Surviving Bear Island (22 page)

I advanced on the fish, and sucked air as the creek filled my boots and tugged at my thighs. Raising the spear, I took aim and then thrust downward and forward, connecting on a large salmon just below the gills. I lifted the spear and discovered I had thrust the point through the gills and into the fish's mouth.

The fish flapped wildly. I swung the spear toward shore, the fish skimming across the water, and tossed it onto the forest floor. The fish was flopping and the spear was bouncing up and down. I climbed out of the creek, grabbed a rock and clubbed that fish until its eyes bulged. With my knife I slit the side of its mouth and popped the spear out. Then I checked the hook and re-entered the creek.

The rest of the school had scattered, but there were still a bunch of fish in the small pool. I pierced another fish in the white belly tissue, swung it up into the forest next to the first fish, then searched again.

The third fish I found behind me and dangerously close to leaving the pool as most of the other fish had already done. I drove the spear, catching the fish midway between head and tail, heaving it to shore all in one motion. In much the same way, I caught two more fish.

I sat and twisted my boots off, and poured the water out. Then took my heelless socks off, wrung them out and put them back on my red, aching feet, followed by my boots.

With icy hands, I gutted the fish, and ran a rope through their gills to carry them. Five fish, I was soaked. I shivered. Plus one at camp. I'd hoped for more. Could've used more. But six fish is better than none. I shivered again.

THE NEXT
day I made a drying rack, woven from thin, green alder branches. It was kind of bumpy, but I hoped it'd get the job done and keep me from having to always be looking for more alder.

I knew the Sentinels couldn't be far. My plan: dry some fish, then go.

I took six sticks, whittled the ends into points, and using a rock for a hammer, drove them into the ground in a circle around RF, so the rack could sit just above the coals without burning up.

I made a mess of filleting the first fish. I'd seen my dad fillet salmon, but he used a long knife with a thin blade, not a squat pocketknife.

And he worked at the kitchen counter or on a table outside, and wore these special gloves that helped him grip the fish. I was squatting over a pad of rounded rocks away from the fire, shivering in damp clothes and working barehanded.

Hunks of orange flesh clung to the backbone and ribs of that first salmon, but I boiled it all up with the head, which actually worked out pretty good because I wanted to save all the dried fish for my trip.

I cut the ragged fillets into thin strips and laid them on the rack, figuring the smaller the pieces the faster they'd dry.

I spread out the coals and put the rack on the stakes. But the heat from RF was inconsistent. Sometimes it flared up, charring the fish, making it crispy. I gnawed on the stubborn pieces stuck to the rack, not letting anything go to waste.

I just kept cutting and drying, cutting and drying, all day and all night. And I kept loading the bowl with fish bones and heads and bits of flesh. I'd
boil it up on LF, drink the broth, and pick the bones clean. Get more water from the creek and do it again.

“I'm sick of staring up at this rack,” RF said, popping in protest and sending a spray of ash onto the drying filets.

“Get this bowl off my coals before I melt it down,” LF said, hissing as water from the bowl ran down the sides and onto the coals.

“Just chill,” I said.

“Chill?” RF said.

“Dude,” said LF. “We're fires. We don't chill. You're the one that's gonna chill if you don't master that flint.”

I'd been working on the “flint problem” in my mind but hadn't tried any of my ideas yet because I'd been working on the fish.

The dried fish I stored in my dad's raincoat, which I kept inside my shelter surrounded and covered with boughs. And every time I put more fish in there I'd think of my dad, and puzzle over how that raincoat appeared so close to Fish Camp. And how the bottom third of it was shredded. Had a bear shredded it or had it been dragged over sharp rocks by the surf? Where had it washed up? And what were the chances that an animal would drag it into the forest and leave it so close to Fish Camp? It was more than a coincidence, I thought.

By morning I'd dried all the fish, so I stoked RF and LF, took the dried fish, and set off for the creek with my spear and knife. I hadn't slept, but didn't feel tired. I guess that nomad part of my brain clicked on and said: “Food! You better get it while you can!”

I stepped onto the beach grass and the frost crinkled under my boots. The wet cliffs, without the sun, were a drab gray.

I peered into the creek channel, searching for movement, for fish. Finding none, I headed upstream, hoping that some fish had returned to the pool under the waterfall.

Below the waterfall four fish rested in the middle of the pool, their snouts hooked, their fins ragged with spotty white skin.

The end of the run, I thought. And hopefully not the end of me.

Nature never loses.

Never.

It didn't matter who died and who survived, the dead were continuously recycled.

Those four fish were valuable to me. Alone, they could keep me going for a little while, but combined with what I already had, they might get me all the way to the Sentinels and then some.

I just had to catch them.

I killed three of the four fish, but got soaked to my waist. And the fourth fish stole my hook when the line broke and it somehow powered its way over the small waterfall. I tried to find it upstream, but stopped when the creek turned into a quarter-mile-long lake bordered by thick brush.

Back at my shelter, I built up RF and LF and stripped so I was naked from the waist down. My feet were hunks of frozen meat. I stood on a life vest between LF and RF. My toes, which had turned white, stung as they began to thaw; like a swarm of yellow jackets was attacking them.

I dried my socks and long johns and the insides of my boots as best I could. I pushed through the night drying fish, working on a song.

I live in the trees by this salmon stream.

In my house of sticks I dry fish and I dream.

In my dream I see my dad looking for me.

Searching, searching, searching, under every tree.

I hear his loud shout, and I answer back.

I scream, “Keep coming. You're on the right track.”

He's looking kind of skinny, but he's alive.

Now we'll go home, and together we'll thrive.

The predawn sky was turning a yellowish gray as I put the final batch of dried salmon into the raincoat. I kept RF and LF going. The heat made me drowsy, but kept me from freezing. I'd be able to sleep tonight, but right now I had work to do.

First, I checked out my stuff. I did that every couple of days. I knew what I had, but I wanted to see it, check for any damage. Plus, these things were my connection to the outside world. They reminded me that I was trying to get off this island, back to civilization. If I didn't get off the island I was toast.

I had one fishhook left. And four matches. A lighter, which I hoped would keep working. The flint pieces, at least I had those, but I had my doubts about starting a fire with them since all I'd gotten was smoke. But I had a little hope too. I mean, there was a time before dryer lint when people started fires.

The knives—they were still in good shape, but if I didn't find fish or some other animals they weren't of much use.

And two Meal Pack bars.

And my clothes. Rain pants torn in several places. My long underwear tops and bottoms had worn out some but didn't have any holes. My gloves appeared to be stable thanks to the strips of deerskin I'd used to repair them. My raincoat, wool cap and pile jacket were in decent condition. But my rubber boots were paper thin at the ankles, and my socks had no heels.

This late in the season with the clothes I had, I needed to keep moving to stay warm unless I was by a fire.

And just like Fish Camp, I didn't want to leave this place—Silver Camp. I just wanted someone to find me here. To come zipping into the cove with a boat and take me out of here. I didn't want to start walking again and have to spend the night shivering or fending off bears, or both. And I didn't want my feet to get all torn up again.

I looked around and took it all in. The back part of the shelter still had dry, small- dimension wood, good for rekindling fires. The bough nest had all that silver salmon, smoked and dried, packed in a raincoat. Behind and to my right, a small pile of bigger sticks lay ready for burning. Directly to my right was a pile of palm-sized throwing stones.

The fire rings. RF with the six stakes. The rack lay off to the side, just outside my shelter. And LF, who had a knee-high blaze radiating heat. Between them lay a pile of firewood covered in boughs.

If I did stay, I could live for maybe two weeks on the fish. Longer if I caught a few more or killed something else. And I could stay pretty dry and warm. But then, what if no one came? The sea otter pup flashed into my mind. If I'd taken it instead of giving it back to its mom, maybe I wouldn't even be here. Maybe that would've been enough meat to get me to the Sentinels. But I had done what I had done. And, I was here. And that mother otter had gotten her baby back.

I used the last of my fishing line to attach the last hook to my spear, and
checked the creek from the mouth to the waterfall twice. No sign of fish. I hauled some rocks from the creek and spelled ‘Sentinels' in front of my shelter. In the morning, I'd go.

End of the Island. The Sentinels. My only chance. And people might not even be there.

Just beyond the beds of glowing coals, something lurked. I could feel it.

I swung my left arm, grabbed a stick and fed it to the coals on RF. I did this several times, then scooted forward and blew. Small flames licked the kindling and reached upward. I waited for RF to grow, then sat up. My right hand rested on the pile of throwing stones, my fingers curling around one.

Then I heard it. A snuffing sound. I set down the stone and gripped my spear. Maybe it was another porcupine, another meat meal. With the other hand I fed RF small sticks to increase the light. And then piled a bunch of sticks on LF's coals.

I could hear it breathing, sniffing—probably looking for a meal.

Then I heard a slight scuffing, a scratching noise. All this along with my own heart pounding in my ears like it was trapped and wanted out.

I heard a short grunt. Then a snort. Then another grunt.

The sticks on LF caught, and threw light, and I saw it rubbing its snout on the rock pad where I'd cut up the fish.

But it wasn't a porcupine.

This bear looked thin and ragged compared to the others I'd encountered. Its fur hung off its body the way my clothes hung off mine.

I set down my spear and picked up a throwing stone.

The bear grunted again as it continued to root around, licking the salmon-flavored duff and the flat rocks where I'd cut up the fish. I was gonna yell, but the bear hadn't even paid attention to me. Maybe it would just leave.

I kept adding sticks to both RF and LF.

Minutes passed and it just licked and licked, like a little kid with an ice cream cone. I kept building both fires, the flames were waist high and growing. If I wasn't careful I'd catch the roof on fire.

The bear stopped licking, turned its head toward me, and emitted a long, low growl. I stood up in a half-squat, grabbed the bowl and banged on it with a stick.

“Get!”

The bear came forward and growled again. I pounded on the bowl and yelled. Again the bear pawed forward and growled another long, low growl. It definitely knew about me now. But it was acting strange. It wasn't running, but it wasn't attacking.

I had to let it know that this was my place so I rifled a throwing stone, but missed its head.

The bear grunted, then took another step toward me.