Wild Awakening

by Greg J. Matthews

  Yet even those consequences weren’t enough to derail my penchant for trouble. I got into more fights at school, including at the end of my sophomore year when I beat up four guys at once. When the principal pulled out my file after that one, it was an inch and a half thick.

  That incident proved to be the last straw for the El Cajon administration. I was expelled from the school district. If I wanted to receive a high school diploma, I would have to enroll at Chaparral High, the alternative education continuation school in El Cajon. It was a place for students with academic and behavioral problems.

  I couldn’t seem to do anything right or please anyone, least of all my dad. I was mad at everyone, including myself. I felt ashamed. Even worse, I felt trapped. I was riding a fast train to oblivion and I saw no way to get off.

  Little did I know that I was right where God wanted me.

  6

  * * *

  SOMETHING’S OUT THERE

  Your enemy the devil prowls around like a roaring lion looking for someone to devour.

  1 PETER 5:8 NIV

  12:30 A.M. MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 21

  KENAI PENINSULA, ALASKA

  I had just settled into some well-deserved slumber. It felt as if every muscle and joint in my body was sore, so my descent into la-la land was a welcome relief. But it didn’t last long. I realized that my cot was rocking in the evening darkness. Then a voice hissed: “Greg! Something’s out there!”

  I awoke in an instant, adrenaline coursing through my veins. I made out the outline of Matt sitting up in his cot. He was shaking my cot with his left hand. In his right hand was a pistol.

  What was going on?

  My day had begun at three-thirty that morning. I’d stepped out of the front door of Matt’s house and shivered, partly because of the drizzle and thirty-four-degree temperature and partly because I was so eager to get our hunting adventure started. Matt and I made sure we had our wallets and hunting licenses. Then Matt remembered that Melinda had packed sandwiches and spaghetti for us in their freezer. We checked the straps holding down our gear in the truck and boat. Finally, we stood at the rear of Matt’s truck and looked at each other.

  “This is it,” Matt said. “Do you think we have everything?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I think we’re as ready as we’re ever going to be.”

  Matt slapped the bed of the truck. “All right. Here we go.”

  The drive to our destination on the Kenai Peninsula was six hours of increasingly dazzling scenery. We took Alaska Route 1 and soon arrived in Anchorage, the state’s largest city at three hundred thousand people. Anchorage’s few tall buildings—the highest was twenty-two stories—were dwarfed by the Chugach Mountains to the east. We had one stop to make—I still hadn’t purchased any bear spray. I wanted a can that came with a holster so I’d have quick access if needed. I found what I was looking for at a sporting goods store.

  From the city, we traveled south, then southeast along the edge of Turnagain Arm, a narrow waterway to the east of Cook Inlet. On our left, rugged mountains stretched precipitously toward the sky. Their highest point, at more than five thousand feet, was South Suicide Peak. The contrast of black rock and white snow on its flanks gave the mountain a majestic and forbidding appearance.

  I turned my head to the right. The highway was so close to the aquamarine waterline that I almost felt as if I were on a boat. Along one stretch, Matt pointed out the spray of gray whales on the water’s surface. Later, a low tide revealed vast mudflats. A handful of people armed with buckets and clam tubes scoured the beach for the tasty mollusks. It looked no more dangerous than the clam digging we used to do in San Diego, but newcomers to the area sometimes wandered far out into the flats and were caught in the soupy mud and sand, which acted like quicksand. Unable to free themselves, they were trapped in a watery grave when the tide rushed back in. In Alaska, even a seemingly routine activity like clamming could turn deadly.

  We eventually reached the end of the arm and turned southwest. Now we were on the Kenai Peninsula itself. Roughly two hundred miles long and one hundred miles wide, the peninsula was home to ice fields, the glacier-covered Kenai Mountains, and numerous lakes and rivers filled with salmon. For millennia, Dena’ina Indians made the peninsula their home, as did Alutiiqs in the south and Chugaches in the east. They subsisted on the bounty of fish and wildlife available in this fertile region. I hoped it was my turn to participate in this centuries-old tradition.

  As we drove deeper into the heart of the peninsula, I observed some of the most breathtaking landscapes on the planet. Miles of dense green forest reminded me of an endless ocean. Towering, jagged mountain ranges made me feel insignificant. Alaska revealed a little more of herself with every mile. She was strikingly beautiful, but I knew that beneath the lovely exterior was a fickle and sometimes unforgiving spirit. Alaska held life in one hand and death in the other, and you didn’t always know which she would reveal next.

  We’d been driving about three hours when we reached Cooper Landing, a village of about three hundred people staked out at the western end of Kenai Lake. Log cabins and lodges competed with evergreen trees for space. The heavily forested region attracted hunters, fishermen, and adventurers. This was the last outpost of civilization we would encounter. From here, we would travel along remote roads even farther into the interior, until we reached our destination: the widening of the mighty Kenai River known as Skilak Lake.

  While Matt drove, I shot video of the sights and added commentary so that later our families could also enjoy our exploits. I glanced over and saw Matt grin. He was enjoying showing off his home state to his big brother. My “little” brother was actually a gentle giant, six-foot-four and strong as a tank. He was a man of few words but an excellent woodsman. I was grateful that I could count on him if we found ourselves in a tight spot.

  We arrived at Skilak’s upper-side boat ramp in the late afternoon, traveling the last four miles by dirt road. I jumped out of the truck and did a 360-degree turn to take in the surroundings. The sun was out now, adding depth to the mountains and highlighting the greens and golds of the pine and aspen trees that lined the lakeshore. Directly in front of us were a rocky beach and a wide, primitive boat ramp that descended into the water. Skilak Lake was the termination point of the Kenai River, though it was also fed by runoff from Skilak Glacier. The lake was fifteen miles long and up to four miles wide. In a couple more months it would be frozen over, but today the water was clear. For the next ten days, we would call this beautiful sliver of Alaska our home.

  Matt and I checked and rearranged the placement of our gear in the boat—if the nose was too heavy, it might torpedo the boat into the water and sink us. Finally, Matt looked satisfied. “We are ready, brother,” he said. “Let’s do this.”

  The wind had increased, whipping up whitecaps on the water that were visible for miles. But I trusted Matt when he said the surface conditions wouldn’t be an issue. He was proud of his new boat. It was a twenty-six-foot Alumaweld jet sled with a center console, windshield, and two seats, a boat that had proven itself many times amid the rigors of the Alaskan wilderness. He’d installed a loran and GPS, which would tell us the depth of the water we’d be exploring and our exact location.

  I was almost giddy as I stood in the water in hip boots and helped Matt ease the boat down the ramp and into the lake. In minutes, we were off. An hour later, as the sun set, the bow of our boat slid gently to a halt on a rocky shoreline at the southwest section of the lake, near Caribou Island.

  We had arrived.

  The beach consisted of about eight feet of smooth, fist-sized rocks which ended at a line of thick, mossy brush and a wall of pine trees. I was holding the rope while Matt shut the engine down when I heard a scream from above. An eagle soared over us and then dove into the water, talons outstretched, as it sought a trout for dinner. This was a nature lover’s paradise, but I knew that hidden somewhere within the forest before us were creatures more dangerous than an eagle. I g
rabbed the loaded shotgun and Matt unholstered his pistol. We walked into the timber to search for a place to set up camp.

  About fifty feet from shore, we found a relatively flat area. “Well, this is an option,” Matt said. We hiked another quarter mile, continually scanning the area for potential predators as well as for more flat or open space. Nothing better materialized. Our first option would have to do.

  Now the real work started. We began unloading our supplies and hauling them up to our selected area. It took close to two hours. I was exhausted and we hadn’t even begun to establish our base camp.

  Our first order of business was choosing a site for the shotgun. From now on, anytime we were in camp during the day, we’d both know where to run if something caught us by surprise and we had to defend ourselves.

  While Matt used a chain saw to clear the camp area, I put together our cabin and equipment storage tents. The twelve-by-twelve-foot cabin tent included a rain fly that was rated to carry a snow load, just in case. In addition, this expeditionary tent had a four-foot vestibule at the front for hanging and drying wet gear. We also had a twenty-by-twenty-foot tarp to cover the kitchen area. I’d done a ton of research on how to set up our kitchen. We had a four-burner stove and griddle plumbed with seven gallons of propane. We had a three-gallon collapsible water jug with attached faucet for drinking water. We would fill a washtub with boiling water to wash dishes. I cut the lower branches on a pine sapling down to one-inch stubs to use as our kitchen cabinet. The water jug, pots, pans, and cooking utensils were hung at eye level. Dry goods, paper products, a coffeemaker, spices, and other cooking implements were stored in plastic bins that slid under a six-foot folding table. Kerosene hurricane lamps lit the kitchen and our walking paths throughout the camp.

  We set up our food storage area about seventy-five feet away—far enough so animals wouldn’t be parading through our camp but close enough so we could defend our food if necessary.

  At this point we were losing light fast, so we located our headlamps and a spare set of batteries. I had just filled my pockets with batteries when I heard a series of howls—wolves. With the evening darkness nearly upon us, a confrontation with a wolf pack was the last thing I wanted. Fortunately, the sound was distant. I hoped it stayed that way.

  Once the kitchen, sleeping area, and equipment storage were set up, it was time to finish clearing the camp of fallen dead trees, which would become our fuel supply for fires. The sound of the chain saw echoed across the surface of the lake and bounced off the mountains behind us. I’m sure the growling motor could be heard for miles. It seemed wrong to disturb the beauty of Alaska with such a foreign noise. Staying warm and having the ability to dry clothes and boots were a priority, however. At 10 p.m., Matt shut down the chain saw and laid it next to the towering pile of firewood. We were exhausted and hungry.

  Dinner and a cozy bedroll were calling, but one last task remained. Matt and I had discussed many times how we would secure our camp. I’d purchased a thousand feet of four-hundred-pound fishing line that was normally used to string decoys together for duck hunting. Matt had brought a couple dozen aluminum cans. We filled each of the cans with more than forty steel BBs, then strung the fishing line through them. Moving out about fifty feet from the center of the campsite, I chose a tree and secured one end of the fishing line approximately two feet up the base of the trunk. While walking backwards with the spool of line in my hand, I began circling the camp, stopping every few feet to wrap the line around trees. Matt slid the cans down the fishing line and positioned two or three of them between each tree. Once we had the cans set, we pulled the heavy fishing line until it was taut and secured it. Anything that came through at night would strike the fishing line and send the cans into a cacophony of jangling steel.

  Close to midnight, we finished our cold sandwiches under the dim light of a hurricane lantern and slid into our tent. Our Outfitters tent was far better equipped than what we’d had with Dad on our summer trips. This tent accommodated individual extra-wide cots, double Therm-a-Rest sleeping pads, comfortable pillows, and zero-degree sleeping bags. We even installed a tent reading light that came in handy when getting dressed to go out at night to use the pit toilet, which was down a little trail forty feet from the campsite.

  I was proud of our planning and how it had all come together. When we finally bedded down, I was beat, yet my mind raced with anticipation of what the next day would bring. I fell asleep talking to Matt about our camp and the hunting we would do in the following days.

  When Matt shook me awake, however, I suddenly wondered if our preparations had been enough. Something had tripped our BB-can predator alarm.

  The metal rattling had stopped. The shotgun was between us, leaning against the back wall of the tent. Trying to stay as quiet as possible, I reached over and brought the shotgun to my chest, careful to point the business end in a safe direction. Both of us kept silent and listened for the slightest sound. Despite my heavy breathing, I could have heard a pin drop outside.

  Thirty minutes passed before we finally relaxed. Whatever had tried to enter our perimeter had apparently been scared off by our rattling steel contraption. I put the shotgun down and drifted off yet again, though less easily this time. What had triggered our makeshift alarm just fifty feet away? A squirrel? A wolf? Something even bigger? I couldn’t help wondering.

  That night, neither Matt nor I knew that three people on the peninsula had been attacked by bears in separate incidents over the past three months. The last attack occurred just a week earlier when a grizzly mauled a man walking a dog near the Kenai River. He was flown by medevac to a hospital and placed in intensive care with major injuries.

  If I had known about the bear attacks, I might not have gone back to sleep at all.

  7

  * * *

  PUZZLE PIECES

  Sometimes the hardest pieces of a puzzle to assemble are the ones missing from the box.

  —DIXIE WATERS

  I sat on a wooden pew in my Ocean Pacific polo shirt and Levi’s 501 jeans and squirmed. Shane sat next to me, wearing similar attire and looking as uncomfortable as I felt. We were in the last row of a San Diego church. In the pews ahead of us, more than fifty high school kids huddled together, chatting and laughing.

  I can’t wait to get through this, I thought. I can’t wait to be done with church and get back home so we can do something fun.

  I was not here by choice. During my sophomore year of high school, I’d been living with Mom and Jeff. Then I’d moved in with the family of my girlfriend at the time. After the fight that got me expelled from the district, however, both that living arrangement and that relationship ended. Dad was furious at me about the fight, which made moving in with him and Brenda less than appealing. That left Mom and Jeff. My brothers were there, so it made some sense. And my new stepdad was a pretty relaxed guy, easier to be around than my dad.

  The problem, from my perspective, was that Jeff was a Christian. Though Mom hadn’t made any faith commitment yet, she was intrigued by Christianity. Both Jeff and Mom were going to church regularly. They made me an offer: I could move in with them again, but only if I agreed to go to church every Sunday.

  I didn’t want to do it. My introduction to God with Ernie, Al, and Tina in Grants Pass two summers before seemed like a distant memory. Everything in my life had gone downhill since then. I was once again sure that God had to be as mad at and disappointed in me as my dad was. Going to church sounded like a waste of time. But I didn’t have a lot of options. Reluctantly, I agreed to Mom and Jeff’s plan.

  That Sunday morning when Shane and I sat in a back-row pew was my second with the high school group. I didn’t know any of these people. Based on the upscale neighborhood and the Mercedes and BMWs in the parking lot, this was a different and more affluent crowd than what I was used to, definitely from the other side of the tracks. I didn’t think I fit in.

  The youth leader, Barry, stood at the front of the sanctuary and started tal
king about an upcoming event. Out of boredom, I examined the hymnal, paper, and pen in the rack attached to the back of the pew in front of me. I noticed movement to my right, glanced quickly in that direction, then dropped my head again.

  Wait, what was that?

  I looked up once more. Three of the most attractive girls I’d ever seen had just walked into Sunday school and were taking seats only two rows in front of us. The girls all wore fall dresses. They were all slender and tan. They moved with the natural grace of athletes. One in particular caught my attention, however. She appeared to be the oldest. This girl wore a white dress with a flower print and spaghetti straps and had curly chestnut hair that fell to the middle of her back.

  All right, I thought. Things are looking up Now if I get bored I’ll at least have something to look at.

  Shane and I sat through the rest of the gathering, which included a message from the church youth leader and singing of worship songs that we didn’t know the words to. Finally, the meeting was over. Just before we were dismissed, the leader announced that in the afternoon there would be pizza and a softball game at a local park for anyone interested.

  As Shane and I walked out, we passed the three girls, who were now standing and talking with one another. The girl in the white dress turned toward me. She had gorgeous brown eyes.

  “Hey, are you guys going to play softball?” she asked.

  I stopped mid-stride. My gosh, she’s talking to me. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what my mom’s schedule was for the day and if we’d be able to get a ride to the park. But the words that came out of my mouth were “Yes, we’re going.”

  “Good,” the girl said with a smile. “Looking forward to seeing you out there.”

  Suddenly I was very interested in playing softball with the church youth group. Fortunately, Mom was available to drive us. I had her drop off Shane and me a couple blocks from the park—Mom’s car was a piece of junk, which was definitely not the impression I was going for. Soon we were all gathered around pizzas spread out on a picnic table. I found myself standing next to the girl with the gorgeous eyes, who now wore shorts, a white tank top, and a visor over hair pulled back in a ponytail. I learned that her name was Janelle. The youth leader said he would offer a blessing and asked everyone to hold hands, so I took Janelle’s hand. When the blessing was done, I held on a little longer than necessary. Janelle didn’t seem to mind.