Bear Hang
by Brian Albright
A gob of clear snot drips out of McKnight’s nostril and slides down his upper lip, where it joins the slick in his three-day growth. He doesn’t bother wiping it off. His nose is raw enough already with all the blowing.
Getting sick on a fishing trip is a pain, especially when the fishing is bad. The Walleyes haven’t been biting at all and Small Mouths up here don’t go for trolled lures. Even the Northerns are a joke — the two he and Jason caught trolling were half-dead from parasites.
The only other thing he’s caught is a cold. It’s an old fisherman’s joke, one that McKnight doesn’t find funny.
He slows his paddling and takes his bearings. With the heavy rain, it’s like looking through a veil and it takes him a minute to spot the dead tree on the opposite shoreline that he’s using for a marker. He has two more days of paddling and several portages if the weather’s decent, which it isn’t, so it’ll probably take a third day to get to where he wants to set up base camp.
Jason’s skinny, four year old arms are too small to help much, despite the boy’s urge to try. In portages, McKnight has keep an eye out for the boy on the trails while solo-carrying his canoe, a secondhand aluminum job he picked up when the local Boy Scout troop disbanded. He’s turned an ankle once already on the second day of the trip, which slows them down even more.
McKnight checks on his boy — dozing in a yellow poncho and life vest near the bow of the canoe. Jason’s being a good sport, really, considering how everything in their kit is damp, even with ten mil plastic duct-taped around everything, and not much for toys, aside from a few Legos.
The rain picks up and curtains of droplets lace the surface of the lake. They pelt McKnight’s face on one side and drip down his neck and inside his poncho. He reaches forward and pulls the poncho hood down over Jason’s head to keep him from getting too wet and he checks the boy’s blankets are still in place. They’re wool, so they’ll hold heat even if damp.
McKnight winces as his nipples rub against the inside of his shirt. Sweat and friction have chafed them to the point where they’re probably bleeding and will need band-aids tonight — if he can get any to stick, that is. He kneads a cramped muscle with his good arm.
Jason will probably want a band-aid as well to be like his Dad. He’s a good kid.
McKnight paddles diagonally into the wind, his strokes a little slower than before. He’s fought the wind all day and doesn’t have as much energy as when they’d started out. After several minutes, he stops and dips a plastic mug into the lake for a drink.
“You can drink too if you’re thirsty,” he says, in case the boy’s awake, but he isn’t. The water, one of the special attractions of the Boundary Waters, tastes a little like mineral salts. It’s maybe the only place in the lower 48 where one can drink straight from the source without coming down with cholera or poisoning from industrial runoff.
He drinks a second cup, recalling how easily one can get dehydrated when doing physical activity in the rain. The water feels cool on his throat and he tries to ignore the little dark bits suspended in the liquid — fish shit.
“Life on the lakes is real, you know,” he says out loud, more for his own sake than his son’s. “A man can die out here if he doesn’t pay attention.”
He likes it here, despite the misery. It’s a quiet, honest sort of misery, Nature at its best, not the velvet daggers of office politics or the minutiae of life in suburbia. He’s had his fill of unhappy people peeking out their French windows in the hopes of catching a scandal — a neighbor not mowing his lawn to spec, say, or another bobbing her head over her husband’s lap on their Homeowners-Association-approved deck.
They can keep it for all he cares. He rubs at the pale strip on his left hand. He’d thrown his wedding ring into the lake their first day out, an act that felt sort of good at the time, but not as fulfilling as he’d hoped.
Now he just feels stupid for not hocking the damn thing.
The wind gusts and he hears thunder in the distance. McKnight turns the boat to block it with his body and sneak a look at the map. It’ll be dark soon and he doesn’t want to try fumbling for a flashlight if he can help it.
“Daddy?”
Jason’s eyes open briefly and he mumbles something.
McKnight freezes, listening with his whole being. His son hasn’t spoken since the divorce. The boy’s eyes close again and McKnight curses that he couldn’t make out the words over the slapping sounds of water against the side of the canoe. Goddammit.
There’s no way he’s going to manage another portage before dark. They need to get somewhere where he can try to get a fire going and dry out some. He spots on the map a peninsula with a couple of camping spots about half a mile ahead. They’re not great locations, both exposed to the wind, but any port is welcome in a storm — or crappy, unending stretch of rain.
McKnight has to make several ‘J’ strokes to hold his course in the choppy water. He’s making horrible time, with fatigue and the weather, but he should be able to arrive before it gets too dark.
He hopes, anyway.
It’s nearly pitch black and he’s holding a blue LED flashlight in his teeth, fumbling with the aluminum poles of an old canvas tent he’s had since he was a kid. The rain drives unrelenting into his eyes.
New ones set up in all of about thirty seconds, all nylon and fiberglass, cheap Chinese crap that you throw in the air and it magically forms into a tent: Bang. Instant tent, no fuss, no worries. No patching if it gets damaged either — just chuck it out and buy a new one at Wal*Mart.
He twists two bent aluminum poles together and threads the hook through a bent eyelet on the tent. Planting the pole into the soft ground, he raises the edge of the tent under the tarp he’s stretched over their spot. Water cascades down on his shirt.
He’s stubbornly held onto this anachronism since his own father died. Jason might appreciate it someday, he thinks, as he wipes his face again.
Only one of the campsites was empty. The other, a hundred yards east, is occupied by a retired couple with a brand new, motorized canoe made of ABS foam and vinyl. He wants no part of the men in matching Eddie Bauer designer flannel, chattering idly about how great it is to be retired and how, wink-wink, great an invention Viagra is, wink-wink. Their brightly colored ripstop nylon tent has an electric lantern swinging inside.
Jason’s several feet away under their own upside-down canoe, drawing in the mud with a stick. He’s far enough away that McKnight doesn’t have to watch his language.
It takes McKnight another twenty minutes to finish with the tent, secure the tarp over its top, and dig a bypass trench to route the worst of the runoff around the drop tarp. Without it, he explains to his son, they’ll have inches of water inside the tent by morning.
Jason is quietly upset there won’t be a fire tonight, but there’s nothing dry to burn. Even McKnight’s journal is sodden, turned to pulp between moleskin covers, pages scribbled on why his marriage failed and what kind of person he thinks he is — pablum paste not even suitable for burning.
There’s a metaphor in there somewhere, but he’s too damn tired to think about it.
McKnight tells Jason to watch out and sets a long, plastic stake into the mud. He pounds it hard with the back of the hatchet and the yellow, plastic head of the stake deforms a bit with each strike. It’s probably hit a pebble or something, so he gives it a few hard whacks to drive it further. The handle of the hatchet slips in his grip.
He thinks of his wife as he sinks another stake into the rocky earth with just two blows. He’s fine with just his son, really. Who needs a god-damned cheating bitch anyway? He sets another stake, but the strike slides off the side, gashing his hand open with the blade.
“Goddammit!” he shouts, hurling the orange-handled hatchet into the mud. He applies pressure to the wound and red wells up from it. He lets it bleed freely for a bit to clean it and he watches for throbbing. It’s deep and probably needs stitches, but at least he didn’t hit an artery. His blood mingles with the ever-present rivulets of rain.
Jason stares at him with wide eyes and scurries behind the tent.
McKnight closes his eyes and says as gently as he can, “It’s okay, I’m fine. You can come out, really.”
Jason stays hidden.
McKnight slaps duct tape over the wound to close it and drives the remaining stakes quickly, if sloppily. They’re probably set too deeply and will be a pain in the ass to pry out tomorrow, but he’s beyond caring. His soggy sleeping bag seems awfully inviting and, hungry as he is, he’s even starting to crave a “meal” of beef jerky and cheese sticks.
He wipes blood on his pants. What he really needs is a drink, but he buries that thought fast — it’s part of why he’s here and his ex is off fucking some attorney in their bed.
McKnight still has to secure their food. He stands and takes some nylon rope and the pack with their food. He tells Jason to stay in the tent, but removes his shoes first so he won’t track mud back inside.
After a few minutes of searching, he spots a branch that will do for a bear hang. It’s a long, horizontal bough fifteen feet up and the bark is smooth. Other campers have used it for the same purpose. He tosses the line over, loops an end about his plastic-wrapped pack, and ties the other off around the trunk in a messy knot. He’s done better, but he’s not about to try scrabbling up a wet tree in the dark with a hand that’s dripping blood.
He hears something stir over by the tent. Jason has been quiet for too long.
He hurries back, his ankle complaining, and opens the tent. Both sleeping bags are empty and the boy isn’t there.
“Jason?” he calls out. “Jason!”
He hears something just outside and shines the flashlight into the underbrush. He exhales when he sees his son in his yellow poncho. The boy is fumbling with the zipper to his pants.
“Come on, let’s get you something to eat and turn in.”
McKnight jerks awake to the sound of clattering and ripping. It’s coming from outside, but at a distance, probably the next camp over. Idiots. If the weekend warriors are stupid enough to try hiding food under their canoe, thinking that a Coleman cooler can actually stop a bear, then they deserve to go hungry. People need to take responsibility for their actions.
He’s not completely heartless, he tells himself. He’ll check on them in the morning, maybe help patch their canoe so they can limp back to their Denny’s breakfast specials and waxed Winnebago. The rain drums on the tarp.
He closes his eyes and tries to go back to sleep — tomorrow will be a wasted day if he can’t rest. He rolls on his side, trying to get comfortable on the rocky ground, and dozes off to the gurgling of the small brook nearby.
He doesn’t dream.
A scream wakes him a second time, but it ends abruptly, leaving McKnight wondering if he really heard it. He sits and fumbles for his flashlight and hatchet. A precaution, he tells himself. Nothing to be concerned about.
Jason is hyperventilating. He pats the boy’s leg.
Something moves outside in the camp, something large.
“Stay put, Jason,” he whispers, not feeling particularly calm. A low growling causes the boy to huddle in his bag.
Metal crashes and McKnight imagines their canoe being smashed onto the rocks. He pulls down the tent zipper and sneaks a look outside. A minute passes. Nothing.
He hears loud snaps and a splash as something heavy falls into the mud. The sound is coming from behind the tent. Fabric tears.
“Shit. It’s in our food.” He whispers to the terrified boy. “Sit tight, Jason.”
Plastic wrappings crackle as something gorges on their shrink-wrapped provisions. McKnight unzips the tent and steps outside. Normally, he wouldn’t confront a bear, but if it gets at the food, their trip is as good as over. He flicks on the flashlight and picks up an paddle.
“Yaw, get out of here!” he shouts, approaching the clearing beneath the bear hang. “Yaw, yaw!” He waves the oar wildly and shines the flashlight about in an effort to scare off the animal.
He finds the clearing empty.
He shines the flashlight upward and sees that their food is intact, as before. He spins around, looking about the clearing, but finds nothing. He notes the paddle in his hand and it dawns on him that he’d taken it from beside a canoe that was as he’d left it before turning in, not hurled onto the rocks.
Confused, McKnight returns to the tent, but doesn’t zip the front flap. Instead, he peers out and watches the campsite in the soft rain.
“Did you hear that before?” he asks, thinking the boy must have since he was terrified. There is no response, but then he doesn’t expect one — Jason hasn’t spoken since the divorce.
“Daddy?” McKnight freezes, listening with his whole being against the oppressive quiet. The whisper is so faint that he almost thinks he’s imagined it.
“Daddy? Why’d you let me die?”
McKnight feels a tightness in his throat. Hands shaking, he clicks on the flashlight and finds that he’s alone in the tent.
“Jason, goddammit, where are you!” McKnight shouts again into the morning twilight. The drizzle is cold in his face and his hair slicks to his forehead. In his haste, he’s left his poncho back in the camp.
He’s frantic now. The old farts in the next camp over hadn’t heard a thing last night. The self-absorbed assholes don’t even remember Jason from when they met him not twelve hours ago.
His son is gone and he feels the same sick feeling as at the divorce hearing, when his unfaithful wife left him with nothing. Oh, he’s at fault? Bang. Instant loneliness. No life, no family.
He vows to kill whoever took his boy from him. He is chilled through, wet and so very cold.
McKnight stumbles and his swollen ankle throbs in spite of the the half dozen Advil he’s downed dry.
He thinks he sees a spot of yellow ahead. He pushes into the clearing and sees that it’s the one beneath his bear hang. Has he circled back so soon? The pack is still hanging above him, just out of reach. It's dripping in the drizzle.
“Fuck!” he screams and hurls his hatchet into the ground, where it buries up to the handle in mud.
Something makes him look up a second time and a large drop falls onto his forehead. He wipes it, but his hand comes away sticky.
It’s blood. The bag weeps from a dark stain welling in the bottom of the clear plastic that he’s taped about the pack. He feels an urge to vomit.
Before he can think on this further, he hears a peal of laughter — a woman’s derisive laughter — and he recognizes her voice. His rage surges and he chases after the sound.
“You goddamn give me back my boy!” he shouts, delirious, as he staggers through the trees. He spots a bit of yellow and plows forward, oblivious to the pains in his ankle or his body, cut in several places by sharp branches.
“Jason?” he asks, seeing the child.
Jason turns to him. “Daddy?”
McKnight hears his son’s voice — he’s sure of it this time — and he almost cries in relief. He pulls him into an embrace. The child is wet and so very cold.
“Don’t you ever run off like that again!”
He puts his arm on the boy’s shoulder and tries to meet his eyes. The child looks up, finally, his face devoid of emotion. His skin is tinted blue, like the day McKnight, in a drunken stupor, fished a tiny body from the swimming pool, a body that was wet and so very cold...
The rain stops.
McKnight recalls with clarity the day he buried his son.
Several minutes pass and he finds that he is completely alone. Clenched in his hand is a wedding band. He stares at it, turning it over again and again, and he doesn’t notice the blur of orange or the whistle of the hatchet head approaching fast.
"What do you make of that, Verne?" an older man asks as the two arrive upon the body of the man they had met the day before, the one who kept talking to himself.
The second man prods the corpse with the end of a carbon-fiber walking stick. "Dunno, but I'm gonna be sick."
"I've never even heard of someone killing himself with a hatchet."
