The Last Homestead Page 2

  Right now, he was hoping somebody would come in for a cup of coffee just to break the monotony. He knew from the get-go the cafe would not be a big money-making proposition, and held none of the exciting times his trooper duties provided. But he had a comfortable cabin behind the place, and everything was paid for, so he was well set-up. Besides, he wouldn’t be happy living elsewhere.

  Looking out through the small front door window, he saw the red in the outdoor thermometer well down in the bottom of the tube which held it captive. It looked to be about twenty below zero. Cold, but he had seen the temperatures in this country down past fifty-five below a time or two.

  Before he turned away from the window, he saw someone pull up on an old Skidoo snowmobile, with a big metal sled trailing behind. He could see a set of long, old-fashioned wood and sinew snowshoes sticking up from within the sled’s bed. The man had on a beaver skin trapper hat, rabbit fur mitts, a heavy pullover parka, and a pair of fancy-looking expedition boots. Snow goggles hung around his neck.

  Charlie knew him, and went over to the counter to pour the soon-to-be requested cup of coffee. He tapped a dash of cinnamon into it, knowing the man would want it that way, and waited.

  A minute later, the door opened and the traveler slipped in, quickly pulling the door shut behind him. He had a heavy beard and mustache, most of which, along with his eyebrows, were covered with hoarfrost from the cold trail. From out of this icy, furry countenance pierced a pair of pale blue eyes some people found a little unnerving in their unwavering directness. In truth, the man’s way of looking at things seemed a little too intense for most, but Charlie knew Denny Caraway lived in the bush, and his life, though surely having some light moments, was mostly serious business, so being focused and very observant was a matter of survival.

  “Hello, Caraway,” Charlie greeted the woodsman.

  “Hello yourself, Officer Brady,” responded the wild-looking guy.

  On the surface, there seemed little friendship between the two, judging from their scant words, but it was a matter of mutual respect for one another that kept their conversation brief. The two men each had an innate understanding of the other’s experiences and knowledge of the bush, so few words were needed.

  Brady knew Caraway to be a conscientious woodsman and subsistence hunter, living on a secluded homestead by a remote creek. Brady had paid him several visits over the years Caraway had been living there. For his part, Caraway knew Brady to be a fair but no-nonsense wildlife officer, an honest, straightforward man who knew the country well and had been dedicated to his work. They had taken part in several search and rescue missions together out in Denny’s home territory. The first time, when Brady came to ask his help, Caraway gave it without question or pay.

  One of the few times Brady saw Caraway smile was right after Charlie had retired and opened the North Star. Denny had come by in his big dual-wheeled truck and, with a serious expression, asked Charlie if the Department was going to be happy, knowing he was moonlighting. Brady was just going to tell him he was retired, when he saw a twinkle in Denny’s eyes and the slightest twitch of his lip, which was Caraway’s normal version of a smile. Denny was already a regular at the cafe, at least as regular as a remote homesteader can be, living way the heck and gone off the road system.

  Charlie reached under the counter and gave Caraway a dry, clean cloth towel. The big oil-burning heat stove was doing its job, quickly thawing Caraway’s arctic face and boots, leaving a good-sized puddle on the floor around his feet. After Denny wiped the dampness off his face, he cleaned up the water on the floor, handing Charlie back the now dingy towel, with a nod.

  When a pair of road travelers came in, Denny left Charlie to his business. Before seating himself at a table, he picked up the Anchorage newspaper from the counter to see what foolishness was going on in the larger world. Scanning through the day-old rag, he saw a small article on the death of a well-known shop owner in Hazel, Alaska. He became seriously interested in the story when he saw it was Ed Gundross, the man who had helped and befriended Denny when he first began homesteading up past the head of Long Bay, outside Hazel. The story might not have been written up in the Anchorage paper, except Ed had been on a search and rescue mission looking for the missing son of a successful Anchorage businessman, when he’d had an accident on his snow machine, rolled down a slope, and crashed into a tree. The heavy machine had come down on top of him, killing Ed instantly.

  Ed had sold Denny his first chainsaws and a hand-held wood-milling tool to be mounted on one of them to make dimensional lumber for building his cabin, and sundry items needed for living out in the bush. Ed had even guided Denny out to the land he intended to homestead. Caraway had been green as grass, a cheechako, when he first started out. Ed had taken him under his experienced wing and they became good friends. But now, living up Lanyard Creek as he was, Denny was out of touch with people for long periods of time, though he sent Ed a Christmas card every year with a little note about what he had been up to. A card this year would apparently not be necessary. Denny wasn’t religious by nature, but he took a moment to bow his head and say a little prayer for Ed.

  With the two customers sitting contentedly over mugs of hot coffee, Charlie noticed Denny with his head bowed and he went over to Caraway’s table, waited for him to finish, then asked if he was okay. Denny told Charlie about Ed’s passing and their friendship.

  Charlie said, “Are you going to his memorial? Would you be able to get there in time?”

  “I think I’d better, Charlie,” Denny told him. “It wouldn’t sit right with me if I didn’t. I haven’t been down there in, well, since I came up here to homestead three years ago. Yeah, I have to do it. My supplies can wait a few days.”

  Instead of ordering some food, Denny put his parka on, nodded to Charlie, and headed out the door. He stood outside for a moment letting his mind clear before putting his hat and gloves on, starting up the Skidoo, and riding down the side of the road. He was going about a mile south of the cafe to a small mobile home he had been given when he purchased the ten acres of wilderness land he lived on from George Levine. It was his base of operations during the times he came out from the homestead, and Denny kept his truck there. A neighbor whose home was just north of where the trailer was located kept an eye on the trailer for Denny and started up the truck every two weeks while Caraway was in the bush.

  Denny had bought the truck when he was leaving his first homestead. Leaving was the last thing he had wanted to do. He had spent years building his cabin, and establishing himself. In that first remote location, he had become the man he needed to be to survive even farther from civilization, deeper in the bush. He had come to realize his first homesteading experience was training to be a committed homesteader, without the nearby lifelines of town and other people the first location had provided him.

  Until he had made that first attempt, he didn’t know he would be able to exist and thrive in such wild, isolated country. But homesteading had completely replaced his earlier mainstream life, which had ultimately proven to be totally unsatisfying for him. Denny had found life in the woods fulfilling, and it enabled him to discover his true character.

  Several homesteaders living near him had ruined things when they began developing the forest right next to Denny’s land, which would destroy his hard won sanctuary. The situation had driven him to a more isolated piece of land, which had turned out to be the proper place for him. He hoped nothing would change, and was prepared to do whatever was necessary to keep this homestead, and the life he had built. This time there would be no giving up his home, not for any reason.

  The truck started right up when Caraway turned the key to warm the engine. He went into the trailer to gather a few pieces of “civilized” clothing from the bedroom closet. Briefly looking at his face in the bathroom mirror, he noticed how overgrown his beard and hair were, shrugged, turned off the light, and went into the little living room. Reaching under the couch cushion, he pulled out a short-barr
eled .38 caliber revolver and put it in his parka’s side pocket. Taking his .44 magnum revolver from its holster, Denny wiped it down with a paper towel and put it where the .38 had been. He hung the big pistol’s holster and belt in the broom closet. Setting the heater to low, and turning off the living room light, he stepped out and locked the door.

  The pickup was ready to roll, the heater filling the cab with welcome warmth. Denny got into the truck, pulled his parka off and put the little revolver in the glove box. He didn’t feel comfortable without a firearm within easy reach, a direct effect of wilderness living. He’d had to draw his .44 several times in touchy situations with bears in the eight years he’d homesteaded, but had never needed to shoot it except to scare the problem away. But, all would be lost if he needed it and the pistol wasn’t there. Carrying the .38 on the road and in town was for the same reason, to be prepared if a need for defending his life arose.

  The big pickup truck Denny was driving down to Hazel was a practical piece of equipment, pure and simple. Unlike many who owned such a vehicle merely for what it symbolized, Caraway had made good use of its hauling capabilities, such as bringing the big freighter sled home and carrying large amounts of supplies and fuel. It had served him well. He had thought of putting a camper on the back, but realized he had more use for the open bed, although in winter it held a large mass of snow to be shoveled out after a good fall. The neighbor, Elliot, who watched the trailer, shoveled the bed out regularly in winter, or asked his grandson Drew to do it.

  As was usually the case, being on the open road allowed Denny’s mind to run free. Though he paid attention to his driving, Caraway didn’t have to focus his mind on the numerous, potentially dangerous situations traveling in the bush held in store.

  Denny hit the brakes, the stable truck sliding only slightly on the icy road surface. A big cow moose had decided to make its way across the highway at the precise moment Denny came driving by. Caraway had spotted the animal instantly, though someone with less experience might not have seen it coming out of the trees as quickly as he had. For a full minute after the moose had disappeared into the trees on the opposite side of the road Denny waited, in case it had a calf or two following behind. Moose in general don’t understand the danger vehicles running down a road at high speed holds for them, and young moose are even less aware.

  Continuing on his way, Denny felt some deep hunger pangs. He hadn’t eaten at the North Star Cafe as he had planned, the news about his friend Ed putting him off his feed. Pulling into a small clearing by the roadside, he reached behind the seat and pulled up a bag he had made from last year’s moose’s hide. It had a shoulder strap and a flap over the top of the bag, a big button he had carved from a piece of caribou antler holding it closed. Opening it, he took out a piece of folded up cotton cloth holding some jerky he had made. He also took out another piece of cloth containing the fry bread he always enjoyed.

  Denny had been given the recipe by an Athabascan Indian fellow he had met while caribou hunting in an area southwest of his homestead. The man had ridden up on a big new snowmobile towing a sled loaded with several field-dressed caribou. Denny welcomed him and offered a cup of coffee, a tradition in Alaska when someone came to visit, no matter where you happened to be.

  The man had shared some meat sandwiches he had with him made of a rich-tasting, chewy flatbread. Denny asked him about it and the Indian had told him it was fry bread, a real staple where he came from. He told Denny how to make it, a simple recipe, but, he told him if he didn’t put a good pinch of salt in it and cook it in a cast iron skillet, it wouldn’t taste right. Denny never forgot the advice. He thought the bear oil he used for cooking made it even tastier. Fry bread had become a staple in his diet too.

  Chapter Four

  It took a long day to get to Hazel, and even though it wasn’t full winter yet, December just coming in, daylight was in short supply already, and he arrived well after dark. He went right over to the old Hazel Shores motel, a funky little place dating back to the 1960s, run by an older woman named Ruthie Bennett, who could have passed for the sister of Denny’s old friend, Hazel O’Mara, who had passed away years before.

  Hazel had been one of the first permanent white inhabitants in the area of South Central Alaska that eventually became the little hamlet of Hazel, named after her. Her husband Benny was the other. Benny had died in the 1970s, when a gruesome car accident put him over the bluff above the inlet adjacent to Hazel. He had crashed far below, upon the rocky shore. After his death, Hazel had stayed in the little town with her daughter Gwen, running a great little cafe.

  Denny had really liked Hazel, coming to appreciate her personality and way of dealing with life. He’d had a brief intimate relationship with her daughter Gwen which had ended when Hazel died, because Gwen needed to make big adjustments after her passing. She and Caraway had grown close, but neither of them had wanted a full commitment at the time. They’d enjoyed one another’s company, but it had gone no farther. For his part, living on his homestead was Caraway’s main priority. When it was clear she needed to move on in a direction that wouldn’t include him, Denny had accepted the change and continued his solitary life.

  Ruthie was glad to see Denny after his three-year absence from the area. She dragged him by one arm into her cozy kitchen in the back of the motel office, poured him a cup of coffee, and insisted he tell her what he had been up to. While Denny wasn’t big on conversation, he was glad to see Ruthie again, and willing to tell her about his new homestead and what life was like there.

  In turn, Ruthie told him all the gossip about Hazel since he’d been gone. He found most of what Ruthie told him mildly interesting until she told him Gwen O’Mara was back in Hazel. She had married an old high school flame just before Denny had left, but the flame had apparently died quickly when the husband found out Gwen was not a woman one could expect to be obedient to a husband’s every whim, which is what he demanded. Gwen was her mother’s child, strong and independent. She finally dumped him and was living back in her mother’s old cabin. Gwen was managing the Log Cabin Cafe again, for the current owners.

  The news about Gwen sparked some interest on Denny’s part, and he planned to visit her and say hello, but he knew it probably wouldn’t be the same between them. Time, distance, and life had surely done their part to change things.

  Ruthie talked to Denny about Ed Gundross’ memorial, the when and where. She saddened visibly when she discussed it with him, as she had known Ed for many years and was a good friend.

  Denny got the key to a room from Ruthie and settled in. He ordered a small pizza to be delivered from the local pizzeria, and lay back on the bed letting the day wind down. When the pizza arrived, he was surprised at how much he enjoyed it. He hadn’t tasted one in years. Then he took a long shower, letting the hot water soak into his bones. The chlorinated smell was unpleasant, but well worth putting up with for the shower’s soothing qualities. There was a TV in the room, but Caraway didn’t even consider turning it on.

  Denny missed his homestead routines already — starting and keeping the wood stove going, getting fresh sweet water from Lanyard Creek, and cooking his own food. He mused over the way his priorities had changed and simplified. He was totally content with a homesteading life despite the hardships and inconveniences. Even a small pizza was an uncommon and unnecessary thing.

  Denny looked at himself in the mirror on the motel room wall. He was leaner and tougher than he had ever been, in really good shape for a man going on fifty. He wasn’t impressed with himself, but was glad to observe that, barring any major accidents, he would probably be able to continue homesteading for a good long time.

  The pizza was starting to make trouble with his innards, the cheese, tomato sauce, and the plain white dough not common fare for him. He hoped things wouldn’t get messy. Fortunately, he slept through the night with no major digestive disturbances. Caraway was hungry when he woke up and craving a cup of coffee or two. Dressing in the one clean change of clo
thes he had with him, he drove right over to the Log Cabin Cafe.

  When he walked in, there were several of the same customers who had always frequented the place at breakfast time when he was still living in the area. He nodded to them as he had done many times in the past and they nodded back, as though nothing had changed or was out of place. When he looked around, there was Gwen holding a coffee pot, looking at him with a stunned expression. After a moment she said, “Take a seat anywhere, I’ll be right with you.”

  Denny sat at the window table he had always favored. Looking at the menu, he saw it hadn’t changed much either, except for the prices. He would order what he usually did. Gwen came up and poured him a cup. He could smell the slight scent of cinnamon in the coffee. Taking a sniff, he smiled and said to her, “I’m glad to see some things are still the same.”

  “Some things, Mr. Caraway, but not everything. Life has a way of doing that to us.”

  “Without a doubt, Gwen, but you look well.”

  Gwen’s eyes flickered for a moment, some fleeting emotion passing through them. It wasn’t lost on Denny, though he chose not to play on it.

  “I came down for Ed’s memorial service. Are you going?”

  “That’s a foolish question, Denny Caraway. You know I knew him my whole life.”

  A few customers glanced up at Gwen’s sharp response, then quickly looked back at their plates.

  There was an irritated note in Gwen’s voice Caraway couldn’t miss. So, he decided to end the conversation and just order his breakfast. Gwen slipped her order book into her apron pocket, and went behind the counter to cook.

  For the rest of the time, Denny and Gwen didn’t speak at all. It felt awkward, so Denny wolfed down his food, didn’t ask for a second cup of java, left money on the table, and walked out. As he was getting into his truck, Gwen came out and walked over to him.