The Mountain Man

PROLOGUE

He could see the stars through the lone window of his small cabin. It was cold. Goose bumps welled up on his bare arm. He struggled out of his bed to throw another log onto the small fire crackling in the fireplace. He could hear the wind howling through the birch trees near the cabin. His small store of wood was nearly depleted. Soon he would have to venture outside for more. A coughing spasm wracked his frail body. He spat a mouthful of blood and phlegm into the fire and sat on the floor, his vision swimming. He closed his eyes for a moment, and remembered.....

PART I

It was spring, and he was glad to see the days getting warmer. Winter was gone for another year. Traffic flowed smoothly on the busy street as he made his to another dreary day of work. He stopped for a red light and noticed a flash of red feathers from the corner of his eye. A cardinal had nested in a small maple tree in front of Mr. Wilson's pharmacy. He smiled to himself as he remembered all of the chocolate milk shakes his father had bought him there after playing baseball as a child. Now Mr. Wilson was just a memory. Cancer had claimed the old man many years ago. The ice cream bar and had been replaced by a Starbuck's by his son.
The light turned to green and he drove on. It was a short drive to the construction site where he plied his trade as a carpenter. But the job gave him little satisfaction. The company he worked for was pushing out pre-fabricated homes at a rate of 3 a month. There was no craftsmanship involved in the building process. No heart went into the construction. He felt a strange emptiness whenever he helped complete one. As he pulled into the job site, he noticed that each one of the houses on the block was identical to its neighbor, all the way down the street. He parked and sighed. It was Friday, so at least he could have the weekend free. Maybe he could hit the lake and do a little fishing. He got out of his truck, buckled on his tool belt, and prepared for another long day.

'McCoy, The super wants to see you in the trailer,' bellowed Dombrowski, the job foreman. McCoy disliked the man intensely. He frowned inwardly and stood up from where he was nailing together forms to pour another cement slab. A garage was going to be built here. He put his hammer back into his tool belt and shrugged his shoulders to ease the ache in his back. He looked quickly at the sun, noticing it wasn't quite midday yet. He hoped this wouldn't take long, it was nearly lunch time. He pulled his lithe, form from the hole in which he had been working and walked to the office trailer parked a short distance away.
He wrapped on the door.

‘You wanted to see me,’ he asked the fat man behind the desk. The air in the trailer was a blue haze of cheap cigar smoke. McCoy fought not to gag.
‘Yeah, McCoy, I just got a fax from our main office. We’re over budget, so I have to let some help go. Sorry, but I have to fire you. You will get paid for all of today, though

McCoy looked at him as if he had a huge wart on his face, spun on his heel, and stalked from the trailer, slamming the door behind him. He looked around the job site and decided it was probably for the best. He hated this job. He walked to his pickup, tossed his tool belt in the cab, and climbed in. He slammed it in gear and drove off in a shower of gravel.

He drove toward home, wondering what he was going to do now. He pulled into the driveway of his small house, and sat in his truck for a moment. He knew he would have to find a job soon. Finally he sighed in exasperation and exited the tuck. He walked over to his mailbox and grabbed the mail, quickly scanning through it. More bills, he thought. Just what I need right now,
He unlocked the door and walked inside.

“Dad,” he shouted. “Are you here?”
A small figure hobbled into the parlor, a steaming cup of coffee in his hand. A faded wool flannel shirt hung loosely around his frail shoulders. He wore a pair of old faded jeans and a pair of leather moccasins that McCoy had made many years ago after a successful elk hunting trip. His father smiled at him.

“Where else would I be,” the older man asked. “Aren’t you home kind of early?”
McCoy sat down at the dining room table and tossed down the day’s mail.

“I just got canned,” he said angrily. “Labor cutback's they said.”
He looked up at the older man. His father looked at him quizzically and said, “So now you have a few days off. Go fishing or something. Get out of the house for a few days, then come home and start looking for something else. It’s not like you loved that job anyway,” he snickered as he sat down across from his son.
McCoy grinned sheepishly and said, “Was it that obvious?”

“Hell son, the whole world could see you weren’t happy. Go relax for a few days and start fresh. Besides, it isn’t like you have a lot of choices.”
McCoy grinned at the older man and shook his head. He got up from his chair, went into the kitchen, and poured himself a cup of coffee. He stood there for a moment, looking out the window at his backyard. His dog, Mac, a 7 year old Border collie, was chasing a soccer ball around the yard. He laughed as the ball bounced off the fence, then the dog bounced off the fence. He opened the kitchen window and whistled shrilly. Mac stopped in his tracks, pricked his ears up, and came bounding to the door, his tail wagging and tongue lolling. McCoy squatted in front of the dog and scratched his ears as Mac whined in rapture.
McCoy laughed again, stood, and went back into the dining room.

“Dad, you’re right. I’m going to go up to the lake for a couple of days. I’ll worry about all this when I get back,” he said to the older man. He walked up a short flight of stairs to his bedroom, and started pulling camping equipment out of his closet. He checked his fishing pole over, making sure it was ready to use. He turned back to the closet and noticed a book lying on the floor. It was a copy of an old handbook on wilderness living. He had bought it when he was in his early teens, an interest in Native American living, prompting the purchase. On impulse he tossed into his backpack with the rest of his gear. Once he finished packing, McCoy hooked the pack over his shoulder and went downstairs.
“Dad, I’m leaving,” he called. “Are you going to be okay for a few days?”
“Boy, will you get going already? Enjoy yourself, and bring home a big one,” the older man said as he lowered his tiny frame into his recliner.
McCoy laughed to himself as he walked out of the door. He tossed the backpack into the back of his truck, got in, and started it up. As he drove away, he glanced into the mirror at the only home he ever knew, and a strange feeling of unease washed over the large man. He shook his head and drove on, his thoughts turning to fishing.


PART II

The weekend had ended all too soon as far as McCoy was concerned. The fishing had been pretty good, and he had enjoyed sleeping out in the open for a few nights. The nights had been chilly, but he had kept a good fire going, so he had slept soundly.
He drove down Main Street, his mind flitting from one thought to another. He had just passed the Wal-Mart when he heard the siren. McCoy glanced in his mirror, saw the flashing lights of a police car, then dropped his eyes to the speedometer. Confusion crossed his face. He wasn’t speeding, so why was he being pulled over? He pulled the truck to the side of the road and waited as the officer walked up. McCoy recognized Jack Rhinebold, a buddy from high school. He rolled down his window.
“Hey Jack, what’s up,” he asked.
“Dan, I need you to come with me.”
McCoy looked confused. “What’s going on? I didn’t think I was speeding,” he said.
Rhinebold looked at him with sorrow in his eyes. “Dan, it’s your dad. He collapsed on the sidewalk this morning.” The officer had tears in his eyes as he said, “He didn’t make it. I’m sorry.”

McCoy was stunned. His mind refused to accept it. He began to shake uncontrollably. He climbed slowly from his truck. , his mind reeling as if he had been hit on the head. He looked at his friend, saw the tears streaking his face, and vomited as a wave of nausea swept over him. Rhinebold slid his arm around McCoy’s shoulders and helped him get into the police car. He slumped into the seat and sat there staring out the window.

The next few months were a blur to McCoy. His house, his whole life, seemed so empty without his father there. He couldn’t get over the realization that his father was gone, and never coming back. The funeral had been pretty unremarkable. A few friends and family showed, but that was all. He quietly buried his father, and tried to go on with his life.

McCoy had finally gotten a job at a local sporting goods store. It wasn’t much, but it paid the bills and kept food on the table. He was a clerk in the camping department, and went about his duties there like a good company robot. He was still looking for something better, but there just weren’t a lot of jobs open since the economy was still hurting. He finished his shift for the day and headed home. All he wanted was some dinner and bed. As he pulled into the driveway and walked to his mailbox he noticed a car parked across the street. A small, rodent looking man climbed out with a briefcase and walked toward him. McCoy looked at him with distaste.
“Mr. McCoy,” the smaller man queried.
“Yes. Can I help you?”
“My name is John Bargermin. My firm is the executor of your father’s will. Could we talk inside for a moment?”
McCoy looked at him as if he had turned green, and led him into the house. He offered him a seat, and a cup of coffee, which the lawyer turned down. Bargermin opened his briefcase and removed a thick folder full of papers.

“Mr. McCoy, I have pushed your father’s will through the system, and it is now ready for you to claim your inheritance.”
McCoy looked confused. “What inheritance? My father never had any real money, and we sold his house years ago. What could he have had of any value to leave me?”
“Apparently, your great grandfather had bought a rather large tract of land in Alaska, near the Canadian border. Nearly 3000 acres. I have checked out all of the records, and this land is now yours. It was originally bought for timber, but a protected species was found there, so the timber company he owned couldn’t harvest there. He never sold the land, and now, as the sole heir, it is yours. This piece of property could prove to be very valuable.”

McCoy looked at him dubiously. “Why would my father never mention this? I never knew we owned anything but this small lot and house here.”
“I’m sure I don’t know, sir, but the will and deed are all perfectly legitimate. If you will look here,” he said as he pushed a sheaf of papers to McCoy. “This is the description of the land. It sits on a small river approximately 300 miles west of the Canadian border, and 600 miles north of Anchorage. It is pretty much in the middle of nowhere.”
McCoy looked over the maps that the lawyer had pushed in front of him. An idea began to form in his mind. He looked up at Bargermin and said, “Thank you, Sir. Is there anything else I need to know or do?”
“No. My office will contact you in a few days with a few papers you need to sign, but other than that, we’re done.” He rose from the table and began putting papers back in his briefcase. McCoy showed him to the door and thanked him once more.

Later that afternoon McCoy called the store he worked at. He knew they sold topographical maps from around the country, and wanted to see if they might have the one he need. He absently scratched Mac’s head as he waited for someone to answer the telephone. It only took a few minutes to learn they did indeed have the maps he was looking for. McCoy grabbed his keys from the table and hooked a leash to Mac’s collar.
“Come on, boy. Let’s go for a ride.”
A few minutes later he was back home, a sheaf of maps spread out on the table’s surface. McCoy peered intently at the area where his land was located. He looked down at the dog and said “That’s some pretty rugged country, Mac. What do you think?” Mac looked at him and wagged his tail. “Yeah, I agree. It might be worth checking into a bit further.” He went to the phone and called work again, asking for the manager when someone answered.
“Mr. Taggert, I need to take a few days off to go out of town. I’m sorry about the short notice, but an unavoidable situation has come up.” He listened as his boss replied. “Well, Sir, I’m sorry. I’ll pick up my check when I get back then.” He hung up the phone and turned back to the dog. “Are you ready for a road tr

A week later found McCoy pulling into the parking lot of a small store in a place called Whispering Pines, Alaska. He got out of his truck and stretched his cramped, tired back muscles. Mac stuck his head out of the driver’s window and barked once. “You stay boy. I’m going to get some water and ask a few questions. Stay put!” McCoy walked toward the door of the rustic looking building, pausing just long enough to make sure the dog was going to stay in the truck, and entered the store. He looked around for a moment, and then headed for the counter that ran along the far wall of the building. A man sat there on a stool, perusing a newspaper. A steaming cup of coffee sat at his elbow. McCoy tried to guess his age, but gave up, figuring he must be in his early fifties. A well worn gray sweater hung from his shoulders. His iron gray hair was long, nearly to the middle of his back. McCoy sauntered to the counter and laid his map down.
“Hi. I’m kind of turned around and wonder if you could give me a hand,” he said smiling. The older man looked at him over the rim of the spectacles perched on his nose.
“If you are looking for the pot of gold at the end of rainbow, you’re at the wrong end.” He smiled back at McCoy and pulled his map closer. “Where are you trying to get?”
McCoy leaned over the map and pointed. “I just inherited a chunk of land here, and can’t find a road leading in.”
The man looked at the map and snorted. “There isn’t one. That’s some of the wildest land in the country. You’d have to fly into here,” he said pointing to a large lake, “and pack it the rest of the way in. You might get a chopper in there, but most pilots won’t chance it. Forest is too thick.”
McCoy looked disappointed. He had hoped to get there sooner than that. “Where can I hire a pilot to get me to the lake?”
The old man grinned at him and said, “Right here. I’ve been flying those mountains before Moses was in diapers.”
McCoy grinned back.

Two days later found McCoy dropping his pack in a clearing in the middle of his land. He was awe struck. Never in his life had he seen anything so beautiful. The clearing was about half an acre across and nearly level. Surrounding it was a mix of lodge pole pines, maple, birch, walnut, and other trees. A good sized stream ran bubbling along about a hundred yards away. Just over the tree tops he could see the peaks of mountains reaching toward the heavens. Somewhere behind him he heard a chickadee’s familiar call. The majesty of the place brought a lump in his throat. McCoy looked around and found Mac nosing in a clump of bushes. A rabbit sped off, Mac giving chase until McCoy whistled him back. He trotted up with his tail wagging.
He scratched the dog’s ear and began setting up camp for the night.
That evening found McCoy sitting by a small fire, Mac next to him snoring softly. McCoy sipped at a cup of coffee, lost in thought. When he had come out here, it was with the idea of finding a buyer for this place. Now he wasn’t so sure he wanted to sell it. Somewhere in the darkness an owl hooted. He threw another log on the fire. Somewhere in his mind, an idea was forming. He decided to get some sleep. Maybe his answers would come with the morning. He settled in and pulled his sleeping bag up around his shoulders, his gaze on the fire until sleep overtook him.



Part III

Two weeks later McCoy was back home. Papers were stacked on the table in haphazard piles. A cold cup of coffee sat at his elbow as he typed away at his computer. He peered closely at the screen as the information he was looking for came up. He was researching cabin building, and other necessary items he would need for this venture. He didn’t really know when he had decided, but he knew his mind was made up. He was leaving, selling everything and getting away from the turmoil of living among people. The week he had spent in Alaska had changed him. He couldn’t stand the noise in the city anymore, or the constant hustle and bustle. He smiled as he remembered sitting next to the stream and watching a pair of young foxes play across from him, completely oblivious to his presence. He had watched them for nearly an hour, until they had run off into the woods. He moved from the computer to the table, a list of needed supplies in his hand. He perused the list, checking off things he already owned, thinking of places where he could acquire the rest, discarding items he felt were unnecessary. He heard a noise in the kitchen doorway and glanced in that direction to see Mac standing there with his food bowl in his mouth. McCoy laughed and said, “Yeah, Boy, I guess it is time for a break.”

McCoy walked into the store where he used to work, his eyes roving over the racks of camping goods that filled the store. He saw his supervisor, Mr. Taggert, standing at a cash register, a scowl marring his features. He looked up and saw McCoy. The scowl deepened. “Can I help you Dan,” he asked testily. McCoy looked at him as if he were a fly at a picnic. He handed Taggert his list.
“How soon can you get that gear together for me?”
Taggert looked at the list. “I’m sorry, but since you quit I don’t have the staff to fill custom orders,” he sneered. McCoy’s face turned red as he leaned across the counter. “Look you pompous twit. I spent the better part of every day I worked here grabbing crap for you and your friends. I know all about the stuff you loaded out of here without paying for it. Unless you want to discuss it with the district manager, you will fill this order, and you will do it quickly.” Taggert blanched, all color draining from his face. He looked at McCoy, thinking he might be bluffing, until he saw the ice in his deep blue eyes. He said, “I’ll have it ready for you in about an hour.” McCoy thanked him and left. A few hours later he was home, staring at a huge pile of equipment sitting in his living room. He began sorting it, going through his checklist as he did. Finally, he had everything arranged in some semblance of order.
“Mac, that is one big bunch of stuff,” he said. He felt a bit overwhelmed at the enormity of the task ahead of him. He was about to start packing some of the equipment away when the telephone rang. He picked it up.
“Hello,” he said.
“Mr. McCoy, this is Bargermin, your father’s lawyer. I have found a buyer for your house, as you requested.”
“Great! I was just beginning to get my stuff together. How soon before it’s all done?”
“Just a matter of weeks. Are you certain this is what you want to do?”
“Yes sir, more than anything. My mind is set.”
“Very well then, Mr. McCoy. I’ll be by in a few days with the paperwork for you to sign. Have a nice day Mr. McCoy.”
“You too Sir. Good bye,” McCoy said as he hung up.
He looked around the nearly empty house. He had been busy selling off everything he could possibly sell and donating what he couldn’t. Now the house was going to be sold. He looked at Mac lying near a sleeping bag on the floor.
“Boy, I hope we know what we’re doing,”he said as he reclined next to the dog. Mac lifted hid head at the sound of his voice and wagged his tail. McCoy scratched his ears, leaned back against the sleeping bag, and promptly fell asleep.


Part IV

The beginning of May found McCoy Sitting in front of a small campfire, Mac lying on his side next to him. He was leaning against a log, a cup of coffee in his hand. Behind him stood a small dome shaped shelter, much like a Native American wigwam. He thought back on the first few weeks he had been here, the small problems that he had run into trying to live in this wilderness he now called home. The very first night, after he had set up his tent and was beginning to gather fire wood, a sudden thunderstorm had popped up. He soon found he was camped too close to the stream as it flooded and washed his tent away. He built a small lean-to farther away from the stream and went looking for his tent. He found it snagged in some weeds and brush about a mile downstream, totally destroyed. At first he was disappointed, but he knew this was a small problem compared to what it could have been. At least none of his other gear had been in the tent. A few nights after that he had his first encounter with the local wildlife. He had been fishing in the stream, and not having a lot of luck, when he heard something rustling in the bushes across the water from him. He looked up, thinking it was probably just another fox or a deer, when suddenly the biggest bear he had ever seen came out of the brush. He looked at the bear, and the bear looked at him. The next thing he knew, his fishing ppole was on the ground, and he was up the nearest tree faster than he could say bear. He was glad Mac was not with him, or it could have been a really ugly scene. After about fifteen minutes, the bear left and McCoy climbed down.