My voyage will be considerably shorter tonight.
The river flows between massive granite cliffs where peregrine falcons nest. This is my favourite time of day as everything is lit up vividly by slanting evening sunlight. The confluence with a smaller tributary comes into view and I swing right, slow the boat, watching for the markers mentioned by Collette. Another turn down a smaller creek, followed by more meandering bends, and I see a flash of metal.
This must be the place.
Tucked tight under an overhanging hedge of willow is the stern of a small boat. It has a console, no windshield. The way it’s tucked under the branches suggests an attempt at concealment and I manoeuvre closer. Nothing in the boat but a bit of fishing tackle scattered on the bottom. The engine cover of the small outboard is still warm. I pull up under a large spruce tree, tie up my boat and scramble onto shore.
There’s a grassy clearing and an old grey cabin with a low sod roof. The cabin is built of logs and is tiny, perhaps a dozen feet square. The door, made of grey hewn planks, is closed. A small window has been shuttered with plywood. Despite the boat hidden under the willows, it looks as though no one is here. Perhaps Bernice Mercredi and her lover are inside, hiding, hoping I’ll leave. No doubt they would have heard my boat motor. It makes sense they would come to this location, as it is well hidden but not far from town. They could be peeking through some crack in the logs, watching me, hoping their secret won’t be revealed. This fits with everything Collette told me — the location, the need for privacy — but still it seems odd. No smoke coming from the rusted stovepipe jutting from the roof. No sign of recent activity in the clearing in front of the cabin.
It could be they’re just being careful.
I knock on the door.
The door is heavy, muting my knocks. I knock harder. No answer. I try the door, half expecting it’s locked from the inside. It’s not and swings open to a dark room.
“Hello?”
No response. I peer into the gloom, wait for my eyes to adjust.
An old stove, legs rusted away on one side, sits tilted in the shaft of light from the door.
There’s no one here. I sense as much as hear movement behind me.
As I turn there’s a blur coming at my head. I don’t raise my arm quickly enough.
Pain explodes in my temple. A splash of colour and dots. Blackness.
PAIN PULSES THROUGH my head as my eyes flicker open. Darkness. Confusion. Nausea. Something coarse against my face. I move my head, which causes another ripple of pain. Blobs of light and dark resolve slowly into the dusky outlines of tree trunks and branches. A terrible stench fills my nostrils; meaty and decaying.
Where the hell am I? And why?
I squint against the throbbing pain in my head, find my hands beneath my chest and push up against something rough that shifts uncertainly. I try to stand, stagger and fall, pick myself up again, dizzy and reeling. I’m in the forest. It’s evening, the light fading. Soon it will be dark and I have no idea where I am. My mind struggles unsuccessfully to connect my last memory with my surroundings. Panic threatens and I force myself to breathe slowly and deeply. It helps but the smell causes me to gag. I look down to find the source of the putrid vapours and it occurs to me that the large black shape on which I’ve been lying is a dead animal.
A rotting carcass. My clothes are smeared with the corpulent juices. In the coarse grainy light of late evening, the black hide of the dead animal blends with the moulding leaf litter on the forest floor. Judging by the shape of the carcass and the coarseness of the hair, it must be a moose. The chest cavity has been opened and plundered — I can stick my boot inside — and there are chunks of pink showing on the hindquarters. Something has been feeding here. Weak and woozy I lean over, brace one hand on the side of the carcass, force myself to have a closer look.
Claw marks torn into the flesh, wide and deep.
I stand, stumble back, my scalp tingling. I’ve been lying over a bear kill and I look around, eyes wide, breathing suddenly ragged. When it comes to bears there are four encounters that can be fatal. The first is a surprise encounter in which the bear is startled and attacks defensively. The second is coming between a mother bear and her cubs, in which her maternal instincts trigger an attack. The third is coming between a bear and its food, in which it sees you as a competitor. The fourth is a predatory attack, in which the bear intends to eat you. I’m in more than one category here — I’m standing over the kill, and I smell like food.
But I’m lucky so far — there’s no bear in sight.
Heart pounding, I edge away from the dead moose, stumble as my boots encounter the splayed legs. Regaining my balance I hesitate, wonder where to go. The bear could be anywhere. A sliver of moon fills the forest around me with a silvery light. Although tree tops are silhouetted against the night sky, there’s barely enough light to see the dead moose at my feet. I could be headed directly for the bear. There’s a sudden and distinct snorting sound from the dark not far away. My heart goes into overdrive and I tense, waiting to hear the sound again, to see something darker shift and move in the underbrush.
More snorting and sniffing — the bear catching my scent. I still can’t see him but I think he’s off to my left. Cautiously, trying to step quietly, to breathe silently, I move right, to put some distance between the bear and I, so I’m less of a threat. Right now I’m standing right over its dinner. I make it two steps when I hear the unmistakable sound of something large moving rapidly through the underbrush, heading in my direction. Willows and rose bushes slap and crack and then I see the bear, huge and dark, catch a glimmer of moonlight in its eye. It’s moving fast, headed toward me. I have only seconds to make my decision.
Run or stand my ground?
In bear awareness and defence courses, mandatory for most forest workers, one is instructed that a charging bear is often bluffing and it is best to stand one’s ground as running will trigger a predatory response in which the bear will come to believe, since you are running away, that you are something yummy to eat. If you stand your ground, your bowels may loosen embarrassingly, and you may risk cardiac arrest, but the bear will often break off its charge and not attack. If it does attack, one is best served by dropping to the ground and curling into the fetal position with your hands protectively over the back of your neck. Most likely, the bear will take a few bites, but if you remain still, will lose interest and go away. However if a bear is actually charging you because he is hunting and you are food, then you must, by all means, run away. Standing one’s ground in this situation will only make it easier for the bear to eat you, as will lying conveniently on the ground, much like the dead moose beside me. So, to sum up, in the first two or so seconds of the charge, you need to determine if the bear looks like it wants to eat you or simply chase you away — a difficult feat in broad daylight with several hundred pounds of muscle and teeth charging straight at you. A bit more difficult in the dark.
I decide that since I’m by his food, and that I smell like his food, that there’s a pretty good chance he’ll want to eat me or, at the very least, lay a serious beating on me for taking an interest in his supper. So I run. In the dark. This is a risky proposition to start with as it is very likely an unseen branch will jab your eye, causing agonizing pain and blinding you; it’s even riskier with a bear chasing you. I try to compensate for the stick-in-the-eye thing by frantically waving a hand in front of me as I run, to sweep aside any potential daggers. This is only partially effective as branches slap my face and arms, scratch my neck. My hope is the bear will only chase me until it reaches the moose carcass, where it will remain to establish ownership.
I’m disappointed — the bear keeps coming, gaining on me.
I crash through a tangle of brush, nearly fall, reach blindly for a handhold, catch a slender aspen and yank myself in another direction. I’m zigzagging through the forest, avoiding trees and nasty brambles that threaten to trip or stop me outright. The bear, judging by the crashing and
snapping rapidly approaching on my backside, is taking a more direct route. My shoulder glances off a tree trunk, nearly knocking me over, in the process of which I half-turn and see the bear is nearly upon me, white teeth gleaming in the moonlight. I veer toward a large spruce tree and lunge upward, grab hold of a stout branch, and climb like a terrified squirrel, face slapping and scratching against branches. A dozen yards up I stop, chest heaving, clinging to the tree as though it were a source of nourishment.
A dark shape in the tree below me lunges upward, clawing and scraping the tree trunk. Smaller branches snap. The bear pauses and looks up at me. Clearly it’s trying to decide if I’m worth further effort. I holler and curse a bit, knowing it likely won’t make any difference but needing to do it anyway. The bear hangs onto the tree a moment longer, a few yards below me, then scrapes down, circles the tree a few times making intimidating whuffing and growling noises, then ambles over the dead moose, where it flops down by the belly cavity.
Wonderful. I’m stuck in a tree in the dark in unknown territory. My Forest Service radio, which had been on my belt, is gone. I yell some more at the bear.
It snorts and trots over, so I shut up.
The bear settles down again at its buffet. It’s too dangerous to attempt a get away in the dark so I settle into my tree. I use my belt to strap myself securely to a thick branch in case I fall asleep — no pun intended. Now that I’m secure I have time to think — to wonder why I’m here in the first place. Panic and a throbbing headache have jumbled my thoughts but gradually they clear. I was in the Forest Service boat and found the cabin where Bernice Mercredi and her secret lover were supposed to be hiding. There didn’t seem to be anyone in the cabin but there was definitely someone in the vicinity, as they had stashed their boat under the willows along the edge of the river. Most likely they heard my approach and when I didn’t pass by they became concerned. I picture some older man taking the lovely Bernice by the hand and leading her out of the cabin, to hide in the forest. Then he circled around, likely hiding just behind the cabin. When I opened the door he clubbed me over the head and dragged me to the moose carcass.
I shift on my perch in the tree. As uncomfortable as the branch on which I’m sitting has become the actions of my unknown assailant make me more uncomfortable. Why not simply fade back into the bush until after I’ve left? They would have had plenty of time to make their getaway. Instead their actions suggest a level of premeditation. Clearly, by placing my unconscious body across a bear kill, they intended to kill me and have it appear to be an accident. This seems excessive to protect a simple affair. The older man must have a lot to lose. Perhaps there was something incriminating in the cabin. But what would be worth such drastic action to prevent discovery? An affair might include frilly underwear, flowers, perhaps a bottle of wine. Not exactly evidence worth fighting to the death over. I shift again, back aching, and snuggle closer to the tree. What if there was a body in the cabin? Perhaps the older man murdered Bernice Mercredi and I was about to stumble onto the scene of the crime. She might have been pregnant and threatened to expose him. Pregnancy would fit with her leaving the fire because she felt unwell. Gazing down at the vague black shape of the bear I begin to form a plan. Wait for my chance to make a break from the tree, then find the cabin and have a look inside. Then back to town and notify the RCMP.
I shift again to relieve the pressure on my legs. It’s going to be a long night.
DAWN BEGINS TO creep through the trees when I jolt awake. I’ve been drifting off a few minutes at a time, dreaming I’m trapped under a pile of logs or in a crashed car, hard edges digging into my body. It’s a good thing I’ve strapped myself to the tree because I wake up doubled over, head drooped onto the crotch of a branch, cheek pressed against the coarse bark. My view downward through branches produces an instant vertigo and instinctively I flail and grab for support, wrapping my arms around the tree trunk. When my breathing returns to normal I look around, discover the moose carcass is unoccupied. The bear is gone.
I release the belt from around the branch and begin painstakingly to descend from my aerial prison. A night spent draped over hard narrow branches has not improved my dexterity. Dizzy with hunger and thirst, I fumble, slide painfully against rough bark. The last branch seems higher off the ground than I remember and I drop hard, pain shooting up my stiff legs.
“Ouch.”
Something rustles in the brush and I freeze, heart thumping. Turns out it’s just a mouse. No sign of my furry companion. I’m tempted to investigate the moose carcass to see if my human assailant left any clues, but I don’t want to risk encountering the bear again. In my present condition I doubt I could make it back up a tree. Instead I work my way through the forest away from the carcass, hear the telltale gurgles of moving water, see a glimmer through the trees. A river. I doubt my assailant would have moved my heavy unconscious body far from the cabin.
I’ll follow the river, find the cabin. With any luck, my boat is still there.
Two hours later I’m hot, sweaty and exhausted, struggling through dense willow and alder along the river. I’ve gone in both directions and have seen no sign of the cabin or my boat. In fact, nothing here looks familiar. I’ve encountered low boggy areas and swampy creeks that required detour and, although I was lost to begin with, now I’m more lost. My assailant could easily have dumped me into his boat and taken me a great distance from the cabin in a fairly short period of time. I could be anywhere and struggle to suppress a natural urge to panic.
Think logically, Cassel.
I find a comfortable spot along the river and sit down, lean against a tree. The key in survival situations is to keep your wits and not to expend valuable energy reserves. I have fresh water to drink and can last weeks if I really have to. I close my eyes for a minute and begin to drift into the warm fog of sleep. Instantly I’m dreaming. A boat is coming to my rescue.
My eyes snap open — it’s not a dream. The roar of an outboard motor approaches.
It occurs to me that it could be my attacker, returning to ensure the bear finished the job, and I step back among the dense sheltering foliage of willow and alder. Downstream the boat comes into view and I focus to discern features on the two hunched passengers. I have no idea what my attacker looks like. Then I notice the boat is different — no console. I step out from the bushes and wave at the passing boat. The driver peers in my direction, then waves back and turns to shore. It’s a grey-haired couple, out for an afternoon putter. I ask if they’d mind my hitching a ride to town. They nod, smiling. Despite the oddness of the situation and the reek of my clothing, they don’t ask questions. I have them drop me at the government wharf, where my truck sits, head straight to the IA base, where I feed the dog, who’s frantic for food and attention, poor thing, shower, and toss my disgusting clothes into the wash machine. I put on clean clothes, head to the kitchen trailer, where I have a large cup of Dr. Cho’s nerve tea. It hits me hard.
I fall asleep at the table.
THE COOK WAKES me, coming in to start supper. I’ve slept nearly three hours, my head on the hard wooden table. Seeing the time — just past three in the afternoon — I rush to the washroom, splash cold water on my face. There’s a flat red spot on my forehead where I can see the grain of the table imprinted in negative. The black eye from the fight in McMurray is curing up nicely. My face and neck are scratched from my run through the dark woods. I look like a zombie from Night of the Living Dead.
To compensate, I comb my hair. Now I look like a tidy zombie.
I pop a few Advil and head to the RCMP station, meet Corporal MacFarlane as he’s leaving the detachment office. He stops, watches, as I ease the truck over to where he’s standing. He’s wearing a worn leather jacket, green cargo pants and black combat boots. He gives me an inquisitive frown as I roll down the window.
“Cassel — what have you been up to? You look like crap.”
“That would be an upgrade. Someone tried to kill me last night.”
&nbs
p; MacFarlane’s eyes narrow. “What happened?”
I tell him about checking the airport for Bernice Mercredi, and my subsequent discussion with Collette Whiteknife. Finding the cabin and regaining consciousness draped over a dead moose, followed by a night spent in a tree. My theory about why I was assaulted and left as bear bait. MacFarlane digests it all without interrupting. When I’m done he smoothes down the prow of his hair, looks thoughtful.
“You can find this cabin again?”
“No problem. I’d like to use one of our helicopters, fly out there.”
MacFarlane considers. “Stay right here.”
He vanishes into the detachment building for a few minutes, emerges with Waldren. Both Mounties squeeze into the truck with me and we head for the IA base. On the way I call Middel on the truck radio, ask him if I can use one of the machines for a quick flight along the river north of town. His response is terse.
“What for, Cassel?”
“I need to look for something.”
“Can you take the boat?”
“That’s one of the things I need to look for.”
“Maybe you should come see me first.”
“I have the RCMP with me and we need to get going.”
“Okay. Take TRT. But come see me right after.”
I acknowledge and moments later we’re at the IA base, then lifting off and heading north. I’m in the front seat; the two Mounties in back. I tell the pilot to follow the river and all four of us watch for the cabin. It doesn’t take long to find it from the air. We do a wide circle, looking down. No boats are visible. There’s enough of a clearing in front of the cabin for the small helicopter to land and at our request the pilot takes it down. As we land, MacFarlane’s voice comes through my headset.
Whiskey Creek Page 17