Caribou Island

8

Jim canceled his appointments for the day, which pissed off his secretary and the hygienist. Then he tore over to the King Salmon Hotel. Coming in on two wheels, he said to himself. I’m a man on a mission, a boy with a gun. He tried to sing the old Devo song, couldn’t quite remember the tune.

This got him thinking of another Devo song: little girl with the four red lips, never knew it could be like this, I’m going under, I’m going under. He was grinning now. Please fuck me today, Monique. Please, please, please.

He slid the Suburban to a fast stop in the gravel, hopped out, and practically ran to her door.

There was kind of a long pause before she answered his knock. But she was dressed and looked ready to go. Wearing a man’s shirt. Dark green plaid, untucked, top buttons undone. Jeans.

Wow, he said.

Hey, she said, and stepped forward to clear the door, so he had to step back. No invite in, no kiss. She locked the door, then turned around to face him. What are we doing today?

Um, he said. Whatever you want.

How about a helicopter ride? I’d like to see this place.

Okay, he said, and they got in the Suburban and drove toward where he had seen a few helicopters. This turned out to be an abandoned gravel lot. So he called information for helicopter tours, found something, and they drove past strip malls and pickups, boats on trailers by the side of the road.

Alaska is a dump, Monique said. But I like it.

We should go out on the water, Jim said. Go fishing. You might like that.

Maybe, Monique said. Helicopter first. Get my bearings, Roger.

Jim was feeling used, and a little pissed off, but he tried to keep the mood light. They’d fly around for a while, and then they’d go back to the hotel and fuck or he’d quit the whole stupid thing.

Whoa, Monique said. You just passed it, cowboy. I saw helicopters.

Sorry, Jim said, and found a place to turn around. He was getting distracted, thinking maybe Rhoda wasn’t such a bad deal. She was nice to him, and that had to count for something.

Jim paid half his left nut at the office, because Monique didn’t want the quick tour. She wanted the full five-hour tour with glaciers, Prince William Sound, a lunch stop in Seward, on to Homer, the entire peninsula. They climbed into a sleek black helicopter and donned helmets.

Monique leaned close and grabbed his arm. Thanks, Jim, she said in the headset. This is going to be fun. And as the motor whirred up, he felt his spirits rising, too. Maybe this would work out.

The pilot eased them into the air and started saying dumb things about Alaska. We’re almost the size of the Alaska State Bird, and do you know what that is, folks?

The mosquito, Jim said in an unenthusiastic voice.

The pilot paused a minute, thrown off. That’s right, he said. Are you from here?

Yeah.

Okay. I’ll just point out a few of the sights when we get out farther. Enjoy the ride, folks. Let me know if you have any questions.

They rose up quick and banked off to the east. Forest and then Skilak Lake, which the pilot announced. Jim peered out the window and tried to find Rhoda’s parents’ house, or Mark’s house, but they were buried somewhere in the trees. The lake a deep jade green today in sunlight, ripples on the surface visible even from high up. A river zigging northeast from the head of the lake.

Beginning of Skilak Glacier, folks, the pilot said. This feeds into Skilak Lake. We’ll follow it up into the mountains.

The pilot skimmed lower over the ice, the helicopter a tiny thing in a vast expanse of white, the glacier a wide chute with steep rock on both sides.

Wow, Monique said.

The glacier a thing of pressure, crevassed and bent. It looked alive to Jim, and he wondered why he’d never come up in a helicopter before. This was gorgeous. Rhoda should see this, too. She’d grown up basically at the foot of the glacier, but it was around the corner a bit, not quite visible from the lake, and even if she’d seen it on hikes, he was sure she hadn’t seen it like this.

I want to land on it, Monique said.

The pilot had a headset, too, but he didn’t respond.

Is that okay? Jim asked. Can we land on it?

Well, the pilot said. Yeah. I guess we could. You’ll have to stay close, though. No wandering off.

That’s fine, Jim said.

The pilot continued toward the head of the glacier, then slowed his airspeed, came in lower, looked around for a safe spot. The crevasses up close were much bigger than Jim had imagined. Everything immense, the distances farther, the rock walls higher. And no sign of other humans.

They came down slowly onto a smooth area of snow, away from any crevasse. Snow whipped up in a cloud around them, the rails touched down in a jolt, and the pilot eased off on the rotors, finally cut the engine. The air cleared again. Bright sunshine.

Monique was the first to step out. She had always wanted to walk on a glacier. A brand-new world, she said over her shoulder. She could hear Jim hop down behind her. She would have preferred the moment alone.

Pretty amazing, Jim said.

So quiet, she said. Let’s not talk. Let’s just experience this.

Okay, he said.

Monique set off toward a crevasse, a ridge of blue light. It was like a beacon, translucent. Most were hollows, cuts, but this one had been raised up under pressure, and as she walked toward it, she realized the distances here were deceiving. Much farther away and larger than she had thought.

I love this, she said. An expanding universe, right here.

I thought we weren’t talking, Jim said.

That rule’s only for you. So you don’t spoil my moment.

She walked on, her boots sinking through the soft top layer of snow and hitting hard ice. She knew there could be falls here, covered, invisible crevasses, but it all felt so safe anyway. She sat down backward into the snow, did a snow angel, looked up into the bright blue. This rocks, she said.

Hm, Jim said.

Poor Jim. You can talk now.

That’s all right, he said. It’s a nice spot. I can’t believe I’ve never come out here before.

Mm, Monique said. I love this. She closed her eyes and felt the cold seeping in through her jeans and even through her jacket. Refreshing and clear. I could almost take a nap, she said.

But after a few more minutes, her head was getting cold, so she got up and they walked back to the helicopter.

They buckled in, put on their headsets. Take us to the heavens, sir, Monique told the pilot.

Aye-aye, ma’am, he said, and the rotors whirred up and they rose into an even greater expanse of white, the Harding Icefield, extending maybe a hundred miles. Cushiony, pillowy, with dark peaks protruding. They crossed the range and could see ocean extending outward before them.

Gulf of Alaska, the pilot said. We’ll be passing over Mount Marathon up ahead, dropping down over Seward. Resurrection Bay. We’ll continue on to Prince William Sound and come back this way to Seward for lunch, if that works for you folks.

Sounds great, Jim said. Thanks.

They dropped below the snow line, green mountains falling into Resurrection Bay. A deep, deep blue. Monique kept looking out her side window, but she also put her hand on Jim’s leg and moved it up to his crotch. Not much at first, but then she could feel him getting hard. She rubbed lightly, and could feel he was getting bunched up, bent over in a U shape in his underwear. This was kind of funny, so she kept her hand on it, helped keep it in that shape. She could feel him shifting around, uncomfortable. Then she laughed.

Sorry, she said. He looked a bit hurt, but she couldn’t stop laughing. Sorry about that. And she pulled him closer for a kiss, but it was impossible with the helmets. She couldn’t reach his lips, and this made her laugh harder. Sorry, she said. Later, I promise. Then she looked out her side window again.

They skimmed low over the coast now, waves crashing white against black rock, evergreen forest grown thick down to the edge. A few wide gray pebbly beaches, driftwood. Spectacular, all of it. And no houses along the shore. This was what most amazed Monique, coming from D.C. It really was a frontier.

I don’t want to go back to Soldotna, Monique said. I want to stay out here. Let’s get a hotel in Seward, something with a hot tub.

Jim wasn’t sure what to make of this. He looked over at Monique, but she was gazing out her side window, turned away from him. He didn’t know how he’d explain to Rhoda, but maybe he could say he had to take a trip to meet that potential partner for the practice. That would probably work. And a hotel, the two of them, spending the night, didn’t sound bad. Monique might still just yank him around, but there was a chance.

Is that all right? he asked the pilot, finally. Could we stop in Seward and get picked up tomorrow?

Yeah, I don’t see why not, the pilot said. There’ll be an extra fee, of course.

Gary worked alone through the morning, loading more logs. For a small cabin, it seemed like a hell of a lot of wood. But he had done the math himself.

Underway, finally, crossing the lake on a sunny afternoon, light breeze, perfect weather. Bits of spray from hitting the small waves head-on. He stood at the stern, the throttle arm up, and he liked being here, liked doing this. The air crisp and clear.

As the island came close, he swerved in an arc and drove toward shore. Fell forward onto the logs when the boat hit submerged rocks but caught himself with his hands.

He turned off the engine, climbed forward, and began unloading from over the gate, dragging one log at a time, sloshing through the water. It was not difficult, the work a pleasure.

Gary had always liked physical work, building something, a contrast to the academic life. He liked Vonnegut’s idea — really Max Frisch’s idea — that we should be called Homo faber rather than Homo sapiens. We live to build. It’s what defines us. This was true, he thought. Imagining something, turning it around in your head, walking through it over and over in dreams, then making it happen in the real world. Nothing more satisfying than that.

Gary dragged the logs ashore until all were lying in rows and small stacks. He tromped through low thickets to the building site, carrying a shovel. He was keeping this simple. He’d just clear some ground here in a rectangle, even it out, and bury the first logs partway into the dirt. No other foundation, because it wasn’t necessary. The point was to build a cabin the way it used to be done. No cement pad, no permits. The cabin itself an expression of a man, a form of his own mind.

He looked at the lake, checking the view, checking perspective, shifting a few feet this way and that to make sure he had it right, then he dove the shovel into what would be the center. Breaking ground, he said. Finally. After about thirty years. How the hell does that happen?

Then he walked three paces to the side, made another mark, and walked three paces to the other side. A cabin six paces wide, and he’d make it four paces deep. No measuring tape. Just walk it out. With the sides marked, he made corners.

Okay, he said, standing in the middle again. His left shoulder ached, bursitis from years ago that acted up whenever he worked. He hiked over to a spruce tree and braced his hand against that to give his shoulder a good stretch. Then he stretched the other arm and shoulder, and stretched his legs a bit, too. He was starting this project so late in the season, he didn’t have time for injuries. All had to go smoothly. It was mid-August already. He had meant to start in late May.

He hiked back to the cabin site and cleared all the dead wood, throwing branches and also a few stones. Then he dug in with the shovel. Dark earth, rich and airy, but so many runners and roots he could never get a shovelful. A rake might have been more helpful. Something to rip all this stuff out. He had good gloves, so he kneeled down and raked with his fingers, pulled and yanked and found all of it far more resilient than expected. Tough little buggers, he said.

He stood and tried the shovel again, used it to chop. That seemed to work. So he chopped along the outside of his cabin, the entire boundary, the mosquitoes hounding him now, all over his face and neck, slowing the work with all the swatting he had to do.

He dropped to his knees and pulled at the growth he had chopped free, but some of it was still anchored, so he was chopping and digging again with the shovel, the entire area a thick mat of growth, really, and he began to wonder whether he should have just used this as the floor and built on top. Why was dirt better? This entire area was going to become a mud pit when it rained.

Gary lay back in the dirt and closed his eyes. The smell of the earth, wood rot, skunk cabbage. Buzzing of mosquitoes in his ears. He was wearing repellent, but they were undeterred as usual. He opened his eyes, and the sky was spinning. His pulse going in his temples, his head feeling a little dizzy.

Thirty years ago, this place had been new. And he’d been younger, the dream still fresh, still reachable. The air clearer, mountains cut more sharply against the sky, the forest more alive. Something like that. Some animated sense of the world that dissipates over time. We’re given a gift but it’s a fragile one, impermanent. Now this place was closer to an idea, hollowed out, lacking substance. Reduced to mosquitoes and a tired old body and ordinary air. He was supposed to live out here, but he was supposed to have done it back then.

Irene thought he was just being bitter, some character flaw. She couldn’t see the shape of the world, the shape of a life. She didn’t understand the enormous differences. He should have gone for someone smarter, but instead he went for someone safe. And his life made smaller because of that.

But he needed to focus. I need to think this out, he said aloud, and he tried to think clearly. He was making a mud pit. The logs set into it would form dams, a kind of pool for gathering water. He was making a cistern, not a cabin. But then his thoughts were wandering to his lunch, to Irene and her headache, to Rhoda and whether she or Mark might ever come out here to help. Meandering, slipping, unable to focus. A once-clear mind reduced.

Okay, he said. A platform, I need a platform. And he could see this was true. A wooden platform, a floor, raised up about six inches off the ground, leveled out. Then he’d build his walls around this.

So he stood up and decided to go for a hike. It was too late today to get materials for the platform, so he might as well explore the island a little.

He tromped up to the birch trees at the back of his property and continued on until he found a path. Much easier to follow this, a game trail, the ground more level. Birch and spruce all through here, no view of the water, and he came upon an empty cabin. A log cabin, like what he had imagined, their logs much bigger than his, about a foot thick. He wondered where they had found those. He came up close to examine, tried to figure out how they got the logs to fit so well. Something in the gaps, but he couldn’t tell what it was. Covered in moss now and cobwebs. He peered in a small window and could see a white basin, a dark wood-burning stove. He walked around back, a big cabin, two other rooms, and peered in more windows, tried to see the floor. Looked like boards. Then he knelt down all around the edges, tried to find a clue for how the walls met the floor, but there were no gaps in the walls, nothing to see.

Well, he said, and stood back up. This will be good for a reference. And he wondered why anyone would build here. No water view, just an outpost in the trees. No wonder it was empty. He could do better than this.