One man’s wilderness (17 page)

My fireplace form is in place to support the arch
.

Chimney between purlin log and ridge pole rising around my collapsible flue form
.

My Dutch door works as slick as a door on a bank vault. Notice how the wooden hinges crafted from stumps extend like battens over the planks
.

Installing an organic roof from the forest floor source. Sections will grow together. Notice the mullions in the Mylar picture window and the driftwood sculpture behind the “panes
.”

The cabin nestles among spruces below snow-frosted Crag Mountain. The beach needs attention
.

I loaded my camera gear and started up the trail to the hump. Just before reaching the top I saw a reddish object in the low brush ahead. The wolves had made a kill. There were the remains of a young cow. The three wolves had nearly devoured her. All that was left was the backbone part of the rib cage, part of one front shoulder, and most of the neck. The lower part of the head to the top of the eyes was eaten away. The lower jaw bones were stripped clean. Back straps and ribs all cleaned, too. The skin was badly torn and pulled down over the front leg as you would peel back a rubber glove. They had downed her fifty yards up the hill and scattered paunch, skin, and lungs along the trail to where she now lay.

The other caribou was nowhere to be seen. Wondering if I would see the killers again, I followed the trail high above Hope Creek, through patches of wildflowers. Many forget-me-nots, wild geraniums, dwarf fireweed, paintbrush, and wild celery. The breeze was at my back.

As I topped a ridge along a dry wash, a wolf came up from the other side, thirty or forty paces away. It was the light-colored one, staring at me head-on. She whirled and dropped over the edge. I scrambled forward to get a better look. She crossed a rocky slide and stopped on a grassy place to look back, tail down and head high. Then in a wink she was gone.

I walked the trail to the mouth of the big basin below the glacier, and sat down to glass the surrounding country. On a grassy slope was a big brown rock. Sometimes those big brown rocks move. I slipped out of my pack, lay on my stomach, and studied the spot through the lenses. It moved. I saw a bear’s head raise, his muzzle tossing and testing the wind. Maybe I could get some pictures.

By the time I climbed a steep pitch, the bear was digging for squirrels. I watched him chase a squirrel in a big circle. He sprawled on his belly and worked at something held between his forepaws. All the time I was taking
pictures. He lumbered down by the noisy stream, up through a willow patch, and bobbed on over the skyline.

The sun was warm and there were no insects about. I nearly fell asleep, thinking about what I had seen this day. I could have killed them all. I thought of the season that would soon open, of the men the season would bring to do just that. Kill, shake hands with the guide, and stand with hands in their pockets while he skins out the hide or saws off the skull and antlers and perhaps a quarter or two of meat, not even bothering to open the carcass. The wolves had done a better job.

While I was away, the rabbit changed his menu. He cleaned half a row of rutabagas. Bet he never tasted them before, either.

July 20th
. White frost on the potato leaves. They wilted a bit with the warming of the sun.