Scenes From a Trailcam

Bobby Gass 2,900 words

921 S. 103rd St

West Allis WI 53214 USA

bobg03504@gmail.com

Scenes from a Trail Cam

There wasn’t much between the young couple and spongy muskeg of Ninavut a hundred miles north except spruce forests, moose, bears, isolated villages of Thule Indians.

Denny was an experienced pilot, he said, promised Erica a thrilling time at his late grandpa’s remote cabin fifty miles north of Churchill. He hadn’t been there since childhood, had been trying to persuade someone to join him for quite a while. It would be a week of fishing, hiking, exploring, lovemaking beside a roaring fire in the rustic cabin. Sounded lovely. Though she’d only met Denny a month earlier at her brother’s party on Chicago’s north side, their lovemaking had been wonderful, and he’d seemed a compassionate sort.

The adventure became a nightmare. Denny’s rented Cessna 182 hit hidden clefts on the grassy landing-strip, bent landing gear, sent the nose into the ground, the propellor twisted into tinsel. The plane’s radio produced static. Emerging a little bruised from the restraints, they trudged toward the burned cabin beside the blue sea, Erica feeling she may have made a mistake. They’d seen the devastation from the air on a pass-over, but up close, the cabin, burned to cinders, beside a few dozen acres of blackened pines along the rocky shore, subdued them.

Denny seemed speechless. Erica said, “What in the world have you gotten me into, Dennis?” She knew it wasn’t the finest thing to say, just tumbled out, seemed the start of a fracture between them.

He stayed silent. Walked away and started picking through the charred remains of the cabin. Erica watched him. A tall handsome guy, dark whiskers, hair down round his shoulders, but he seemed lost.

“What are we gonna do?” Erica said as calmly as she could.

He walked toward her, leaving black footprints, his eyes troubled. “All you ever seem to think about is yourself. I’m sick of it.”

“What? I said we. What are we gonna do?”

He headed toward the sliver of unburned woods separating them from the landing strip, stopped and turned. “We’re fine. Got a couple weeks’ provisions. I’ll fish. So don’t get all girlie hysterical. They know where we are. When we don’t return to Thunder Bay, they’ll look for us. Jeez.”

“Girlie hysterical? Where we gonna sleep? In the plane?”

“You can stay in the plane,” Denny said. “I’m gonna build a shelter, a warm fire. I’ve watched every season of Alone on History. I’ll survive.”

Erica couldn’t help laughing, didn’t know if he was joking, didn’t seem like it. “Great. If you build a shelter like you land a plane we’ll be in big trouble.” Wished right away she hadn’t said that.

“Fuck you, Erica.” He walked through a skirt of unburned spruce to the rocky shore of the huge lake, squatted there on his heels. It had been a relatively small wildfire, perhaps lightning strike, that had consumed the cabin and then burned itself out on the shore.

Erica followed, pulled her nylon jacket tightly round her slim body. A cold wind blew off the lake, chilling her, but it was beautiful. Crystal blue sky, sunlight glinting off whitecaps. Rocky islands, and no trees northward, just tundra. She tried her cell phone again, no signal.

She said, “I’m sorry, Denny. I’m just upset. We’ll build a shelter together. I’m sure we’ll be all right. What about the radio?”

He looked up at her. “What about it? It ain’t working. But I’ll see. Maybe something came loose when we landed.”

“When we crashed.”

He rose and walked away, flipped her a backward finger. They’d become antagonists. Her fault? Didn’t know, knew only she wanted to be home, wanted nothing more to do with Denny, cursed herself for getting into this predicament. Even if they hadn’t crashed and the cabin was still standing, spending a week alone with him now seemed abhorrent.

She walked back along a sandy path, through to the clearing where the tail of the small airplane stood in the air. Denny was unloading gear, and grabbing a coil of rope threw an end over the tail onto the ground, made a loop and tried pulling the fin down to level the Cessna.

While Erica stood watching she slapped her arm, wiped at her face, became aware of a new problem. Mosquitoes. Swarms. “Oh Lord.”

From mosquito-panic, and a desire to help Denny, she ran toward the plane. Stopped along the way, grabbed hold of a fallen spruce limb, dragged it to the plane. She shoved one end beneath the cowling, between twisted propellors to pry up the nose.

“Atta girl, Erica!” Denny hollered.

The branch crumbled in her hands, but the Cessna dropped back to rest on its three wheels. They opened storage, unloaded gear. Until Denny said, “Now isn’t this better, baby, working with me, helping?”

“Did you just call me ‘baby?’ Please don’t call me that. We gotta work together till we get the hell out of here. Then…God, these mosquitoes!”

Denny looked at her as though he might cry, his handsome face childlike. “Sorry. I’ll never call you baby again. Nor any term of affection. You fixed that. I’m gonna get firewood.” Turned and headed for the westerly unburned forest fifty yards off.

She felt bad, tried to analyze her rancor. Well, he crashed the plane, swarming mosquitoes, no cabin, lost in the wilderness, wild animals. It wasn’t really his fault, though. Yes, it was. He enticed me, his lovely apartment near Wrigley Field, his lovemaking the few times we teamed-up, his homemade pizza. While listening to his descriptions of upper Canada, the 22-year-old woman had grown keen for the adventure.

Chuckling without humor, she grabbed the box of saltines and climbed into the cockpit, shut the door. Ate crackers, swatted mosquitoes that had snuck inside, and watched where Denny had merged into the dark woods. She knew she ought to set up some sort of camp. She’d watched Alone once.

Ten minutes later Denny ran from the woods, his arms full of sticks, dropping some as he ran. He looked panicked, comical, Erica thought, running almost effeminately. He dumped the sticks beside the plane, hastily unzipped a pack and withdrew a spray can. He glanced at her sitting cozy in the cockpit, and hollered, “Bear!”

She looked toward the tree line. Nothing.

“I got bear spray!” he screamed.

Later, calmly, they made a fire beside the plane. Erica slathered herself in DEET, and marched into the woods herself to collect wood, bear spray in the purse slung over her shoulder. Downed windblown wood was abundant. She’d never seen a wild bear, curiosity clouding her judgement. Eerie in the forest, warm, shadowy, still. Denny joined her, showed her another anti-bear device, a bear-banger, explaining it was a small flare that fired a blank shotgun shell. He hadn’t used the mosquito repellant, warned her against using too much. His face was getting red and puffy.

The sun lowered into the northwestern sky above the forest, their meadow peaceful; it had actually been a beautiful summer day. Everywhere Erica looked seemed pretty as a painting. They heated a can of Hormel chili, took their bowls of steaming chili through the glade to the rocky shore, sat on rocks and ate, admiring the churning waves.

“So, this is Hudson’s Bay?” Erica asked.

“Yep. We’re in an inlet along the west coast. Maybe 60 degrees latitude.”

“It’s beautiful.” Though tension remained, Erica wanted to talk, a little. “The wind off the water keeps the bugs away mostly. Weren’t mosquitoes driving you crazy?”

“Oh, not too bad,” he lied.

Northwest of them the blackened acres, black timbers of the erstwhile cabin, charred stone fireplace, were stark reminders that they had no proper shelter, that they were stranded here with a broken airplane.

“Maybe some fishermen will happen along.” Erica said.

Denny chuckled. “Maybe.”

The air grew cold about eleven at night, but it was still light, sun barely below the horizon. Erica donned her winter coat upon return to camp. Denny built a bonfire. He produced a premixed bottle of gin and tonic from the still icy cooler, and they sat in camp chairs close to the fire.

“Sorry I got you into this, Erica,” Denny said after a sip. “But we’ll be fine. Look back on this one day as a great adventure.”

“Maybe. Finally getting dark. I’m tired.”

He reached over, touched her hand affectionately, but she pulled away. She rose from her chair. “Well, it’s been interesting. I’m turning in. You gonna sleep out here?”

“Yeah. See?” Pointed to the bed of spruce boughs with canvas sheet and sleeping bag over them. “Unless you want me to sleep in the plane, with you.”

“No. You’re fine here.” She admitted that the bed actually looked comfy. “Watch out for bears, though. Good night.”

As she stepped onto a wheel strut and opened the door, he said, “Gonna keep the fire going. Good night.”

She got cozy in her sleeping bag on the cramped floor. In her clothes. Lay awake analyzing her hardened demeanor. Felt a little sorry for Denny. But she thought of the time, three years earlier, a handsome dude at Wisconsin’s Peninsula State Park, beautiful summer evening, on a blue blanket. They’d been drinking, a lot, kissing passionately, his hand under her blouse, when suddenly he’d turned away from her onto his other side and vomited. Everything had stopped, no words. Disgust. Rejoined her girlfriends at the campsite, without him.

This felt a little like that to Erica.

Over the next few days they collected heaps of firewood. Denny planned to fix the propellor. He disengaged the big pointed nose and mangled propeller from the engine, carefully disconnected wires, let it drop to the grass. Waited for the massive campfire to die down to thick beds of lively embers, and lay one of the two twisted blades in the heat. In the interval he patched furrows on the landing strip with sand and moss.

They didn’t talk much. Erica took her camera and explored, took a lot of pictures. She saw a bear and two cubs a good distance off, great pics. A moose cow and calf browsed along the forest edge a couple hundred yards away. Denny and Erica stood and watched a bull moose with massive antlers walk by barely fifteen yards away, the bull glancing at them and snorting with apparent contempt.

Erica followed an inland stream to a willowy pond where beaver had built lodges and dams. The pointy gnawed stumps of dozens of trees attested to their industry. She sat and watched two beavers swim about. Returned with an armload of firewood.

Denny, gently tapping a heated propeller blade on a flat stone, angrily said, “Where the hell were you? Christ, I pictured you laying somewhere eaten by bears. You were gone two hours!”

“Sorry. I would have called, but...”

He rolled his eyes, shook his head, but said, “At least you brought more wood. Thanks.”

It went like that. Eventually the propellor began looking like a proper propellor again. Denny tried fishing, without success, casting off a rocky escarpment north of the burn.

Erica, on their third night, was frightened awake by Denny yelling and pounding on the Cessna fuselage for her to get up. She ignored him, but he persisted. Three in the morning! Sitting up she peeped out the window, saw immediately why he’d awakened her. The sky was alive with wavering green and pink and blue lines, shimmering across the dark universe.

She bundled up, and they jogged to the shoreline for a full view of the aurora borealis. Stunning, haunting. Erica erected her tripod, shot video. As though to accompany the lofty dancing lights wolves began howling, the soundtrack, seemingly in the nearest fringe of spruce. Frighteningly beautiful.

Cold rain the next day, diminishing the insect annoyance. A huge brownish-red bear appeared at the fringe of forest fifty yards away. Erica, in orange rain poncho, took pictures until the bear approached. Denny fired one of the bear-bangers, a bang so loud Erica flinched, as did the bear. It stared for a puzzled moment before rumbling off into the woods.

Cooking and eating at the same place they slept was amateurish, Denny knew, guaranteed to attract wild beasts. A wolfpack seemed to be growing bold. He maintained a big fire through the brief nights. Jumped and yelled, fired bear-bangers to frighten the wolves lurking just beyond the scope of firelight. Erica didn’t explore anymore, set up a motion-sensor trail-cam between camp and spruce-line.

“I’m not worried, though,” Denny told Erica, unconvincingly. “Wolves never attack humans. They’re after our food, not us.”

He stood on a log working on engine wiring, while the second propellor blade reddened in the glowing embers. Pounded and shaped the blade till satisfied. His and Erica’s relationship had become that of two buddies on a camping trip, not talking much, working together, sharing wood-gathering, cooking, cleaning. Subdued tension remained.

With Erica’s help, on the sixth day, they reattached the heavy prop to the cowling, backbreaking work. The day was hot, mosquitoes murderous. Erica hastened into the cockpit once she wasn’t needed, watched Denny connect wires and rotors or whatever, while a cloud of mosquitoes engulfed his head. She felt sorry for him, found herself admiring his know-how and fortitude, and again felt kind of bad for sometimes being so unpleasant.

About nine that night, the blue sky streaked with lavender, he joined her inside, started ignition. A puff of black smoke, a bang, and the propellor hesitantly turned. Increasing RPMs, the poor old Cessna shook and vibrated, but ran. They shared a can of peaches inside. He jockeyed the plane gently round the clearing. It rocked on a bent wheel, but Denny believed he could get airborne.

That night they sat round a big fire, ate three freeze-dried rice and chicken dinners, finished the bottle of gin and tonic, talked a little. Kept adding wood to the fire. It grew chilly but mosquitoes remained bad. Denny had constructed a frame of mosquito netting over his bed, said it saved him. Admitted he hadn’t slept hardly at all the first two nights. A friendly evening between two estranged campers.

Seven the following morning the engine again rumbled to life. Denny let it warm up a half hour, irritably informing Erica they had plenty of fuel when she worried. He couldn’t do much with the bent wheel, didn’t want to damage it further. He’d noticed a crack in a strut, but didn’t tell Erica. They loaded their gear and trash.

Rattling, shaking, gaining speed, the plane bounced across the meadow toward the wood line, engine screaming. Erica couldn’t breathe, thought they might die, when the Cessna rose into the air, skimmed over the pointed tips of evergreens. Flew over the endless forest, a thousand feet high, south by southeast.

Over the whining, rattling vibrations, Denny shouted, “I’m sorry, Erica, about all this. You weren’t ready. We didn’t know each other well enough. Hell, I wasn’t ready. But we’re alright. Learned a lesson, I guess.”

Erica was touched. “Agreed,” she hollered. “Honestly, though, you did good. You fixed the goddam airplane! Got us off the ground. And I’m still amazed that you actually found the landing strip in the first place.”

She slapped at a stowaway mosquito, just as the radio crackled to life. Voices. Denny excitedly donned headphones and palavered with someone, laughed with relief.

“Yellowknife!” he hollered to Erica. “They patched me through to Thunder Bay. They know we’re coming.”

Just then a dozen instrument lights flickered and the motor hesitated, the Cessna dropped abruptly toward the dark spruce forest below. Erica’s powdered egg breakfast rose back into her throat. She screamed, wished she hadn’t but it got out. Denny struggled for control, cursing. The plane skirted along barely a hundred feet above treetops. Erica thought of her family, her cat, workmates, friends.

He slowly regained control, the Cessna rose higher, and they rattled on their way. Erica asked what had happened, and he hollered that he didn’t know.

Two stressful hours later emergency crews at Thunder Bay International Airport rushed onto the runway after Denny crash landed, the starboard wheel assembly breaking into fragments on touchdown.

But they’d made it. Two days later they were back in their homes in Chicago. Erica had never loved her cozy apartment more. She slept a good deal, stayed in pajamas cuddling with Molly, her kittycat, made chicken enchiladas, watched a funny Jennifer Lawrence movie. No mosquitoes.

Five weeks passed, she’d just gotten home from work, poured a glass of $6.99 cabernet sauvignon, put on a Rihanna CD, when her phone rang. Denny.

“Hey, Erica, been meaning to call. How are you? Recovered from the adventure?”

After a moment she realized she was glad to hear from him. They hadn’t even exchanged a text since returning. She told him she was fine, and they discussed their return to civilization. He told her he was heading back up next summer with cousins and uncles to rebuild grandpa’s cabin.

“Make sure you take a lot of DEET!”

“Yeah,” Denny chuckled. Finally, hesitantly, he asked if she’d like to go out to dinner with him on Saturday.

She thought for a few seconds. “Sure. Why not. You gotta see the pics from the trail cam. Some of them are amazing.”

END