One man’s wilderness (36 page)

I was awakened last night with a yank. The line flew off my wrist, and the spool to which the line was attached skittered over the gravel floor. I snubbed
up and stopped whoever was pulling on the other end. He had turned the sled and was pulling it down country. He went about fifty feet before I stopped him.

Then started the tug of war. I hauled the meat chunk my way, him right on top of it with his front paws, his head shaking from side to side as he tore at the hide and muscle of the leg bone. I pulled him my way until the sled stopped me because it had turned crosswise. Then I would give him line and he would pull it smoking over the snow.

I snubbed the line to a shelf bracket and set up my spotting scope. With the aid of the flashlight, I got a close look. There he was, the king of the weasel family, with short, rounded ears, teeth bared and glistening, muzzle wrinkled like an angry chow, eyes blazing blue—a sight to remember. Abruptly he quit the struggle and loped out into the blackness.

I followed his tracks this morning. I found he had bedded down under a small spruce where the needles were dry. I had interrupted his sleep, as was revealed by fresh tracks up the slope.

I could hear water running today under the ice and snow of Hope Creek.

April 6th
. Plus twenty-two degrees. Overcast.

My alarm cord stirred me again about midnight. The wolverine was within fifty feet of the kitchen window, moving powerfully from side to side and stripping meat from the hide. It was quite dark with no moon shining, only the whiteness of the snow. When I caught him in the beam of the flashlight, he glared at me momentarily, but the light seemed too much for him and he loped with short rolling leaps into the dark.

This morning I spotted him coming across the lake. From his general direction I thought I knew where he was headed. As soon as he was out of sight, I ran for the cabin, grabbed my movie camera and snowshoes, and slogged through the timber to cut him off. Surely he would cross Hope Creek on the same track as before. A blurred movement through the scattering of spruce, and there he was, rocking along his trail. Not much of a picture at 200 yards, but much satisfaction in that I had guessed his move.

April 11th
. Partly cloudy. Plus twenty-four degrees.

For the past several evenings I have tried to live-trap the wolverine. I built my trap out of the two halves of the fifty-gallon drum, hinged on one side so the weighted upper half would lift in a cocked position and slam shut when the bait trigger was pulled. I had visions of one mad wolverine. I figured he had more guts than brains, and his guts would get him into the jackpot. First get the meat, then get out of the trap, that would be his philosophy. But he never came, and finally I wrote him off as being on his delayed circuit calls beyond the mountains.

This morning as I came from woodsplitting detail, I saw a red fox near the live trap and the moose bait tied on a line. Why the fox didn’t see me was hard to understand. I froze. Just like a red fox would do with a fat hen from the chicken yard, he snatched up the meat in his jaws and lit out for the brush.

He didn’t figure on the line being tied on the other end, and when the slack ran out, the line whipped tight, the meat flew out of his mouth. He calmly turned around as much as to say, “Why, of course. You have to untie it first.” In less than five seconds he was trotting triumphantly to the brush with the meat. I looked at the cord. It was cut as if with a knife. How about that for being smart as a fox?

Later I climbed the ladder to the cabin roof and rapped the stovepipe a few licks to knock down some soot and make the stove draw better. I happened to look down the lake. Something black was on the ice. I scrambled down the ladder for my binoculars, through which I saw a big black wolf with a white patch on his chest and another one, light-colored, lying down near the shore.

No doubt they saw me but couldn’t figure out what they were looking at. They hunched on the ice quite a ways apart, then decided they had come close enough to this strangeness. Off they went toward Emerson Creek.

April 16th
. A crust on the snow. Scattered clouds. Plus twenty-five degrees.

It has been more than three weeks now since Babe was last here.

This morning the beating of wings startled me. Spruce grouse were moving through, whirring from tree to tree. I saw the rooster puffed up like a balloon on the snow, tail fanned and wing tips dragging as he drifted over the crust. He
ignored me completely. Skin patches were tufted above his eyes like bright red flowers. The feathers on his neck stood straight out. His fan tail flicked and winked almost as if it were rotating, and he made a noise that sounded like two pieces of fine sandpaper rubbing together.

As he came within two feet of me he stopped, shrugged his inflated body and flipped his tail in a gesture that seemed to say, “Step aside, Bud, and let a man past.” And off he strutted over the snow. In the shadows of the spruce the females seemed absolutely bored with the entire performance.

The old rooster feels spring coming on strong. That’s a good sign.

April 17th
. Plus thirty-five degrees. The icicles dripping.

I saw the weasel for the first time in several weeks. I do believe he is starting to turn to his summer coat. It is getting cream-colored in places.

When I was up on the Cowgill benches looking for ptarmigan, Babe came. He was unloading on the ice when I reached the cabin. All kinds of supplies. Mary had started plants in her greenhouse. His boys were cutting house logs. Yes, those little spruce grouse roosters this time of the year will walk up and peck you on the shoe. Ptarmigan will do the same. And a man could tame a wolverine if he had lots of meat. Babe knew of one that had packed a trapper’s snowshoes away and the trapper never did find them. Oh yes, he just might be back on Sunday with the one-eighty and bring the mission girls.

I had heard that before.

April 19th
. Plus eighteen degrees. Clear and calm.

He did come back! Babe in the one-eighty, with passengers! Surely he had brought the mission girls. I counted three others besides Babe, a man and two women.

Babe had brought his wife, Mary, and a young school teacher and his wife. The mission girls couldn’t get away today.

We had a nice visit. Mary toasted marshmallows in the fireplace for all hands. Babe suggested the young couple sing a song or two. Both had strong,
clear voices and the songs were hymns, of course. There sat Babe basking in the warmth of the fire, his head bowed, his eyes closed as if asleep in the Hereafter. Surely he enjoyed the singing more than anyone.

The teacher left to take some pictures of my cabin, and no sooner had he left than he returned. He was noticeably excited. “A bird lit in my hand,” he said.

I got out the can of meat scraps, and the teacher and his wife were like little children as they held out their hands and the birds came to them.

They sampled some of my blueberries from the cooler box. Better than fresh picked, they said.

Babe grinned at me as he climbed into the pilot’s seat. “I’ll bring the girls next trip,” he said.

They all waved, and off they went over the ice.

April 22nd
. Fog halfway down the mountains. Plus twenty degrees and calm.

I climbed up past the hump and picked a two-pound coffee can of big, firm, dull red cranberries. I dumped them into a pan to cook them in their own juice. I stirred the berries around a bit and picked out the sticks, moss, and leaves. A fistful of sugar was next, followed with a shot of corn syrup, a few wooden spoonfuls of Mrs. Butterworth’s syrup, and a generous spill of honey. Soon the potion was bubbling away. I mashed the plump berries with the spatula. When the mixture cooled, I poured it off into empty bottles. Now those sourdoughs would have an elegant topping in the morning.

A strange object appeared halfway up the slope of Allen Mountain just under the rock outcrops. It changed shades. It was a bear. I ran for the big spotting scope. Sure enough, a big blonde bear and then another, chocolate color, and another, until there were three standing half as tall as the mother. Cubs, but not this year’s.