Timberline Trail (2 page)

It was during Tia’s jogs and walks that she da
ydreamed about this beautiful land and its varied people, developing the characters she needed for her popular children’s books. After a brisk jaunt into the forest Tia felt fired up to work, her mind tumbling with ideas, exotic settings, and outlandish scenarios. She then would retreat to the front room of her beloved wilderness home and sit before her laptop to write. Her small and sturdy cabin, having been built by her father and uncle some six years earlier as a perfect getaway from the stresses of Los Angeles and the hectic lives they lead as co-owners of Heath Enterprises, was perfect for writing. Both men had studied statistics during the seventies, when computer technology had been born, and subsequently took their degrees and hands-on experience to create a computer company that sold both hardware and innovative software.

Tia had respected t
heir business but shown no interest in it personally, and at an early age had chosen to wrestle the written word instead of the business world. After a degree at UCLA and an apprenticeship as an editor and copywriter for a local magazine, Tia had finally decided to go freelance. Luck had been with her and her children’s book,
Rosie Frankel’s Unexpected Adventure,
had given her a first publication and a desire to write even more. Her father at first laughed at her hobby, but had gradually grown to respect and admire her craft after her third children’s book was published.

Tia
now worked on the fourth, about a little Inuit boy who makes friends with the animals of the tundra as they fight against a common enemy, the despoilers of the environment, while searching for his tardy father. This morning, as always, the moment the computer hummed and the pages of her novel appeared, Tia forgot the peaceful and simple layout of the cabin as Endu’s story took her to the barren, treeless tundra.

The heavy cedar door to her home opened into a small hall where a low wooden bench hugged the left-hand side of the wall.
Here, her foot apparel, ranging from running shoes to heavy sorrels, was arranged neatly under the bench. Her cross-country skis rested inside the square wooden box next to her ski poles along with a hefty walking stick and two heavy-duty black umbrellas. Above, a series of wooden pegs jutted from the wall and her jackets, slicker, and parka hung neatly, ready for any of the abrupt seasonal weather changes so often swooping down upon this region of Alaska.

On the ri
ght hand side of the hallway rested a long narrow wooden cabinet equipped with flashlights, hurricane lamps, and other survival gear such as flares. While Tia had not often used this gear, she felt comforted by its presence. Another inner door acting as a weather buffer opened into the main room, which served as both a dining area and living room. A large gray stone fireplace hugged the far wall, equipped with heatilators. These warm air vents were not only built into the fireplace to enable hot air to circulate into the room, but Anthony Heath had also incorporated three black metal plates pushed into the river rock that could be pulled several inches out of their grooves, allowing the escaping heat from the fire to re-circulate back into the room instead of rising wastefully out of the chimney. Even when the cabin was deserted and Tia and her father returned from distant parts, the heatilator fireplace started warming the room in a matter of minutes after being sparked into life.

A wide hearth spanned the front of the fireplace a
nd Tia had parked a large brown-checked recliner directly in front so she could enjoy the warmth of the crackling fire on long winter nights. The highly polished pine floorboards were covered in thick rag rugs whose vivid interwoven designs of brown and red complemented the beautiful golden-brown flooring. The right hand side of the room boasted a large blue and brown sleeper couch set at an angle and behind that stood a huge built-in bookcase jammed so full of books that Tia could be snowbound for six months and not make a dent. A large cabinet, in which a medium-sized TV and VCR were discreetly hidden behind closed doors, was pushed against the wall; and inside, a lavish display of jackets indicated over four hundred videos. A plastic bag rested nonchalantly upon the floor where five new tapes waited to join their comrades inside the cabinet.

A gun case with her father’s three hunting rifles and ample ammunition was locked on the remaining wall space and Tia never opened it even though her father had trained her w
ell, since a reliable weapon is always necessary in the untamed Alaskan wilderness. Positioned next to the gun cabinet and facing an incredible floor-to-ceiling arched window overlooking the lovely forest was her mini-gym consisting of a well-used treadmill, a stair step machine, a rowing machine, a small muscle-building set with hand weights, a slanted push-up bench, and her favorite, the arm and torso machine. It had been a major hassle hauling the awkward equipment to the remote cabin and her father had complained bitterly, but Tia knew it was the best method for keeping in shape and releasing cabin fever during the long, dark winter.

To the left o
f the small cabin nestled a good-sized kitchen installed with lovely pine cabinets and a center island. Tia admitted the kitchen seemed like a modern assault on the quaint design of the rest of the small cabin, but she loved it anyway. A large square table, hand-crafted by her uncle and accompanied by four leather-strung chairs in matching pine complemented the set. She’d placed the handsome table to the left of the entryway to minimize the draft from the front door. The cabin only had two bedrooms, if you could call the second office-sized room one. A powerful computer used by her father during his infrequent visits and a bookshelf loaded with all the trappings of the writing trade, as well as a CD player, filled the compact room. Anthony’s pine filing cabinet stuffed with her father’s papers and ideas were a constant reminder of her Dad’s preoccupation with his work.

Latch hook rugs made by her mother during the last days of her life covered the walls
, and one cluster of bright sunflowers reminded Tia painfully of her lovely mother, lost too young to ovarian cancer. A single bed, used more like a couch, hugged the wall and Tia would often lay there listening to Enya
or REM
or even old singers like The Mamas and the Papas. The master bedroom was three times the size of the office and had its own small fireplace and large French doors opening onto the forest. Designed by her father and housing triple panes and a solid cedar frame of nearly two inches thick, no bitter chill could invade the comfort of this cozy room!

A huge king-sized bed dominated the room and still retained the masculine black and brown comforter her father had personally chosen.
His taste has run to the dark rustic colors and trappings, but Tia had softened the room by placing pink silk flowers in a large vase and hanging a colorful reprint of Matisse’s famous bridge over the vanity. A spacious cedar walk-in closet and a very modern en-suite bathroom with a huge shower and tub, warmed by a large water heater hidden behind a tasteful closet, adjoined the oversized bedroom. The lovely bathroom, tiled in pale brown and occasional sea shell squares, reminded Tia of the distant Pacific Ocean. Her father had installed Scandinavian under-floor heating in both bathrooms and it was delightful to soak in the huge tub on a winter’s evening. The entire cabin, powered by a propane generator, had so far weathered the fickle nature of the Alaskan winter without a hitch. While the cabin measured only twelve hundred square feet, Tia could ask for no better place to work and live. On a day like today she felt as if she would never leave.

The man lowered his binoculars and
frowned as he pulled his light-green parka closer and shivered. He already missed the heat and bustle of LA, for the coolness of this early September day was as cold as it ever got in LA, and the stranger understood now why he rarely left the comfort of that addictive Mediterranean climate. The cabin was too remote and too damn lonely for his cultured tastes. He observed the generator located in the small wooden shed to the south of the log cabin. The sun shone brightly upon the front door of the cabin and the girl he’d been observing for several days had disappeared inside after her jog. A movement to the far left of the cabin attracted his attention and he jerked up his head quickly, his dark eyes frowning. A loan loafer wolf slowly circled the sturdily built cabin. It lifted its nose in the air for a moment before breaking into a run, moving effortlessly on long gray legs. The watcher shuddered and pulled his rifle closer. Only yesterday he’d heard a crashing in the bush and whirled about to witness a large grizzly bear ambling away from him, flies buzzing around his matted fur.

Just a
bout noon and ready to make his move, an old gray pickup truck pulled into the narrow gravel driveway fronting Tia’s cabin. A Native-American woman pushed her heavy frame from the beat-up vehicle and carried two bags of groceries into the cabin. Damn! She appeared ready for a long visit so the house’s observer decided to retreat, determined not to invade as it got close to dark since he was uncertain of the terrain and her welcome. He trudged up the hill toward his 4x4, parked just off the road, feeling disgruntled and put out. Hearing a crackle in the bush to the right of him he whirled, his rifle poised.

A small wolverine-type creature faced him, its black nose twitching in the wind as it tried to identify his scent.
He’d heard about the vicious wolverine of the far north and tensed, not realizing it was simply a marmot, who, while resembling the wolverine, was more akin to the woodchuck and thus inoffensive to humans. The creature crinkled its nose at the disgusting smell of the man and backed off, flinging one last indignant look before disappearing into the underbrush. The man relaxed. He didn’t like dirt or animals and could hardly wait to get home. He scratched absently at a mosquito bite and headed toward the green Kia Sorento. Flinging his rifle off his shoulder and adding his binoculars and backpack to the cluttered passenger seat, he shifted his tall body into the driver’s seat. The 4x4 turned over with scarcely a roar before easing back onto the road as he drove off through the trees, hoping to reach his destination before dusk.

Unbeknownst to him
, another had watched him watching her. The lean man straightened and brushed off the dirt from his cargo pants, his keen eyes missing nothing from the license plate number to the man’s reaction to the marmot. Certain the stalker’s compact Kia had disappeared down the gravel road for the day he backed away, disappearing into a stand of Sitka spruce. He wound his way down a familiar trail he’d forged only a few days previously and wondered just what Tia Heath was hiding. Whatever it was he would find out, no matter how long it took.

Tia always enjoyed visits from her friend Mary Whitebird, a native Tanaina woman of the Thabaskan
-speaking tribes from the interior of Alaska. Mary still lived with her family who’d settled over thirty years ago in this remote region south of the Denali Park, and did quite well with her husband who made his living as a truck driver along the Trans-Canada and Alcan Highways. Joe had grown so successful he now owned three trucks and their two grown sons helped maintain his successful business. The petite Mary made their home in Timberline, using it as the base for their operations, receiving all the company’s orders and requests for shipping via the internet.

Mary missed Joe, who she referred to as her ‘dri
ving man’ as well as her two boys, Jason and Martin. Because of her loneliness she often visited Tia and the two women had formed a mutual bond of respect and camaraderie. Mary brought in two bags of supplies and set them upon the pine counter of Tia’s immaculate kitchen.

“I’ll never get over how much I like this place,” commented Mary as she stood in the large front room, noticing the 17” screen of Tia’s computer monitor glo
wing. “Been busy at work I see. Well you know what they say, all work and no play makes Tia a very boring girl. Which reminds me, I have some juicy news. But before the tasty gossip, I want you to peek into this bag.”

Tia could tell from the delighted expression on her friend’s face there was something wonderful in the sack.

“What have you got here Mary?”

“Nancy only received ten and I bought five. Two of them are for you pumpkin.” With a flourish Mary’s dark hand dipped into the paper bag and produced two large ripe cantaloupes.

“My goodness!” exclaimed Tia. “I haven’t seen a cantaloupe for at least a month.
When did these arrive?”

“Only this morning and I just couldn’t resist.
The blasted things were about three bucks apiece but they’re my gift for you as long as I can have some of your scrumptious iced tea.”

Tia nodded happily, fingering the ripe melon.
“This will be delicious with dinner; or shall we cut one up with your tea now?”

Mary steadfastly held up a brown hand.
“No, I’m limiting myself to half a cantaloupe a day and I’m not about to steal yours, but some of that tea would taste awfully good.” Within minutes Tia poured two frosty glasses of peach iced tea and placed still-warm oatmeal bread upon the golden pine table. The delicious aroma tantalized as butter melted upon the freshly baked loaf, and both women sat down, munching the fragrant bread compatibly together.

“I can see
you’re nearly busting at the seams,” said Tia, looking at her friend shrewdly. “You might as well tell me your news before you break a blood vessel!”

A conspiratorial grin settled over Mary’s face. “I
’d been at the Timberline Lodge dropping off some supplies that Gerald asked for on his last run and guess who I saw there?”