performance. Maybe that was a good thing. Maybe they would accept my presence now and consider me a danger only to myself. I ducked into the tent, dropped the salmon on the dirt floor and stripped out of my wet things. The day was still young, and I’d have fresh salmon for dinner. All things considered, my little test-run with the bears had been a success.
Chapter 8
Haywood came back in on the fourteenth day of July, Bastille Day for that insufferable French bastard, Gaspard. The bears were still having their way with the salmon, but they seemed to have spread out even more and most of them appeared to be moving downstream. I counted only five adults and two cubs when I took that morning’s survey. Haywood’s landing caused a bit of a stir in the bear community, but by the time we’d unloaded the plane and shifted the cargo back to camp, they had settled down and were, once again, intent upon their fishing.
It was wonderful to see Haywood again. I had, literally, jogged up to the landing strip to meet his plane. I had so much to tell him, I began talking his leg off before we’d even started unloading the cargo.
He laughed good-naturedly and held up his hands. “Whoa, Gus! The prop hasn’t even stopped spinning!”
I laughed too and gave him a bear hug. “You asshole. It’s good to see you.”
We took a break after carrying everything from the plane down to camp. Haywood had brought in several heavy items on this run: a collapsible camp bed, two roles of roofing felt, two rolls of tarpaper, roofing nails, five more gallons of gas for the chainsaw, a cooler full of beer and another, full of ham, bacon, eggs, butter and cheese. There was a twenty-pound sack of onions and another of potatoes and a third of carrots. As if this were not enough, he also presented me with four warm cases of beer, a case of wine and six bottles of Tullamore Dew. He even remembered the hooks and dubbing wax. You could count on Haywood to get it all right.
I opened the cooler and took out a couple bottles of the cold beer. It was a big cooler and he had two cases iced down in it. He’d surprised me with Heineken this time. I developed a taste for it while working in Europe. We toasted, and he sat on his favorite stump and I sat on the cooler.
“O.K.” he said, firing up one of his huge stogies. “Now, I’m ready. Tell me about your first stretch in solitary confinement. Looks like you must have been loafing – I don’t see much progress on the cabin.”
I pointed to the logs stacked below us on the bar and told him about the fifty I’d stockpiled up at the burn. He was impressed. Then I filled him in about getting the roof on the cache and fitting it out with a rope escape ladder. He puffed and nodded his approval. He asked if the bears had given me fishing rights, and I told him about yesterday’s debacle. He laughed until he choked, and held up a hand for me to stop until he could recover.
“So,” he gasped, “what you’re saying is you only caught one fish?” This killed him and he had a relapse of gagging and choking. Tears ran down his cheeks. I hadn’t thought it was that funny. I changed the subject.
“Wait till you hear this…” I paused for effect.
He took a deep, shuddering breath and dried his eyes with the back of a hand. When he was fully recovered, and I knew I had his attention, I told him about the spring.
“No shit!” He was as excited as I had been when I’d discovered it. He jumped to his feet.
“Show me!” He is, after all, from Missouri.
I led him up to the tree line and a few paces back into the trees. I had dug away all the loose sand and gravel from the bottom and sides of the spring, and lined the resulting catch basin with flat rocks. I’d left a little depression in the lip, so the water could run over and down the slope, into the swale. Haywood looked at it with undisguised enthusiasm.
Chapter 8
Haywood came back in on the fourteenth day of July, Bastille Day for that insufferable French bastard, Gaspard. The bears were still having their way with the salmon, but they seemed to have spread out even more and most of them appeared to be moving downstream. I counted only five adults and two cubs when I took that morning’s survey. Haywood’s landing caused a bit of a stir in the bear community, but by the time we’d unloaded the plane and shifted the cargo back to camp, they had settled down and were, once again, intent upon their fishing.
It was wonderful to see Haywood again. I had, literally, jogged up to the landing strip to meet his plane. I had so much to tell him, I began talking his leg off before we’d even started unloading the cargo.
He laughed good-naturedly and held up his hands. “Whoa, Gus! The prop hasn’t even stopped spinning!”
I laughed too and gave him a bear hug. “You asshole. It’s good to see you.”
We took a break after carrying everything from the plane down to camp. Haywood had brought in several heavy items on this run: a collapsible camp bed, two roles of roofing felt, two rolls of tarpaper, roofing nails, five more gallons of gas for the chainsaw, a cooler full of beer and another, full of ham, bacon, eggs, butter and cheese. There was a twenty-pound sack of onions and another of potatoes and a third of carrots. As if this were not enough, he also presented me with four warm cases of beer, a case of wine and six bottles of Tullamore Dew. He even remembered the hooks and dubbing wax. You could count on Haywood to get it all right.
I opened the cooler and took out a couple bottles of the cold beer. It was a big cooler and he had two cases iced down in it. He’d surprised me with Heineken this time. I developed a taste for it while working in Europe. We toasted, and he sat on his favorite stump and I sat on the cooler.
“O.K.” he said, firing up one of his huge stogies. “Now, I’m ready. Tell me about your first stretch in solitary confinement. Looks like you must have been loafing – I don’t see much progress on the cabin.”
I pointed to the logs stacked below us on the bar and told him about the fifty I’d stockpiled up at the burn. He was impressed. Then I filled him in about getting the roof on the cache and fitting it out with a rope escape ladder. He puffed and nodded his approval. He asked if the bears had given me fishing rights, and I told him about yesterday’s debacle. He laughed until he choked, and held up a hand for me to stop until he could recover.
“So,” he gasped, “what you’re saying is you only caught one fish?” This killed him and he had a relapse of gagging and choking. Tears ran down his cheeks. I hadn’t thought it was that funny. I changed the subject.
“Wait till you hear this…” I paused for effect.
He took a deep, shuddering breath and dried his eyes with the back of a hand. When he was fully recovered, and I knew I had his attention, I told him about the spring.
“No shit!” He was as excited as I had been when I’d discovered it. He jumped to his feet.
“Show me!” He is, after all, from Missouri.
I led him up to the tree line and a few paces back into the trees. I had dug away all the loose sand and gravel from the bottom and sides of the spring, and lined the resulting catch basin with flat rocks. I’d left a little depression in the lip, so the water could run over and down the slope, into the swale. Haywood looked at it with undisguised enthusiasm.
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