LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

the underbrush, patiently waiting for me each time I got tangled in the bracken.

      Eventually the undergrowth thinned and we broke out of the bush into a glade, a legacy of the sudden violent death of a pine whose great gnarled and naked roots stood upended in a mocking reversal of life. After being torn from the earth, the great tree had toppled and taken out a handful of other younger trees. Directly in front of the downed tree and dangling from a rope thrown high over the limb of another tree was a medium-sized olive green canvas pack.

      The glint I had seen from afar came from the sharpened edge of the blade of a bush axe. As I approached the pack I could see that it was held in place by the other end of the rope tied around the girth of the same tree. The result was that the pack swung below the limb by about five feet and above the ground by about fifteen feet. It was a professional job: whoever had hauled the food pack off the ground to keep the bears and other wildlife at bay was no newcomer to the bush. I suddenly felt like an intruder and did not particularly want to be caught drooling over someone else’s food, but then again curiosity is sometimes a strong incentive to ignore common sense. I looked around. There had to be a campsite nearby.

      I picked my way over to the tree. I could see that the rope had been wound around the trunk several times and then knotted, but the knot had been gnawed through by animals and the rope had broken, slithering around the trunk as the pack slipped until the rope had caught and wedged itself in a crotch of the tree. Not far enough for the animal, whatever it was, to get at the pack. There was a scrunched-up ball of blue paper litter caught in the rope. I pocketed it with the rest of the litter I’d picked up that day, which I’d burn on the fire that night, a reflex habit I’d gotten into years before. I couldn’t resist pulling on the rope to feel the weight of the pack. I watched as it jerked at the end of the line, the axe head glinting in the sun. The movement disturbed a cloud of flies that swarmed off the pack and circled it. I watched, puzzled, as they regained their quarry. I grabbed the taut line and shook it once more and watched the flies in growing alarm.

      I struggled to free the rope from where it was wedged and then carefully paid out the rope and watched as the pack slowly descended to the ground. Even at a distance of a few feet the stench of rotten potatoes was overpowering. Who in their right mind would haul up a food pack and then let the perishables rot? It didn’t make any sense, unless the owner was hurt, a decidedly unwelcome thought. I backed away and looked around in alarm, but no one came limping out of the woods or screamed at me to get away. Quickly I hauled the pack back up out of reach and secured the rope to the tree. How long did it take for potatoes to rot in the summer sun? I looked around for another way out of the glade and saw a trail leading back toward the portage trail from the direction in which I’d come. Too bad I hadn’t seen it from the other end. I could have saved myself a slew of cuts and scratches. I’d go back that way. I scanned the grove looking for another route, the route taken by whoever owned this pack, and saw the cat sitting at the entrance to a trail, mutely watching me.

      The narrow path wound through the jack pines and rock boulders and made its way toward the water. The cat darted off ahead of me and disappeared.

      After a hundred yards or so the earthen path led me out into a well-used clearing with flat spaces for five or six tents. Beyond it I could see the blue waters of a small bay in the lake we had just paddled across.

      Immediately in front of me I could see the backside of a big white canvas tent, and as I approached it a red squirrel chattered noisily and scooted away to the safety of a tree where it continued its shrill rant. A clothesline had been hung between two trees to one side of the tent and there were some socks and a large pale blue flannel bush shirt and some running shoes, with most of the toes missing, hanging from it. Next to the clothesline there was a large ten-gallon tank, and as I shoved it with my toe there was a slosh of water. Whoever had set up camp here had spent many weeks in comparative luxury.

      “Anybody here? Hello?”

      The words reverberated through the woods like a physical assault and made the following silence seem unreal, as the flies buzzed and a woodpecker pecked and the breeze shook the leaves in the trees overhead. But no answer.

      I turned back to the tent. The front was open to the elements, the bug netting and door tied back to the tent proper. It was big enough for a man to stand erect in. Cautiously I peered inside. There was an old makeshift wooden table, the kind found in thousands of fishing camps all over the country, and a couple of logs as chairs. Tin cans of food were stacked on shelves made from rocks and old, swollen plywood. Dirty plates and cutlery were laid out on the table as if someone had been interrupted in the middle of a meal, and a bottle of iodine tablets had rolled under the table. Opened tins of sardines lay scattered about the needle-carpeted floor of the tent, all now licked clean by chipmunks or coons.

      I came out of the tent and cupped my hands around my mouth and yelled again, but there was no answer, just the red squirrel chittering away like a dentist’s drill.

      It was then that I noticed the second tent. It was the colour of the clump of jack pines that surrounded it on three sides. It stood on a small rock outcrop twenty yards from the mess tent and close to the water. It was a faded old green canvas tent with an awning over the front door, which was tightly zipped shut. One of the poles that held the awning up had fallen over, and the wing was flapping in the breeze. I noticed then that the cat had taken up a position in front of the tent, as if guarding it.

      I turned away from the cat and the tent, firmly convincing myself that I didn’t need to look inside it. Instead I walked through the camp, calling out as I went, more to reassure myself of some semblance of normalcy than expecting an answer. At one point I thought I heard an animal creeping through the forest, but when I stopped and listened there was nothing and when I glanced back at the cat it seemed unperturbed. Probably just a coon. Lots of coon sign about.

      I called out again and walked down to the shore, the cat silently watching me from its position near the tent. The land jutted out into a peninsula forming one end of the bay, and although I couldn’t see our canoe I knew it was there, just around the corner. I turned back then and looked along the shore and almost missed it, so well did it blend in with the driftwood on the beach. The warm wooden sides of a cedar strip canoe lay hidden among some bushes as if it had been thrown there, its stern line still dragging in the water, the bowline pulled taut from the base of the tree where it was tied, as if it had been yanked or blown by the wind. On the bow there was a white silhouette of a really badly drawn eagle in full flight looking as though it were trying to flee the confines of the canoe.

      Where was the guy? If his canoe was still here but the food in his pack had gone rotten and the awning of his tent was flapping enough to drive someone nuts, where was the person who owned all this? As long as there had been no canoe I had almost managed to convince myself that whoever had been here had left in a big hurry in their canoe. In which case it hadn’t been my concern. No more.

      The forlorn feel of the place, the juxtaposition of the obvious care and pride put into the site with the equally obvious neglect, was disquieting. I glanced uneasily at the cat and the green tent, its tarp still flapping ominously in the gentle breeze, and I knew I had no choice. I approached the tent the way I used to approach my dentist’s office: with great reluctance.

      The cat rubbed against my leg as I squatted in front of the tent looking for the zipper to unzip the door. Maybe the guy was a heavy sleeper and had just not heard me yelling out. A really heavy sleeper.

      “Hello?”

      My voice sounded tiny, hesitant, and almost made me jump as it garrotted the silence. But there was no response. I fumbled with the zipper on the tent door, and when I got it opened halfway the cat pushed its head in ahead of me and went inside. I carefully pulled the tent flap back, peered inside, and then reeled back in sudden panic as something moved on the far side of the dimly lit tent. I backed away, my eyes glued to the door. There was a squeal and a nasty wet gurgle and the cat suddenly slipped out, a dying chipmunk in its jaws, and disappeared around the side of the tent. My heart slowed to a sprint and I approached the tent again, angry at myself for being frightened by a chipmunk.

      The inside of the tent was musty and damp with the stale air of disuse. As my eyes adjusted to the light

Скачать книгу