CHAPTER TEN
Until Another Spring
September 21st. Forty-eight degrees. A gusty breeze down the lake that made the whitecaps toss.
I told Babe on his last trip that I would go out on September twenty-fifth or the first good day after that. I intended to spend the winter Outside. Dad was not his active self and he could use another pair of hands.
Babe allowed it was a good idea. “You’ll appreciate the wilderness more,” he said, “when you see that sick country again.”
The first day of fall and halfway to the shortest day of the year. It hardly seems possible. There is a batch of chores to do. Get the canoe ready to go into storage, wash and dry the heavy clothes that will stay behind.
There is always a sadness about packing. I guess you wonder if where you’re going is as good as where you’ve been.
I watched the sun go down, and watched the flames it left on the clouds. In less than a week the sun will sink behind the pyramid mountain. I remembered when it disappeared behind that same peak on its journey to the longest day.
September 22nd. Frost on the beach. Clear, calm, and thirty degrees.
Today would be cleanup day. My first stop was Glacier Creek, where I buried some civilization scraps left behind by sheep hunters. Most hunters have poor housekeeping habits. Their wives must spoil them at home. Out here there is no one to pick up after them.
Next stop the upper end. Much garbage to hide there as well, ration boxes, tin cans, and plastic wrappers.
After being deserted for a couple of years, the beaver lodge has a lived-in look. I see a big supply of willow groceries anchored nearby. The dam has been repaired. There are drag trails leading out in all directions. Good to see the beaver back on the upper end.
Back at the cabin by late afternoon. Seven spruce grouse picking in the gravel of my path. If they would eat rolled oats, I would have a nice flock of wild chickens. Are they becoming friendlier now that it is almost time to leave?
After supper I busied myself oiling tools and getting them ready to store.
The surf was restless on the gravel of the beach.
September 23rd. Twenty-five degrees and fog patches.
This morning I watched a bull moose and a cow across the lake. The cow was above him. The bull climbed, and the cow acted afraid and tried to get by him down the mountain. Back and forth across the slope they trotted. The old boy worked like a cutting horse to block her every turn. Finally she broke through and headed down country. He had to be content to follow below. I lost them in the brush. Later on I heard a bawling repeated several times, and spotted a bull moose at the edge of the timber. Then a cow, another bull, and a second cow. Moose all over the place. The rutting season is at hand.
I cleaned up the sheep hunters’ camps at the lower end of the lake and the connecting stream. They, too, had moved in for a spell and left their stains on the land.
The red salmon run is over. I see no more finners along the shore. I saw some dead ones floating today and a good many other carcasses along the beaches. The sanitation department will have to get busy.
The caribou hindquarter, which had been hanging under the cache for over five weeks, was hard and dry on the outside but moist and red inside. I cut some for the birds, and sliced off a steak for supper.
September 24th. Clear, calm, and forty-five degrees. September never saw a finer morning.
Today I will store many things away, close up the remaining window and put the pole props under the purlin logs. I wish I was opening up instead of closing.
Amazing what a man accumulates! I rearranged my cache and now it is filled to bulging. I hope Babe is right, that few are brave enough to climb that high. I will store the big ladder in the timber and put the cache ladder in Spike’s cabin.
I saw the sunlight sparkle on the wet paddle blade for the last time as I rode the canoe down to its storage place in Spike’s cabin. All these preparations point toward winter, but the fine weather doesn’t believe it.
I would leave a few last-minute things.
Tomorrow I would be ready, just in case.
September 25th. Clear, calm, and thirty-two degrees.
Just finished the breakfast dishes when I heard the plane. Babe drifted into the beach with a grin on his face.
“It’s the twenty-fifth,” he said. “I’ve been watching the weather. It won’t last. Figured I’d better come and get you while it was fair.”
There was no hurry, but Babe packed things to the plane while I put the covers over the windows, secured the stovepipe, and carried in a fresh supply of wood. The birds got many odds and ends from the kitchen and worked in desperation to pack it away in the timber.
Babe watched them. “They’re going to miss welfare,” he said.
Ready for company with double bunks mattressed with foam rubber pads. A handy cabinet. Beach gravel floor.
Big window with a desk before it. A large storage shelf. Dick’s sister had sent the curtains. Dick provided the rustic curtain rod and the driftwood sculpture.
Time to go. The birds were perched silently in the spruces. A last check on the woodshed. The weasel whisked into the woodpile, switched ends, and peered out at me. I could hear the squirrel singing from a cluster of spruce cones. At last he was getting rid of me.
I closed my door and turned the locking lever for the last time.
Full throttle down the calm lake and up on the step. One last look at the beautiful country I knew so well. The brave gleam of my cabin logs and cache. There was a lot of me down there. Sixteen months, but such days are a bonus that don’t count in your life span at all.
That night during a gathering at Babe’s place, I felt a civilized cold germ taking hold.
Babe came on schedule. It was time to leave for the winter. Everything stored. One last look until spring.
