During the course of our two ten-day float trips we had encountered only three other parties. Fortunately, none of the hunters we’d met had seen any game and were clearly discouraged; they were not likely to come back the following year. Fishermen tended to avoid the Moose Jaw because the trout were gone and the salmon runs were better elsewhere. Casual floaters avoided it because there were too many nasty stretches of water you had to portage around. Rafters and kayakers don’t like to get their feet dry. So, it was, to all intents and purposes, our own private preserve.
Haywood flew directly to the coordinates specified on the plot plan with no difficulty. He made a couple of low-level passes and we could see the remains of an old cache and what looked to be the original cabin site.
Haywood consulted his GPS and announced proudly, “That’s the place! Looks like you might be able to salvage that cache.” He had to shout over the noise of the engine.
I looked down at the small log structure seated atop five tall poles.
“Maybe. Looks like it could do with a new roof though.”
Haywood agreed and added, “I’d say we’re going to have to come up with a different name for this place. The Hermitage might be a bit grand, don’t you think?”
I nodded. The only thing remaining of the old cabin was a crumbling stone chimney and the outline of the foundation logs.
As we made another pass over the property Haywood shouted, “How about The Varmitage? That would be more like it.”
I laughed. It was, indeed, more like it.
“Yeah,” I shouted back. “That fits. The Varmitage it is.”
Our map had shown a long, relatively level gravel bar on the same side of the creek about a mile upstream, if you stayed to the river. It was less than a half-mile as the crow flies, and we were flying. As Haywood made his first run over it, he pointed out that downstream would have been better for bringing out heavy loads of moose meat, but upstream would do. We could always load up the canoe with bags of meat, then wade-and-tow it up to the landing strip from the cabin. Provided, of course, we enjoyed continued success on our moose hunts.
He made two low-level passes over the proposed landing strip, one from each direction. When he was satisfied there were no holes or boulders or logs his tundra tires couldn’t handle, he banked into the wind and took us down. It wasn’t my first bush landing with Haywood, but nonetheless, I closed my eyes, gritted my teeth and held on for dear life. His little Clipper dropped out of the sky like a rock, hit the bar and bounced, hit and bounced again, then Haywood jumped on the brakes. We swerved and skidded up the bar throwing sand and stones everywhere. We eventually came to a complete stop just off the gravel with both wheels hub deep in the water of Moose Jaw Creek. I wasn’t sure if we’d landed or been shot down.
I looked at Haywood. He was positively beaming with self-satisfaction.
“Perfect,” he pronounced. “However, you might want to extend this landing strip a bit while I go back for the second load.”
I still couldn’t talk so I didn’t answer.
He revved the engine, swung the plane around in the shallows and taxied back up onto the bar. As the cabin site was beyond the far end, he taxied us all the way back. I looked at the ruts the tires had left in the gravel during our “landing” with some degree of dismay. Haywood seemed completely unconcerned that we’d just barely survived what should, rightly, have been termed a plane crash.
It took less than a half hour to unload and stack the cargo on the willow side of the bar. Then Haywood clapped me on the shoulder, said, “See you in about three hours,” and jumped back into the cockpit. He’d already walked the entire length of the “landing strip” pacing it off for distance. I had accompanied him, moving the larger rocks and logs off to the side and kicking fill into the deeper holes. As he had to take off and land into the wind, his aircraft was already positioned at the proper end of the bar so, with a wave of his hand and a roar of his engine he shot bouncing up the bar, lifted into the air and soared off up the river channel until he had gained enough altitude to clear the tree tops. Then he rose rapidly in a sweeping arc that brought him back overhead and onto his course for Fairbanks.
***
I had three hours to kill before Haywood returned so I decided to have a look at my property. I had bought it, literally, sight unseen. Since it was right on the river, I was certain we must have passed it during our float trips, but I doubted we’d ever set foot on that particular piece of ground. I was sure we would have remembered the stone chimney if we had.
Haywood had seen it advertised on the bulletin board at the hardware store. It was a handwritten note that stated simply, “For Sale – Cabin site on the Moose Jaw…one acre…some improvements”. He’d called the owner, determined that the property was in the middle of our favorite stretch of the river, and contacted me immediately. The price was right, so I bought it. Now it was time to inspect the “improvements”.
I opened the gun bag and took out my .44 magnum pistol, loaded it, and strapped on the gun-belt before heading downstream. We hadn’t seen any bears during the flyovers but that didn’t mean they were not around. With that in mind, I decided to stick to the creek bank on my initial trip downstream. It was no more than a mile. Having had the advantage of recon-by-air, I knew it would be a short walk through the woods, but when you’re traveling alone in bear country, it’s best to keep to open ground if you can.
I took my time, studying the tracks in the mud and sand of the bank as I went. I found moose, lynx, black bear, grizzly bear, caribou, wolf, and three or four members of the weasel family – marten for sure, and perhaps mink and ermine. I’m not that good on weasel tracks. There were also duck, swan, and goose tracks, and several smaller birds and rodents, but I didn’t take the time to try and identify them all. I had the whole summer to meet the neighbors.
It took, perhaps, thirty minutes to follow the creek down to my property. It was easy walking along the gravel bar, but I took my time and enjoyed the scenery. The Moose Jaw valley wound its way through a series of gently rolling hills. The river was a silver ribbon of water, flanked by open gravel bars, which gave way to thickets of small willows along the high banks. Beyond the willows, there were stands of tall, brooding spruce trees, and lush open meadows and marshes. When I got to the cabin site I pulled out the plot plan, and using the old stone chimney as my single point of reference, I staked out the boundaries of my parcel. I didn’t have sophisticated surveying equipment, but a compass for direction and the time honored pacing method for distance was really all I needed. In less than an hour, four willow poles topped with scraps of red flannel marked my corners. Two were at the water’s edge along the creek, and two were back near the tree line where the dusty-green spruce trees stood straight and tall on the high ground. The old cabin had been situated just about in the middle of the property. After I staked out the original outline of its foundation I went to inspect the cache.
The cache wasn’t on the property. It was back in a small clearing, deep in the spruce stand, and somewhat downstream, perhaps two hundred yards from the cabin. This was typical. Most of the old trappers and prospectors kept their food cache downwind and well away from their camps and cabins. It was inevitable that a bear would catch the scent of food on the breeze and follow his nose upwind until he found it. The grizzly’s sense of smell was well documented. According to an Indian legend, when a leaf fell in the forest, the eagle saw it fall, the wolf heard it fall, but the grizzly smelled it fall. If you located your cache downwind of your cabin, the bear could arrive at it without having to wander through your camp. Of course, the wind wasn’t constant, and occasionally swung to blow out of another quarter, putting you and your camp in the bear’s direct path to the cache. You just had to play the percentages and go with the prevailing wind. As the wind here usually blew out of the southwest, it tended to follow the streambed. Thus, the old trapper who had built the original cabin had put the cache downstream and back in the woods.
It was in better shape than it had appeared from the air. Basically, it was an eight-foot square log box, five feet high, atop five tall poles. The five upright logs were still sound and sturdy. They had been set in an X pattern, with four corner posts forming a square, and a center pole to support the mid span load from all directions. They were locked together at the top by the platform floor of the cache. The log walls of the cache still looked to be solid. It stood roughly fourteen feet above the ground so I couldn’t inspect it closely, but I could see, through the door opening, that the poles supporting the old sod roof had simply rotted over the years, and buckled under the weight of the sod. I’d have to clear the remains of the roof out of the inside before any repair work could be done.
Underneath the structure itself I found some old leg traps, wire, chain and the remnants of the pole ladder that had once served as access to the cache. The traps could probably be salvaged with a little oil and a wire brush, but the ladder was rotted and broken. At best it would serve as a model from which to build a new one. I was excited to get started, and would have built a new one then and there, if I had the tools with me. But, they were coming in on Load Two. I glanced at my watch. It was past two o’clock, and I had just over an hour before Haywood returned, so I wandered back to the cabin site, lit my pipe and sat on a log near the old chimney and smoked and enjoyed the sunshine.
The sun was high in the clear sky now and the day was warm. The creek put forth a hatch of gnats and black flies, and the grayling began rolling on the surface as they fed on the insects. Their tall dorsal fins caught the sunlight and sent off flashes of red and purple as they rolled. I saw several fish that were in the twelve-to-fourteen inch range. They promised to provide many hours of fishing during the coming months, as well as some very fine dining.
A man couldn’t ask for a better place to spend his summer. This was the perfect place for a cabin. Old Jake Larkin had chosen well. It was situated on a patch of high ground so as to take advantage of the breeze that came down the streambed, and it was far enough back from the water that the insects were not too thick. I’d learned, on previous trips, that the biting flies and mosquitoes could drive you crazy along the water’s edge. They’re also bad back in the woods or where the willows are thick. Haywood and I found the best camps to be in open, high ground, midway between the water and the tree line.
The cabin had stood on just such a spot. It also sat on the inside of a bend which afforded it a good view both upstream and down, and a field of fire of perhaps two hundred-seventy degrees. I decided to build my cabin on the same site. The old stone fireplace was in bad shape and would have to come down eventually, but I could use it for my campfires until I started construction on the cabin. The top half of the chimney had fallen over, but there was enough left to create a draft and pull the smoke up out of camp.
When I finished my pipe I checked the topo map of the area, picked out the cabin site, and then the landing strip. I marked them both with a yellow highlighter. I’d followed the creek bed coming downstream. Since I had seen no evidence of bears in the area, I wanted to scout the more direct overland route on the way back. The land here had a few ups and downs, but nothing radical. The lines on the topo map were regular and widely spaced. Studying the map, it appeared that I could quarter the distance back to the landing strip by cutting directly through the woods on a southwesterly course. I folded the map, put it in my hip pocket, slung my jacket over my shoulder, and started up the rise toward the spruce stand.
Just inside the trees, I came upon a game trail that seemed to be headed in the right direction. I followed it across the high ground, through one dip, then up and over another rise. It was well-worn and wide open and the footing was good. In fifteen minutes I found myself in the willows at the edge of the landing strip. I could see the black, red and yellow river bags stacked out on the gravel bar. The overland route would clearly be the way to move them down to the cabin site.
Haywood was due to arrive shortly, so I stretched out on the gravel, my jacket for a pillow, put my hands behind my head, and closed my eyes. I felt the sun, warm on my face and the gentle breeze in my hair. I heard the creek burbling across its rock bottom, and an occasional splash as a grayling took a fly. I dozed for a while until the annoying drone of a flying insect insinuated itself into my consciousness. It came nearer and its drone grew louder. Eventually, I realized it was Haywood’s airplane approaching.
I shifted up onto an elbow and squinted into the brilliant blue sky. My eyes had not yet adjusted to the light, so I couldn’t make out the little Piper. I looked at my watch and was amazed to see it was nearly four-thirty. I had napped an hour and a half! I got to my feet, a little stiff and damp from the moist, rocky sand of the gravel bar. I brushed the sand from the back of my pants and shirt, and shook out my jacket. Haywood’s plane came into view above the trees downstream. He made his low-level surveillance run over the bar, then banked into a turn that took him back downstream for his final approach.
His landing this time seemed to be somewhat less hair-raising. Perhaps that was because I observed it from the safety of the gravel bar. He touched down a little closer to the downstream end of the bar, and only bounced once before settling into his rollout. He came to a stop with a good thirty feet of dry land to spare. I was duly impressed. I waited near the stacked bags and boxes of Load One while he brought the plane about and taxied back to me. When he cut the engine I walked out on the bar to meet him.
The door creaked open and he hopped down into the sand. He landed gingerly, bent at the waist. He put his hands on his lower back and slowly straightened up; he stretched and groaned.