| Author: |
Erin Wilson |
| Dated: |
Tuesday, December 21 2010 @ 08:46 PM EST |
| Viewed: |
660 times |
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Sometimes I am surprised to see it in there, and I think again about returning it someday, to tell the rightful owner of that tire iron why I had to steal it from his shop that February afternoon, six years ago now.
It no longer has a prominent place of display in my home. It was gradually relegated to a cabinet, then a drawer, and now I only see it if I pull too hard on that tight drawer in search of extra printer cartridges. It rolls to the front as a reminder, spilling tiny bits of dried up grass across the bottom of the drawer as it bumps against other things that don’t have their own place in the house – the cat brush and the dog’s nail clippers, an old apron I will never wear but am too sentimental to discard.
It was one of those sunny winter afternoons where fresh snow from the day before was forming a tiny crust of crystals as the sun warmed it and the air cooled it. I decided a walk was in order. Never mind I didn’t have snowshoes for the deep snow, I would just tromp along until I had enough, then come home. I drove out to Rick’s place. He wasn’t around and his place was for sale but I knew he would not mind if I walked around his property. Rick was selling his life’s work, a massive acreage that had been selectively cleared. Scattered around the property there were cabins with views of the looming mountains along the Stikine River. Rick also had his own house, a greenhouse, and a large shop complete with an open mechanic’s pit for working on cars and machinery. This part of the shop was not closed in, and on scattered shelves and hooks were a variety of tools that did not require electricity, all of eclectic vintage.
I parked the truck at a pull-out maybe 50 metres from Rick’s driveway and hopped out of the truck. I breathed deeply, listened to the chickadees and squirrels having their usual arguments. I tied my boots a little tighter at the top to stop snow from creeping in and headed for the driveway, filled with snow as it had not been plowed all year.
Setting out I imagined what it might be like to live in such a spot all year, the delight of constant wildlife, never-failing scenery and a chance to be less of a global citizen and more of a local one. Caught up in my reverie I walked down the long, treed driveway, temporarily blocked from the sun. I left deep holes puncturing the crust to the underlying fluff of the snow, paralleling a much more agile moose that chose the same route earlier. Eventually I entered the first clearing of the property, and the sun warmed my face. I loosened my scarf and continued, still gazing about and wondering just how much did Rick want for this place anyway?
It took me a while, past three or four of the cabins and almost to the greenhouse, until I happened to look down and notice fresh snowshoe tracks. I swallowed a nervous giggle to myself – those weren’t fresh, what was I, some sort of tracker? Then I snapped my head up as I caught a tiny bit of movement by the greenhouse. I was miles from town, and even the next property was at least a kilometre away. I looked down at the direction of the snowshoe tracks, then back towards the greenhouse. The tracks headed towards the greenhouse, the view behind it impenetrable due to the thick plastic. My body reacted as though it were the first day of swimming lessons – I was chilled, nauseous and had to pee. I became acutely aware of my lack of snowshoes and inability to move quickly. Suddenly I hated the beautiful crust of snow that made it so difficult to, well, run for your life.
Suddenly, a familiar red head was visible and soon making strides towards me from behind the greenhouse. The red head connected to a tall man with long legs clad in snowshoes.
“Hi Sam!” I called out to him. He waved and walked closer. “Oh dear God, I was wondering who you could be!” I said, trying to keep my teeth from chattering with nerves.
“I just walked over from my place,” he said, “there’s a path between the properties. Did you know that?”
I said I did not know. Sam had been raised in the area, and I recalled he had recently bought the adjacent property with some help from his dad.
“Well, I’m going to head home,” he said. “I’ve been out for a couple hours, and I’m starting to feel cold. Once that sun goes down it sure gets chilly fast.”
“OK!” I called after him, as he had already turned to leave. “See you soon!”
He moved effortlessly away from me towards the trail at the back of the property. I looked for somewhere to sit down, to regain some semblance of composure. I chose the last sunny spot, over by the mechanic’s pit at the shop. It was back in the direction of the road I’d have to return, to get to my truck. The sun was indeed sinking fast, and Blueberry Mountain was waiting to coax it into the clouds hugging the summit.
I removed a granola bar and Kleenex from my coat pocket. I gave my nose a hearty blow, picked some lint off the wrapper of the granola bar and ate it thoughtfully. How would I ever enjoy living in tranquility if a friendly neighbour on snowshoes could just about scare me incontinent? Well, maybe I wasn’t that scared. It was more curiosity. Yes, that was it, I rationalized to myself. I was acutely curious to know who else could be in such a remote spot the same afternoon as I! Of course it would be someone friendly, no one to be afraid of in these parts.
I tucked my wrapper and tissue back into my pocket. Time to re-wrap my scarf; I had become chilled sitting for those minutes, the sun having now moved on to illuminate just the edge of Rick’s property. I had better hustle up, so that I wasn’t tripping in the darkness of the long forested driveway on the way back to the truck, which was still at least a kilometer away.
Hurrying now, I fixed my mittens to tuck the edges into the elastic of my coat sleeve. The rustling of the material almost occluded the first sound I faintly heard. My heart pounded. I did some positive self talk: that was nothing. Think about the nice cup of hot chocolate I can have when I get home – maybe I’d put a few shots of Bailey’s into it. Turning to leave I heard the same sound, unmistakable now, and not very far away. A lonesome wolf howl.
That was when I stole from Rick. My eyes nearly bugging out of my head, I frantically looked about the shop. Rusty chains, axe handles, some sort of boat motor. A bear skull. Nope nope nope! What oh what could I take to get me back to that truck? My eyes fell on the tire iron. It was on the ground, near the pit. Solid, easy to carry. Sold. I snatched it up and lunged into the deep snow.
At a three-quarter time trot I headed for the darkness of the driveway. What had I been thinking? A nice walk? Why didn’t I walk in town? There are lots of nice walks that don’t involve contemplating encounters with wolves. Once in Saskatchewan, as an adolescent, I had been followed home out of a coulee by a coyote. That ended well... OK, focus on the hustle. Instead of breaking new trail, I tried to follow my earlier footsteps, which were closer together than the steps I was taking now as I virtually leaped across the ground.
Another drawn out howl emerged from somewhere to the right of me. The sound was perfect clarity. No muffling that some sort of distance would imply. I gasped, gripped my tire iron even harder and decided to flat out run. Breaking new trail was the better way to go. But wait. Did I want to be running prey? Should I be nonchalant, whistling I’m not afraid of you prey? A second wolf howl, this time from somewhere to my left.
I ran for some time, entering the darkened tree-lined narrow driveway. I tried to imagine what those wolves were doing, aside from making supper plans. Were they stealthily loping alongside me, unseen, choosing a moment to confront me? Were they calling other wolves to watch the spectacle of me crashing through the snow, arms and legs asunder? What would I do if they appeared? How many were there? Would I be better off trying to climb a tree? I eyed the trees as I ran, trying to focus. There were majestic but ridiculously smooth skinned birch, and a variety of spruce and fir whose branches seemed to start at the 10 ft mark. I was sure I had read some Reader’s Digest stories of people with excess adrenaline lifting tractors off loved ones. Surely I could leap into a tree 10 feet off the ground? I heard my high school gym teacher in my head. She doubted it.
I had heard the wolves yip and bark to each other a couple more times, but there had been silence for a few minutes. Now what did that mean? I thought I should stop and try to listen. Pausing in the twilight, I peered through the brush. Nothing. Oh, how I strained to listen, but the only sound I could discern was a rushing as loud as any waterfall, which I was sure was my adrenaline, turned to full blast. I was out of breath from running, and tried to hold my breath so I could hear better, but that made the rushing worse, so I patted my trusty tire iron and resumed running.
It seemed to be an eternity before I reached the road, which was plowed down to the gravel. I paused, shot my head in every direction and headed for the truck. A nearby howl hastened my pace. The truck, sitting innocuously where I had parked it, was mercifully unlocked. I threw open the door to the protest of the hinges and catapulted myself and the tire iron inside. Closing the door I was overcome with glee. Whooooeeee. I giggled, then guffawed. Who would believe this story of my walk?
I started the engine, defrosted the windows and took some deep breaths. It was almost dark now. As I prepared to head back to town I shoulder checked before pulling onto the road. That’s when I saw them. Two beautiful healthy wolves, slinking through the ditch on the opposite side of the road from me. I shook my head in disbelief, gave them a little salute, and headed back to civilization.
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Lynda Williams
Part 6: Avim's Oath coming Aug 2010
Edge Science Fiction and Fantasy