West Of Here Part 32

KRIG TOOK HIS stool at the end of the bar opposite Jerry Rhinehalter, who was slumping even more than usual. stool at the end of the bar opposite Jerry Rhinehalter, who was slumping even more than usual.

Molly soon emerged from the kitchen, glancing in turn at Jerry, then Krig. "Bookends," she said.

Jerry Rhinehalter gave her the finger.

"No more Kilt Lifter, Dave," said Molly. "You were the only one drinking it. Bonnie switched it out with Alaskan Amber."

"Ech," said Krig. "What are my other choices?"

Molly heaved a little shark sigh and c.o.c.ked a hip. "Sierra, Bud, Bud Light, Manny's, Hale's Pale, and Port Townsend IPA."

"So, nothing dark?"

Molly rolled her eyes and c.o.c.ked her other hip. "Alaskan Amber's the darkest."

"Yeah, okay," said Krig.

Krig scanned the bar for a sports page or an auto trader but found only the business section and the technology section. "Workin' for a Livin'" was playing in the background. It reminded Krig of the 1980s. He found himself tapping his foot, and thinking about that first summer after high school. Good times. Tobin and the gang. Parties at the icehouse. Life was like a highway leading in every direction back then.

Krig took a chug of his Alaskan. Too rich but in a dull way - not enough umph. The thought of no more Kilt Lifter p.i.s.sed him off, and soon he was shining this bitter light backward into the past. Highway leading in every direction Highway leading in every direction - ha! When had Krig ever done anything but spin his wheels? Tobin and them had always made him feel like an outsider, plus the icehouse was a dump. And hadn't the eighties actually sucked? Sure, he had youth on his side, and while the future may have been elusive, at least it seemed far away back then. But with twenty years and an unsentimental gaze, Krig could see now that it actually sucked. Without the benefit of nostalgia, Huey Lewis sucked. The summer of '84 sucked. Krig's prospects sucked hard after he pa.s.sed up the scholarship. Isn't that when Krig started cashing in his dreams and - ha! When had Krig ever done anything but spin his wheels? Tobin and them had always made him feel like an outsider, plus the icehouse was a dump. And hadn't the eighties actually sucked? Sure, he had youth on his side, and while the future may have been elusive, at least it seemed far away back then. But with twenty years and an unsentimental gaze, Krig could see now that it actually sucked. Without the benefit of nostalgia, Huey Lewis sucked. The summer of '84 sucked. Krig's prospects sucked hard after he pa.s.sed up the scholarship. Isn't that when Krig started cashing in his dreams and workin' for a livin' workin' for a livin'? Isn't that when Krig's life jumped the shark? Peering across the bar at Jerry Rhinehalter, Krig couldn't help but wonder when Jerry's life jumped the shark. Probably when he started squirting out kids and selling cars. And hanging out at this place. But somehow the knowledge that Jerry Rhinehalter endured was both comforting and disturbing. Who was he kidding feeling sorry for a guy like Rhinehalter? At least Rhinehalter had a wife and family. At least Rhinehalter had a purpose.

Krig could see Rita was losing interest in recent days. The more she trained her focus on the future, the less she seemed to notice him. Daily, that focus seemed to sharpen, and the more it sharpened, the blurrier Krig became. Sooner or later they'd have the friends friends talk. There would be boundaries. And the more he tried to cross those boundaries, the further away Rita would move them. Looking around the bar distractedly, Krig's eyes landed on Hillary Burch. Second time he'd seen her in here. He nodded at her, but she didn't see him. He remembered how everyone had started calling Tobin Happy Meal after she'd almost bit his d.i.c.k off after that fiasco at the dance. Guys were afraid of her after that. Whoa, was that her mom? d.a.m.n, kind of a cougar. Rhinehalter was checking her out, too. talk. There would be boundaries. And the more he tried to cross those boundaries, the further away Rita would move them. Looking around the bar distractedly, Krig's eyes landed on Hillary Burch. Second time he'd seen her in here. He nodded at her, but she didn't see him. He remembered how everyone had started calling Tobin Happy Meal after she'd almost bit his d.i.c.k off after that fiasco at the dance. Guys were afraid of her after that. Whoa, was that her mom? d.a.m.n, kind of a cougar. Rhinehalter was checking her out, too.

When Beverly felt Krig's eyes upon her, she gave her t.i.ts a hoist and c.o.c.ked a questioning eyebrow at him.

Krig turned away immediately and could feel himself blushing. He glanced at the television, then the window, and finally across the bar at Rhinehalter. "How's the family, Jerry," he said.

"f.u.c.k off," said Rhinehalter.

everything AUGUST 2006 2006.

The old man was patient with you. Even when you refused to listen, or hammered your fists in your lap, or hurled your mashed potatoes against the wall, the old man was unperturbed. When you flung the checkerboard across the room with such force that checkers rained down in every corner, he waited out your fury, nodding his head ever so slightly beneath the weight of his big white hat, as the checkers tinkled and rolled and settled to rest all about him. Sometimes he smiled at your outbursts. Sometimes he hoisted a playful eyebrow. When you refused to speak, he made you draw what was inside of your head. But you could not draw the many worlds, even with my hand. You could only scratch out erratic lines and bubbles of white s.p.a.ce, and you scratched so hard that sometimes you tore through the paper. And as you scratched and scribbled your chaos, the man in white talked and talked, and you let his voice wash over our senses like the burbling of a stream.

the ragged edge MARCH 1890 1890.

Mather's overland route had led the expedition through some twenty miles of the roughest country the Olympic interior had to offer, at the cost of their last mule, the morale of the party, and three weeks of precious stores. Mather's decision to leave the Elwha had delivered them to the brink of starvation, four thousand feet above the very river they thought they'd left behind. For, indeed, the overland route had merely rejoined the Elwha, intersecting eight miles from where they left the river, a distance they might have snowshoed in three days.

The party retreated into a chilly state of silence as they set off from what would later be named Deception Divide and began the steep descent back into the depths of Press Valley. Plunging in a ragged single file through the soft snow toward the Elwha below, Mather's nerves were set further on edge by the fact that he could often hear water running beneath the crust. A half-dozen times in the afternoon, the men were stopped in their tracks by the rumble of avalanches, and on each occasion Mather could do nothing to prevent himself from looking back at the unstable ridge looming in their wake. With each footfall came the certainty of a slide. Mather was afraid to stop and let his weight settle and afraid to move forward lest the ground disappear from under him. He would have welcomed cloud cover, even driving snow and ice but for a little stability.

Falling to the rear in favor of his customary post behind Mather, Haywood kept a considerable distance from Cunningham, who never seemed to master his snowshoes - plodding forward as though each step were an a.s.sault on the mountain.

Slowly and irrepressibly, like a lava flow, a searing hatred was welling up in Haywood.

30 March 1890 He has led us in circles and in doing so led us straight to ruin. I could just as well blame myself for permitting it to happen. Cursed am I for being loyal, for never voicing my dissent. I fear we shall not live to see the Quinault.

With every agonizing step, with each rumble from the bowels of the earth, Haywood cursed himself for being a follower.

Cunningham did not a.s.sociate the distant rumblings with his own predicament, as he pushed forward dazedly, his sights locked between Reese's shoulder blades. The present moment was as distant and elusive as a dream. Indeed, he no longer knew whether he was asleep or awake, whether he was moving himself or being pulled along by Reese.

Outwardly, Reese's set jaw and squinting eyes projected the same dogged determination as ever, but his steps, unlike Cunningham's, were tempered by extreme caution as he negotiated the steep terrain. With his squinted eyes alternating between his footsteps and the lofty ridge across the valley, where a stiff wind was kicking up snow flurries and blowing them sideways off the peaks like streamers, Reese longed for the shadowlike presence of a confidant, the st.u.r.dy guileless companionship of a mule.

Late in the afternoon, without mishap, the party arrived with a palpable but unspoken relief at the timberline, where the slope began to ease into the wide valley floor and the roar of the Elwha could be heard in the distance. They trudged through snow five feet deep in places, wending between trees that increased in size as they drew nearer to the bottomlands. At last they met the Elwha where she was running wide near the head of the valley. On the right bank, with a clear view upriver into the gap, they shoveled a flat swathe clear of snow and began to set up camp. Mather could not ignore the tension as the men went separately about their tasks.

"We've been here before," Mather said to Haywood, setting a canvas aside and turning his attention to Haywood. "Recall the Liard in the dead of winter. Or the Yukon in 'eighty-six, right smack in the middle of -"

"d.a.m.n it, it was never like this!" snapped Haywood. "Not on the Liard, not on the Mackenzie, not anywhere! This ceased being an expedition sometime back and became a fight for survival. And we're losing, Jim, we're losing." Immediately, Haywood regretted the reckless impulse to give his desperation voice. So much so that he was almost relieved when Mather met him with contempt.

"Is that what you think, Charlie? If that's the case, then I've sorely misjudged you for a lot of years, my friend. This remains remains an expedition, not some whimpering fight for survival. These are the lessons explorers must learn, the perils explorers must face, so that the rest of the world can enjoy free pa.s.sage. I suggest you get to mapping this wilderness instead of surrendering to it, Charlie, or I'll have to set my own unskilled hand to the task. There's an hour of good light left, and I've got a mind to fish. Anyone else who's hungry ought to strongly consider doing the same." With that, Mather seized his whipsaw and his tackle off of the ground and proceeded on an upriver course along the bank. Runnells was the first to follow. an expedition, not some whimpering fight for survival. These are the lessons explorers must learn, the perils explorers must face, so that the rest of the world can enjoy free pa.s.sage. I suggest you get to mapping this wilderness instead of surrendering to it, Charlie, or I'll have to set my own unskilled hand to the task. There's an hour of good light left, and I've got a mind to fish. Anyone else who's hungry ought to strongly consider doing the same." With that, Mather seized his whipsaw and his tackle off of the ground and proceeded on an upriver course along the bank. Runnells was the first to follow.

Ironically, it was Haywood who enjoyed the most success fishing, albeit grudgingly, pulling in a sizable rainbow and a pair of early spring chinook before dusk. Mather added a small rainbow, and Runnells, fishing a dark gray channel along the far bank, added a pair of steelhead.

They ate silently by the fire, except for the dog, who enjoyed but a few precious morsels of fatty skin before traversing the circle, whimpering in an attempt to ingratiate herself. Finally, they were forced to tether her to a tree, where she lay wide-eyed and disconsolate as the men ate slowly in spite of their ravenous hunger. Only quietly did they lick their fingers, as Sitka began to whimper once more from her p.r.o.ne position in the shadows, where Mather could sometimes see her hungry eyes flash in the firelight. When the last greasy skin had been consumed, and the fire settled at last into a slow burn, the men crept off to their bedrolls one by one, and rousing herself in the darkness, Sitka got to her feet and pulled vainly at her tether for the better part of an hour, if only to nose around the coals or discover some discarded morsel in the snow.

Morning broke crisp and clear and found the party refreshed. Even Sitka, who still did not begrudge the men their neglect, harbored a renewed optimism, sniffing furiously about the dead fire the moment she was unleashed. In spite of all appearances, the bedraggled expedition a.s.sumed an air of business as they readied themselves for the day's journey. They traded their moccasins and snowshoes for boots as they were forced to kick steps into the snow up the steep incline heading into the gap. The dog exhausted herself in frantic bursts getting up the hillside, often slipping back as she pedaled furiously to gain purchase. There was still determination in her, but it was grim at its center.

By midday, the party had ascended nearly twelve hundred feet, from which vantage they could see almost to the foot of Press Valley, where everything had begun to unravel and continued to unravel until they arrived here, two weeks later, clinging to a crust of thawing snow high above the Elwha. And lest they forget their precarious plight, the warmth of afternoon brought a procession of rumbling reminders that they did their best to disregard as they trudged onward and upward. By three o'clock they had reached the pa.s.s. According to the aneroid, they had ascended just over seventeen hundred feet from the valley floor. From this vista they could see beyond the narrow curve at the foot of the valley to the very cleft that had first deceived them. To the northeast, the peaks of Mounts Mather, Haywood, and Runnells were visible in a cloud-broken line.

"It's all downhill from here, gentlemen," quipped Mather. "Home free."

Scarcely had the words left Mather's mouth before Haywood pounced upon him furiously and without warning, tackling the bigger man and pinning him to the ground. Before the others could pull him off, Haywood had his hands around Mather's neck and bore down with all his might. But he was no match for Mather's superior strength. Mather threw Haywood off and was about to launch his own offensive when a deafening rumble like rolling thunder stopped them in their tracks. Dumbstruck, the men gaped across the valley to the northwest at the face of the very ridge that they had only yesterday descended.

"Good G.o.d," said Haywood beneath his breath. "Look at the size of it."

Each man stood frozen in place.

The whole face of the mountain seemed to be in motion, sliding in a great crust toward the timberline, its descent almost perpendicular. s...o...b..a.l.l.s the size of houses bounded down the mountain in advance of the plunging ma.s.s - sputtering, as Haywood would later describe it, like drops of oil on a heated surface. The timberline began to shiver well in advance of the descending ma.s.s. Within seconds the breath of the beast hit the tree line with a tremendous rush of air, rolling up the forest like a rug before it, uprooting a swathe of timber a thousand feet wide, snapping the mighty trees like matchsticks and hurling them hundreds of feet down the mountain. The slide gathered ma.s.s as it thundered toward the basin, pouring a dirty flow of snow and timber and rocks into the canyon, until the canyon was virtually no more, filled to the brim with hundreds of feet of rubble. When the rumbling ceased and the last of the rubble had sifted down the canyon, the ensuing quiet was almost as deafening. The men stood stupefied, gazing upon all that was left in the wake of the slide: splintered trees and great patches of bare earth and naked rock. And in his heart, every one of the men knew that it was only by some whim of fate they'd been spared.

"Thunderbird," said Mather at last, breathlessly. "Of course!" He began to laugh. "Why didn't I think of it before?" He laughed, and laughed heartily, as though the realization tickled his fancy to the very core. But n.o.body laughed with him.

been campin'

AUGUST 2006 2006.

When, after nearly eleven years in Port Bonita, Franklin Bell snuck his first look at the Thornburgh Dam, he refused to stray within four feet of the chain-link fence. Craning his neck tentatively for a peek, he straightened up immediately upon glimpsing the vertiginous drop. Everything about the place made him uneasy. The rumble beneath his feet seemed to suggest that the dam might give way at any second. Trudging back up the gravel path to the Taurus, Franklin opened the hatch. Rupert bounded out immediately, thrusting his square head to the wet ground and sniffing all around the car as Franklin unloaded his big blue gym bag with victoria clipper emblazoned on both sides in flaky white letters. He never did take that cruise. Pa.s.sed up a week of his paid vacation that year and spent the other week looking for a hobby, unsuccessfully. Got a free bag, though.

Franklin wasn't treating this like any vacation. The bag was stuffed to the gills with trail and topo maps, six cans of Chunky soup, two pairs of tan corduroys, three sweaters, a knife, a fork, a spoon, a plate, a tiny skillet, a pair of comfortable loafers, and four pairs of socks. The bag weighed roughly thirty pounds, distributed unevenly toward one side where all the soup cans nested. The second and larger bag, a hulkish black affair with many superfluous straps, contained a gallon of water, three Pres-to-Logs, eight books of matches, and the world's biggest flashlight. This bag weighed roughly forty-five pounds and presented the additional obstacle of excessive lumpiness. To make matters more c.u.mbersome, a two-man tent, an orange sleeping bag, and a foam cooler stuffed with turkey franks, spicy mustard, and two pints of eggnog were lashed to the bag with lengths of yellow nylon rope. As Rupert nosed around the parking lot, pausing to lift his leg on the back tire of a Silverado, Franklin fished the trail map out of the big bag and spread it out in front of him on the hood of the Taurus for final review.

All evidence suggested that Tillman had picked up the Crooked Thumb trailhead. The alleged c.o.c.k-slap had occurred between trail miles 6 and 7 and was marked accordingly by Franklin with a red X. X. The "theft" had occurred just shy of mile 16. Tillman was heading in a southwesterly direction. He was probably not far off trail - probably somewhere in the vicinity of mile 20. On paper the plan looked feasible - a twisted line from point A to point B, but glancing at the endless green expanse spreading out beyond Lake Thornburgh, it occurred to Franklin, with a shiver, that he probably should have brought a few extra cans of soup. Maybe another pack of turkey dogs. The "theft" had occurred just shy of mile 16. Tillman was heading in a southwesterly direction. He was probably not far off trail - probably somewhere in the vicinity of mile 20. On paper the plan looked feasible - a twisted line from point A to point B, but glancing at the endless green expanse spreading out beyond Lake Thornburgh, it occurred to Franklin, with a shiver, that he probably should have brought a few extra cans of soup. Maybe another pack of turkey dogs.

Who the h.e.l.l was he kidding? He'd never find Tillman out there. And what if he did? What if the injury scenario Franklin had concocted was true, and Tillman was on the side of the trail with a busted kneecap? How the h.e.l.l would he get him out of there - carry him? And what if Tillman didn't want to be found at all? What if Tillman really was dodging the law? Why was Franklin convinced of his innocence in the first place? If Tillman was injured or innocent, why not get the law involved? Franklin tucked the map in a side pocket and hefted the smaller bag, slinging its thirty pounds over his shoulder, where instantly the edge of a soup can dug into the tender fat roll below his rib cage. The moment he tried to heft the second bag, he knew he'd badly miscalculated.

The Pres-to-Logs were first to go - plenty of logs where he was going, and he had plenty of matches to light them with. Next to go was the plate. He could eat out of the skillet, just like at home. He even opted to leave the spoon - since you could eat Chunky soup with a fork. He left two pairs of socks and one of the sweaters in the backseat. He drank one of the eggnogs and left the empty carton on the pa.s.senger seat. By the time he was finished consolidating, Franklin slung but a single bag and the foam cooler over his shoulder, then crossed the slab to the trailhead, where he began his journey up the squelchy trail. The midmorning sun slanted through the dripping trees. The mosquitoes were in hiding. Rupert sniffed along at Franklin's heels, as he trudged up the incline, his quads already beginning to burn, the foam cooler squeaking incessantly in its halter, the rolled up sleeping bag bonking him on the back of the head with each step.

Shortly before noon, Franklin reached mile marker 4, huffing and puffing. He'd gained nearly a thousand feet in elevation, leaving the last vestiges of Lake Thornburgh behind. The mosquitoes were out in full force now. A blister had formed on the little toe of his right foot. He was sweating like Buster Douglas. Worst of all, he had a bad case of swamp a.s.s further complicated by the leaking cooler, upside down in its rope halter. The lid had snapped like a saltine cracker just shy of mile marker one, and begun to crumble shortly thereafter. Stopping along a high crest overlooking the river, Franklin sat on a moldering evergreen beside the trail and fished a turkey dog out of the cooler, snapping off a bite as he loosened his shoelaces. For all his ailments, this outdoor stuff wasn't so bad once you stopped to soak it up. A hot dog really did taste better outside. Even cold. Not until Rupert started mooching did Franklin realize he'd forgotten the dog food.

"Doggonit, Rupe." A quick mental inventory of the food stores - six cans of Chunky soup, fifteen jumbo turkey dogs, and a bag of Funyuns - eased Franklin's mind somewhat. h.e.l.l, he could probably stand to lose a few pounds anyway. That jellyroll had really slowed him down coming up the steep parts. His t.i.ts had gone soft, too. Lobbing the last half of his turkey dog to Rupert, Franklin fished out the map again and traced his path in red pen from the head of the trail through mile marker 3.

"d.a.m.n if it don't look like a straight line on the map, Rupe."

But Rupert was busy rooting around a rotten stump. Once Franklin retightened his laces, got to his feet, hefted his gear, and began plodding onward, Rupert abandoned his stump and loped into stride behind Franklin, nose to the ground. The second leg of the hike proved considerably less grueling. The trail leveled out for several miles along the ridge before descending into the dark bottomlands, where Franklin could hear the river once more. While the ridge had smelled of summer, of warm cedar and dry air, the shady lowlands smelled to Franklin like a flooded bas.e.m.e.nt or a wet carpet. The ground softened beneath his feet. Rainwater gathered in footprints along the path, collected in puddles along the edges of the trail. The squeaking cooler continued to crumble, dropping little foam pebbles in Franklin's wake. Marked with a rough wooden sign depicting a triangle, he soon came upon a little side trail wending its way through a patch of gold-leafed trees to the riverbank, where the sunlight flooded in, and the Elwha ran fast in silver ropes. Here he found a raised dirt clearing, a crude fire pit, and a notched log bench with initials carved into it. Franklin plopped his bags down on the tent pad and sat heavily upon the bench, where he ran a hand over the surface as he surveyed the initials looking for T. T. And though Tillman's initials were not to be found, he had left what Franklin imagined to be his his mark in other ways: a pair of crumpled Snickers wrappers in the brush, an empty pint of Smirnoff along the riverbank.

"I'll be d.a.m.ned, Rupe. Looks like we've got a scent."

For fifteen minutes, Franklin walked along the riverbank collecting firewood. Pausing on the gravel bank drenched in sunlight, with the river rushing by and the mountains looming in the distance, he told himself he could get used to this camping business. It was quiet out here in nature. A guy could experience a different kind of aloneness than the loneliness of a dateless Sat.u.r.day night spent on his bile-colored sofa or the loneliness of strolling the aisles of Safeway late at night with a heaping cart of Chunky soup and four gallons of eggnog.

The problems began back at camp when Franklin burned through three books of matches trying to set fire to a sizable log without the aid of paper or kindling. How hard could this be if a caveman could do it? Finally, he got the splintered edge to take, and spent the next forty-five minutes blowing on the flame until he became so lightheaded that spots threatened to blot out his vision. When, an hour later, he'd finally succeeded in starting a cooking fire that actually crackled, he unpacked the skillet and a can of soup.

"Mm-mm, Rupe. You're eatin' like a king tonight, old boy."

Rummaging through the bags, an unsettling realization began to take hold: he'd forgotten the can opener. He spent ten desperate minutes stabbing at the top of the can with a table knife before he finally staved it in with a river rock on the edge of the fire pit in an explosion of brown goop. Rupert lapped the lion's share of it off the ground in a frenzy. Franklin forked out the few remaining chunks and ate them straight from the can. To top the meal off, he inhaled a cold jumbo dog with a snake of mustard running down its spine and washed it down with a pint of eggnog.

Even as evening fell, and the light drained from the forest, Franklin found himself surprisingly at ease in the darkness. What was he afraid of in the first place? The wilderness was so expansive, so big and serene and pa.s.sive, it didn't seem to notice he was there. Where was the threat in that? It wasn't until he awoke from a dreamless sleep that Franklin realized he'd nodded off by the fire. The log pulsed orange in the fire pit. Rupert slept curled at his feet. There was a chill in the mountain air and the buzzing of crickets from as far as the ear could hear. The river roared in the darkness. Through the treetops a smattering of stars winked down on Franklin. He sat soaking it all up with a great satisfied yawn welling up in him. Not too shabby.

"What say we hit the sack?" he said, patting Rupert's ample rump.

In his sleeping bag, on his back, with Rupert smacking his lips and breathing sleepily at his side, Franklin savored his final waking moments staring up through the mosquito net at the treetops and the stars. The next time Franklin awoke, he awoke to sounds - a can skittering across hard ground, followed closely by the familiar squeak of foam rubber. Some snorting, some sniffing, then the violent scattering of ice. Finally, a deep guttural growl - a growl with saliva clinging to the edges. Franklin shot upright in his sleeping bag. Sweet Jesus, what the - ! Sweet Jesus, what the - ! Rupert began to whimper and got to his feet as Franklin tried to settle him. The intruder rummaged about the fire pit, chortling and sniffing at the air. As the beast drew nearer to the tent, Franklin felt his scalp tightening, felt the blood beating behind his eyes. A dark snorting form began circling the tent just below the mosquito dome. Suddenly it stopped in its tracks and began sniffing. Even the crickets fell silent. When the snorting nose pushed at the fabric of the tent, Franklin swooned with a rush of fear. The instant the beast reared up on its hind legs, something in Franklin snapped. Rupert began to whimper and got to his feet as Franklin tried to settle him. The intruder rummaged about the fire pit, chortling and sniffing at the air. As the beast drew nearer to the tent, Franklin felt his scalp tightening, felt the blood beating behind his eyes. A dark snorting form began circling the tent just below the mosquito dome. Suddenly it stopped in its tracks and began sniffing. Even the crickets fell silent. When the snorting nose pushed at the fabric of the tent, Franklin swooned with a rush of fear. The instant the beast reared up on its hind legs, something in Franklin snapped.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!"

Rupert began to bark wildly.

Franklin rolled to his left, snapped on the flashlight, and aimed it right up into the shining eyes of the beast, which let loose a roar that seemed to come from the center of the earth. Scrambling for the entrance, Franklin fought with the snagged zipper. Rupert squirmed out before him and charged straight at the intruder with such rabid intent that the beast seemed confused as Rupert lunged snarling at it, driving it back. Franklin hit the bear again with the beam of the flashlight, and it irritably tried to shield its eyes from the light. Finally, it swung around on all fours and charged off into the woods. Franklin's relief turned to panic as Rupert took off after it, hurtling through the darkness full speed ahead, howling, crashing through the underbrush on the heels of the bear. His trumpeting grew fainter and fainter until the night swallowed it up altogether. Weak in the knees, with the river ringing in his ears, Franklin pointed his flashlight out into the impentetrable wooded darkness. The smart thing to do was to stay put. Stir those coals up. Find himself a big stick. Rupe was probably already on his way back. Prodding the embers until their orange bellies were up, Franklin scattered some twigs on top and blew into the center, and the flames flared up in his face, casting a pale glow all around the clearing.

drip, drip, drip AUGUST 2006 2006.

It was still raining when Timmon awoke at dawn. Inertia was his instinct. Sneezing, he forced himself upright, where he soon discovered that groundwater had leached into the tent from the corner nearest his head and ran a channel down the length of the tent, gathering in an elliptical puddle near his feet.

"f.u.c.king s.h.i.t on a stick," he said.

After a hissing fire and a cup of hot water, Timmon readied his tackle and made the half-mile trek downstream to the Elwha, where he chose a level stretch of low bank from which to cast. Though he didn't have his bow, he was heartened almost immediately by the appearance of a buck on the far sh.o.r.e. Watching the beast saunter off into the brush, Timmon felt certain his luck was changing. The rain was sure to stop. Nature would surrender its bounty yet.

He fished until late in the afternoon and caught nothing. He hunted until dusk and succeeded only in getting wetter. In the evening he sat shivering by the fire, cursing his misfortune. But things only went from bad to worse. By the next afternoon, the hunger expanding like a balloon in his stomach could no longer be ignored. In a moment of weakness, knee deep in the riffle with another snagged lure at the end of the line, Timmon, cold and hungry and sleepy, wept like a child.

For the better part of three interminable rainy days he fished and fished - from the bank, in the riffle, up to his waist in deep, dark pools. He pulled nothing out of the Elwha, did not enjoy so much as a bite. In the crepuscular hours, Timmon stalked the forest all around the creek, wild-eyed with hunger, clutching his bow so tight his knuckles were white, crouching in the brush, lurking in the shadows, scanning the understory with his desperate gaze. He did not encounter so much as a doe or a chipmunk in all his scouting.

After dark, he busied himself to avoid the hunger. He dug a pit and fashioned a smoker around it with river rocks and fir boughs, though he had nothing to smoke. He constructed a gangly bed frame four inches high, lashed with salal vines, and crossed with thin green cedar boughs to combat the groundwater. He hung the rain tarp inside the shelter above his bed. He washed his socks and hung them over the fire to dry. He nested and renested his pans. He organized his fishing tackle. He emptied every pocket of his fancy pack of pennies and lint and burs. His fingernails were down to nothing. But in the end there was still the hunger, black and eclipsing. As a last resort, he consumed creek water by the quart to fill the hunger balloon and was awakened in the night by explosive diarrhea.

Though the rain finally let up by morning, Timmon's fortunes only worsened. Further weakened by dysentery and fever, he could not summon the will to mobilize himself. He could not bear to face the barren Elwha another day, could scarcely bear the thought of gathering wood for a fire, or boiling water, or least of all tramping around in the wet foliage looking for movement. Instead, he lay on his back and stared up at the rain tarp until his eyes felt heavy, though not with sleep. In his feverish apathy, he could scarcely even rally his self-contempt. So he was a big fat bust in the wilderness, same as he was in civilian life, so what? None of it seemed to matter. He wasn't even hungry anymore. If he died there in the middle of nowhere - or in a room at the Wharf Side for that matter - who would really care? He wouldn't even miss himself himself - if - if that that wasn't a good measure for the value of his life, what then? wasn't a good measure for the value of his life, what then?

The urgent and burning chill of dysentery finally stirred Timmon into action early in the afternoon. Scrambling free of his sleeping bag, he scurried out of the shelter, clipping the doorway on his way, thus caving in a small portion of ceiling. He couldn't make it halfway to the creek before he was forced to drop his pants not three feet from the smoker, where he squatted gurgling for fifteen minutes in his own sweet stench, bathed in a film of sweat, too weak and miserable to even swat at the cloud of mosquitoes enveloping him. When it seemed he was empty of everything he'd ever eaten plus half of his stomach lining, Timmon staggered back to his shelter, stepped over the collapsed portion of ceiling, and fought his way stupidly into his sleeping bag. There, he lay on his side staring at the small square of light that was his doorway, unable to think of anything at all until sleep came for him.

He was awakened by a trilling. He opened his eyes to find a chipmunk standing in the doorway. "Tweeeel tweeeel," it said.

"Get lost," groaned Timmon.

The chipmunk was doing funny things, things Timmon didn't know chipmunks could do, making its head bigger and smaller.

"Don't f.u.c.k with me," Timmon said.

The chipmunk was definitely f.u.c.king with him. "Tweeeel tweeeel," it said, its head the size of a grapefruit.

Pulling himself upright, Timmon's world began to spin. Inky black shapes played at the corners of his vision. The chipmunk trilled once more, its distended head about to burst.

"f.u.c.k me," Timmon said as he felt himself slipping down a dark hole.

And for the better part of untold hours, he flashed in and out of this feverish state of semiconsciousness, dreaming in nonsensical fits, staring open-mouthed at the caving thatch ceiling with no thought in his head. Twice, he rolled over in his sleeping bag and p.i.s.sed himself. At times, the world upended itself, and Timmon looked down at his p.r.o.ne figure from the ceiling without recognizing the gaunt grizzled face staring back up at him. And though he felt on those occasions the faint stirrings of something between pity and disgust, these impulses were fleeting, soon blotted out by a swelling of vertiginous blurry s.p.a.ce, which popped like a bubble full of black spots and swallowed his consciousness. There was no telling how long the delirium lasted. There was no telling at first whether it was morning or evening when the world broke like a fever, and his senses awakened this time to the trilling of a thrush and a weak gray light slanting in through the doorway. Outside, the rain was little more than a mist. The awful churning in his stomach had given way to a raw emptiness that seemed to feed upon itself. With a ragged and prolonged moan, he tried to undo the knot of panic in his chest. Working his way into a sitting position, he perched on the edge of his makeshift bed, buried his face in his hands, and began to weep. He wept slowly at first, with the dim hope that tears might somehow bring comfort, that some benevolent force in the universe might hear his plea and respond soothingly. But when he found no comfort, his crying came fast and pinched and desperately uneven, punctuated now and again by falsetto whimpers, not unlike those of a child in distress. Finally, his grief reached such a pitch that it drove him to his feet, and he paced the muddy floor in circles, alternately balling his fists and pulling his hair. He spoke in s.n.a.t.c.hes, unable to finish a sentence, not knowing what he was trying to say.

I didn't think ... But what about? ... It's not supposed ...

His breathing came faster and shallower, his pacing grew progressively more erratic, until he was dancing a desperate stooping jig around the inside of the shelter. And when he wound himself so tight that he could get no tighter, he snapped, scattering in every direction at once. Swinging his arms about wildly, he tore and kicked and raged at the walls all around him, pulling apart all that was lashed together, yanking anything that resisted his force. And indeed, the entire structure fought back, turning his own strength back on him, seizing his lean arms as he a.s.saulted it, blinding him with its needled fingers, hopelessly entangling his legs as it toppled, limb by limb, all around him. Though he made quick work of the demolition, he did not tear his house to the ground; he wrestled it into submission. And when at last his blind rage had played itself out, Timmon collapsed in the heap of wet branches that remained. Wiping his burning eyes with a tattooed wrist, he began to laugh. And he laughed so hard that he began to cry again.

"Tweeeeeeeel tweeeeeeel," said the chipmunk from his perch overhead.

"Troooooooooool," said the thrush.

Drip, drip, drip, came the forest.

By the time the laughter and tears subsided, Timmon felt shucked, as though everything had been scooped out of him, and in the absence of everything, a calm soon washed over him as he set to building a fire. And when the fire burned hot, he leaned into it and slowly began to wind himself back up until he felt something like a man again.

Half-starved and better than half-beaten, he pa.s.sed several hours in front of the fire, plumbing the very depths of his being for a persuasive reason to go on living, groping for any incentive to stay or any inducement to go. If not to be left alone, what did he want, then? Maybe the opposite - not not to be left alone; whether locked alone in a car on a rainy Chicago street; or locked alone in a cell, a ward of the state; or merely locked in the prison of his own selfish design. What if, at the risk of betrayal, at the risk of being forsaken, he had the b.a.l.l.s to be penetrable again; the b.a.l.l.s to connect with someone, or something, or some otherness instead of being tough or repellent? What if he had the b.a.l.l.s to give a s.h.i.t, to decide to be left alone; whether locked alone in a car on a rainy Chicago street; or locked alone in a cell, a ward of the state; or merely locked in the prison of his own selfish design. What if, at the risk of betrayal, at the risk of being forsaken, he had the b.a.l.l.s to be penetrable again; the b.a.l.l.s to connect with someone, or something, or some otherness instead of being tough or repellent? What if he had the b.a.l.l.s to give a s.h.i.t, to decide not not to know better? Could he free himself from the burden of experience, could he ignore the overwhelming evidence and convince himself that somebody actually cared or something actually mattered? If so, then maybe, just maybe, he'd have the b.a.l.l.s to be innocent again. to know better? Could he free himself from the burden of experience, could he ignore the overwhelming evidence and convince himself that somebody actually cared or something actually mattered? If so, then maybe, just maybe, he'd have the b.a.l.l.s to be innocent again.

In the end, after all the plumbing and searching, it was the thought of two cheeseburgers and some dry socks that prevailed. Timmon began his preparations with grim determination - nesting his pans, folding his tarp, winding his ropes, scrupulously avoiding any speculation as to what sort of fresh start thirty-six bucks might actually stake a man to in Port Bonita, or anywhere else.

four-cans-of-chunky-soup- and-a-half-bag-of-funyuns fast AUGUST 2006 2006.

The wind was starting to pick up and Franklin folded his arms for warmth, rocking ever so gently back and forth. Here and there a tree creaked in the darkness. And high above Franklin's head, the treetops swished restlessly. He stared into the fire, as he had for hours, distractedly at first but then fixedly. Franklin worried little for his own safety anymore. The fear was gone. Even the thought of another bear was not at the forefront of his anxieties. Tillman's whereabouts was a matter of even less concern. His sole concern now was Rupert, alone out there in the wilderness. He'd happily spend the rest of his days in bachelordom living in that c.r.a.ppy apartment behind Bonita Lanes, if only to have old Rupe back - no girlfriend, no Tillman, no sterling record, and definitely no more camping. Just he and Rupe, like always. The M's on UPN 11. Takeout from Ming's Royal Garden. Evening walks around the parking lot beneath the flickering streetlights, Franklin humming Joe Walsh, Rupert lifting his leg at every tire. He'd taken it all for granted. Now the thought of life without Rupert was too desolate to contemplate. But worse was the thought of the old boy suffering somewhere in the darkness, dying some slow, agonizing death, wondering, even as he heaved his last ragged breaths, where his keeper was. How lonely that river would sound to old Rupert.

It was impossible to say how much time pa.s.sed. Franklin hardly budged from his place except to stir the coals. He'd grown so accustomed to the roar of the river that it no longer registered. The wind had died down again by the time a stirring in the underbrush demanded his attention. Clutching his big stick, he looked up just in time to see Rupert amble out of the brush and into the firelight, panting heavily, exhausted, but apparently unharmed. He set his square head on Franklin's knee and looked up at him, his jowls dangling saliva, his big sad eyes looking grateful, and Franklin's heart all but took flight.

The next day, following a breakfast of Funyuns and cold Chunky soup (the jagged edge of a basalt wedge having cleaved the can open quite handily), Franklin and Rupert broke camp and set out in search of the second red X, X, the site of the alleged theft near mile 16. If, in fact, Tillman was responsible for the theft (and it was certainly more plausible than the c.o.c.k-slap scenario), then the second red the site of the alleged theft near mile 16. If, in fact, Tillman was responsible for the theft (and it was certainly more plausible than the c.o.c.k-slap scenario), then the second red X X represented the last signpost on Tillman's trail. That's where things got sticky. From there, it was anybody's guess which way Tillman fled. But knowing what he knew about Tillman - that he was a runner - Franklin knew that Tillman would never turn back on his own tracks unless he had to. Tillman would keep moving forward. represented the last signpost on Tillman's trail. That's where things got sticky. From there, it was anybody's guess which way Tillman fled. But knowing what he knew about Tillman - that he was a runner - Franklin knew that Tillman would never turn back on his own tracks unless he had to. Tillman would keep moving forward.

Franklin figured that he'd better move fast - four-cans-of-Chunky-soup-and-a-half-bag-of-Funyuns four-cans-of-Chunky-soup-and-a-half-bag-of-Funyuns fast - if he wanted to catch up with Tillman. He hiked with renewed vigor in spite of his blister as Rupert bounded along in front of him, nosing around and lifting his leg and wagging his nubby tail. Like Rupert, Franklin was awake to the world, at once enamored and suspicious of the mysteries surrounding him. Never had his senses been quite so alert. Nothing escaped his notice. He glimpsed every bird flitting in the understory, noted the trickle of every water source, the slightest temperature drop when the trail dipped into a gulley or the sun ducked behind a cloud. On several occasions he even paused to sniff the air like Rupert. Once he thought he smelled grape jelly. fast - if he wanted to catch up with Tillman. He hiked with renewed vigor in spite of his blister as Rupert bounded along in front of him, nosing around and lifting his leg and wagging his nubby tail. Like Rupert, Franklin was awake to the world, at once enamored and suspicious of the mysteries surrounding him. Never had his senses been quite so alert. Nothing escaped his notice. He glimpsed every bird flitting in the understory, noted the trickle of every water source, the slightest temperature drop when the trail dipped into a gulley or the sun ducked behind a cloud. On several occasions he even paused to sniff the air like Rupert. Once he thought he smelled grape jelly.

Early in the afternoon, midway across a wooded bluff some five hundred feet above the river, Franklin and Rupert arrived in the vicinity of mile 16. Two hundred yards up trail, Franklin located the scene of the crime, marked by a tattered remnant of yellow tape; a small clearing just off trail in a hollow. A crude fire pit. A tent slab. A rope strung between trees. And there, tossed aside in the ferns just outside the clearing, having either been overlooked or simply ignored by the investigation, Franklin discovered a GoLite frameless backpack and a cheap aluminum skillet.

They proceeded south along the ridge, switchbacking up the steep incline over rutty terrain, until the trail emerged above the treeline on a bald narrow crest facing west. Nothing had prepared Franklin for the terrifying splendor that greeted him there. Across the wedgeshaped valley below him, beyond yet another narrow green valley, a jagged row of snowcapped peaks were strung out in a crescent, surrounding one mountain so broad and ma.s.sive that its craggy white face dwarfed the others. A shiver ran up Franklin's neck at the sight of it all. Suddenly the middle of nowhere seemed boundless. Somewhere out there was Timmon Tillman, and the odds of finding him suddenly seemed impossibly slim. Still, Franklin was determined to search as long as the Chunky soup held out. Without further pause, he began wending his way down the bald face of the ridge toward the tree line, three hundred feet below.

Late in the afternoon, Franklin and Rupert reached the bottomlands once more. So narrow was the valley that the sun could not find an angle in, and an autumnal chill settled into the still air. On a high bank overlooking the Elwha, the trail forked, with paths heading upriver and downriver respectively. The downriver course offered the wider pa.s.sage, snaking along the bank toward the foot of the long valley. The upriver trail was clearly the more rugged course, switchbacking down into the rocky canyon a hundred feet to the river. Franklin felt in his bones that Tillman would have taken the rugged path.