“Grandpa?” Lindsay said, “We’re supposed to go to the truck.”
“I like to watch the boat docking.”
Grandma turned her. “Let’s go. There’s no talking to him.”
Ryan watched them leave. “Shouldn’t we go?”
“We’ve got plenty of time. Our truck is near the rear of the line. Watch the ship dock. It’s really cool.”
The salt air grew thicker as the ferry eased past fishing boats, pleasure boats, and sailboats, their naked masts pointing to the sky. Friday Harbor, with its period houses, loomed larger. The round nose of the ferry’s deck disappeared under the steel dock ramp, the pilings pushing the boat to center from either side.
“Cool,” Ryan said.
“Okay, now we have to run down to the truck.” Grandpa took off at a sprint, then double timed it down the stairs. Great plan. Now the kid tumbles down the stairs, and I’m the bad guy. He looked back. Ryan hustled down the steps, doing fine. The list didn’t include walking placidly down stairways anyway. They got into the truck just as the car before them took off.
Grandma shook her head. “Boys.”
~
They arrived and set up camp, Grandma and Grandpa doing most of the heavy lifting, the kids begrudgingly doing small tasks. Grandpa stood with his hands on his hips and surveyed the erected tent trailer. “Perfect.”
“Can I see in it?” Lindsay asked.
“Sure.”
She peered inside. “It’s really little.”
“We sleep in the front while you and your brother have the rear.”
“Where’s the bathroom?”
“Come here.” Grandpa walked outside to the back of the trailer, Lindsay in tow. He pointed over the hill to a square wooden building in the grass, a hundred yards away. “Right there.”
“We have to walk there?”
“Yes. With your feet. It’ll be horrible.”
“What if it’s night time?”
“Then you put on a sweat shirt over your jammies and hike down there. You might want to wear shoes. Perhaps your red high heels.”
She elbowed him in the ribs. “Oh, Grandpa. Okay, that’s where the bathroom is. Okay.”
~
Grandpa swept the flashlight around the woods. “Snipes hide behind trees. They stick to the ground, so keep looking low.” He searched for and picked up numerous sticks and handed them to the kids. “Take these and follow me.” Of course they would; they probably couldn’t find Grandma and the campsite on their own. He found a clearing and gathered the children.
“Snipes hear only high voices. Mine won’t work. So you two need to venture out on… ”
“Alone?” Lindsay shivered.
“It’s better.”
Ryan said, “No way I’m going alone.”
“Okay, okay. Just both of you stay really close together. Pound the sticks together and yell, “Here snipe, here snipe.”
“What if we get one?” Ryan tapped the sticks together.
“It’ll follow you. Just bring him back to me and whack!” Grandpa smacked the stick into his palm. The kids jumped. “I’ll whack him and we’ll be eating tasty snipe tomorrow night.”
“What’s snipe taste like?” Lindsay hugged herself.
“Like chicken. Okay, now off with you two.”
The kids walked away at a snail’s pace, clacking the sticks and calling, “Here snipe, here snipe.”
Perfect.
Soon a scream pieced the darkness and the two ran back, their flashlights zigzagging like lightning. They burst into the clearing and ran behind Grandpa.
“We saw one,” Ryan panted. “Really big. With huge red eyes.”
“I didn’t see it, but I wasn’t waiting around. What if it caught us?”
“Let’s just wait here and see,” Grandpa said.
Ryan wrapped his arms around his legs. “Why don’t we go back to the tent?”
~
They slid the kayaks to shore. Ryan jumped into the water and helped drag the boys’ boat to shore. “That was so cool.” Lindsay sat in the stern and waited for Grandma to drag the little boat to dry ground. She scratched her arms. “What are these bumps? They itch.”
Grandma groaned. “Mosquito bites. Grandpa, we missed item 6-B.”
“Oops. Well, at least we remembered 3-A—sunscreen.” We’ll never get more than one trip. “That’s something.”
~
“There was a dog that had a farmer, Ognib was his name,” they sang. “O, G, NIB… O, G, NIB… O, G, NIB… Ognib was his name.” Lindsay and Ryan laughed and hooted. They all sang it three times. Afterward, Lindsay talked about girls who treated her badly and Ryan talked about getting in trouble at school for fighting. The conversation waned as the fire grew larger, the night darker.
Lindsay stared at the fire, the flames licking along the logs as it hissed and spat. She rotated her marshmallow as Grandma directed. Grandpa threw another log onto the inferno and the sparks flew upward, the evergreen trees above encircling it like a chimney. The scent of fir trees hung thick in the air.
“Grandpa, Ryan says you know the story of Scar Bear. Do you really?”
He stirred the embers at the edge with a long stick, shoving some toward the center. “I do.”
“Can you tell it to us?”
“Naw, you’re not old enough.” He patted her on the shoulder. “Both of you’d be up all night.”
“I’m eight,” Ryan said. His marshmallow erupted into flames once again. “Dangit.” He flicked it into the fire, the creamy mess shriveling into nothing.
Grandma patted his arm. “You need to keep it moving, and farther from the flames.” She fitted on another marshmallow.
“And I’m ten. We’re old enough.” Lindsay crossed her arms over her chest like that settled it.
He looked at her body language. “Okay. I’ll tell you about Scar Bear.”
“Please ,Grandpa, no,” Grandma warned. “They won’t sleep.”
Ryan said, “Why not?”
Lindsay tugged on his arm. “Tell us the Scar Bear story. It’s scary, right?”
“Oh, a little,” Grandpa chuckled.
“Oh, please please.”
Ryan assembled his s’more, almost pure white this time, and snuggled into Grandma. “You’ll protect me, right?”
Grandma patted his knee. “Sure. Oh, go ahead, Grandpa.”
He got another log and tossed it on the inferno and the flames grew, the glow lighting up the trees surrounding them. Standing with his back to the fire, the light illuminated him, but his face looked dark, foreboding. He lowered his voice.
“Not far from here on San Juan Island, a family of four made a nice big campfire at their site.”
“Sort of like this one?” Ryan asked.
“Yes.”
“Don’t interrupt him,” Lindsay said.
Grandpa held up a finger. “But it was a mom and dad and two girls. So it was different, really. Outside the camp, just beyond the fire’s light, sat a bear.”
“Was it Scar Bear? Was he scary?” Ryan asked.
Lindsay hit him with her elbow. “Don’t interrupt. Was he scary, Grandpa?”
“Oh, no no.” He leaned back and clasped his knee with his hands. “And he wasn’t Scar Bear. He was… ”
“Was he another bear?” Ryan asked.
“Stop interrupting. Was he?” Lindsay removed her marshmallow, a nice suntan brown. She slid it between the graham crackers and a slab of chocolate.
“He was just a bear. A nice bear. He ate berries and stayed clear of people. Oh, sometimes he’d knock over a garbage can and grab some old pizza boxes or something. That’s why we have those special garbage cans. It keeps the bears away from the campers.”
Lindsay peered into the darkness toward a single yellow light, emanating from the restrooms. “That looks like a regular garbage can.”
Grandpa looked where she pointed. “Well, I’ll be. I guess it is. Anyway, the bear stayed clear of p
eople, but he liked to hang around in the shadows and just watch them.”
Ryan swung his gaze to the darkness behind them. “Like out there.”
“Yeah. Kind of. Pretty much like here.”
“Grandpa,” Grandma warned.
“Okay, sorry.” He stood with his hands behind his back. “He watched the family as they laughed, ate s’mores, talked, and fed the fire. After a few hours they went to bed and didn’t put the fire out. It had burned down pretty good so they didn’t worry about it. But the wind picked up and some embers from the fire blew over into the woods. The bear saw the embers ignite the bushes and become a fire. Then the tree caught fire. Soon lots of trees caught fire and it became a forest fire. The wind blew toward the bear. He ran for his life but the fire caught him. The bear burrowed down behind a fallen tree and lived, but he lost some of his front claws, lost the hair on his back, and got a huge scar from a burning branch that fell on him. It ran from his snout to the middle of his back. He ended up with just two claws on one front paw.” He held up two fingers, looking curled and misshapen.
“What happened to the family?” Lindsay asked.
Grandpa sat down and poked the fire with a stick. “The ranger got them out of there. Anyway, Scar Bear survived. He wandered the woods of San Juan Island and lived his life like a normal bear. But he remembered that fire.” Grandpa tapped his temple. “Most of the time he avoided people.
“Later some people went camping but no one heard from them for a while. The rangers went looking for them and when they found the campsite, all they found were some arms and legs… some shredded clothes. The fire pit had been torn up, the tent all ripped to pieces, and there were scratch marks on their car and in the trees. The marks were like bear claws, but some were missing.” He held up his two fingers, hooked and claw shaped. “Lot of blood.”
Grandma patted his knee. “Easy, Grandpa.”
Ryan shivered. Grandma pulled him tighter.
“Well, they searched the island for the bear and couldn’t find anything. Like he just disappeared or something.
“Things got back to normal until one night some campers stayed in a campground and nearby another group sat around a fire. Big bunch, about eight people. The first group went to bed and late that night, they heard screaming and roaring. They were so scared they hunkered down in their tent, afraid to even look out. Next day, same thing. All tore up, scratch marks, and the fire pit wrecked.”
“Scar Bear,” Lindsay whispered, her eyes huge, the fire reflected in them. She held up two fingers.
“That’s right.” Grandpa threw another log on the pyre and sparks flew up into the black darkness. “The rangers figured out that Scar Bear watched campsites and if people didn’t put out their fires, he would remember the wildfire and go crazy. They say he’s still out there somewhere, watching to make sure campers smother their flames.” Grandpa sat down and crossed his feet and hands. Lindsay shivered. The fire licked at the logs and an occasional spark erupted from the embers.
“Well,” Grandpa patted Lindsay’s knee, “you kids better go potty and then off to bed.”
Grandpa held Ryan’s hand and the flashlight and Grandma and Lindsay held hands as they all walked to the restroom. Inside, the girls talked and prepped. Lindsay finished brushing her hair and set the brush on the counter.
Grandma picked it up. “Do you ever clean the hair out of your brush?”
“Ew. I hate it. It’s so disgusting.”
“What? It’s your hair. It was in your head a few minutes ago.”
“I know, but it’s so gross.”
“Now getting hair out of the drain, that’s pretty disgusting.”
“Yuck, I would never do that.”
Grandma pulled the hair out and dropped it in the trash.
“Grandma, you are so brave.”
~
Grandma ushered the kids toward the tent as the old man settled beside the fire. Ryan ran to him and hugged him.
“Good night.”
“’Night, Ryan.”
He stood and faced the fire. “Can we put it out now?”
“Not yet. Grandma and I are going to stay up awhile.”
Grandma settled the two into their sleeping bags, kissed them goodnight, and zipped the tent shut. A moment later, Lindsay let out a scream that would wake every animal in a hundred yard radius.
Grandpa chuckled. “What’s that? Spider number…?”
“Counting last night? Four.” She stood and marched toward the tent. “And that’s enough.” She unzipped the tent. “What is it?”
Lindsay stood in the center and pointed at her sleeping bag. “Spider.”
“Oh, for the love of… Here.” Grandma took one of Lindsay’s shoes and handed it to her.
She shook her head. “I can’t.”
“You have two choices, young lady. Kill it or sleep with it.”
Lindsay fiddled with the shoe. She closed her eyes and swung. Missed. The spider scuttled under her sleeping bag. “Now what do we do?”
Grandma swept the bag away. “Hit it! Now!”
Lindsay smacked, missed, hit again and smashed it. She held up the shoe like the Statue of Liberty. “I got him.”
Grandma handed her a Kleenex. Now wipe it up.”
“Seriously?”
“You can do it.”
She held the tissue at arm’s length and wiped it up, then held it out. “Could you…?”
Grandma smiled. “No problem.” She got her tucked in and returned to the fire and threw the tissue into it.
“Did she do it?” Grandpa stirred the embers.
“She did.”
“Isn’t spiders number 7-A? ‘Lindsay is afraid of spiders, so please take care of them for her.’”
“By my count, we’ve broken twelve of their rules.”
“We’ll just have to live with the guilt.”
~
Driving back, Grandma said, “Who wants to learn some songs?”
“Yes!” The kids said in unison.
“We’ll start with ‘Old MacDonald’.”
They sang songs, played I Spy, the Alphabet Game, and even a bit of Truth or Dare, a little difficult in a pickup truck.
When they arrived back home, the kids jumped out and ran up the driveway almost before the truck made a complete stop. Tracy and Jeff opened the door to the two kids talking over one another.
“We rode bikes all over the place. I almost ran over a squirrel.”
“I chopped wood with an axe.”
“I got to start the fire.”
“We went fishing. I caught a twelve pound silver.”
“I touched fish guts.”
“No, you didn’t. You touched his scales.”
“Same thing; it was slimy.”
“I cut off his head with a really sharp knife.”
“I found a starfish and threw it back in the water.”
“We went snipe hunting.”
“I saw one.”
“No you didn’t.”
“We ate a lot of s’mores.”
“A lot.”
“We learned about the Pig War.”
“We kayaked all over the lake. Ryan almost fell in.”
“Did not.”
“Did so.”
~
They walked into the house and fell into the double recliner. “Great job, Grandpa.” Grandma held her hand up for a high five.
He slapped it and laughed. “We pulled it off. And got the kids back in one piece. A few skeeter bites, a couple of cuts and bruises, no big deal.”
“I thought Tracy would choke when you returned the two cases of bottled water. ‘Saved you some money.’ It was all I could do not to laugh out loud.”
~
Grandpa’s phone rang. “Hello.”
“You had to tell them the Scar Bear story?”
“Yep. So?”
“They both spent the night in our bed.”
“That’s awesome.”
“Not funny.”
“Just tell them there’s no bears in Lynnwood, and no bears on San Juan Island. Also, son, I checked the list, and Scar Bear wasn’t on it.”
Jeff sighed into the phone. “Dad, you’re killing me.”
~
The four girls sat inside the tent in Lindsay’s back yard, their eyes fixed on her, with a flashlight pointed under her chin, her face looking macabre and surreal. She held up two fingers and hooked them. “They say he’s still out there somewhere, watching to make sure people put out their fires.”
Alaska
Coldfoot, Alaska, earned its name because during the gold rush, hordes of people turned back from there, suffering from cold feet, both figuratively and literally. On the 50 States tour, I flew up and rented a dual sport bike, Quilter Girl content to stay behind at her folks’ place in Seattle.
The ride to Prudhoe Bay is what you’ll see on Ice Road Truckers, a remote and dangerous place. It’s much better in the summertime, and riding a dual sport bike (BMW GS800) proved to be a great idea.
The story is taken from a real trucker, told to me some time before the trip. Crazy.
I turned back at Coldfoot, too. Not because of cold feet, but the trip to Prudhoe Bay would take two days of riding through desolate countryside, and I thought I could tour better elsewhere. No regrets.
COLD FEET
“Jimmy, this trip you cut across Galbraith Lake. Takes off about twenty miles.” Darren, the truck boss, pointed to the map. Old school.
“Is it safe?”
“Yeah. Bradley’s boys been running it all week.”
What could I say, particularly being the rookie? If they declared it safe, it must be okay.
The dry ice of winter stung my face and burned in my throat as I stepped out of the place. I headed out through the snow to a ’99 Peterbilt. The truck started after considerable cranking. It didn’t like the cold either. Yesterday I had picked up a trailer of food to take to Prudhoe Bay. Today I’d finish the last leg of the trip, 240 miles of snow and ice. And back, of course.
Television has glorified Ice Road Truckers, making the job seem glamorous. Nothing could be further from the truth. Getting out in subfreezing weather and moving forty tons of killing machine through frozen backwoods is no picnic.
I’ve trucked all over the United States, and a friend assured me I’d make bank in Alaska, particularly in the winter. How bad could it be, driving with the heater on, steady work, and low cost of living, since we would bunk in the Coldfoot Motel, with nothing around to waste money on.
I should have figured it out at the ‘motel.’ The building, a throwback to the pipeline project in the 70s, was just crude dorms with particle board bathrooms stuck in them. No cell service. No Internet. One television in the common room, playing something in a screen of snow. Snow everywhere.