Wild Man Island (7 page)

T
HE
N
EWFOUNDLAND WAS FLANKING
the broad, swampy meadow, keeping to the high ground along the edge of the forest. I was following in a daze. It was a struggle to keep up. The poisoning sickness, on the heels of starvation, had left me weaker than ever.

On my right, suddenly, a small miracle: a bank of salmonberry vines speckled with bright red fruit. There were blueberries, too, everywhere I looked.

There was bear sign here, tracks and scat, but at the moment no bears. I leaned the spear against a tree and picked berries as fast as my hands could move. They were indescribably sweet.

Not too fast, I thought dully. See if your stomach will accept them.

I slowed down, but even so, they all came back up. The nausea hit me hard; I couldn't keep my feet. After a few minutes, I thought, I'll try again.

The dog came to my side, sat on his haunches. I followed his gaze. The sea of emerald green grass and bushes on the estuary below rippled like sails in the wind. The Newfoundland was watching a mother brown bear and three cubs. They were following the creek
toward salt water. He lost interest and began to nose around for something to eat.

I thought my stomach was ready for another try. This time it accepted the fruit. I kept eating.

I had to laugh, remembering that Julia had told us that nearly every blueberry has a little larva inside. “There's a certain fly that lays its eggs in the blueberries,” she explained. This, after the group had gorged to the gills on one of her nature walks. “Perfectly harmless,” she assured us with a mischievous smile. “Good protein.”

“Good protein,” I said to the dog, who turned from gumming old deer droppings to lapping fresh bear scat, the kind that looked like a pile of red jelly. I recalled how I'd been counting on this dog to lead me to food. Maybe that wasn't such a smart idea.

I felt a small surge of strength as the fruit sugars coursed into my blood.

It was comforting, recalling Julia's face. On account of her calm manner and her love of natural history, she had reminded me of my mother. It came as a jolt when I realized that I could only half remember Julia's face and Monica's too, and the faces of the other people on the sea kayak trip. It seemed like I'd known them in another lifetime.

The Newfoundland was impatient to be underway. I followed. Soon the easy going ended. We climbed a high ridge that appeared to be a spur of the island's mountain backbone. Mercifully for me, the dog was following deer trails that angled up the slopes. A couple of times
I had to retie loose, flapping ends from my makeshift footgear.

On the far side of the ridge, under deep timber, we dropped several thousand feet. At last, through the trees, I saw the slope bottoming out at a rushing creek. The creek was crisscrossed by deadfall spruce and hemlock.

The Newfoundland seemed eager to get down there. I soon understood why. The stream was teeming with sockeye salmon. “This is more like it,” I told him.

I approached cautiously. To my relief, there wasn't a bear in sight. The dog waded into the shallows, lunged at a couple of fish making furious runs around his legs, and missed. He soon came up with a big salmon thrashing in his jaws. The Newfie waded out of the shallows, then dropped the salmon and pinned it with one paw, just like a bear. The body of the fish was bright red, its head dark green. The dog began to strip the skin down the fish's side, exposing the bright red meat.

With an occasional look in my direction, the Newfoundland ate the flesh from the backbone. Rather than flip the fish over and eat the other side, he waded back into the stream for a new one.

By this time I'd whittled a sharp point on a stick of alder and waded into the stream. In a couple of minutes I had my own salmon. For mercy's sake, I quickly severed its spinal cord behind the neck. The big fish thrashed a few times from reflex, then lay still.

I sliced a fillet from the backbone on each side and washed them in the stream. I sat on a log in a patch of
sunshine, draped one fillet over a branch at arm's reach, and began to eat the other one, stripping the red meat with my teeth from its backing of skin. The meat was more than tolerable, and my stomach was going to accept it.

I had just finished the first fillet and was about to reach for the second. A bit of motion caught my eye. I looked up, and there was a big bear at streamside, not forty feet away. Over the rush of the creek, I hadn't heard it approach, not at all. Why hadn't the dog barked?

The Newfoundland, rather than barking or running away, was slowly moving
toward
the bear.

For its part, the bear had its head to the ground. It was standing over the spear. Why hadn't I kept the spear at hand?

The knife was also out of reach, there on the gravel where I'd used it.

Wagging his tail, the dog waded the stream and walked right up to the bear. To my amazement, the Newfoundland rose on hind legs and pawed the bear's shoulder. In response, the bear gently raked the dog's side with its claws, then took the dog's entire head in its jaws.

All the while, the brownie had his eyes on me. I kept looking from the bear to the knife. It was too far away.

Anyway, it was too late. The bear was ambling over to me. To me or the fillet on the branch, I couldn't tell.

The bear stood on two legs and clawed the air. I stayed exactly where I was and tried to calm my jackhammering heart.

The bear came down on all fours, approached the last few steps. With one eye on me, the bear reached out and flicked the fillet from the branch, then proceeded to eat it practically at my feet. I could have almost touched the huge muscled hump on its back.

There was a scrap of fish left under that giant paw. And here was the Newfoundland, nosing in as if to take it for himself.

The bear growled at the dog, and the dog backed away.

It was all so strange, so dreamlike, and I couldn't begin to understand what was going on.

When the bear was finished eating, he turned around and planted himself at the foot of the log right next to me. Just sat there on his hind end and put his huge face next to mine.

I didn't know what to do. I did nothing. I tried to keep as calm as I could.

The bear got up, nuzzled the dog again, then ambled away.

Hours later, as I followed the dog up the flank of another mountain ridge and deeper into the island's interior, I was still trying to sort out what had happened, and how, and why.

I got nowhere. I had no idea.

It was dusk by the time an explanation came to mind. The big Newfoundland and I were holed up next to each other in a soft pocket among the trunks of giant spruce trees, and I was drifting off to sleep. There's only one way to explain it, I thought: It never happened.
Maybe I was still paralyzed, still back at the beach. Maybe everything since was dreams, too.

My hand went to the dog at my side. I stroked the long black fur. The dog lifted his broad head and licked my hand.

I felt like I was conscious. Right now, it didn't feel like dreaming. But was I actually here, under this forest, with this dog?

Before I found any answers, I was asleep. I was so exhausted, and so confused.

M
ORNING BROUGHT RAIN,
cold, hunger, and reality. I hurt too much for all of this not to be real.

Deeper and deeper into the wilderness, the dog led me on. We climbed out of the forests and onto mountain meadows where it was higher and colder and there was no shelter from the rain.

The Newfoundland led me higher yet onto the short-grass tundra, alongside an ominous bear highway of deep, alternating footwells filling with water. Rain clouds were hanging on the snowfields and peaks above. My feet hurt a lot; my sandals were only two notches more comfortable than torture devices. I was getting slammed by a tidal wave of doubts. Maybe I'd chosen dead wrong to follow the dog. Going inland was looking like the last thing I should have done.

I had lost all my markers. There was a spear in my hand and I was following a huge black dog through the clouds. Everything familiar was gone: home, my mother, my grandparents, my friends, Orchard Mesa, Grand Junction, the heat, the Colorado River…all gone, replaced by the numbing immensity of this dreamlike island.

The Newfoundland had been pausing to sniff the wind and for some reason, was quickening his pace. Through the drizzle, near the foot of a massive landslide scar, a red mass of some kind was heaped on the tundra barely above the tree line. I was so cold I couldn't begin to guess what it was.

The dog suddenly halted, perked up his ears, listened intently. Then he tilted his head and began to bark, each bark coming slower than the previous one and the last trailing into a sort of howl.

A little closer and I could make out large black birds on and around the red object. Ravens. Then I made out the glint of bone. The ravens were on some sort of carcass. A bear, of course—nothing else was that big. But why no fur?

The dog approached cautiously, and so did I. The drizzle wasn't strong enough to mask the droning of flies or the smell of all that meat gone rancid. I was shocked by how much the skinned-out animal resembled a human being.

In the soft spots around the carcass I made out the imprints of boot lugs, three different patterns. Three hunters had stood here, I thought dully. I'd missed them, missed the chance to get off the island with them. I was a couple days late, but close didn't count. It might as well have been a year since they'd been here.

The bear's skull was missing. Why was that? Two gaping wounds marked the exits of high-powered slugs from the chest cavity. The birds had opened up the belly and dragged the guts out onto the ground. The redness
of it all, the rawness, was even more shocking up close. There wasn't a trace of the hide; the paws and claws were missing. All four feet had been sawed off.

What kind of hunters would do such a thing? Poachers? Maybe it was a good thing I hadn't come across them. A witness to the crime, that's what I would have been, and who knows what they would have done with me.

I backed away. The Newfoundland was tearing away meat along the backbone, growling all the while at the ravens hopping close to the carcass. An eagle was watching regally, biding its time from a spruce at the edge of the forest. I noticed dog tracks even bigger than the Newfoundland's. No, they were wolf tracks. The wolves had been here, but judging from the carcass, they hadn't eaten. Why not?

When the dog had eaten his fill he led me back into the forest and down to another salmon stream. It was teeming with sockeyes but the Newfoundland didn't pay them any mind. He splashed through the stream and started up the slope on the other side. I tried to get him to stay with me while I made another jabbing stick, but he was leaving whether I came along or not.

Freezing cold, I followed. Cursing under my breath, I started up the beginning of a steep slope that was a patchwork of giant trees, knobby gray outcrops, and sheer cliffs. Where in the world was he going?

Behind a massive spruce that had fallen against the cliff, the Newfoundland trotted up a steep ledge. He looked back for a second; I tried to call him back but
he kept going. I had to scratch my way up on all fours. I followed along narrowing ledges that zigzagged upward a hundred feet or more above the valley floor.

All at once there was nowhere to go. We were standing above thin air. It was fifty or more feet straight down to the beginnings of a steep talus slope.

I was at my wit's end—frustrated, freezing, exasperated. For no apparent reason, the dog was all excited, as if he'd reached his destination.

Immediately ahead of us along the cliff, the rain was dripping from the outer edge of big overhang and a long, shallow cave underneath it. It wasn't a true cave; it was more of a big rock shelter. An alcove was what we would call it in the Southwest. It was in nearly inaccessible alcoves like this that the ancient Indians had built their cliff dwellings in the red cliffs back home.

The dog was acting like he had to get into the alcove. I was losing all patience. We were separated from the floor of the alcove by seven or eight feet of thin air. Even with dry footing I couldn't make a leap like that, not from a standing start, and neither could he.

Now he was standing up against the trunk of a cedar that grew out of the ledge and leaned high over the gap. Barking and wagging his tail, the Newfie was acting like there was something up the tree. I hoisted myself up on the rocks for a look.

What I found was a small coil of rope on the shoulder of the first branch. The rope was tied to a jagged outcrop above. Soon I was back down on the ledge with the free end. It was braided from inner cedar bark, and
obviously sturdy. Meant for swinging across to the alcove, to a food cache if I had at least one lucky bone in my body.

The dog was going crazy, and I was nearly as excited. “Okay, okay,” I said. “I'm hungrier than you are.” I swung across and landed easily on the floor of the alcove.

A few steps toward the interior of the alcove, and I could see that it was a good forty feet deep and twice that long. Another step, and my eyes took in more surprises than my brain could begin to process: a stone cooking hearth, a beautiful long table of polished cedar planks, a huge chair made from hide stretched over a bone frame, maybe whalebone.

I went straight to the hearth. I put my hand to the ashes in the fire pit. No hope of reviving them: they were as cold as I was. A large bowl carved from stone, with a big cedar spoon inside, had been left beside the fire pit. On all sides, there were prehistoric implements: mortar and pestle, a stone slab and grinding stone, baskets of many sizes, wooden storage boxes, a stone ax leaning against a neat stack of firewood. Close at hand was an ample supply of tinder including a bin full of old-man's beard.

“Anybody home?” I called. The only reply was my echo. Next to the kitchen, neatly arranged on handcrafted shelves, were dozens and dozens of Harvard Classics and
National Geographic
s.

The guard hairs on the back of my neck stood up. The alcove was full of hiding places. What if the wild man was here, right now, watching me?

Back at the ledge, the dog was barking. How was I supposed to get him across?

Everywhere my eyes fell, I found neatly arranged artifacts. Everything seemed to be made of wood, stone, sinew, shell, or bone: axes, mauls, scrapers, fish hooks, line, rope, bags, fishing nets, knives, spears, clubs, bows and arrows, atlatl darts, enough points to arm a clan of cavemen, the components of a bow drill for making fire.

Why would anyone live like this? Talk about survivalists. The guy must think the end of the world is at hand. He could be seriously on the run from the law, but what kind of criminal would go to all this trouble?

The front of the cave was shielded from outside view by the dense tops of towering spruces rooted on the slope far below. With a glance above me, I discovered a wooden ramp, well out of reach, that was drawn up against the underside of one of the branches. It was held by a rope that ran through a couple of pulleys carved from wood. The rope was tied off a few paces away to a branch at shoulder height. I lowered the ramp and the dog came bounding across.

Something to eat, there had to be something to eat. Fortunately, there was. I discovered all sorts of dried food stored in cleverly made cedar boxes: smoked salmon, venison jerky, mushrooms, vegetables, and herbs I couldn't begin to identify. One box was filled to the top with small cakes made of berries, fat, and shreds of dried meat. Pemmican, that's what they were. Drinking water was funneled from a collecting trough at the
outer edge of the roof into storage in large wooden boxes.

The smoked salmon was delicious beyond belief. I wolfed the jerky and washed it down with water. The pemmican cakes were more filling than mincemeat pie, and the berries made them sweet. I fed the dog but he didn't have nearly my appetite. It was all so filling I finally had to lay off. I was bloated.

Food in my belly warmed me some, but I was still shivering. I thought about trying to make a fire with the bow drill but I had a good idea how difficult that would be.

At the back of the alcove was a wooden bed, knee-high and cleverly constructed without a nail or screw. The mattress, under an outer layer of sewn-together hides, was stuffed with something firm yet comfortable. In cedar boxes close by I found handmade clothing, some of it leather and some woven from cedar bark. When I came across a pair of sandals—works of art compared to mine and a whole lot softer—I quickly tried them on. The fit was sloppy but good enough when I lashed them tight.

In another cedar box I discovered a bearskin sleeping bag, with the hide to the inside and the fur to the outside. I would sleep by the hearth, not in the bed. It might help if he caught me here. For a few hours I would have a roof over my head. At first light I'd stuff a hide bag with food, sling it over my shoulder, and keep marching.

Toward the far end of the alcove I came across the
spot where the wild man must have made his points. Lithics were everywhere, flakes and larger fragments of stone. I was so young when my father died, I don't have many memories, but I remember him chipping on stones, making arrowheads. I used to play at it alongside him, as close as he would let me get, knocking one stone against another. Sometimes the stones would break, and I would think I was getting somewhere.

An array of harpoons leaned against the back of the alcove. Some were lightweight, with points of bone and shell, some were heavy, with points of stone and barbs made from the tips of antlers. Next to them was a small stack of club-like devices. They were bulky at one end with wrappings of bark that had been slathered with pitch. Torches.

Standing there, I thought I heard a continuous rush of wind, and close by. This was odd; there wasn't any wind in the trees.

I walked toward the source of the wind and discovered a crevice in the back of the alcove, a dark, jagged opening, man-high. Another step and I realized that the wind was rushing out through the crevice. The wind was coming from
inside
the mountain.

I moved in front of the opening. The wind was surprisingly strong. I knew what this was. This was how Lechuguilla, the famous cave in New Mexico, had been discovered.

This was a cave, the real thing. These cliffs must be karst limestone. This was the entrance to a cave! In fact, it looked a whole lot like the entrance to one of the half
dozen caves my mother and I had been into with a caving club in Missouri the summer before.

The torches, I thought. The wild man must use them inside. Why does he go in there and what has he found? It was all too much to think about.

I had to rest. Across the fire pit from the dog, I stripped and bedded down in the bearskin bag. Free of my wet clothes, I was warm soon enough. In the gathering darkness I closed my eyes. I was torn between fear and a strange sense of peace. I pulled the bearskin bag over my shoulders, thinking about my mother and how she would tuck me in when I was little.

For now, at least, I was safe and warm. And I was at the entrance of a cave the likes of which my father had died trying to find.