The Last Homestead Page 4

  After staring at the Skidoo for a long minute, feeling as if he had lost another friend, Denny got the tarp and gently laid it over the now defunct snowmobile.

  After bringing the perishables back into the trailer, the frustrated homesteader cranked up the heater again and sat dejectedly on the couch, knowing he’d be making the drive to Fairbanks after all, instead of heading home.

  Denny was not a man who liked being forced into situations where he had no real choice in the matter, but he knew he had to do what needed doing, so Fairbanks in the morning it would be. Throwing a blanket over himself, he drifted off to sleep on the couch.

  The drive north was uneventful and boring. The first shop he stopped at in Fairbanks didn’t have the type of snowmobile he needed, and he didn’t like the people at the second one. He had only one more choice in dealerships, and he went there hoping to find what he needed.

  When he went in, a young guy wearing a racing jersey came up to him and said, “Man, did you come at a good time if you want a hot mountain sled!”

  Caraway raised his hand, palm towards the young hot shot, which silenced him immediately. Denny saw an older guy at a desk in a corner, calmly sipping on a cup of what was presumably coffee and reading a newspaper. Walking over to the desk and waiting for him to look up, Denny told the man he needed a reliable snowmobile to get out to his homestead pulling a heavy load, saying, “I don’t need anything fancy with a thousand horsepower.”

  “Well,” the man replied, setting his cup down, “I really don’t do much selling.”

  Glancing at the kid who was still giving him a questioning look, Denny told the fellow at the desk, “I need someone who understands what I really need, and you look like him.”

  Sizing Denny up, noting his seasoned parka and boots, the heavy beard, and the unblinking direct gaze, he said, “Come out back with me. I think I have just what you need.”

  Putting on a heavy coat and hat, he walked Denny out through the service area door with “Employees Only” painted on it, through the shop and out to the back lot. There were at least thirty different machines of all styles there. The man walked right up to a particular rig, and pulled off the cover.

  Denny was keen to see that it appeared to be a newer version of his old one, but it had a wider stance between the skis, a longer track, and a taller, wider windshield, which would make trail riding in cold weather more bearable. It didn’t seem as fancy and radical as most of the newer machines. It looked just right.

  The salesman primed the carburetor with three pushes of the primer rod, and pulled the starter cord twice. The engine came right to life and after warming up a bit, sounded as if all it wanted to do was run, like a good sled dog. The man told Denny to take it for a spin, pointing out a nice area behind the shop to try it out. It took Denny only a few minutes to know this was exactly what he wanted. It was very stable and pulled stronger than he had expected.

  Coming back in, Denny said it ran fine, and asked what the new machine cost.

  “Oh, this isn’t new; it’s about three years old and has a little less than four hundred miles on it. It’s my own Tundra II. I have two other machines I use a whole lot more than this one, and I think this is just what you need, so I’m willing to sell it to you for a fair price. I’ll throw in some engine oil, a spare belt, and a headlamp bulb. The cover comes with it too.”

  Caraway was amazed that the immaculate snowmobile wasn’t new, and without hesitation stuck out his hand and they shook on the deal. When the man told him the machine had reverse, it was frosting on the cake. He thought back to the number of times he’d had to get unstuck by clearing snow and yanking his old machine around by hand, and was pleased.

  The money and paperwork all settled, and the machine slid into the bed of his truck, Denny shook hands once again with the decent fellow he had been dealing with, and asked him how long he had worked there.

  “I opened the shop about twelve years ago, and it’s been a good business ever since.”

  Acknowledging the owner’s statement, Denny nodded, thanked him again, and headed south to Salcha, looking forward to his first ride on the new snowmobile.

  Denny drove back to his trailer, unloaded the machine, checked and found the gas tank and oil reservoir were full, and went into the trailer to spend the night.

  Early the next morning, he hitched his new snow machine up to the heavily-loaded sled. Besides the supplies he had bought, all his necessary trail gear was stashed in the sled and in the large rear cargo rack on the Tundra. It made up quite a load. Thinking, “Let’s see how it goes,” Denny pressed down on the thumb throttle and the bright yellow machine pulled forward with ease. Denny was finally on his way home.

  Chapter Seven

  Denny was happy with his new ride. It seemed to be able to pull along over any surface he rode upon. Hard-packed trail or soft deep snow didn’t seem to make any difference if he didn’t do anything dumb. At this point, he knew very well, if he let his concentration and powers of observation wane, the trail would bite him in some way, and make him regret his lack of focus. After his years in the bush, Caraway reacted to any situation by instinct. He had been at it so long, he didn’t have to think about being careful. It was his way now.

  About half way to the homestead, Denny stopped to check the fuel level. It was obvious this new rig got much better fuel mileage, the tank still holding plenty of gas. He topped it up anyway. Lifting the engine hood and checking the oil tank, he saw it had used little oil as well. He continued on his way, all the hassles of the last few days forgotten.

  It was dark when Denny got home. As was his custom, he shut off the machine and sat for a while, appreciating the sudden silence, grateful to be back. The clear night sky, unhindered by artificial light, revealed vast numbers of bright stars.

  Taking the headlamp out of his pack, he switched it on, the bright beam lighting his way to the cabin. As soon as he opened the door, he was dismayed by what he saw. The inside of the cabin was a complete ruin. There were cans, bags, and boxes scattered all over the floor and on the little counter. What had been on the table was on the floor too. Most of what had been in the food containers was gone, the rest spread and smeared all over the place. He smelled molasses, coffee, and other scents.

  Closing the door, he lit the kerosene lantern, shut off his headlamp, and closely inspected the cabin. At first he thought a bear had somehow gotten in, but the window was okay, and the door had still been latched.

  Then he saw a hole had been literally ripped open at ground level in one corner of the cabin. Insulation, tarpaper, and several inner wall boards had been torn away so roughly, it looked as though a small explosion had done the work. Denny knew what had caused it when he saw the clump of long cream-colored hairs caught on the rough edge of the hole. Wolverine.

  This was the first time one of these voracious and aggressive animals had come calling, though he had seen their tracks often enough. Now, the extra days spent dealing with his recent problems came back to irritate him. Maybe if he had gotten home on time he wouldn’t have to deal with this.

  Denny never spent much time brooding over things. Going into his storage shed he found a piece of scrap plywood and nailed it to the outside of the cabin wall where the glutton had torn its way through. Gathering up the torn insulation, he stuffed it between the wall studs, and duct taped a piece of tarpaper over it. The cabin was whole and snug again.

  Denny went out to the sled and pulled the perishables from under the tarp, taking them inside the cabin so they wouldn’t freeze. After getting the wood stove going, Denny looked around, mumbled, “Damn wolverine,” and began cleaning up the mess, which he had to do before bringing in the dry goods and other supplies. The next day he would stash things in their proper places. Denny found the animal had also torn off the insulated lid to the cooler box. He put the butter, bacon, cheese, and eggs in and laid the lid on top. He would fix it tomorrow too. He was glad this had happened when there was little food left.


  It took a couple of hours to clean up, and Denny was weary from the long day. He was sitting quietly, having a cup of tea before unloading the supplies, when he heard a tearing sound and then a deep growl outside. Grabbing his headlamp and the .44, he yanked open the front door and flashed the beam of light where he knew the sled to be. Sure enough, there was the wolverine, standing on the heavy tarp covering the sled load of goods, tearing at it and growling. It must have known Denny was there, especially with the beam of bright light playing right on it. Still, the always ravenous animal simply kept on working at the tarp. Denny touched off a round, but aimed high, and missed his target.

  When he fired, the little beast turned his head towards Caraway and snarled loudly, before jumping off the sled and scurrying into the darkness.

  Frustrated, and a little surprised he had missed, Denny went inside, put on his parka, hat, and gloves again, and began unloading all the supplies, stacking them in the cabin.

  It was in the wee hours of the morning by the time Denny got all the supplies safely inside. He hoped the wolverine was permanently scared off by the shot, but knew they were stubborn and tenacious creatures, and it might return. Caraway wanted to leave some bait out and wait for it to come back so he could put an end to its depredations. The cold, darkness, and his weariness vetoed that idea. Returning to the cabin, he set the stove for the night, took off his boots, lay down, and covered himself with the blankets. It only took a minute for him to fall asleep.

  Denny had no idea what time it was when the loud sharp sounds of ripping wood awakened him. Retrieving the headlamp lying on the floor by his bed, he turned it on, picked up the .44 and, sitting on the side of the bed, waited. It took little time for the glutton to rip off the plywood patch. When it shoved its head through the insulation and tarpaper, Denny was ready. At such short range he couldn’t miss. The sound of the shot was deafening in the small cabin, but a second one wasn’t necessary. The animal had been blown back out the hole it had made, struck by the heavy bullet. Denny sat still a while, listening. There was only silence.

  Pulling on his boots, he went outside, to find the wolverine dead, its head a mess. Despite the necessity of removing the troublemaker, Denny found no joy in killing it. He took an animal’s life out of necessity, for food or for keeping his life intact as he had just done. He had no love for the process.

  Caraway took the wolverine and placed it in the storage shed where it would freeze quickly. In a few days, he would skin it and later he would tan the hide. He wasn’t a trapper, but knew what to do. He would put the carcass some distance away from the cabin to be eaten by other animals.

  Exhausted, he nailed the ripped off piece of plywood back on. A permanent fix could wait. For now, he wanted only to hit the blankets for some much-needed sleep.

  Chapter Eight

  The remainder of the winter went by without any more adventures, of either the fun or life-threatening kind, which suited Denny just fine. He spent the days doing chores, hiking around on snowshoes, reading, eating, and sleeping, the remoteness of his home allowing him the peaceful solitude he desired. Loneliness had not been a factor for him since he had become a homesteader, not even after he moved to this more isolated area.

  One project he was looking forward to was building a new cabin, a log cabin, which he planned to start in the late spring after break-up. He had already begun gathering birch logs for it. Denny still had the book on building log cabins he had purchased before coming to Alaska. It was written by a man named Walker, someone well known in Alaska for living and working in the bush as guide, builder, and photographer. The book was well written, and even though Denny had opted for a frame cabin on his first homestead, he always regretted not doing a log structure. Now, he would build one. He had the time, the tools, the trees, and the ability.

  The snow machine served well for hauling logs to the building site, situated about twenty yards farther away from the creek. By winter’s end he had accumulated over forty logs, which he figured was enough for building what he had planned, a sixteen-by-twenty foot cabin, with a small storage loft to be built along the last six feet of the structure. He would have a three-by-four foot window of the modern sliding type in the south wall and one more on the east side. There would be a porch at one end with a six-foot roof overhang to keep precipitation off, and he planned on building a stone fireplace into one of the sidewalls. He’d also have a small wood stove in one corner of the cabin for cooking, and extra heat in the coldest time of winter. Though Denny knew a fireplace was not as efficient for heating as a wood stove, he had a reason for wanting to build one.

  Several years before, he had purchased a book about Richard Proenneke, who had lived in a very remote area near Lake Clark National Park, on the shore of Twin Lakes, Alaska. There, he built what Caraway could only call an exquisite little trappers cabin. To Denny’s mind it was perfect, a work of art really. Proenneke had even fashioned a Dutch door and made the hinges from naturally-bent pieces of native spruce. The cabin had a traditional sod roof as old-time sourdoughs had used, that ended up looking more like a small meadow of grasses and wild flowers than a cabin roof. Proenneke’s crowning achievement, Denny believed, was the hand-made fireplace he had designed and built. He used stones from the lake shore, including a stone lintel.

  So Caraway, as a sign of admiration and respect for Mr. Proenneke’s accomplishments living alone in a primitive paradise for over thirty years, would emulate him by building a similar fireplace, if not exactly in design, then certainly by intent. Denny wasn’t a man easily impressed by other people, but he would, if the occasion ever arose, openly say Proenneke was high on his list.

  Denny worked in the evenings by lantern light, drawing plans for his cabin, refining the small log structure to suit his way of living. Even though it would be a simple structure, there were lots of details to work out. Denny was determined to arrange the interior in as efficient a way as possible.

  He had found two birch trees of medium size with large burls on the trunks. When stripped of their bark and finished with log oil, they would make dandy upright supports for the front porch. He would use some small spruce poles as a railing for the porch and the loft, mostly for cosmetic purposes. By the time spring showed up, he had a great set of plans.

  Chapter Nine

  Spring came early, with the first hint of break-up coming in late March, rather than April or even May. Denny needed to make a supply run for perishable foods before break-up made traveling by snow machine or ATV impossible. He had a good stock of dry goods, having learned what would be gone well before summer’s end, and he would only have to go as far as the Salcha grocery store to get the small items he needed, then head home the same evening. It made for a tough round trip, but he felt better getting right back to the homestead, especially after the wolverine incident.

  Caraway was glad he had the new snow machine to use on this trip. He still had the ATV he had used on the first homestead and old as it was, it ran well. He didn’t use it much during the snowless season except to gather firewood, or trees for building, dragging in the logs to cut up at home. It was better to stay close to home during the spring and summer months, using the wheeler to get to the road only out of necessity.

  The summer trail he used was a work in progress, a number of areas needing to be cleared for ease of travel. In stretches thick with brush and trees, Denny only widened the trail enough to ride the wheeler through. He didn’t want to have a wide-open trail because it would make it easier for people to ride. He knew he had no right to keep people off. Despite the work he put in, it technically wasn’t his trail; it was simply his preference to keep it as private as possible.

  The weather was warming up quickly, so Denny left early in the morning when the snow was at its coldest, making for a firmer surface to ride on. He would only need to use the rear rack and the back portion of the long seat for the amount of goods he needed to buy, making the sled unnecessary. Without it to hold him back, there were several ar
eas where he could let the machine stretch its legs. At one long flat spot he hit fifty miles an hour, faster than he could have gone with his old machine. He’d had another snow machine on the first ‘stead, and even though it was fairly light and reliable, it got stuck far too easily in deep or wet snow, though Denny wasn’t sure why. So he had sold it, choosing to use the old machine he had gotten from George Levine when he’d purchased the Lanyard Creek land from him.

  Once he got to the road, Denny ran alongside the pavement up to the North Star Cafe. He had worked up a strong appetite on the trail. Charlie Brady made a good burger and home fries, though nothing could match Hazel O’Mara’s burgers. Of course, he’d never mention that to Charlie.

  When the homesteader arrived, Charlie greeted him as always, with a cup of coffee made the way Denny liked it, black with a dash of cinnamon in it, something he had gotten attached to at Hazel’s cafe. Their greetings to each other were always the same.

  “Afternoon, Mr. Caraway,” Charlie said.

  “Afternoon, Officer Brady,” Denny responded.

  Charlie was feeling talkative, so he asked Denny how the trip to Hazel had gone.

  Denny gave a little shrug of his shoulders and said it was “Nothing to write home about, just saying goodbye to another friend. I hope I don’t have to do it too often.”

  “I know the feeling all too well,” the retired Alaska State Trooper noted, getting a far-away look in his eyes.

  Denny nodded. He knew Charlie had been in the Troopers for a long time and must have seen a number of friends and acquaintances go down.

  By way of changing the conversation, Charlie asked, “So, Denny, have you heard about the Alaskan environmental group that’s trying to keep motorized vehicles out of wildlife refuges and state recreational areas? Probably not a snowball’s chance in hell of getting a bill pushed through, as it’s contrary to what most Alaskans would want, including you, I’d wager. It could affect you getting out to the homestead.”