On the Edge of Nowhere

by James Huntington

  The best bear hunting is in the late fall, when they hole up in their dens. That time of year you can get five gallons of lard from a good bear, besides the meat, and that means a lot in the wilderness. Of course you can’t just walk along poking into every hump on the ground expecting to flush a bear.

  They’re at their smartest before they hole up, circling around for miles to throw you off, shoving a batch of dry grass into the den ahead of them, then using it to stuff the opening shut.

  But the Natives have hunted autumn bears for generations, mostly with axes to save ammunition, and they really know the business. A bunch of broken blueberry bushes would mean nothing to a cheechako; to a Native, though, it’s a good sign that there’s a bear nearby. The females like blueberry branches for their beds, and break off all they can find around the den. Deep tracks in the snow mean bears heavy with food and about to hole up for the winter. Even their droppings tell a story, if you know how to read it: when they turn shiny and dark you know there’s a well-fed bear around, ready to call it a season.

  All these things, and more, my Uncle Johnny taught me, and it was a rare fall that I didn’t pack home plenty of bear meat. But the one thing no one can teach you is common sense, so you’re bound to make some foolish mistakes. And that’s when you need plenty of luck because any mistake in this country can be the last one. Once, on an October morning when I wasn’t even looking for bears, I came across some signs and tracked them to what looked like a really big den. But even after I’d shoveled the snow clear all around it, I couldn’t tell where the hole was. I began poking around with the stock of my rifle and soon hit the soft spot. The rifle went clear through, but still I couldn’t feel any bear in there, the way you were supposed to.

  That’s when I made my first mistake. I pulled the grass and stuff out of the hole and, lying stretched out on my stomach, I shoved the rifle as far in as I could, and when I still felt nothing, I shoved my arm all the way in, too. Then I felt a bear, all right—a ruffled and cranky bear who growled once, then slammed a paw down on the rifle and jerked it right out of my hand. I yanked my arm out of there as if I’d touched fire. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end as I realized what would have happened if that bear had grabbed a little farther up: he’d have laid my arm bare, or maybe even hauled me into the den for a midnight snack.

  I sat down on my snowshoe to have a smoke and think the whole thing over. At that point, I was feeling a little shaky and, if it wasn’t for the rifle, I’d have been satisfied to take off and forget the whole thing. But a man doesn’t just leave a good .30-.30 behind. I figured that at least I ought to make an attempt to get it back. I kept remembering how Uncle Johnny went after bear with his ax, and wondered if I dared try that. Finally I decided I’d take a chance and unslung my ax. That was my second mistake.

  First I cut some lengths of willow branch and plugged up the hole so that bear wouldn’t come out and surprise me while I was busy working. Then I climbed up on top of the den and began chopping out an opening, the way I’d seen Uncle Johnny do, about a foot square. That would give me enough room for a good swing at the bear’s head, but it was still small enough to slow him down if he suddenly decided to pop up that way. Pretty soon I could make out the steam from his breath and what looked like his head, and that’s when I made my only smart move of the day. I went back to where I’d tied the dogs and turned them loose just in case. They ran yelping up to the den, all excited by the bear smell, and I had to chase them off a little. Then I climbed on top, hefted the ax and swung down with all the strength I had.

  All hell broke loose. I’d hit the bear, all right, but not cleanly. With a roar that shook the whole den, he came bursting up through that hole, spewing blood and dirt and moss in every direction. The narrow opening hadn’t slowed him at all. He was clear to the hips and coming after me before I recovered enough balance to swing at him again. This time I took half his face off, but he kept coming, blinded and bellowing and swinging those massive paws at the torment he couldn’t see.

  The dogs had gone crazy. They were howling and tearing around, and as I watched for another shot at the bear I hollered at them to come help me, using language a man uses only on dogs. Then I saw that they were plenty busy: another bear had bulled through my willow sticks as though they weren’t there and swung up on his hind legs, full of fight. He caught one dog and flung it fifteen feet through the air. The other three raced around trying to jump up on his back. But he was as quick as they were, and stronger, and shed them as if they were a swarm of gnats. Then a third bear came snarling into the open.

  Man, was I in trouble! I thought about making a run for it, but the snow was so deep they’d have been on me before I went twenty feet. Besides, my dogs were taking a beating and there was still that damned rifle.

  The first bear reached out for me and came down on the side of the den on all fours. I didn’t miss that chance: I drove the ax down through his backbone, and though he lived for a little while, he couldn’t make a move.

  I guess I went half-crazy myself. I charged the closest bear, the one that had just come out. He stood looming over me, big claws all set to tear me open. Now there was no time to wait for a good opening. I crouched, then jumped straight up, bringing the ax up into his stomach with all my might, splitting it so the guts spilled into the snow, all bloody and hot. He screamed and slashed down and I felt those claws tear through my parka and the back of my arm. I swung up again, aiming lower this time, and the bear toppled forward, clutching himself and dying.

  Three of the dogs were still worrying the third bear. He’d laid open the back of one dog and it lay whining and helpless under those tromping hind paws. I shrieked at the bear, full of anger and fear, and I swung at him as hard as I could. But now the ax had grown heavy in my hands, and my wild feelings spoiled my judgment. Instead of swinging up, I tried to come down on the bear from above, and all I did was cut his nose. He snatched the ax out of my hand and threw it away.

  I dove for the den entrance. I felt claws raking my boots in the last instant before I scrambled in. I smelled the breath of him as he started in after me, blocking out the light and pinning me in there. I fumbled blindly on the ground, found my rifle and squirmed around to face him. That bear wasn’t more than a foot away when I squeezed the trigger and blew his brains out.

  I put my feet on his shoulder and shoved him back far enough so I could squeeze up out of the hole in the top of the den. For a second everything looked dazzling bright in the sun. Then I saw my mangled dog and felt the burning pain in my arm and I began to shake so hard that I couldn’t even roll a smoke. I was panting for breath and covered with blood, and so was the snow for yards around. The first bear was still alive, so I went over and shot him in the head. Then I got some water for the hurt dog, but he couldn’t drink it, not even when I held the cup. The flesh on his back was laid open to the bone and he was in agony. The others sniffed around him sadly, as if they knew he was finished. I got the rifle and ended the poor thing’s suffering.

  Still shaking, I bandaged my arm and brewed myself a pot of tea. I felt terrible about the dog—he had been a good worker and a good friend. I tried to concentrate on a Native saying of my Uncle Johnny’s: “Don’t cry when dogs die because dogs die and are born all the time; cry when a man dies because a man never comes back.” I told myself that now I had meat for the winter and ribs for the next potlatch. But nothing much cheered me up.

  It got so that I really looked forward to coming out of the bush for the summer. The people in the river villages— Hughes, Cutoff, Koyukuk Station, Nulato—all knew me by now and made me feel welcome. Even at Christmastime, if I wasn’t catching too much fur, I’d hook up the dogs and ride overland to Hughes or Cutoff. They always had a big New Year’s potlatch there: people who had got a bear would bring the ribs and backbone, and that sure made a nice feed. Then they’d dance all night.

  There was always home brew—white mule—in a big barrel, the same one it had fermented i
n. The men would hang around telling stories and dipping their cups into it.

  The longer they drank, the more stories you could hear going at the same time. Pretty soon the fights would start. Then those of us who weren’t drinking, mostly the younger fellows, would have to separate the fighters and take them home. Some of them had to be taken home three or four times. There were always one or two who just wouldn’t stay put, and finally we’d throw up our hands and let them fight it out. These usually wound up getting carried home. Next day they’d all get together again, headaches, bruises, and all, and shake hands as though they hadn’t seen each other all winter. “Boy,” they’d say, “we sure had a good time last night.”

  Some of the men played poker from dark to daybreak— that was their way of celebrating potlatch. You never saw a dollar of cash, but some real money changed hands. They would buy chips with their furs at the going price—so much for a muskrat, so much for a mink—and the way they tossed those skins into the pot you’d never guess at the sweat and struggle that went into the trapping. I’ve seen men lose a season’s catch in one night, and then beg for credit so they could play some more.

  Not that I was immune to temptation. I’ve lost my share of skins at poker, mostly because I never learned to quit trying to fill inside straights and three-card flushes. And I had my battle with white mule, too.

  It happened the year I was seventeen, during a New Year’s potlatch in Cutoff. It started out like the others, just fine, with the boys my age having fun leading the drunks home and joking about how foolish the men looked trying to fight when they could barely stand. Then, while we were lifting one of them into his cabin, a bottle of white mule fell out of his parka. I was going to set it inside the door, but Peter Weaselheart said, “He doesn’t need that. He’s had plenty.”

  We took it out in back of the store, and the boys passed it around and each one took a real swig. “Man, that’s good stuff,” Peter said, passing me the bottle. He didn’t look as though it was good stuff. He looked as though he had swallowed beaver bile. But it suddenly dawned on me that this was not the first time these boys had swiped a bottle of mule, and I wasn’t about to act like a cheechako. I tipped the bottle up and let it gurgle.

  I’ll never forget that first swallow. It was like wet fire, and it burned every inch of the way down to my stomach. Then it burned there. I forced myself not to gag, and it was quite a struggle.

  “How is it?” someone said.

  “Man,” I told them, “that’s good stuff.”

  They all laughed. “You’re crazy,” Peter Weaselheart said. “It’s lousy. But it’s free.” I laughed with them. Then we finished the bottle and went looking for more.

  It wasn’t hard to find. By this time most of the men were pretty far gone and it was no trick to slip their bottles away from them. Before long, we were pretty far gone, too, and I was the worst of the lot. Maybe I was letting off steam after all my months alone in the bush. Maybe I was just trying to show everybody how tough Jimmy Huntington was. Whatever the reason, I soon got myself drunker than anyone else and was making more noise than all of them put together.

  A woman came out of one of the houses and tried to get us to hush up and I shoved her down in the snow. Someone sent for my Uncle Johnny, and when he came running up to me I threw his hand off my arm and squared away to fight him. I had spent plenty of time watching the men in action when they got drunk and I guess I figured that this was the way it was done. “C’mon,” I kept mumbling to Uncle Johnny, “put ‘em up. I’ll fight anybody.” He just looked at me as though I were a stranger, and finally he turned away sadly and went home.

  After a while I went behind a snowbank and was sick. That cleared my head a little and I realized that most of the boys, who had their hands full with me, had given up in disgust and gone home. The few who were left were too stupefied to come in out of the cold. I dragged myself back to my uncle’s house and stumbled around in the kitchen trying to get my bedroll fixed. He came out of the bedroom and lit the coal-oil lamp.

  I didn’t want to look at him. “I’m sorry I woke you up,” I said, trying to crawl into the bedroll with my boots on.

  “Boy, I haven’t been to sleep yet,” he said. “Here, drink this.” He was reaching a cup of hot coffee down to me.

  “I’m too sick to drink it.” I wanted to die.

  “Drink it!”

  He was in charge again and somehow that made me feel better. I took the coffee and the strong hot smell of it wasn’t too bad. I took a little sip.

  Uncle Johnny sat down on a box near the bedroll. “What were you trying to do,” he said, “show those boys that you’re all Indian?”

  I looked up at him. I didn’t know what he was talking about.

  “You’re a half-breed, understand, and no matter how tough you act or how drunk you get you’ll still be a half-breed. But you have nothing to be ashamed of. Your mother was a strong, brave woman, and your father was the best white man I ever knew. All these people liked him. They like you. You don’t have to prove anything to them. Understand?”

  I nodded. I did understand, finally. And Uncle Johnny was right: I guess I had been a little mixed up about what I was, who I was. That’s why I had to stay out in the bush longer than anyone else and bring in the most skins—and drink the most white mule.

  “You’re a good boy,” Uncle Johnny was saying. “You’ll learn, otherwise I wouldn’t waste my time telling you all this. Now go to sleep.”

  Next day was the worst time of all. Besides the miserable sick feeling in my stomach and head, I had to find the woman I’d thrown down and tell her I was sorry. I sure didn’t want to, but my uncle said that if a man didn’t face the truth he’d have to hide from it for the rest of his life. The woman was very nice. She said it was all right, that I was drunk and didn’t know what I was doing.

  “No,” I told her, “I knew everything I was doing, but I’ll never do it again.”

  For ten years after that night, I didn’t have a drink of any kind. Then I began to take an occasional beer. And to this day, that’s it. In the beginning, the hardest part was that other people kept trying to force whiskey on me. Either they thought I was kidding or they weren’t happy unless everybody was drunk, like them. But I just kept saying no, and after a while they quit trying.

  I still had some hard knocks ahead of me: just learning to be among people was always harder for me than getting along in the wilderness. As soon as I reached town, it seemed, I’d do something silly. And the older I got the more I kept wanting to live off the store shelf. Why pick blueberries when you could buy plenty of canned fruit, or make snowshoes when Pop Russell would sell you a good pair—on credit? All of a sudden paddling got to be too much work, and I went broke buying gasoline.

  I could think of more ways to waste money! Early one spring, before the ice was even out of the river, I decided to take my team down to Nulato and sell the few skins I had. Not long after I reached Cutoff, an airplane landed on the river. There was a fur buyer aboard and he offered to take my catch on the spot. I was sure tempted— the boys were all coaxing me to stay around and have some fun—but I owed Pop Russell from the year before and had to say no. Then the pilot spoke up: he said he’d carry me to Nulato and back for ninety dollars. That seemed like a fine idea, so I loaded my skins aboard and the people lined the riverbank to watch us take off with a whoosh and a roar.

  That old junker wouldn’t be allowed in the air today. One of the wing struts was made of nothing but plain baling wire, the ski had a broken shock cord, and the wind came whipping through the cabin as though we were sitting in the open. But we made it to Nulato and back, a hundred and ninety miles, in four hours. That was sure traveling for those days: the best I could have done with the dogs was a week. I really enjoyed that trip.

  There was only one thing wrong. By the time I settled up with Pop Russell and paid the pilot, I had exactly fifteen dollars coming for my catch—which meant that I’d have to buy my new grubstake on c
redit again.

  When I got back to Cutoff, broke, as usual, one of the older men asked me if I’d help him run off the barrel of mash he had working in a corner of his cabin. I said sure, so he dug out some coil and a couple of old gasoline cans and we went to work, heating the mash on the Yukon stove, running it through another can that we cooled by packing it in snow, and burning off the drippings. It took us nearly all night to cool that barrel, but when we were finished, we had twelve catsup bottles and two jars full of white mule. The old man swallowed a good-sized sample, shuddered, and said, “Son, that’s just right!” Sure, I thought, looking at his sour face and puckered-up mouth, I bet it is.

  When we hauled the stuff into town, that old boy was welcomed as though he’d just come back from two years in the Native hospital at Anchorage. Men ran up to shake his hand and slap his back, and everybody was his best friend. I noticed that nobody went out of their way to shake my hand. Before the old man had even got his dogs unhooked, he’d sold eleven catsup bottles, collecting five muskrat skins for each. Figuring a dollar a skin, you can see that a lot of trapping went into that whiskey. The only reason the old man finally closed up shop was that he was never one to hang back himself when it came to belting down mule. “The trouble with me,” he said, “is that I got too many friends.”

  He offered me a bottle for my trouble, but I had no use for it. Instead, I asked him if he would give me some tips on home brewing and lend me his mash barrel for a while. It had hit me in a big, bright flash that when it came to making money, brewing mash had it all over chasing mink and marten. The old man said sure, and for as long as he stayed sober, I got a fine education in the art of home brew. By next morning, I’d picked up twenty-five catsup bottles around town, loaded the barrel on my sled, and was on my way back to Hogatza to begin my career as a bootlegger.