing along the side. With the engine at full throttle, Strudel pointed the boat upriver, fighting the tumultuous current. Rising up and over a wave, the boat went airborne for a moment, and crashed down with a jolting smack, landing with such force, I thought for sure the hull would rip open. My arms hurt from the impact, and frigid water splashed in my face. I refused to let go of the railing to wipe my eyes clear, for fear of being thrown overboard and sucked down into the churning water, never to be seen again. Behind me, his eyes maniacal and his mouth frozen in a determined, ghoulish grin, Strudel was on a mission to conquer this river. Not with me in this boat! I want to turn around!

  When we did turn around, I realized in terror that the return trip was even worse. Now we rode the wild river on its terms. Each time we tipped to one side, arctic water sloshed inside, filling the space around our feet. The choppy water tossed us at will—up, down, here, there—threatening to turn the boat sideways. If we did get turned sideways, we’d flip, tossing all of us into the glacial water for an icy death. Fred sat frozen, his jaw clenched tight. Fogie’s eyes were wide, and his mouth gaped open. Dan appeared to be praying, head down and lips moving. Rob glanced nervously around, first at the water, then at the wild man at the outboard motor. After a ridiculously long hour, Strudel steered toward the boat launch.