Trapline

                It was the isolation he liked most. Nothing but himself and the wilderness. The early moon cast an ice blue glow on the relentless powdered snow, the twisting fingers of naked aspen, the peeling skin of birch. Brittle evergreens, white spruce, their bows sagging with the pristine weight of winter’s precipitation. Wind hadn’t blown in a while. He paused and listened to the virginal silence enshrouding him. Nothing moved this morning. It was too cold. The world was frozen.

                He pressed on, feet clad in thick layers of wool surrounded by white army-surplus rubber boots upon the webbing of old snow shoes. Cold War relics, made for Siberia, defense against the weather, made to keep it from conquering the body’s heat. The dry snow crunched, slightly depressed with each step he took away from his Bearcat 570. Checking the trapline on foot. The stillness and endless quiet snowshoeing step after step, his mind traveling, envious of the ancient French fur trappers scouring the westward expanses of the New World for pelts worth their weight in gold, living off the fat of the land. Those days long gone, but he replicated their work, walking whenever possible and carrying his supplies on his own back.

                The last day of the season, he was not only checking for furbearers, but would be pulling the sets as well. First stop was a series of three cubby sets, each about 15 yards apart. The sets beneath tiny log cabins, snow covered like sugary dried icing cascading the sloped roof of the cubby. Barely standing out against the vast wintery whiteness. There was no yield. He removed his backpack and released the springs slowly, unwound the wire fastening, and placed the steel in the bag before repeating the process at the other two empty sets. Fingers feeling numb from the dexterous work, he blew warmth into his beaver mittens.

***

                Last summer, early August, the fifth. He’d been outside in front of the garage changing the oil in his silver F-150. Shirt off on such a glorious day. He smoked a cigar to keep the bugs down. Just a cheap Swisher Sweet. It was as much a guilty pleasure as bug repellent. He worked slowly taking breaks to watch musical, scarlet-breasted robins bounce across his lawn in their endless feeding quest. Somewhere in the distance he heard the unmistakable purr of a chainsaw slicing dry cord wood. The world smelled of cut grass, wildflowers, spruce, dust, and oil. Summer at its best, everything so full of life.       

                He let the oil drain and threw a tennis ball for Jack his black tail flying in controlled chaos, front paws up and down, pink tongue, joyful yelps. The dog never tired of retrieving.

                House and garage were at the end of a long, gravel drive, nearly a half-mile long lined with blooms of fireweed—living garnets and pink sapphires. The drive weaved through fields before curving through a final stand of trees and opening up into their yard. Another toss to Jack and he heard a car coming. The blue Subaru wagon rounded the bend. He hadn’t expected her quite so soon. He turned away, took a big pull on the cigar, and tossed the ball to Jack a third time.

                He heard the car door open and slam shut. She called the dog’s name first and Jack ran to greet her completely unaware of the tension in the moment. She crouched and ran her hands over Jack’s head, scratching gently around the collar so his hind leg involuntarily rose and imitated assistance. Jack let the tennis ball roll slowly out of his mouth, before flopping on his side and rolling to expose his underbelly. She laughed at the dog, but it was strained. “Hi Michael,” she said, finally.

                He took another pull and met her eyes. They were beautiful as always, but they had no trace of their usual bright spark. The way her eyes used to smile at him when they greeted each other was completely absent. Slightly bloodshot and eyelids rimmed red, the drive over had been a tear-filled one. “Katie,” he nodded in acknowledgement.

                Every impulse in his body screamed at him to go to her. Hold her, toss his cigar and stand forehead to forehead, like they used to when everything was all right and they were both still happy. But he refrained, it would only make things harder. “Thought you’d bring a bigger rig,” he said, motioning to the Subaru.

                “Jillian’s on her way. She’s bringing her truck.”

                “Makes sense,” he exhaled a sigh he hoped was invisible, but it was accompanied by a jet-stream of sweet tobacco smoke, “I’m just about done with the oil, if you’re desperate, I can take a load.”

                “We’ll be fine, Michael.”

                “You really sure you want to do this? I mean, maybe there’s still some way we could…” his voice trailed off and he looked at the ground. She made no attempt to reply, just dragged herself toward the house to start collecting boxes. He watched her every movement as she walked toward the house, climbed the five stairs purposefully, empty, facing forward, away from him. He stared at the back of her head where her beautiful raven hair was pulled into a lifeless pony tail without energy or spring from her sullen steps. She didn’t so much as glance his way when she opened the door and closed it behind her. He stood, staring at the closed door and heard the robin’s song, a gentle breeze through spruce bows, the whine of the chainsaw, and maybe a raven’s caw far in the distance. Jack was panting heavily at his feet, smiling in enthusiastic anticipation the way Labradors do. He methodically threw the ball and watched Jack give chase, tail wagging, feet churning, happy barking. He shook his head to dislodge the thought of going inside, to be with her once again, and turned his attention back to draining black oil.

***

                He choked on the cold and broke from the warmth and sadness of the reverie. He pulled his scarf up to his eyes. He felt enclosed in the cold like an animal in one of his traps. There was no ignoring it, nor escaping it. It served as a constant reminder of man’s fragility against the Alaskan wilderness. Little mistakes led to frostbite and lost fingers and toes. Big mistakes led to loss of life. He curled his fingers into his palms to collect any escaping heat.

                He trudged onward to his next sets. It wasn’t a good day for trapping, so far he’d had no fur. These sets were no different, all three empty. He carefully released the springs and disconnected the fastenings. The darkness was giving way to the first glimpses of dawn, no sun yet, but through the trees he could see the ice-covered pond, and beyond that traces of the mighty Alaska Range peaks. Between them miles of forest, trees like a congregation peering upwards to the mountains to steal a glimpse of the almighty.

                Spending only a few minutes taking in the scene, he began moving. Movement, one of the best weapons against the omnipotent cold, he pressed on. 

***

He had gone to the states for college. The “Lower 48”. People had warned him before he went. “It will change you. You’ll never come back,” they said, “It’s too liberal, too violent, too secular, too promiscuous. Stay here,” they said. But he’d wanted to see what was out there. To live outside his small world for at least four years. To come back and report that maybe dissenting opinions were sometimes worth considering. That, just maybe, there was some gray between the black and white and so he left. Packed up the August after high school graduation, all his earthly possessions in a huge green duffel bag, and flew away to college.

Washington State University a medium-sized school in a small town, but both school and town seemed gargantuan compared to Delta Junction. The 21,000 students at WSU meant the campus was ten times larger than home. The university perched upon a prominent crest situated in the Palouse of Eastern Washington. The Palouse, a golden fleece of land rising and falling as if draped gently over billiard balls only breaking to the east for the tidal wave of the dark Moscow Mountains. Comparatively, gumdrops to the Alaska Range, but elevation nonetheless. They were Idaho marking its territory. A strikingly unique geographical setting for a lovely red-brick campus.

He would study engineering. Mechanical engineering. He loved the way things worked. How a bunch of pieces fit together could create something entirely new and functional. He could work with his hands and build, construct, remodel, improve. Math had always come easy to him and he looked forward to being challenged to creatively improve the real world.

And then there were the girls. Ten-thousand girls between 18 and 22. The temperature in Pullman was sizzling in the fall and spring and those were his favorite times. Short skirts, tiny shorts, low-cut blouses, halter-tops, tanned skin, legs, the dimples on the backs of knees, hair up, ponytails off-the-neck, exposed thongs and seductive tattoos. Martyrs die for 72 virgins, but this was far better. At home he’d been quiet, enjoyed the solitude of the wilderness, had only one high school girlfriend, but here he let all that go. At college he was going to live. His roommate had brought a speaker system and their Streit Hall room was alive with sex and infused with alcohol.

His body, big-chested, abs, muscular from years of bucking bales and splitting kindling made him nearly irresistible and he didn’t resist any female interest. His two years in Streit were a lonely-man’s fantasy, but second semester junior year, he met Katie and everything got better.

Freshly 21, at the Valhalla with buddies. The Cougs had just steamrolled Washington so the atmosphere was lively, loose, happy. That was when he first saw her. He noticed her laugh first, not the sound, the Valhalla was too loud, but the way her whole body laughed. Light skin, blue eyes, black hair. Later she’d proudly told him she was Irish, her ancestors from County Galway. She dressed modestly, which was somehow even more enticing. He approached and she ignored, which of course hooked him in more. He employed every tactic he’d learned. Grab her attention with some line that might be mistaken for being mildly insulting. He was in luck because she had worn purple. Seriously, what was she thinking? “I didn’t know they allowed dawgs in here.  I thought that’s what the bouncers were for, keep the ugly out of here.” He knew he’d be the only guy that night that would approach her without telling her how beautiful she looked and she’d remember that. Then, he brushed her hand with his own and caught her eyes directly, winked and walked away. He proceeded to walk the bar making flirtatious advances to at least half a dozen other girls, always in her line of vision. An hour or so later he’d rejoined his friends and no more than ten minutes later she’d sided up to him. “I know what you’re doing. I’m actually a pretty savvy chick.”

“Is it working?” he asked.

“That’s to be determined. I’m heading out. You’ve got the walk home to convince me. I walk fast so you’ve got about ten minutes starting now. It’s Katie, by the way.” She turned for the door with a quick glance over her shoulder and the unmistakable smile of a girl he’d hooked. He handed a twenty to a friend to cover his tab and followed in quick pursuit.

                She didn’t take him to her place, but he followed blindly, to Martin Stadium. They climbed a short fence designed to keep out exactly no one and she pulled him to the fifty-yard line. “Do you like football?” she asked.

                “It’s not hockey, but I’ll take it,” he answered.

                “Well, the question here is, are you going to score a touchdown or are you gonna fumble?” She walked him to the twenty-yard line.

                “I’m usually a touchdown kind of guy, but I left the old pigskin back at my apartment tonight.”

                “You won’t need it. First, what’s your name?” she asked.

                “Michael.”

                “That’s a sexy name. Ten yards, first down.” She grabbed his arm by the elbow and moved him up to the thirty. “Okay, what’s my name?”

                “Katie,” he responded quickly, relieved he had paid attention back at the bar.

                “Impressive! Twenty yard gain!” This time she ran up to the fifty yard line and gave him a peck on the cheek. “You’re on an impressive drive, Michael, let’s see if you can keep this going. Where are you from?”

                “Delta Junction, Alaska.”

                “Holy crap, you’re a long way from home! Ten yard gain for being from somewhere interesting.” She smiled and marched him to the forty. “When’s the last time you read a book that wasn’t for school?”

                “Come on, that isn’t fair, all I ever do is read for school. Probably last summer, I guess.”

                “Oh, lousy answer! You’re sacked for an eight yard loss, but luckily you held onto the ball.” She playfully pushed him back to the 48. “Alright, it all comes down to this. Fourth down, one second left…”

                “Now wait a minute, that was only second down!”

                “Don’t get stuck in the details, Michael, like I was saying it’s fourth down, one second left, and you’re down by four. You’ve got to get by the defense and score or this game’s over. Line it up!” She moved directly in front of him, flashed a smile and crouched like a defensive lineman.

                “Wait, I have to get by you?”

                “What, are you afraid? I need to see what you’ve got!”

                He went along with it, crouched down, gave her a sneer and then winked, “Blue 41…hut…hut…hike!” She charged at him with more force than he’d expected, but he lowered his shoulder, wrapped his left arm under her right, his right arm under her knees. He felt her arm around his neck, no resistance, just hanging on, and he charged the entire 48 yards to the end zone carrying her like a knight would a rescued princess. He set her down and raised his arms in triumph.

                “Thanks for not spiking me,” she smirked before putting her hands on his chest, and running them down his hard-as-tempered steel sides she felt her teeth involuntarily bite her bottom lip and whispered, “My god, you’re He-Man.”

“Well, by the power of Gray Skull,” he said carefully brushing a loose wisp of black hair out of her eyes and over her ear and took a well-earned kiss while standing on the crimson “G” in the middle of the Cougars’ end zone.

***
               

                They dated through college. He finished with a degree in mechanical engineering, and her, library science. Convincing her to move to Delta Junction hadn’t been that difficult. Alaska an irresistible adventure for a daring suburban girl.

                There had been a position open at the local library, the position vacated after being held 30 years by a kindly woman whom the town adored, but who’d moved on to Kona to retire in warmth surrounded by hibiscus, ocean breezes, and mai tais. She had been offered the job twenty minutes after the interview and he’d been hired on the nearby Army base working for Raytheon. They’d chosen their house together, a cute little modern log cabin, down a long driveway that ran through empty farm fields whose only crop was government subsidy. It had vaulted ceilings with a loft and was filled with the pleasing smell of spruce and light wood varnish.

                A wood stove kept them cozy through the winter and they’d sit in front of the fire and read or play cribbage until they could no longer stand the happy tension and would make love on the carpet by the fire smiling and staring into each other’s eyes as the icy wind raged relentlessly outside.

                They married after a year of living together. She had wanted to give it a year after his proposal on top of Donnelly Dome, just in case, she’d told him, but it had been a lovely year and there were no more reservations. It was a Delta wedding, at Quartz Lake State Park. It seemed the whole town showed up. They’d brought their four-wheelers and Sea-Doos and strapped barbecues into their pickups. They’d brought ground patties of moose and sheep and buffalo. There was reindeer sausage and early vegetables harvested from gardens green houses. She’d told her mom and dad a few months before, and they were somewhat skeptical at first, but they’d come up along with aunts and uncles, grandmas and grandpas, and cousins. After they’d said their vows and he’d kissed her, someone had brought fireworks and as they kissed, lit the fuse and they exploded high above the lake with celebratory bangs and crashes, but the colors invisible in the bright Alaskan June night sky. Everyone had loved the wedding and the reception where there were kegs of Bud Light and car stereo systems cranked Journey and Bon Jovi and White Snake until batteries died, and then Mr. Wells, who’d been Michael’s kindergarten teacher, grabbed his guitar from the bed of his old Dodge pickup and played and sang old Hank Williams and Woody Guthrie songs and people danced or sang along. They’d left at 1:00 in the morning, but were told the last people didn’t leave until mid-morning the next day.

                Katie loved her job and the Alaskan culture, as she called it. He always told her there was no such thing as “Alaskan culture,” but she would point out all kinds of things he’d never really thought about.

                “For example,” she would start, “everyone talks about how bad the roads are, and then they drive fifteen miles over the speed limit anyway, everyone talks about how much they hate the government, but the life of the town completely depends on it, people ride snowmachines to school and to work, and while we’re on the topic of snowmachines, they are called snowmobiles everywhere else on the planet! If nothing else, the culture here is guns, Jesus, and high school hockey, the importance of which probably falls in that order unless a hockey game was scheduled for Sunday morning at 10:00. How is that not an Alaskan culture? Don’t get me wrong, I love it, but that’s what it is.”

                She could point out just about any truth with blunt honesty, and that was one of the many things he truly loved about her.

***

                She fit in quickly and kept friends through her work. The library kept her busy with grant writing and basket sales, organizing author visits and children’s books clubs. Sometimes all she was involved in was too much for Michael to handle.  When it got too crazy, he loved to get away, to go fishing, check his trap line, hunt. He craved the quiet, stillness of the wilderness and feeling the complete immersion into his natural surroundings. Sometimes, he’d leave when she was at one of her library functions and be out for three days without telling her where he’d been or that he was going.

                It was after one of these extended departures that they’d had their first fight. She had hosted a basket party, which brought women from all over town to their home to bid upon baskets with varied themes: the gardener’s basket, the hostess basket, the winter wonderland basket. It was held on a Saturday afternoon, but Michael had left after work on Friday without coming home first and didn’t get back until late Sunday night.

                When he opened the door, Jack came bounding over with exclamatory yelps, soft, wet kisses from his pink tongue, black body twitching wildly balancing his furious tail slashes. Michael put his hands around the dog’s ears and scratched him under the collar where he liked it best. He lowered himself to a knee to look level into the dog’s eyes. He stood and glanced over at Katie without saying a word.

She was perched on the sofa, slippered feet upon the seat cushion, hands around her ankles and her head rested upon her knees listening to the off-beat rhythms of a new jazz album she had ordered for the library. He noticed a steaming cup of chamomile tea steeping on the table beside her. She looked tiny to him then, but beautiful. Hair pulled up, pajama bottoms patterned with wintery trees and snowflakes, miniature crimson Cougars t-shirt under her partially opened purple bathrobe. He loved her so much, but couldn’t bring himself to go to her or say anything.

She straightened up and turned to face him when he’d shut out the weather and Jack had settled down. She was trying to be strong, but Michael could see her lips quiver as she began to speak. Her glass-blue eyes darted around the room before landing upon his and she feigned the brief hint of a smile that faded more quickly than she had forced it.

                “Nice to have you back,” she said with a mix of emotion Michael couldn’t read.

                “I was ice fishing.”

                “You’ve been gone for days, Michael. I don’t worry about you anymore, you’ve done this way too often, but I can’t stand the feeling of abandonment. You’re gone all the time and I have no way of knowing where you are or how long you’ll be gone and it’s just me here. Me and Jack and the library. I love you and I love it here, but ‘us’ has seemed to blow away with the Delta wind. I want us back, but I’m afraid that we’re gone and it’s only me and you and I feel trapped and I need to be let go.”

***

                True to her word, Jillian showed up with her truck, an old Silverado.

                “Katie’s in the house,” were the only words he could muster and Jillian responded with a slight nod of her head. She was cute, if not a little round, but Michael had always admired her fast appetite for life. Snowmachine racer, quad jumper, angler, “Girls Kick Ass” sticker displayed proudly in the middle of her rear windshield only partially concealing the gun rack.

                Michael finished up with the oil as the two women collected everything that went with Katie. The wind had picked up as he watched the Subaru trail the Silverado down the long drive, the dust flitting away with the dreams he had once had for their relationship. And while he often craved isolation, he felt only hollowness now and for the first time in his life, he felt truly alone.

He stood and stared at his empty driveway for what seemed like eternity until he heard a soft thud and noticed Jack had dropped his tennis ball, his tail beating back and forth as if there were no other care in the world. Michael picked up the ball and with the force of an Olympian hurled it into the woods. Jack left him, chasing after the ball, but he would be back. Jack always came back.

***

The crunch of the snow underfoot, the gentle friction of parka fabric were all that cracked the silence and stillness of dawn. The sun brought no heat, but flat light filled the forest and mountain peaks took a ghostly glimmer. Before long ice crystals on the untouched snow would begin to sparkle like minute glass prisms catching and redirecting soft sunlight.

It was in his last group of sets that he saw her. A lynx. A beautiful cat, white fur, black spots, tufted ears. The trap around her left front paw as she lay sleeping. Peacefully subdued in the tranquility of the early morning. He watched her for a while, the slight heaving of her ribs, barely noticed under her thick winter coat, the wisps of her last few breaths rising smoothly and evaporating into the day.

She was gorgeous. He moved closer and she startled and looked at him with huge, skeptical, yellow eyes. She pulled at the trap feebly and lied back down. Michael carefully slipped his noose over her head. He could feel her strength as he held firm, knowing the struggle would not last long. He felt her losing consciousness falling into submission and seconds before all life had escaped her, he let go. The fight had left the cat, but not her life. She again looked at him, yellow eyes glowing in the hinted sunlight. He loosened the noose and removed it.

Swiftly, he discarded his parka and immediately felt the chill through to his core. His heart pounding, acting quickly so there would be no time to change his mind his tossed the parka over the cat and pounced. He could feel the animal writhing, squirming, fighting him every inch of the way with every ounce of strength that remained. He respected her ferocity and perseverance as he reached for the release. He felt the resistance of the spring as he fought to keep the cat still and leapt backward, pulling his parka with him. He fell on his back in a drift of soft snow, but looked up just in time to see the lynx bound straight ahead, her huge paws keeping her atop the snow as she glided through the spruce and aspen and birch without sound, but with all the majesty and wonder of nature.

Michael brushed out the inside of his parka and put it back on, a shield from the cold that would soon overpower his adrenaline. He peered at the wide tracks disappearing into the forest and with a sigh that rose into the frigid air he felt some of the hollowness, that could so easily be confused with loneliness, leave his body and for the first time in months he felt right about letting her go.