West of Here

  “Looks like I owe you one, Tillman.”

  “Don’t sweat it,” grunted Timmon. “Call it even.”

  In eleven hours, they covered just under eight miles, rejoining the Elwha in early evening at the head of Press Valley, where they set up camp beneath a stand of giant hemlock.

  That night, as the chill air of early autumn settled into the moonlit valley, the two men lay on their backs by the glow of the fire, staring up at the treetops while Rupert lay curled between them. Timmon found himself compelled to talk more than usual. Maybe it was the cumulative effect of being alone all those weeks. Maybe he was just warding off the hunger. Or maybe Frank Bell was just disarming — maybe something about his salt-and-pepper hair and his sad, slowmoving eyes inspired candor. Franklin, for his part, was more than content to listen.

  “Yeah, well,” Timmon said. “Mostly, I was sick of shit comin’ down on me, you know? Shit I didn’t have any control over — other people’s shit — my old man’s, that idiot in the White House, some guy in a suit in Minneapolis.”

  Timmon folded his arms behind his head and gazed harder than ever into the canopy, as though some answer might be waiting for him up there. “But you can’t escape it, man. Shit doesn’t just roll downhill, it rolls all over the place.”

  “How’s that?”

  Timmon shifted over onto one elbow and looked at Franklin. “Well, for starters, let’s talk about survival. Used to be that a guy could live off the land out here, just on fishing alone. And I know how to fish, Bell. I’ve been fishing for twenty years. I fished like hell out here. For weeks on end I fished — from the right bank, from the left bank, from the riffle. And I never caught a goddamn thing. Nothing. Zilch. And it didn’t occur to me once — not until maybe twenty minutes before I found your black ass out here in the woods — that it had nothing to do with my luck. It was because of that fucking dam down there. A guy’s got about as much chance of catchin’ a fish in this river as he does of catchin’ Jennifer Lopez.”

  “That right?”

  “You’re damn right, that’s right. The real question is, why the hell didn’t I see that coming? Why didn’t I put two and two together in the first place? You see what I’m saying? I didn’t make the connection.”

  “Forest for the trees,” said Franklin. “Forest for the trees.”

  Both men fell silent. The fire was down to coals, now, hissing softly. The trees swayed ever so slightly above, swishing side to side with each breath of wind. Occasionally, a tree trunk issued a plaintive creak in the darkness. And each creak seemed only to make the silence more implacable.

  Suddenly, the silence was shattered by an otherworldly howl. Both men felt their scalps tighten.

  “What the fuck was that?” said Franklin, breathlessly.

  “An owl,” said Timmon, unconvincingly.

  Rupert began to whimper.

  “That’s a loud-ass owl, Tillman. And Rupert ain’t scared of no bird.”

  No sooner had they started speculating than another hair-raising series of hoots came from deep in the forest behind them.

  “Okay, Tillman. If that’s an owl, it must have mated with a hillbilly.”

  “That ain’t no owl. Shhh.”

  “Well, it ain’t a bear,” whispered Franklin. “I been face to face with one of those, and he was —”

  Before Franklin could finish, there came a series of four very loud whoop-howls from no more than a hundred yards away. Rupert began to pace the campsite nervously, whimpering.

  When Timmon looked at Franklin in the darkness, he felt his skin crawl.

  There came the slow heavy crunch of underbrush from behind them as the men leaned breathlessly against a tree, their shoulders grazing. When the crunching stopped momentarily, Timmon imagined some dark form on two legs, not four, sniffing the air.

  Franklin felt a primal life force beating inside him, something ancient and half remembered. Whispering voices began to circle the inside of Franklin’s head. Suddenly he was not frightened. He pushed away from the tree and let out a holler.

  “Whoop-whoop-whoop-whoop!” he called.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” Timmon said, wresting him by the arm and pushing him back against the tree.

  “Whoop-whoop!” said Franklin.

  “Shut the fuck up, you dummy.”

  “Listen, Tillman. Listen to the voices.”

  Timmon released his grip. “Shhh, you crazy motherfuck. Shut up.”

  The crunching resumed. It seemed as though the beast had began to backpedal with measured steps.

  “I think it’s leaving,” said Timmon.

  “Did you hear the voices?”

  “I couldn’t hear shit with you whispering in my ear.”

  When it was apparent the thing had fled, they stoked the fire and huddled close to the flames, resisting the temptation to talk about it. Rupert had stopped his pacing, but not his whimpering, as he sat alertly in the glow of the flames. Finally, Timmon could resist no longer.

  “You’re bat-shit crazy, you know that, Bell? What the hell were you thinking? Was that a fucking mating call, or what?”

  “Truth is, Tillman, I’m not sure what got ahold of me, but I liked it.”

  “I’ve been thinkin’, and I think that was a bull elk out there, a big one, that’s what I think. And I think you’re one crazy black sonofa-bitch hootin’ and hollerin’ at it like that. Lucky it didn’t try and mount you.”

  That was the last anyone said on the subject. As they set out upon the muddy trail amid a torrent of showers the following morning, neither man spoke of the experience. Nor did either man make mention of what looked like six giant washed-out footprints on the trail.

  Aided by the level terrain of Press Valley, and Franklin’s miraculous recovery, they made considerable headway through the basin. Stops were few and far between. By the time the clouds broke, both men were in good spirits, and the previous night was at a safe distance. Nothing more was said about the howling. Their clothing soon dried on their backs in the heat of afternoon. The conversation assumed an airy tone, with Timmon joking about, among other things, the quality of food in the joint.

  “Not that I wouldn’t give my left nut for a slice of that mystery meat loaf right now,” he said. “Or a bowl of lima beans.”

  “Hell,” said Franklin, “I’d give both nuts. I ain’t using them.”

  In the waning hours of daylight, having covered well over ten miles, they reached the foot of the Press Valley and set up camp in a grassy meadow along the right bank, where the river ran wide and shallow. Exhausted, they did not linger around the fire but slept restfully to the steady roar of the Elwha.

  They awoke well after dawn to sunny skies. A slight cedar-scented breeze was blowing up the valley, rippling off the surface of the river. Timmon and Franklin idled longer than usual on the riverbank, lacing their shoes, repacking their loads, rinsing their faces in the riffle. With his sore back all but behind him now, and his hunger cramps having inexplicably subsided, Franklin actually felt a little pang of nostalgia — also inexplicable, in light of the circumstances — at the knowledge that their journey would soon meet its end. He felt somehow buoyed by the adventure. Standing lean and feral beside him, Timmon was thinking less about endings and more about beginnings as a little pit was forming in his stomach.

  Soon after they hit the trail at a steady pace, they caught their first whiffs of civilization. With the late morning hours came an increase in air traffic, along with a proliferation of park signage. A palpable electricity seemed to waver in the breeze. By early afternoon they began their descent to the head of Lake Thornburgh. Even before the reservoir revealed itself, the distant thrum of syncopated bass drums reached their ears like cannon reports, soon followed by the brassy strains and intermittent honking of what sounded like a high school marching band.

  “Is that ‘Tequila’?” Timmon wondered aloud.

  “‘Wooly Bully,’” said Franklin.

  dam days

&n
bsp; SEPTEMBER 2006

  On the main stage — a hastily painted two-foot riser, festooned with star-studded garlands of crepe paper — the Port Bonita High brass band was honking out a spirited rendition of “Wooly Bully” when they were suddenly forced to contend with the incomparable din of two dozen screaming chainsaws as the speed carving competition began in earnest.

  With an Indian taco held aloft in each hand, Krig wended his way through the crowd toward the stage, glimpsing familiar faces and nodding his recognition along the way. There was Hoffstetter from second crew. And the dude from Ace Hardware. Was that Principal Ellick? He spotted Kip Tobin in front of the Fraternal Order of Eagles funnel-cake stand. Krig smiled and gave a nod, but Tobin pretended not to see him. Not fifty feet later, he spotted Molly walking toward him past the Speed Pitch, but she dodged him. In front of the blue honey buckets, he spotted Jerry Rhinehalter, floating like a gray ghost in a sea of his kids. His wife was nowhere in sight. Ashing his cigarette, Jerry gave Krig a little nod, and Krig felt redeemed, if only briefly.

  He found Jared leaning restlessly on the edge of the stage, sporting an uncomfortably close shave and a blue dress shirt.

  “Brought you some grub,” said Krig.

  “Not hungry,” Jared said, a little queasily, glancing at his watch. “But thanks.”

  Krig looked around for somewhere to set the extra taco. “Nervous, huh?”

  “Pretty much.”

  Krig decided to set the taco down on the stage, right between Jared and a white leather purse. “You’ll do great,” he said, wrestling the remaining taco into submission. “Just forget they’re there. All those people, I mean. They’re all total strangers anyway.”

  “Krig, you’re not helping.”

  “Sorry, bro.”

  “I know you are.” Jared began to pace around distractedly. He daubed some sweat off his brow with the sleeve of his shirt. “Oh, so what about the promotion?” he said, as though he’d just remembered it. “Why don’t you just take it, Krig? It won’t increase your workload, I swear. Your hours will probably be shorter. You’ll get a new office. No more rubber bib. Hell, you can go golfing with Don Buford — on the clock.”

  “Thinkin’ about it,” said Krig.

  “What’s there to think about?”

  Emerging from the crowd, Janis registered Krig with a cursory smile.

  “Hey,” she said.

  “Did you find it okay, hon?” said Jared.

  Sidling in beside Jared, Janis smoothed the lap of her yellow dress before sitting squarely on top of the open-faced taco.

  “Oh shit, watch out,” said Krig, way too late.

  Janis sprung to her feet, swiping urgently, then pitifully, at her backside, powerless to stop the rush of blood to her face.

  Jared scrambled into action looking for a solution.

  “Damn,” said Krig. “I should’ve grabbed some napkins. Here,” he said, foisting his own taco on Janis. “I’ll run and get some.”

  “Hurry up,” said Jared.

  Navigating the crowd, Krig berated himself for fucking up J-man’s big day, for that matter fucking up everything he ever touched. Here, a missed free throw, a crossed boundary, a blown scholarship. There, a forgotten invoice, a misplaced taco. It didn’t matter how small the fuckup, how seemingly insignificant the oversight. The results were always bad. His fuckups defined him. People expected them.

  Snatching a fistful of napkins from the frozen banana stand, Krig hurriedly began weaving his way back to the stage, still cursing himself for his failures, when he nearly bowled into Rita outside the logging exhibit. Her hair was pulled back, smooth and dark behind her ears. She was holding three cotton candies. Krig wished one of them was intended for him.

  “Oh, hey,” he said.

  “Dave!”

  He felt his scalp tightening. She flashed a smile, weakening his knees.

  “Somehow, I knew I’d run into you here,” she said.

  Krig clutched his napkins tighter. He couldn’t look her in the eye.

  “Heard you were up for a promotion,” she said brightly. “Ran into Hoffstetter.”

  “Sorta, I guess.”

  “That’s exciting.”

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “Hey, there’s somebody I want you to meet,” she said.

  “Oh, uh, yeah,” Krig said, shifting restlessly on his feet. “The thing is, Janis sat on a taco, and I’ve got these napkins, and J-man’s about to give his speech, and —”

  “I understand,” she said. “You go. Maybe we’ll run into you later.”

  “Okay, yeah, that’d be cool.” Krig peered shiftily over her shoulder toward the stage, into the crowd, up the mountain.

  They both stood in place for an awkward moment, as though stuck there. Krig scratched his neck and dug his toe into the dirt. Finally, looking up into his face, Rita managed to meet Krig’s eyes.

  “You know, Dave, I —” She stopped herself short, casting her eyes down on the cotton candy. “Well, I guess what I’m trying to say — what I tried to say before — is, well, that I never said it was impossible, you and I. I mean, if the time were ever to be right, if I were in a good place, and if Curtis was in the right place, and if, you know, you were in the right place, I mean, in a year or something …”

  Krig could feel himself blushing. He had no idea where the right place might be, but he knew himself well enough to know that he’d probably be willing to drive in circles until he found it. “Um, okay,” he said. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “I don’t want you to think I’m making any promises, Dave. I’m just saying, you know, if.” Rita smiled sweetly, almost apologetically. “Well, you better deliver your napkins,” she said.

  “Oh. Yeah. Right.”

  “It was good seeing you.”

  “Totally.”

  Leaving Rita behind, Krig felt a surge of immediate relief, along with a nagging wistfulness and a rapid heartbeat. In the thick of all those ifs, had Rita just offered him hope? Winding his way back toward the stage, he fought the impulse to look back over his shoulder.

  * * *

  MIDWAY THROUGH THE distant strains of “Wooly Bully,” as Timmon and Franklin and Rupert began their final descent into the basin, stooping beneath the weight of their packs, wild-eyed and feral, a sputtering chorus of chainsaws suddenly threatened to drown out the music. Exchanging puzzled glances, they scampered down the rutty incline toward the trailhead. Rounding the last wooded bend, the valley revealed itself in a dramatic sweep, checking both men in their tracks.

  “Whoa,” said Timmon. “What the — ?”

  Spreading out below them like a colorful rash on the butt end of the basin, extending a little ways up the lakeshore on either side of the dam, lay a veritable tent city, cut crosswise by corridors running east to west. Like arteries, the wide channels undulated slowly with the pulse of humanity. A sea of cars extended far beyond the parking slab, to the edge of the valley, where it funneled down River Road toward the strait. Franklin didn’t bother trying to spot the Taurus among the confusion. He just hoped it was still out there somewhere. A thin blue haze, redolent with the smell of barbecue and cedar, hung over the entire celebration. It was a feast for the eyes and an assault on the ears. And beneath the chainsaws, beneath the marching band, beneath the collective murmur of a thousand voices, Franklin could hear, just barely, the ominous hum of the turbines.

  Tillman’s face was a prairie of blankness. He was having doubts. Franklin could see them stirring beneath the smooth surface. He needed a push.

  “Snap out of it, Tillman. I smell ribs.”

  For the first time on their journey, Franklin took the lead as they wound down the final stretch of trail and eased into the eddying crowd near the back of the main stage. Timmon looked displaced, almost dazed, bumping his way through the crowd. He was still fighting it.

  “Ribs,” Franklin reminded him. “Think ribs.”

  Ribs indeed provided Timmon with a welcome focus. Graduall
y, he relinquished his opposition and eased himself into the flux, seeing the pageantry for what it was — freedom, of a sort. No sooner did he begin to smell the dizzying array of possibilities than he realized they were all right there for the taking. And remembering the thirty-six bucks in his pocket, with Franklin leading the way, Timmon felt strangely secure surrendering to the current.

  * * *

  HAD HILLARY NOTICED Franklin passing with his tattooed companion she might not have recognized him with four days’ growth of salt-and-pepper stubble. She might have taken both men for homeless, as indeed Beverly did, clutching her purse tighter at the hip as the two vagrants strode by with presumably all that they owned strapped to their backs and a dirty dog in tow.

  “Oh, Hill. Look at this one, this is cute,” her mother said, lifting a knit baby cap — an oversized rasta tam in Jamaican stripes. Beverly could feel the stand attendant staring at her tits, and she obligingly gave them a hoist.

  Hillary was holding a half-eaten corn dog, for which she’d lost her appetite. A little wave of nausea washed over her as the smell of salmon wafted past on a warm breeze.

  “Honey, are you okay?”

  “Can we sit somewhere, Mom? Maybe out of the crowd. I just wanna rest.”

  “Of course, sweetie.” Beverly replaced the tam and gave her tits a final hoist before taking Hillary by the elbow and easing them both into the stream of traffic.

  They rested on a wooden bench with their backs to the crowd. It was Hillary’s usual perch above the sluice gate. Behind them, the band was striking up some patriotic mainstay, which felt to Hillary like the end of something. Maybe Monday she’d get word on the trailer — at the very least a counteroffer. Maybe Genie wanted to go to the new Thai place tonight, although at the moment the very thought of food made her nauseous.

  A year from now her days would be filled with the soft warmth of footed fleece onesies and the lily fresh scent of baby’s breath. A year from now, though the dam would be incrementally smaller, Dam Days would go on; they’d just be celebrating something a little different. Hillary would be pushing a stroller through this same crowd, and the band would be playing some rousing anthem, and the chainsaws would be ringing, and the colors would be dizzying, and Hillary would see the world through her child’s eyes — see it all as though for the first time. Maybe by then, Genie would have the courage to walk beside her. Maybe then, they could reinvent themselves together. But even now, with the cool mist on her face, and the twin turbines — soon to be silenced forever — humming up through the earth, a calm vibrated softly in Hillary’s bones.