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| Author: |
doris ray |
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Monday, July 02 2007 @ 05:22 PM EDT |
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The defining moment in nineteen-year-old Travis Stoner's life occurred on a gloriously sunny morning in late September while he was out moose hunting in the vicinity of Shovel Lake with his granddad, Karl. It was their first hunting trip of the year even though the season was now three weeks along and the old man had been champing at the bit ever since it opened.
Karl had even considered venturing out by himself, except that his daughter, Travis's mother, would have worried herself sick every minute he was gone. He'd had a serious attack of angina in the spring and she'd lost faith that his eighty-year-old heart would continue to beat much longer. But as far as Karl was concerned, he really didn't care:
"What's the difference if I die when I'm by myself or if someone else is there with me?" he had demanded. "I'd be dead, either way."
Travis, who'd been catching up on university classes after a long summer break, had finally made it home during the late afternoon of the previous day. He'd purchased a license and tags and accompanied the eager old gentleman to an abandoned gravel pit where they could sight in their rifles while there was still daylight. Travis watched his granddad bullseye a paper target through the open sights of an ancient 303 and decided not to pressure him into purchasing a newer telescopic sight. It was obvious he didn't need one.
A familiar wave of excitement in anticipation of tomorrow's hunt, and a warm sense of camaraderie, swept through the younger man. As far back as he could remember Karl had been his role model. He loved and respected the crusty old bushman. It had been his granddad who had taken him fishing when he was just a kid and shown him how to throw a baseball. And it had been his granddad who more recently had taught him how to shoot a rifle--swiftly and accurately.
Travis's father had been a cowardly loser who'd pulled a disappearing act two weeks before the birth of his son. The last anyone heard of the man he was living on a Native Indian reserve in Southern BC with a wife and seven kids. The woman whom he had once professed to love and honor had never married, although she'd had a few significant others over the years, none of whom Travis had particularly liked. He was proud of his mother's accomplishments though. She'd worked hard to obtain a teacher's certificate and make her way up the seniority list to where she was now Vice Principal at the high school.
Last year Travis had made his mother proud when he'd enrolled at the University of Northern BC in Prince George. The courses he'd chosen would lead to a degree in Environmental Studies. But Granddad Karl wasn't sure if he approved of the line of work for which the studies would qualify him.
"Environmentalists are what's ruining the forest industry with their silly complaints about the rights of the spotted owl," he had growled. "You'll end up being one of those gawdawful tree-huggers and I'll have to disown you!"
The kitchen radio was blaring away the following morning, when Travis rolled out of bed in search of long johns and warm clothing to shield himself against the early morning chill. The radio sounds were abruptly silenced as he entered the room. Karl's unshaven face--he refused to shave the morning of a hunt-- expressed his irritation.
"It's Sunday and the sky pilots are spouting their religion on every station," he growled. "We sure don't need to listen to that!"
The one thing that Travis's granddad despised more than tree-huggers or any other facet of human endeavor was organized religion. He wasn't prejudiced, as he was so fond of reiterating. He hated them all equally. Travis suspected the old man's animosity stemmed from a childhood experience on The Prairies where he'd accompanied his mother to an old-fashioned tent revival meeting. The preacher had shouted fiery retributions while members of the congregation moaned and rolled on the ground as if in agony.
" I had nightmares for weeks. I even peed the bed a few times." Karl extrapolated whenever he had occasion to tell the story. To top it off he'd spotted that same preacher a few months later, pawing at a young woman who wasn't his wife.
The old man had entered a church only twice in his lifetime: once when he was married and thirty years later when he attended his wife's funeral. For weeks following her death he’d been plied with cakes and pies by some of the ladies in the community. But when the invitations came out for him to join their various congregations, he had proclaimed in no uncertain terms that he was an atheist.
"Can you believe that the little church down by the lake and that big one up on the hill were fighting over my soul?" he had exclaimed later in horrified tones. Nowadays Karl tried to avoid people of all religious faiths. When his favorite niece Krista was eighteen she joined the Baha'i Faith and Karl had refused to speak to her for weeks. He finally came around after learning that the Faith had no churches or clergy.
"I guess you're old enough to make your own mistakes," he had growled by way of reconciliation.
On the morning of the hunt Karl had risen from his bed at four am to prepare a ritualistic breakfast for Travis and himself. Ignoring the electric coffeemaker that was plugged in on the counter, he had placed a blackened enamel pot half-filled with water and coffee grounds on a slow burner to boil. That was how you made good coffee, the old man informed his grandson. But it was even better, he added, when it was brewed over an open campfire. Pancakes were made and thick slices of bacon sizzled in a cast iron frying pan. After they were sufficiently rendered, Karl broke six large eggs into the bubbling pool of grease.
"Too hell with worrying about cholesterol," he flashed Travis a mischievous grin. "I'll wear it off later while I'm skinning out my moose.
Tiny glints of sunlight shot forth from the tops of shadowy evergreens as Travis drove his granddad's truck up a steeply graded logging road leading to the old trail into Shovel Lake. The ground was white with frost at the top of the hill and there was ice on the puddles. But shortly after edging down the narrow crooked trail with the truck locked in four-wheel-drive, they encountered an entirely different landscape. The sun illuminated a lush valley thick with poplar, birch, and willow trees, flaunting all the magnificent splendor of autumn's colour scheme. Poplar saplings still displaying green leaves and intermittent clumps of plump young pines contrasted nicely with the brilliant foliage. The sky was a deep shade of blue and in the distance so was the lake. Travis's heart swelled as he beheld the scene. He barely missed hitting a stump with his right front wheel.
"Hey watch where you're going, young fellow," spoke his granddad in a surprisingly gentle tone of voice. "It is kind of pretty," he nodded, as if in agreement. Just then a pair of trumpeter swans flew overhead. Their powerful wings gleamed whitely against the blue of the sky. "Funny, you don't usually see them this early...." the old man sounded surprised. "It must be getting cold already up north."
Karl surveyed the scenery as they were passing through.
"The beauty of nature is just about the closest we'll ever get to what the preachers call God," he stated dryly.
As they approached a barely discernible road that appeared to follow the swampy end of the lake, the old man leaned forward in anticipation. Moose tracks were everywhere-- in the dirt and in the mud.
"Here's where they cross to get to water when they come down from the hills," he told Travis. "The road turns just ahead and goes up to an old logging site. It's pretty well grown up so there's plenty of cover for the moose. And there's lots of young willow for them to browse."
Travis parked the truck on a graveled landing that overlooked the clear-cut on the opposite side of the road. They lingered inside the cab, combing the vast hillside through their binoculars.
"Do you see what I see?" the young man exclaimed.
"I sure do!" was the excited reply. "I've counted the antler tines and there's two on one side. That bull moose is legal in this management region. He's out of range so we'll need to go for a walk."
The moose browsed near the edge of the timber on the far side of the cut. Thick alder and willows bordered the road where it meandered off in that general direction. The brush provided adequate cover for them to approach on foot to where they were in closer proximity to their quarry. Karl stayed put in shooting position along the road, while Travis made his way up through the timber to where he could play dog with the young bull, forcing the animal to retreat downhill. They had used this strategy before with good results. Last year it was Travis who had shot the moose. This year, after everything proceeded according to schedule, it had been Karl's bullet that did the damage.
Travis heard the second shot, indicating that Karl had very likely downed their quarry. He was suddenly fearful that his granddad might overstimulate his heart and drop dead alongside the moose. Scurrying downhill, slipping and sliding through a jumble of hidden rocks, logging slash and wild raspberry bushes, he found Karl hunched over a log sharpening his knife. Beside the old man, the moose lay crumpled ignominiously in the grass. Travis felt a twinge of sympathy for the animal. As Native Indian hunters had done in days of yore, he whispered his gratitude to it for providing sustenance. As far as Travis was concerned there was no greater feast to be had than grilled moose steak with onions.
"You'd best take it easy, Granddad," the young man suggested hesitantly. "Just relax and let me do the work."
"Hell no!" was the instant reply. "When the day comes that I can't even gut out my own moose, I want you to plant me six feet under!"
"You just go and get the truck," Karl's voice sounded cranky, "I'll need the axe to quarter this animal. There's a thermos of that good strong coffee I made. You and I deserve a cup or two of that."
Travis did not have the heart to tell the old man that he didn't like his boiled coffee. Hoisting his rifle with its strap across his shoulder he began trudging toward the road. When he was with his granddad he sometimes felt as if he were still a little kid. Travis supposed that was natural. The grandparent-child bonding roles, which had developed when he was a youngster, would always be there. But he was no longer a child. Lately he'd developed some thoughts and opinions that were contrary to a few of Karl's strongly held convictions.
The truck wasn't visible from where Travis stepped out of the bushes and onto the road. His boots had left their prints behind him in the dust as he retraced those same markings, now heading in the opposite direction. Upon topping the crest of a small hill and rounding a corner, he could see Karl's old Ford pickup about 100 meters in the distance.
Straight ahead and about 50 meters in the distance were three brown animal shapes with distinctive humps on their backs that Travis instantly identified as a sow grizzly bear and two half-grown cubs. The wind was just right for momma to have picked up the odor of the freshly killed moose. Travis's presence was, for the moment, just a mere irritant. He was distracting her from following the scent of a delicious meal. Pulling herself up on her hind legs she made a loud "woof" causing the hair on the back of Travis’ neck to stand up.
The cubs darted off into the timber as their mother dropped back down on all fours and began advancing slowly toward him. He slipped to the ground on one knee and brought his rifle up into firing position. Leaning an elbow against his upright knee for support, Travis took aim and pulled the trigger. The young man’s speed and fluidity of movement carried through, as he ejected the spent shell, causing another one to snap into place. He aimed once more at the now wounded and furious animal. This time, when he pulled at the trigger, nothing happened. He frantically attempted to eject the faulty shell, but it would not budge. The firing mechanism of Travis's rifle was tightly jammed.
The grizzly was gaining speed, its powerful muscles rippling beneath its glossy fur. The young man could see malevolence in its round raisin-colored eyes. Once again he attempted to unjam his rifle, but it was solidly unresponsive. Through a haze of terror his senses suddenly became magnified. Although the bear was still ten meters away, he could hear the faint gurgle of the death rattle from deep within its vital organs. The animal was running solely on willpower and momentum. It was capable of killing him, and probably would. Travis could smell the stink of savage fury that emanated from every orifice in its body.
The gap between them was narrowing swiftly. The young man sprang to his feet and flung the useless firearm into the face of the beast. Hunching the muscles of his legs and lower back, he propelled himself desperately toward the far-off sanctuary of the truck. His antagonist paused for a moment before veering sharply in the same direction. Travis could hear its muffled coughs approaching from behind. He considered throwing himself to the ground and playing dead but knew that his heavy breathing would give him away. The bear was so close he could feel the heat of the its breath and hear the snap of its powerful jaws as it aimed for his buttocks. Travis suddenly realized that he would be the sow's last meal. At least her cubs would have something to feast upon after the death of their mother, he thought.
The tightly coiled ball of fear inside Travis's gut began to unwind, to be replaced by a sense of calm acceptance. He felt his entire body being enfolded by something warm and comforting. A huge white bird with shimmering wings had scooped him off the ground, and was carrying him far away from the grizzly's reach. The young man reposed upon a nest of interlocking feathers as he was transported high above the landscape to where he could see the shoreline of Shovel Lake and the beautiful valley on the other side. In the opposite direction a man, most likely Travis’ granddad, was hightailing up the road. Directly below him the mortally wounded bear had fallen to the ground. Her cubs still crouched amongst the trees, no doubt waiting for an all-clear signal from their mother.
Following a dizzying fast descent, Travis found himself being dumped unceremoniously onto the gravel alongside the truck. His head ached and his eyes were blurred and sore, but his heart soared with emotion. Travis was convinced that his survival was due to nothing less than Divine intervention. It was a defining moment for the him, and he knew his life would never be the same.
Travis felt a pang of remorse when he drove past the body of the dead grizzly, and was thankful that her cubs had appeared old enough to learn to fend for themselves. His rifle lay in the dust at the junction. It didn't look that much worse for wear: the brand new scope needed replacing and there were a few scratch marks on the stock. Around the corner and halfway down the hill, his granddad sat slumped on a grassy knoll close to the road. He appeared to be exhausted. Travis noticed the old man moved slowly and stiffly as he approached the truck.
"When I heard that truck start up it was like music to my ears," Karl commented as he arranged his bony frame into the passenger seat. He gave his grandson an inquiring look: "I heard the bark of a grizzly. Twice I think... Then I heard a shot. Only one shot?" The old man shook his head in disbelief. "Never thought I'd find you in one piece...."
"It's quite a story, Granddad. One you probably won't believe. I'll tell it to you after we've butchered out that moose." Travis said confidently, "What I mean is, after I've butchered out the moose. I want you to stay inside the cab and rest."
His granddad did not argue. As soon as the young man stepped from the truck Karl's head began to droop and he fell into a deep sleep.
According to Travis's watch it was two-thirty in the afternoon when he finished drawing, quartering, and loading the huge sections of meat into the back of the truck. He was amazed to learn that there was still that much time left in the day. After his harrowing experience that morning, it seemed that a lifetime had passed in only a few short hours. Karl emerged from the cab bearing bologna sandwiches and the inevitable thermos of coffee. Refreshed, he was as feisty as ever.
"How come it took you so long to cut up that meat?" he chided good-naturedly.
"It's probably aged enough now to make nice tender steak." He handed Travis a mustard-smeared sandwich. "But I guess we'll have to eat these instead."
"Granddad, I think we'd better hit the road. I just realized I’ll need to report that dead grizzly to the conservation officers. Then I suppose I'll have to lead them up here to the scene of the crime. I'll be lucky to get back to Prince George tonight before midnight."
"From what I can gather, you're damned lucky to be going back to Prince George at all," the old man said caustically. "Okay, we'll eat in the truck. And you can tell me the story about why you're still alive and not grizzly bear bait."
Between bites of sandwich Travis managed to fill his granddad in on the greater part of the morning's ordeal. He stopped the truck at the site so that Karl might examine the body of the hapless animal.
"She's a big one all right." the old man declared enthusiastically as he stepped back into the cab. "You were one lucky bugger to get away!"
"Okay Granddad. Now I'm going to tell you the part of the story that you won't believe."
Karl listened impassively as Travis described the circumstances of his miraculous escape from the approaching grizzly.
“Yeah well, when you’re scared stiff your mind can come up with some peculiar ideas,“ was the old man’s response. “You likely got a second wind,” he added flippantly. “The energy that sped you up probably sucked all the oxygen out of your brain. It caused you to imagine things.”
“So how come my footprints in the dust stopped abruptly about fifty meters away from the truck?" Travis demanded. "I looked closely and there just aren’t any more.”
His granddad had no answer for that.
As they approached the shoreline of Shovel Lake, Karl noticed two white birds flying high above the water.
"You know, its a funny thing," he looked thoughtful as he peered up at the sky. “Those swans were flying directly overhead to where you were just after I heard you shoot….”
***
Late one night in mid-November when bull moose season was pretty well over in most parts of the region, Karl was awakened by a phone call from his grandson.
"Hi Granddad. Just wondering if you'd like to go for a ride in the bush tomorrow morning?" the younger man inquired. "I have a friend here who wants to see the country. This fellow works with disadvantaged people on the streets of Prince George. I've been helping him out on weekends. Only thing about him you may not like is that he's a preacher...."
So that was why Travis hadn't been home for a visit in almost two months, the old man realized with dismay. His grandson had been hanging out with a preacher....
"Garth's a really good guy," Travis continued, "His parents are nice people too. You'd like them because they're not the least bit religious." He paused for a moment. "Garth likes to fish and hunt," he added, "He has a limited entry tag for a bull moose in region 6..."
"Well, why didn't you say so in the first place!" the old man replied indignantly. "If he's got a limited entry tag and wants to hunt moose he must be an all right guy, even if he is a preacher!"
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What an entertaining well-crafted story. The relationship between grandfather and grandson was captivating. I enjoyed it from start to finish. Nicely done.
Hugh
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HMD