Season of Death Read online

  “We don’t live by subsistence anymore,” she reminded him. “We live off of two paychecks. Pretty nice ones too.”

  With even better potential, Ray thought.

  Six months earlier, Margaret had enrolled in an on-line law-school program offered by the University of Alaska, Fairbanks. Already a social worker, she hoped to use the law degree to defend the defenseless among the People.

  “And your point is …?”

  “Besides being barbaric, hunting is dangerous.”

  “I’ve hunted all my life: whale, caribou, bear, wolf …”

  “And the Bush … anything can happen out there.”

  “Grandfather took me into the Range for the first time when I was four. I’ve been back a hundred times. Nothing’s ever happened. Besides, Lewis is taking us.”

  “That’s what bothers me.” The smile was gone now, the snappy repartee fading with it. Frowning, she declared, “He’s not safe.”

  “Not safe? He just got his guide’s license.”

  “So? That doesn’t make him safe.”

  “Margaret …”

  “And there’s another reason I don’t want you to go.”

  “I thought this was settled.” Ray moaned, reaching for a shirt. “We talked it over. I asked you if you were okay with it.”

  Margaret embraced him gently, sighed, then buried her head in his chest. “I’ll miss you.”

  “I’ll miss you too.”

  “Yeah. I’ll just bet you will.”

  “It’s only three days. When I get back we can …” He lifted her chin with a finger and wiggled his eyebrows. “You know.’”

  After pecking his cheek, she started for the kitchen. “I may have a headache.”

  “I read that you know can work wonders for a headache,” Ray called after her. “It’s actually been documented … scientifically.”

  “Yeah … right,” she called back. “What do you want for breakfast?”

  “No time.” Ray began a rushed, final inspection of his gear, zipping each pocket of his pack open, rummaging through the contents, zipping it shut. He examined the segments of his fishing rod, glanced at the reel, made sure the box of flies and extra line were in their place. Sliding his rifle out of the top of the pack, he popped it open, stared into the empty chambers, popped it shut, took a census of his ammo. Stepping back, he ran down the mental checklist: extra clothing, spare boots, knife, waterproof matches, rain attire, dried food, mosquito repellent, sunscreen …

  Satisfied that he was ready, he lifted the pack. It was heavy, but Margaret was right. It was dangerous in the Bush, and you had to be prepared. The weather at this time of year could fluctuate wildly, shifting from freezing temperatures in the morning to drizzle at midday, followed by unbearable heat in late afternoon. When the floatplane dropped them off, they would be miles away from medical facilities, food, shelter—civilization in general. Small, seemingly insignificant events could become quite serious out there. Hence the overburdened pack.

  Ray found Margaret sipping coffee at the kitchen table, her face in a law book.

  Donning his jacket, Ray stood, waiting for his wife to notice him. “I’m leaving now.”

  “Have a nice trip.” No kiss, no smile, not even a parting glance.

  “Honey …”

  A slight smile curling her lips, she stood and hugged him. “I hope you have a great trip,” she said.

  “I think we will.”

  She walked him to the door and watched as he loaded his pack into the Blazer. When he returned, she took his hand, kissed it, and looked him in the eye. “Three things,” she said in a somber tone.

  “What …?” he groaned, his face falling.

  “First, be careful.”

  “Margaret, I …”

  She pressed a finger to his lips. “Lewis is insane and doesn’t have the brains God gave a walrus. If he tries to get you to do something crazy, tell him to forget it, okay?”

  Ray hung his head. “Okay.”

  “Second …” She pulled something out of the pocket of her robe—a tiny book. Holding it out to him, she said, “I want you to read it.”

  He accepted it, looked at the cover, groaned: Holy Bible. “I won’t have time.”

  Fishing through the pockets of his parka, she withdrew a paperback. “Ah-ha! Just as I suspected. Tony Hillerman. No time to read, huh?”

  “That was just in case,” he explained with a lopsided grin.

  “Lend Tony to one of the other guys and open this up.” She tapped the Bible with a fingernail.

  Ray was suddenly anxious to leave. He would miss Margaret sorely, but this religious kick she was on …“What’s the third thing?”

  “A surprise.”

  “What sort of surprise?” he wanted to know.

  “A good one … maybe.”

  “Maybe …? What is it?”

  She kissed him and retreated to the entry way. “See you Sunday night.”

  “You’re not going to tell me what it is?”

  “Have you got your phone?”

  He patted the pocket of his parka. “Yep.”

  “Charged up?”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  “I love you, Raymond Attla.”

  “I love you too.” Climbing into the Blazer, he waited for the front door to close, then sat there in the dark, wondering about Margaret’s surprise. What could it be? A raise at work? A new pair of shoes? A home-improvement idea that she expected him to work on? Perhaps she had agreed to host another church group and wanted Ray’s approval. There was always the off chance that she was planning a welcome home dinner: candlelight, wine, fruit, a sinfully scant nightie from Victoria’s Secret …

  Starting the truck, he shifted into reverse and pulled out of the driveway. No. It was probably not the latter. Still, if he was going to comply with her directive and acknowledge the God of the whites, why not start by praying for something worthwhile: a romantic dinner. Couldn’t hurt. Might even help.

  THREE

  THE DIGITAL CLOCK on the dash of the Blazer read 5:13 A.M. And it looked it. The midnight sun of summer had departed, replaced by the thick black shroud of fall, a cloak that would only deepen and stretch over the course of the next three months as they entered the season of darkness.

  Speeding up the gravel road, Ray passed through the chain-link gate of the airport and found a half dozen vehicles parked at the terminal. He pulled up next to Lewis’s dented, rusting Ford pickup, killed the engine, and got out. The sky was alive with stars to the west, the first hint of dawn playing at the eastern horizon. There was no moon. It had gone down hours earlier and apparently taken the wind with it. Normally, the breeze was a given, as dependable as the trades along the equator. Yet, this morning, the air was remarkably still.

  As he unloaded his pack and locked the Blazer, Ray wondered if the almost unnatural calm might be a good omen. Grandfather would say so. The old man analyzed the environment with a critical eye, noting sudden breaths of wind, clouds boiling up on the horizon, the appearance of owls and crows, assigning spiritual significance to common events. Grandfather, like all traditional Inupiat, was animistic, holding that tuungak—spirits—resided in all things. The tuungak had to be properly acknowledged, respected, and honored in order for the People to survive.The Land was sacred, its bounty—caribou, bear, whale, walrus, fish—a precious, undeserved gift.

  Though he valued his unique ancestry, Ray believed the Inupiat of the twenty-first century, if they hoped to avoid extinction, would have to embrace and accommodate to white culture or cease to exist.

  Still, putting his modern outlook aside, this morning seemed to hold out hope: the promise of a good hunt. If Grandfather had been present, he would have lifted up a song, petitioning the tuungak for a good harvest of animals.

  Instead of breaking into chant, Ray slipped the pack over a shoulder and trotted up the steps, into the terminal.

  “‘Bout time!” Lewis blurted when he saw him. He sprang from his seat and dar
ted to Ray’s side.

  Lewis took hold of Ray’s wrist and examined it closely.

  “What?” Ray wondered. “What are you doing?”

  “I look for da scars … From where da ball and chain was hooked.”

  “Stuff it, Lewis.”

  “Wall thar he is,” a Southern voice drawled. The speaker was a slight, baby-faced young man with a pronounced set of buck teeth: Officer Billy Bob Cleaver.

  Rising from a folding chair, the cowboy pushed his oversize, felt Stetson back on his head and patted Ray on the shoulder. “Ever-thang go all right with yer sweetie?”

  “Yeah … fine.”

  “She ain’t mad atcha, is she?”

  “No. Everything’s fine.” Ray grimaced at the flashy Western shirt, crisp jeans, the enormous silver belt buckle, pointy, lizard boots.

  “What?” Billy Bob wondered stupidly.

  “You really gonna wear that outfit?” Ray asked.

  “Shorely. What’s wrong with it?”

  “I tried tell him,” Lewis said, sidling up to Ray. He shook his head at Billy Bob. “Da Bush eat him alive. Chew up. Spit out.”

  “Tell me you packed other boots,” Ray insisted.

  “A-course.” The cowboy chuckled. “Hikin’ boots. Nikes. They’re brand spankin’ new. Aside from tryin’’em on, they ain’t never even been worn.”

  Ray and Lewis rolled their eyes at each other.

  “What? Ezkeemos don’t wear hikin’ boots?”

  “Does he have a pack?” Ray asked, addressing the question to Lewis.

  “I loan him one.”

  “Sleeping bag? What about a parka?”

  “I set up,” Lewis assured him. “I da guide. Expert license guide.” He retrieved his pack from beneath a folding chair and began rifling through the pockets. A few seconds later he produced a card and offered it to Ray.

  “‘Lewis Fletcher’s Authentic Native Alaska Bush Adventure and Hunting Service,’” Ray read. “Quite a mouthful.”

  “Don’t like?”

  “No … it’s … it’s fine.” Beneath the long company name was a logo incorporating what appeared to be the face of a skunk … or a weasel. “What’s this?”

  Lewis smiled, revealing a mouthful of crooked, yellow teeth. “Bear. Draw myself.”

  “Oh …” Under the bear, the card promised that Lewis Fletcher was “the best, most experienced, expert licensed guide around.”

  “Gonna advertise in da Fairbanks and Anch-rage phone book,” Lewis told him. “And da Milepost. Next season,” he boasted, “I hang up da badge. Be guide, all-time.”

  Ray nodded at this, fully convinced that it would never happen. Lewis was a good hunter, an accomplished outdoorsman … but a guide? It was difficult to picture him taking planeloads of naluaqmiut from Texas and Oklahoma big-game hunting in the Bush. Even if he did manage to drum up business, the guy wasn’t responsible enough to keep books and ensure that the venture was a financial success.

  “Dis trip be like real thing, okay?” He paused, waiting for Ray to respond.

  “Okay.”

  “I be da guide, you be da clients. We act like real thing, okay?” This time he looked to both Ray and Billy Bob expectantly.

  “Okay,” they chimed, neither with much enthusiasm.Ray was beginning to have second thoughts. Maybe Margaret was right. Instead of traipsing into the Bush with Lewis, he could be home with her now, in bed, practicing up on their … you know.

  “Just like dry rehearsal.”

  “Dress rehearsal,” Ray corrected.

  Lewis ignored this. “It be great,” he promised, tongue darting in and out through the gap between his two front teeth. “Real great.”

  “You fellas ready?” The question came from an overweight, middle-aged man with sad, hound-dog eyes and the stub of an unlit cigar jutting from his mouth. Short silver hair stuck out at odd angles from beneath a dingy yellow Alaska Pipeline baseball cap.

  “Dis da pilot, Jack,” Lewis announced.

  Ray nodded.

  Jack nodded back, not terribly interested. “You fellas ready?”

  “Finally! Now dat Ray get loose from ball and chain,” Lewis jabbered, “we ready.”

  Donning their packs, they followed Jack out the door and across the tarmac to a Beaver that matched Jack’s cap: thirty feet of winged cheddar on floats. Three kayaks were already strapped to the pontoons: a polished black fiberglass model and two decrepit wooden relics.

  “What’re those?” Ray asked, sneering at the wooden boats.

  “Tra-dee-tion-al,” Lewis responded, taking pains to pronounce the word correctly. “Dis be real Eskimo ex-per-ee-ence.”

  “Do they float?”

  “Dey tra-dee-tion-al,” Lewis answered, as if being museum pieces made them riverworthy.

  At Jack’s instruction they loaded the packs into the rear of the plane and climbed aboard. Lewis sat up front, next to the pilot, a silly grin on his face, as if he had never ridden in an airplane before. Ray and Billy Bob fell into the remaining seats.

  “Dis be great!” Lewis bubbled. “Real great!”

  “Uh-huh,” Ray agreed, thinking that it might be. Then again, it might not. Lewis’s brainstorm was to fly into the Brooks Range and kayak to meet the caribou as they migrated south. The idea was to take paying clients deep into the Range, affording them the opportunity to experience the Bush close up. Kayaking the river added an element of danger. Doing it in tra-dee-tion-al boats, the kind used by their forefathers, was apparently intended to enhance the authenticity of the ex-per-ee-ence. When the caribou were located, the hunt would begin in earnest. Sportsmen would find themselves within rock-throwing distance of hundreds, perhaps thousands of animals as they meandered and grazed their way toward Anaktuvuk Pass and the wintering grounds beyond.

  It was an interesting plan and, after studying it on the map in the weeks preceding the trip, Ray had decided that it made sense. It was not, however, without its problems. First, the herds were unpredictable. Their migration paths, the timing of their movements, the speed at which they ambled down from the North Slope… It all varied from year to year. Waiting for them at a set point was one thing. Ray and Grandfather had done that semiannually, but flying in, getting dropped far upstream, and floating aimlessly toward the Beaufort Sea with no sure chance of even meeting so much as a stray band along the way … It was fine for three buddies with nothing better to do. If the hunt was a bust, no big deal. Paying clients, however, might be a tad more demanding.

  Ray also wondered about the mix. Did hunters want to kayak? Conversely, did kayakers want to hunt? Did either of them want to float north in relics that had once been used by the aboriginal Inupiat? Ray tried to envision a redneck corporate executive from Dallas stuffing his wide girth into a tipsy boat and steering it downriver with a double-ended paddle, his main concern being that he might dump his new 243 rifle into the drink and never see it again. Correspondingly, kayakers were thrill seekers who wanted to spend their time in Alaska dodging boulders in white water aboard sleek, highly maneuverable crafts, not stalking barrel-chested reindeer and killing them with lead pellets.

  At some point, Ray would share these insights with Lewis. Maybe. But this wasn’t the time. At the moment, Mr. Expert Guide was riding high, insanely happy to be leading his first licensed expedition into the Bush, even if his “group” was comprised of a pair of coworkers who also happened to be friends. Why not let him have his fun?

  Ray watched as Jack slipped on a headset and began flipping switches. Lights blinked on. He twisted his head to bellow, “Seat belts!”

  The three passengers complied, reaching for the straps. Ray was still working to untangle his harness when air erupted from tiny vents in the roof. There was another whoosh, a rumble, and an instant later, the plane lurched. Beyond the front windshield, the prop began to twirl in slow motion. Sluggishly, it began to gain momentum, the engine revving to keep up. The resulting roar rattled the entire fuselage.

  A moment later, they
were rolling forward, bounding toward the runway.

  Billy Bob unhooked his belt and reached for his pack, his face even more pale than usual, beads of perspiration dotting his brow.

  “You okay?”

  The cowboy shook his head. He was panting now, hands trembling. “Forgot my airsickness pills. I lose ma lunch ever-time I fly. Sometimes ba-fore we even take off.”

  Jack gunned the throttle. The engine screamed in response, and the Beaver jerked forward, starting its mad race to break the pull of gravity.

  Before the wheels left the earth, Billy Bob bent forward, covering his mouth with a hand. Ray averted his gaze, silently vowing to ride shotgun on the return trip.

  FOUR

  FROM THE AIR, the North Slope appeared flat, dead, featureless, a worn, auburn quilt stretching unopposed from the Arctic Ocean, south to the rising foothills of the Brooks Range. The image was deceiving. Though relatively flat, it was neither dead nor featureless. Approximately a hundred miles wide, the unique strip of land was peppered with pingos, conical hills rising two to three hundred feet from the plain, and riddled with meandering streams, wide alluvial deltas, and thready brooks that fingered their way toward and out of countless shallow ponds and lakes.

  In summer, the Slope was home to a wide variety of waterfowl, including geese, brant, and loon. It was frequented by arctic fox, moose, wolves, lemming, and grizzlies. It also served as the calving grounds for the Arctic herd: approximately half a million barren-ground caribou. While most of these animals left the Slope in winter, it was never truly lifeless, never as desolate as it appeared.

  By now the migration would be well under way, Ray decided as he gazed out the window. Fourteen thousand feet below the Beaver, burnt orange tundra gave way to an expanse of dark, ice-wedge polygons. The uneven waffle pattern reminded Ray of the scales on the back of an enormous crocodile. Ahead, through the windshield of the plane, the Endicott Mountains loomed on the horizon,sharp gray peaks veined with the waning vestiges of last winter’s snowfall.

  “Shore don’t see no car-ee-boo,” Billy Bob observed. He was feeling better now, cheeks flesh tone again. “You see any of ‘em, Ray?”