The Wild Inside (44 page)

My mind slipped and slid between images of Two Medicine and Oldman Lake. The two mixed, then came into focus on Oldman with Flinsch Peak, Mount Morgan, and Ptimakan Pass casting my father and me into deep shadows and turning the jade-green of Oldman Lake a dark gray.

Cutthroat with flaming red colors under their gills grab our flies one after the other, effortlessly snagging them. We pull the fish gently to shore, where we cup their streamlined, slippery, and wiggling bodies in our palms, take out the hooks with care, set them in the cold water, and let them slowly glide away over the richly colored shale bed.

Aren’t we going to keep a few?

No, we had our trout dinner last night at Two Med.

Yeah, but I’m game for it two nights in a row.

Dad peers around. Something crosses his face momentarily, like the slim shadow of a trout over river rock.
Not here. I don’t want the smell of fish anywhere near us. We should wrap it up anyway. I’ve got some good packaged stew for us.

I make a face.

It’s not that bad. Put your gear away
. He lifts his chin to point at his pack resting by a rock.
There’s some lake-safe soap in my pack. Make sure you wash the smell of fish completely off.

Thin necklaces of soap bubble briefly on the water’s surface, then disappear. The water makes my hands numb and pink. I throw the bar
to Dad when I’m done. After he washes, we sit by the fire. I watch him carefully handle a pot of water he boiled. He grabs the hot handle with an old cloth and slowly pours the steaming water into two tin camping bowls with premixed, freeze-dried stew. In the red glow of the fire, his face looks ruddy, his eyes focused, and his lips pursed, the same expression I’d seen on him when he peered down at slides under a microscope. He hands the bowl to me to stir and pours his own with the same concentration.

Look,
he says and again, uses his chin as a pointer, lifting it to the mountains.
It’s unbelievably beautiful, isn’t it?

I shrug. At fourteen, I’m not into the subtleties like he is. He and my ma seem to be always commenting on the how the light skids across the mountaintops, describing its various hues—rose, lavender, reddish-yellow, orange-pink, gold. My sisters and I made fun of them.

There’s nowhere like this place,
my dad says. I can see a slight plume of his breath in the chilled air
. It’s sacred, you know
,
to the Native Americans. Makes you feel mighty small, huh?

Yeah, I guess
, I answer.

Dad peers back over his shoulder at the forest.
You know—
he turns back to me like he has a massive secret—
in the early nineteen hundreds a fungal disease from Europe called Blister Rust was accidentally introduced through nursery seeds and killed all of these trees?

So that’s why they’re all deformed and creepy-looking?

Yep, they’re dead whitebark pines. I guess about half of the original ones in Glacier are already dead and an estimated seventy-five percent of the remaining are infected and may die in a few decades. Tell me, Ted—
he looks wistfully at me, his mind obviously no longer on the whitebark pines
. I know this is way off subject, but you ever consider going into biology or forestry when you go off to college?

Jeez, Dad. I have no idea what I’m going to do, but no, probably not
that.

Why not
that
?
A bit of irritation slides into his tone, probably in
response to the sudden annoyance in mine. He holds a good-size stick and pokes at the log on the fire.

Because I’m not good at science.

He shakes his head.
But you’ve loved being outdoors since you were tiny.

Being outdoors and studying it are two different things
.

Well, your grades
, he says.
You know . . .
He doesn’t continue.

I don’t want to go anywhere near the subject of my grades, but the thought of him not finishing a sentence prods me on.
What about ’em
?

Never mind
. He looks around.

You brought it up.

I know, I’m sorry. Forget it.
He pokes at the fire.
Let’s just enjoy the fresh air.

I sense his disappointment. The year and a half I’d spent since we’d moved from Florida, my grades hadn’t risen. It wasn’t because I didn’t understand school; I just didn’t feel comfortable yet and I missed my friends in Florida.

It’s just that I know you can do better. I know you’re reams brighter than what you’re producing in school and something about that just strikes me as wrong.

I don’t say anything. A blast of smoke hits my face. I slam my eyes shut and turn my head into my shoulder like a bird tucking into its wing.

And I don’t mean lazy. I just mean wrong.

You do too mean lazy
. I open one eye to see if the smoke has changed back to the north.

No, Ted. Really, just wrong. Not living up to your potential. That strikes me as foolish and selfish.

Selfish? How the heck is it selfish?

Because when you don’t allow yourself to blossom, I don’t know. It’s like a flower that refuses to open. It’s selfish.

What?
I squinted.
Flower?

Come on, Ted, you know what I’m gettin’ at.

No, really, I don’t. Flowers don’t refuse to open. If they don’t open, it’s because something’s wrong with them.

See, I told you that you’re brighter than you let on to be.

I let out an exasperated sigh.

Okay, a musician then, not sharing music. Or a comedian, not making people laugh.

But those are specific things that people are good at. I’m not good at anything.

That’s not true. You’re a teenager. The trick is to find what you’re good at. Plus you can be good at a lot of things.
He gestures, palm up.
It doesn’t have to be one thing. Sharing well-roundedness is just as important. You get my point?

No, honestly, I don’t. You just said it yourself. Look around. We’re just specks out here in the scheme of things. What does it matter?

I get what you’re saying, but it does. It matters what you do with yourself. What kind of a trajectory you send yourself on. This out here—
he gestures to the lake and to the peaks.
It’s right in our faces that it’s billions of years old. And you’re right, each of our imprints seems small against that, but really, each one of our imprints is fascinating. And just like those rings in the water that those fish make, we make them too, and what we do reverberates way beyond what you can ever imagine. I’ve mentioned before, studying the small is representative of the grand.

Yeah, well, even in your job. Looking at all the dead tissue. Another life down the drain. At what point does each of those lives matter?
The second I say it, I know I am pushing his buttons.

Look, Ted, I’m going to hope that that negative talk doesn’t really run that deep.

The tone of his voice says he is very serious. I stay quiet.

Look, it’s important to have empathy for others and to see each life as sacred. If you think that each body that I study doesn’t matter, then think again, because there isn’t one single cell I don’t look at that, in my mind, isn’t linked to a human being with interesting and important traits and histories.

I sit silently. I feel sick to my stomach, maybe from the smoke, maybe from knowing I hit a sore spot. I stare out over the black lake, the sky now dark, the fire fading to embers. Dad reaches over and grabs a log from the pile we’d gathered.
Let’s just enjoy this,
he says brusquely, setting the log across the embers and stirring them up with his stick.
It’s beautiful out here. I’m going to make some tea before it gets any darker. Want some?

I shake my head. I feel sulky. Irritated. He tries to make small talk, but it doesn’t help. I’m in silent mode and keep pouting until I tell him that I’m tired and want to go to bed. He points to the tent.
Help yourself. I’ll tend the fire for a little while longer, then I’ll be there myself
.

I stand up and fake a stretch. Dad stands too.
Here
, he says, holding out my knife.
Forgot to give that back after cutting your line last night.

Thanks.
I grab it and shove it into my jeans pocket.

Good night
,
Ted. I love you
.

I mumble
Good night
back but don’t say “I love you.”

Gradually I became aware that the vehicle was getting cold and that I needed heat. My space blanket felt inflexible and crinkly on my lap, my spine stiff, and my butt cold on the vinyl seat, but I couldn’t wake. A part of me wanted to roust myself away from my dreams and another part kept trying to push further into them to part and peek behind some heavy, dark curtain blocking my view.

Cool air bites the tip of my nose. My dad has come to bed. I hear his steady breathing. My sleeping bag is warm and snug, but the ground feels hard and lumpy and slightly slanted so that I fall toward the side of the tent wall and my pocketknife is still in my pocket, digging into my hip. I need to pee, but I’m snug in my sleeping bag and don’t want to move. My shoes are just outside the zippered entrance to the tent. I find my flashlight beside me and, carefully and quietly, I unzip the tent, crawl out, and slip on my sneakers. I feel frightened. The night is
black, and when I look up, millions of stars dot the black canvas of sky. The Milky Way sprays right across the center, dazzling, miraculous—unreal. Everything seems quiet, except the water, gently lapping on the pebbled shore. The baby hairs on the back of my neck prickle, and I decide not to go. I slide my shoes back off and crawl back in. I can hold it until morning.

Dad stirs, asks me if everything is okay, and I say it is. I hear him immediately drift back to sleep, his breathing returning to a steady and thick pace. I dig the knife out of my jeans pocket and toss it to the side. I snuggle back into my bag and scoot away from the side of the tent wall. Slowly, I slide back into the side of the tent, feel the cold fabric on my face, and fall back to sleep.

A knocking sound begins to catch in the corner of my mind, rising and drawing closer, like someone is trying to get in, but it can’t be. The knocking resembles tapping on glass, but we’re in a tent.

I hear Dad’s yelling.
Oh my God, a bear, he’s got me.
I hear the rustling of his sleeping bag and screaming.
Get out of your sleeping bag, Ted. Get out of the tent.
I can’t move no matter how hard I try.

Give me your knife, Ted. Your knife. Oh Jesus, he’s got me.

There’s more screaming. And tapping. Loud tapping, and I think I hear voices that aren’t my dad’s. Something pulls me out of the dream, but I can still hear my dad. I don’t want to lose my dad—his voice, his presence.

Your knife, Ted.

I can’t move. I’m frozen and tangled. I’m trying to get out of the bag. Finally, I get my legs to move, but I just flail, my legs caught inside like I’m in a web. My bag is wet. My pants are wet. I frantically pat my hand around the fallen, tangled tent fabric trying to find my knife.

If he comes for you, don’t move. Play dead.
I hear more screaming, deep, raw, penetrating sounds, and I’m still frozen, my heart exploding in my chest.
Don’t move, Ted, go limp if it goes for you
, he manages between screams.

Adrenaline and fear coursed through me, my heartbeat drumming against my ribs. My breathing was too fast, and my head turned rhythmically from side to side on the car seat. My neck hurt.
Knocking,
I told myself with whatever thread of reality was still attached to my mind.
It’s just knocking
.
Tapping on the car window. That’s all it is.
I tried to open my eyes. The darkness before me swirled and converged into tangled shapes.
Or scraping. Claws scraping. Scratching.

I threw the space blanket to the side, frantically grabbed for the car door, but couldn’t get my fingers on the latch. I pawed at the window controls with my left hand and reached for my gun with the other. Finally, in an eternity of seconds, I found the latch, swung the door open, and stepped out and saw the beast before me. I grabbed for him, throwing his heavy body against the side of the car.

“Are you fucking crazy?” I heard.

I had him under the neck, by the scruff of his collar. I aimed my gun right at his face. I could hear my breathing permeate the cold air around me.

“What the fuck, dude. Calm down. What the hell?”

The light from my car showed he had a beard and wore a dark-colored down jacket. I slowly lowered my gun and stepped away. I was panting.

“Holy fuck. You scared the shit out of me.”

“What the hell are you doing?” I managed, shapes still shifting before my eyes. I was beginning to see this guy—simply a tourist—more clearly. Red flannel under the down. Brown wool cap on his head. Freaked-out, wide eyes.

“I was up by my fire late. Saw you had your running lights still on and figured you’d wake up to a dead battery if I didn’t let you know. Don’t know about you, but I wouldn’t want to be out here with a dead battery.”

I took another deep breath and nodded rapidly and rhythmically, like some ridiculous bobbing toy that you find in a gift shop. I tried to get my breath under control.

“Honest.” He fanned his hands out to the sides, surrendering. “Honest, I didn’t mean to freak you out.”

Embarrassment flooded my face. I’d never been so relieved that it was dark out. My head suddenly felt overwhelmingly hot against the cool air. I swallowed hard. “I’m sorry. I, I . . . I was out of it, dreaming. You caught me off guard.”