Three Against the Wilderness

by Eric Collier

  Once more the Fraser Valley was a lake. Homes emptied as people fled them. Dairy and other cattle drowned in pastures where so very recently all had been placidly grazing. Houses and barns floated hither and thither like bits of wood on a beaver pond. Boats must travel over roads that but a day or so ago had been travelled by a procession of automobiles. The tracks of both the Canadian Pacific and Canadian National railways rested beneath several feet of water, and the city of Vancouver was cut off from rail traffic with the rest of Canada to the east. And on the rivers and creeks that fed the Fraser, storage and other dams deemed formidable enough to withstand the shock of no matter what weight of water came against them were pushed aside as the incoming tides of the ocean push aside the sand.

  In that spring of 1948 we reckoned there were some two hundred beavers on Meldrum Creek, and in that moment of dread uncertainty, when the breaching of but a single major dam would probably result in the breaching of every dam below it, we could do little but pin our every hope and faith in the beavers themselves. Yet it hardly seemed possible that the beavers could defy such a cataract when man had so hopelessly failed to do so.

  But those beavers did not fail us. From bank burrow and lodge they came. From eventide until sunrise they worked without rest at the almost impossible task of raising their dams so that each might play its own individual part in taming the flood waters of the creek and holding them back from the river. Immature yearlings, full-grown males and mother beavers so heavy-bellied with young that they floated high up in the water, one and all they came. They came that the waterfowl overhead should always have somewhere to nest. They came that the fish should not perish in the polluted puddles of the creek channel. They came that the mink and the otter and the muskrat should never want for food. And they came that perhaps somewhere, a man, a woman and a nineteen-year-old boy should not have to look behind them and see all that they counted so dear disappear beneath the silted waters of the cataclysm.

  A breach in a dam here was repaired almost as quickly as it occurred. A weak spot there was sought out and strengthened that the water could not force a passage through it. Every beaver dam along the creek held, defying all that the flood might do in wanton attempt to breach it. Not only did the dams hold; so much of the surplus water was harnessed and stored in front of the dams that the overall flow of the creek where it eventually arrived at the river was no greater than in any normal spring. Such was the miracle of the beavers of Meldrum Creek in that disastrous spring of 1948.

  For every one of its more than 170 million people, the United States of America consumes an average of fifteen hundred gallons of water daily. All told, the nation uses up 231 billion gallons daily, more than enough water to float the combined merchant fleets of the entire world.

  To raise a single bushel of corn by irrigation, about ten thousand gallons of water are required. About two hundred thousand gallons of water are necessary to grow one ton of alfalfa hay. Industry itself in the United States now uses about eighty billion gallons of water daily, and it has been forecast that the amount required to meet those needs by 1975 will be about two hundred billion gallons daily.

  Although some 1.5 quadrillion gallons of water falls annually on the United States, in many sections of the country a serious water shortage now actually exists or is impending. Despite the omnipresent threat of serious water shortage both for agriculture as well as industry, seldom a year goes by but that some major river overflows its banks, flooding the lands about it, drowning the livestock pasturing them, destroying their crops and driving the residents from their homes.

  Well might man think deeply about what happened on Meldrum Creek in that disastrous flood year of 1948. The antics of any main drainage artery itself are governed almost entirely by the antics of all lesser arteries that feed it. No colony of beavers can dam the flow of a mighty river, but they can and will dam the flow of the multitude of lesser water-sheds that flow into it. On Meldrum Creek the beavers allowed none of the flood water to find its way to the river and so add its mite to a major drainage system that could neither use nor contain it. Instead they stored it on their dams for gradual release, in a way that instead of harming man would benefit him.

  The sultry heat drenched our faces with sweat; our lungs heaved frantically for air. We’d tied the horses at the foot of the promontory, then scaled its final three hundred feet of almost sheer rock afoot. Once in a while I looked back at Lillian a few yards below me, stretched out a hand and asked, “Need any help?” She was bareheaded, her white blouse unbuttoned. A miniature rivulet of perspiration ran down her forehead. There was a rent in the right leg of her slacks that wasn’t there when we began the climb. She shook her head and puffed, “I’m coming along nicely.”

  Veasy was way ahead of us, going up the rock like a steeplejack up a chimney. Once in a while he too turned and looked below, and his voice floated down to me: “Need any help?” Wolfing a mouthful of air, I sang back, “We’re both coming along nicely.”

  Finally we dragged out on top and lay there in the full glare of the July sun, resting, and replenishing our lungs. We were 4,750 feet above sea level, almost a thousand feet higher than any of the hilltops around us. Far to the northeast, ten or more miles distant, was a long finger of water: Meldrum Lake. There were many other patches of water there too, linked to one another like a long crooked chain: the beaver marshes. And still farther away, a sheer dark trench split the land: the Fraser.

  I steadied my breath. I could hear the voice of the river, if only very faintly. It was just a low placid murmur as the water sped down through the land to an ocean that a month ago was digesting the silted, debris-littered, swollen contents of many mighty rivers. But now the voice of the Fraser was no longer as thunder in my ears. The freshets had passed on. The river had had its fling.

  From the trench of the river my eyes came back to the links of that crooked chain. Perhaps if the flood water of Meldrum Creek had had its way about things, there would be no links in the chain. A few years ago, yes, then the water would have rushed down through the creek channel without obstacle to prevent its reaching the river. But in the spring of 1948 the beavers were there waiting: waiting first to challenge, and then to halt the flood in its tracks and throw it back upon the marshes.

  Chapter 28

  When the moment of parting came, it came as neither a surprise nor a shock to Lillian or me. It was something we’d been expecting and steeling ourselves to meet since Veasy first acquired the habit of suddenly looking up from what he was doing and gazing off into distance, as if somewhere beyond the horizons were places he had to visit and get acquainted with.

  Although it was something Lillian and I hardly ever discussed between ourselves, we both knew deep within us that the wilderness could not hold Veasy forever, that someday he’d have to leave it, for a year or two anyway, perhaps longer, and see for himself just what was going on over the hills and far away. And I knew and Lillian knew that when the moment of his decision arrived, neither of us would utter a single word in an effort to deflect him from his purpose.

  It was in late October of 1951 when Veasy finally made up his mind. The lakes and beaver marshes were nicely freezing, and I figured that given a couple of nights of real hard frost, the ice should be sound enough for us to get onto it afoot to start staking the muskrat push-ups. We were in the sitting room listening to the evening news as it came in over the radio. Much of the news was of the fighting in Korea, and after a while, and if you listen to too much of it, even news of battles being won or lost acquires a sort of staleness—that is, when none of your own flesh and blood is taking part in the battles.

  The news ended, and I was scouting around the air waves for a little worthwhile music when Veasy suddenly interrupted with: “Do you mind shutting it off for a few minutes?”

  I glanced at him sharply, at the same time doing as he asked. The sultry voice of a blues singer in San Francisco sheered off as if the lady had dropped dead at the mike. I turned to V
easy. “What’s on your mind, son?” I asked.

  It came quietly but steadily. He said: “Think you and Mum can get along here without me for a while?”

  With almost imperceptible movement Lillian straightened a little in her chair. She folded her hands in her lap, and her eyes wandered to the window. If the proverbial needle had dropped, we’d have each heard it fall.

  After a little I said almost too casually, “Don’t see why not.” And with a measured breath: “For how long?”

  “Three years perhaps.” And the way Veasy said it told me that he’d got it all figured out in his head, and there was nothing at all to argue about. So I held silence, letting him take his own good time about telling us what he wanted to do, and where he was going to do it.

  “I’d sort of like to get away from these woods for a while if you and Mum can carry on without me,” he went on. Then slowly: “I was thinking about joining the army.”

  Lillian’s lips came together and her eyes shifted to me. Somehow I avoided them. “So,” I thought, “it’s the army, is it?” Involuntarily I shook my head. After the complete freedom of his life in the wilderness, I somehow couldn’t picture Veasy in any armed forces, doing almost everything that had to be done at someone else’s order. Still, he was nearing twenty-three, he could shoot the eye out of a deer standing a hundred yards off in the woods, and if he wanted to join the army then that was his affair, certainly no one else’s.

  I aimed a glance at Lillian. Her eyes were still on my face, saying nothing at all. If maybe her mind had suddenly been plunged in turmoil, none of it showed without.

  “When do you figure on going?” I asked serenely, as if we were merely discussing a trip to Riske Creek for the mail.

  “You really think that you and Mum can carry on things here without me?” he persisted.

  “Why of course we can.” And looking to Lillian for confirmation: “Can’t we?”

  “I don’t see why not.” Lillian tried ever so hard to say it casually, but somehow she fumbled the words a little.

  “Then I might as well take off whenever you’ve got time to drive me out to Williams Lake,” he said in a tone of finality. “I suppose I’ll have to go down to Vancouver to join up.”

  Thus was the unit broken, as we each had known that someday it must. The three of us drove out to Williams Lake in the Jeep on the last day of October. A little snow was on the ground, just enough for me to be able to discern the track of a weasel or coyote when it paralleled or crossed the road. There was a Greyhound bus service now shuttling between Vancouver and points far to the north, and we went down to the depot in Williams Lake, chatting about this and that with one another until the driver sat down at the steering wheel and the moment of parting had come. We said goodbye to Veasy, got out of the bus and watched the vehicle until it went around a bend in the road and we could see it no longer.

  I stole a glance at Lillian. Her teeth were set, and the colour had almost all gone from her cheeks. With an impulsive little gesture she thrust her hand into mine. It felt very warm and moist. And because I knew that it would be better if the tears came, instead of her trying so mortal hard to dam them back, I said softly, “Once in a while a real good cry does no one any harm.” And that’s how it was. She moved over to the Jeep, flung herself into the seat and let the tears come.

  I got in behind the wheel and started the motor. “Do you good. Only try to hang onto some of them. Someday he’ll come back again and you’ll need a tear or two then, won’t you?”

  She wiped the tears away with her handkerchief, steadied her breath and said, “What makes you think he’ll ever want to come back to the trapline again?”

  I forced out a laugh. “Don’t they all come back to the wilderness? You just wait and see, that’s how it will be with Veasy. He’ll have his fling in the army, maybe see a bit of the world, and after a while he’ll get sick of what he’s seen and be hungry for the woods again. A lot of things raised in the woods get an itching to leave them after a while, but most of them come back. Now, let’s you and me go home.”

  I put the vehicle in gear and depressed the gas pedal. We drove a half-dozen miles in silence, then, coming to a long upward slope in the road, I geared down a notch and said meditatively, “Take the bluebirds, for instance. There’s a pair of them nest in the eaves of the house every spring. Then the eggs hatch out, and after a while you see the young ones perching around on the cottonwood trees, not quite sure of their wings, and the old birds packing them grubs and other tidbits. But when the youngsters have learned to fly real good, they have to get out and rustle their own grub because now the old birds won’t do it for them.” The crest of the hill was reached and I slipped back into high. “Then along about the middle of September,” I continued, “all the bluebirds pull out, heading south, and seems hardly likely that you’ll ever see feather of them again. But you do, don’t you? Next spring they all come, and mighty happy to be back, too. Same way with the geese and the ducks and the robins: they all pull out and all come back. That’s how it is with the wilderness: a lot of things born and raised there get up and leave it for a spell, but they can’t leave it for keeps as long as there’s life in their bodies. Someday they have to come back. That’s how it will be with Veasy. Sure, we’ve lost him for a while, but someday he’ll come back, you just wait and see if he doesn’t.”

  Of course we missed him more than we missed anything else on earth. We missed him in so many ways. Sometimes when Lillian went to set the table for breakfast or maybe supper, she’d place three sets of knives and forks mechanically like, then with a swift impatient gesture sweep one set away and put it back in the knife box. We missed him sorely at night when we were there in the sitting room alone, not caring to listen to the radio because if we did, pretty soon along would come a tune that only a short time ago Veasy had been humming or whistling when he went about the chores. Even the fresh track of a real small fisher cat in the soft snow went almost unnoticed. Until now, sign of a real small fisher was worthy of much discussion at night because the fisher cats were the most valuable fur-bearers on the trapline, and if you caught a real small one with dark silky fur, you could figure that the pelt was good for a hundred dollars anyway, maybe a hundred and a quarter if the fur was exceptionally fine. So whenever we saw a track, Veasy and I would plan a strategy together, deciding just where to set down the traps so that we’d be sure of catching the fisher when next it passed that way. And every now and then Lillian would throw in her two bits’ worth of advice, maybe just to have us understand that she knew a mite about catching small dark fisher cats too. As a matter of fact, a fisher had once gotten into Lillian’s traps, and the skin fetched her one hundred and twenty dollars at the auction sales. But that, I teased her, was sheer beginner’s luck. “You know darned well that you set the trap for a mink without so much as a thought of a fisher getting tangled up in it, didn’t you now?”

  She evaded the question with: “But I caught the fisher, didn’t I?” And since she was just that very minute tacking the pelt to a stretcher board, there wasn’t too much I could say.

  But now, with Veasy gone from the woods, even the track of a real small fisher didn’t amount to very much one way or the other. If I mentioned it to Lillian she’d just nod her head, saying little, and if she did say anything it was said absent-mindedly, as though she didn’t give a nickel whether we trapped the fisher or didn’t.

  And that’s pretty well how it was with me when it came time to stake the muskrat push-ups. I began with Rawhide Lake, and there the push-ups were so close together it seemed that I’d no sooner cut one bundle of marker sticks and toted them out on the ice than I must go back to shore and cut myself another bundle. Every now and then I’d stop and look up and down the ice, half expecting to see Veasy moving through the bulrushes at the other side of the lake, sticking his markers into the push-ups. I’d always gone down one side of the lake or marsh, and Veasy down the other. But now I was alone, and there was no sense in my
stopping and looking around for Veasy. He wasn’t there, and I had all of the lake to myself.

  Back from the lake a ways was a clump of fir trees, and apart from the other a few yards was a tree with a four-foot girth, with bark six inches thick and with stout drooping boughs. Beneath the tree was a scatter of limbs that had been broken off by winds or by the weight of winter snows. I’d tied my horse close to that mighty fir tree because that’s where Veasy and I always tied our horses when we were staking the push-ups in Rawhide. Now, consulting both the sun and my belly at the same time, I thought it was time to eat my lunch. I dropped my bundle of marker sticks on the ice and lit out for the fir tree to build myself a campfire. I reached the tree and glanced around for a real dry piece of wood good for whittling shavings. My eyes came to rest on a single staple driven into the hard bark of the tree. Part of a leather thong was still hitched to the staple, though why the squirrels or pack rats hadn’t chewed it up long ago was more than I could say. Just then it seemed that Veasy was right there under the tree, skinning a muskrat that was hitched by the tail to the staple. When trapping muskrats at Rawhide, Veasy generally managed to get a half-dozen skinned out while I was ruminating over an after-lunch cigarette.

  For a fleeting second I could almost see him there, peeling the hide from the muskrat, then he was gone. Just then a timber wolf howled, sad, dismal and lonely. The wolf was quite a ways off in the woods, maybe a dozen miles away. The voice of a timber wolf carried a long way in the wilderness on a really calm day. I had just the right piece of kindling stick in my hand and was patting my pockets for my jackknife when the wolf went to crying. As its laments tailed off into depressing silence, I dropped the wood and murmured, “The hell with it. I’m going home.”