One man’s wilderness Read Free

to settle here because it was a natural layover for bush pilots flying from Kachemak Bay and Cook Inlet through Lake Clark Pass to Bristol Bay. It had been a good move and a good living.
    I spotted the wind sock on the mast above the greenhouse and glanced at my watch. The trip had taken an hour and a half. Down we slanted to touch down on the stony strip. On the taxi in we hit a soft place, and we wound up hauling our cargo of baby chicks, groceries, and gear in a wheelbarrow over the mud to the big house.
    I helped Babe the next few days. We patched the roof of his house. We put a new nose cowl on the Taylorcraft, attached the floats, and there she was, all poised to take me over the mountains on a thirty-minute flight to journey’s end.
    May 21st
. Mares’ tails in the sky. A chance of a change in the fine weather and probably wind that could hold me at Port Alsworth until the storm passed over. I had been delayed long enough. Even Mary Alsworth’s cooking could hold me no longer. Babe sensed my itchiness. He squinted at the mountains and gave his silent approval.
    We loaded my gear into the T-craft. Not too many groceries this trip; Babe would come again soon. Seemed like a heavy load to me, and jammed in as we were, I found myself wondering whether the old bird could get off the water. We taxied out, rippling the reflections of the sky and the mountains. The motor shuddered and roared, and I watched the spray plume away from the floats. We lifted easily toward the peaks and home.
    Below us a wild land heaved with mountains and was gashed deep with valleys. I could see game trails in the snow. Most of the high lakes were frozen over. I was counting on open water where the upper lake dumped into the lower, but the Twins were 2,200 feet higher above sea level than Lake Clark and could still be sealed up tight.
    We broke out over the lower lake to find most of it white with ice. There was open water where the connecting stream spilled in, enough to land in. The upper lake had a greenish cast but only traces of open water along the edges. We circled Spike’s cabin. Everything looked to be in good shape, so we returned to the open spot of water on the lower lake. I would have to pack my gear the three and a half miles along the shore to the cabin. As we sloped in for a landing, a dozen or more diving ducks flurried trails over the water and labored their plump bodies into the air.
    After unloading, Babe and I sat on the beach.
    “This is truly God’s country,” I said, my eyes roving above the spruce tips to the high peaks.
    Babe said nothing for a few minutes. He was lost in thought. “Compared to heaven,” he said finally, “this is a dung hill.” He rubbed a forefinger against the stubble of his moustache and pushed the watch cap farther back on his head. “Nothing but a dung hill.”
    I looked at the water, at the stones on the bottom as sharply etched as if seen through a fine camera lens. “This is as close as I hope to get to heaven,” I said. “This is here and now. Something I’m sure of. How can heaven be any better than this?”
    Babe’s eyebrows seemed to lift like crests. “Man!” he spluttered. “Man, youdon’t know what you’re talking about! Your philosophy worries me. Why, it says plain in the Bible. . . .”
    I knew he would get me around to his favorite subject sooner or later. “One life at a time,” I said. “If there’s another one—well, that’s a bonus. And I’m not so sure of that next one.”
    Babe shook his head sorrowfully. “You better think on it,” he muttered, rising to his feet. “You’ll have a lot of time to do just that.” He waded out, stepped up on a float, and squinted at me over his shoulder. “Man, your philosophy. . . .”
    I pushed the plane toward deeper water. The T-craft coughed and stuttered into a smooth idling. Babe craned out the side hatch. He wondered, would the lake be open in a week? Ten days? He would be back inside of two weeks.
    I