The Moose Jaw (42 page)

The pilot warned me that there had been significant snowfall in the Interior over the past few days, and he may not be able to land on the bar I had indicated.  I told him that was O.K.  He was to put me down as close as he could get.  He went on to say there was more snow in the forecast for later today, so he wanted to get in and out as quickly as possible.  I understood.

After we were airborne the pilot said, “Trapper?” The box of traps had served its purpose.

I said, “Yup.”  Trappers are typically taciturn, so I felt safe assuming the “man-of-few-words” role.

After a long silence, the pilot said, “See you’re packing in a fly rod.  Planning to stay till spring?”

“Yup.”

That “Yup” must have done it.  He didn’t try to communicate with me for the rest of the flight.  When the cabin came into sight I was a little disappointed to see there was no smoke coming out of the chimney.  I don’t know what I had expected, but my spirits sank a bit.

The pilot said, “That your cabin?”

“Yup.”  It had worked well so far; why mess with a good thing?

He did a low-level flyover.  “That the bar you want to put down on?”

I looked down. “Uh-huh.”

He made two more passes and said, “O.K.  The snow doesn’t look too deep.  I think the tires will handle it.  But, if we go down and it’s deeper than it looks, you’re going to have to help me clear it for take-off.  You good with that?”  Obviously, he knew enough by now to stick to yes-or-no questions.

He was looking at me, so I decided not to waste a precious word.  I simply nodded. 

The pilot must have considered it a contract because he banked back downstream in a sweeping arc and then put the nose into the wind.   As we dropped earthward, I watched the snow covered landing strip grow larger and larger in the windscreen.  His two bounce touch-down was almost a perfect replication of Haywood’s first landing on that bar, except he managed to keep us out of the water.  As soon as we had come to a complete stop, he revved the engines, swung around and taxied back to the downstream end of the bar.  I looked at the tire tracks we had made during the rollout.  I was relieved to see the snow was only about five inches deep, and I hoped that meant I wouldn’t have to shovel.  Judging by the progress of the plane during taxi, I assumed it could handle this depth with no problem.

When he reached the end of the bar he swung the nose into the wind again and killed the engine.  We got out, and he helped me unload.  When we had the bags laid out in the snow, he looked at the sky anxiously.  It was overcast and growing darker by the minute.

“Let me see if I got this straight,” he said.

I waited; he expected nothing less.  I was, after all, a man of few words.

“You want us to do a fly-over one month from today.
  If there’s a fire burning out in front of the cabin, we land and pick you up – if not, we don’t.”

“That’s it.” I said.

He nodded.  “O.K. then.  See you in a month, maybe.”  He climbed back into the cockpit, cranked up the engine, gave me a classic RAF salute, and off he went.  I watched him until his plane cleared the trees of the bend up by the burn.  The plane quickly disappeared into the low cloud ceiling and, just as it did, there was a splash in the still open water in the middle of the creek.  I looked in that direction.  There was nothing to see but the ice along the edge of the bank and the ripples spreading outward from the center of the ring.  Then there was another splash farther upstream, and I watched the ripples moving, inexorably closer.  I understood.

I didn’t wait for the rings to merge on the water; I knew they would.  I shouldered the yellow river bag, and picked up my rod case in the other hand.  That was all I could manage on the first trip; I’d come back for the rest later.  I struck inland.  It was dark in the woods.  The only illumination was the soft glow of the snow-shrouded ground.  In the dim light I could see old Trilogy’s tracks in the fresh snow of the trail, leading up and over the rise toward the cabin.  I was neither startled nor surprised.  His huge, mangled paw had guided me home before.  I’d killed him, of course.  But that shot was yet to be heard.

I continued down the path, dropped the river bag on the front porch and leaned my rod case against the log wall.  I stood there in the cold, my hands deep in my pockets, looking at the front door I had built so very long ago.  What lay beyond?  Was I, indeed, mad – or simply a fool?  A slight breeze stirred the treetops and snowflakes appeared against the black backdrop of the lowering sky.

I took a deep breath, opened the door and stepped through.  It was cold and dark inside.  The windows were shuttered, and no light filtered through.  I stood quietly inside the door, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the gloom.

Her voice came out of the darkness.

   “You’d better go kill some geese before they all fly south.  It’s going to be a long winter.”

A warmth came over me, and I felt the pain in my ribs and shoulder drain away into the stillness.

It was, indeed, a magic place.

THE END