to ignore how the heft of the gallon USDA-stamped can caused his stomach to burn with hunger.
“Maybe you’ll stay one more night,” the old woman said. “Tonight, you’ll finish the soup. Rest. I’ll tell you how to get upriver a ways. Then maybe tomorrow you leave.”
“I think we’ll get moving this afternoon,” he replied.
“Maybe it will storm tonight,” the old woman said. “You’ll be warmer maani . Here. Maybe you got a few more days before it starts to get real cold.”
“Maybe she’s right,” the girl added. “Plus, I feel stronger today, from the soup. You should have some tonight.”
He took another inventory of his stuff, eight extra rifle shells, a flint for fires, his grandfather’s knife, the water filter, the tarp, some string, ten feet of rope, duct tape, remnants of a first-aid kit, the gallon can of fruit cocktail, a gallon can of tomato paste, a gallon of red plums, and a 9-mm Glock with two clips and a spare box of hollow-point bullets.
He took the Glock, slid it into his parka pocket, and stood up.
“I’m going to go look around, get some wood for tonight. We’ll stay, but I’m not eating duck soup.”
HE COULDN’T SLEEP that first night in Bethel, so he slipped out from their bed-and-breakfast and walked across town toward the river. Midnight in the middle of August and he walked down the street needing no light to guide him. A haze of pink sat on the horizon to the north, bathing the town in a flat, pale glow.
“Damn!” he said in amazement when he reached the grassy slope that led down to the river. The enormous body of water swept silently and quickly past the town. At the farthest point he guessed the river was nearly a mile wide. He leaned his weight back against a guardrail and just stared out across the water.
A short open-bow aluminum skiff skipped across the glassy surface, the high-pitched motor buzzing downstream. He imagined the family of four, perhaps somehow related to him, sitting on the benches inside the skiff, headed toward the village he would soon be calling home, too. Long after they disappeared from his sight, the wash from the boat lapped at the row of white and grey boulders protecting the city from erosion like a crumbled castle wall.
Farther upstream, a quarter-mile-long row of wide steel pipes rose from the water’s edge like a line of giant limbless redwood trees. He guessed the wall of pipes was part of the city’s attempt to keep the monstrous river at bay. Downstream he could see a steep bank, towering twenty or thirty feet above the river.
As the greenish brown water rolled past he wondered how it could be that he’d never even heard of the Kuskokwim River before. All those waterways he’d learned as a kid. How could a river so impossibly huge be so invisible to the outside world?
A lone hooded figure walking upstream toward him caught his attention. The person seemed to be struggling, carrying something heavy and working to keep from stumbling on the boulders. The person stopped for a while and rested and then continued the trek upriver. Curious, John started down toward the river’s edge.
“Mind if I ask what you’re carrying?” John asked as the woman approached. She had long black hair stuffed into a hooded jacket that seemed as if it was made of a mosquito net, the type he’d used on the trip in the Yucatán. She sat down on one of the rocks and gently rested a bundle beside her. Whatever she’d wrapped in the blue denim jacket, she felt it was precious enough to hide or protect.
“Not if you’re going to tell on me, or arrest me,” she said half-jokingly. “I’m too old to get arrested.”
“Don’t worry about that,” John said. “I’m just a teacher.”
“Me, too. Retired last spring. We’re leaving town in the morning. I had to go treasure hunting one last time.” She zipped open her hood and wiped the sweat from her face. “My last night on the river and look at the beauty I found.”
John
“Maybe you’ll stay one more night,” the old woman said. “Tonight, you’ll finish the soup. Rest. I’ll tell you how to get upriver a ways. Then maybe tomorrow you leave.”
“I think we’ll get moving this afternoon,” he replied.
“Maybe it will storm tonight,” the old woman said. “You’ll be warmer maani . Here. Maybe you got a few more days before it starts to get real cold.”
“Maybe she’s right,” the girl added. “Plus, I feel stronger today, from the soup. You should have some tonight.”
He took another inventory of his stuff, eight extra rifle shells, a flint for fires, his grandfather’s knife, the water filter, the tarp, some string, ten feet of rope, duct tape, remnants of a first-aid kit, the gallon can of fruit cocktail, a gallon can of tomato paste, a gallon of red plums, and a 9-mm Glock with two clips and a spare box of hollow-point bullets.
He took the Glock, slid it into his parka pocket, and stood up.
“I’m going to go look around, get some wood for tonight. We’ll stay, but I’m not eating duck soup.”
HE COULDN’T SLEEP that first night in Bethel, so he slipped out from their bed-and-breakfast and walked across town toward the river. Midnight in the middle of August and he walked down the street needing no light to guide him. A haze of pink sat on the horizon to the north, bathing the town in a flat, pale glow.
“Damn!” he said in amazement when he reached the grassy slope that led down to the river. The enormous body of water swept silently and quickly past the town. At the farthest point he guessed the river was nearly a mile wide. He leaned his weight back against a guardrail and just stared out across the water.
A short open-bow aluminum skiff skipped across the glassy surface, the high-pitched motor buzzing downstream. He imagined the family of four, perhaps somehow related to him, sitting on the benches inside the skiff, headed toward the village he would soon be calling home, too. Long after they disappeared from his sight, the wash from the boat lapped at the row of white and grey boulders protecting the city from erosion like a crumbled castle wall.
Farther upstream, a quarter-mile-long row of wide steel pipes rose from the water’s edge like a line of giant limbless redwood trees. He guessed the wall of pipes was part of the city’s attempt to keep the monstrous river at bay. Downstream he could see a steep bank, towering twenty or thirty feet above the river.
As the greenish brown water rolled past he wondered how it could be that he’d never even heard of the Kuskokwim River before. All those waterways he’d learned as a kid. How could a river so impossibly huge be so invisible to the outside world?
A lone hooded figure walking upstream toward him caught his attention. The person seemed to be struggling, carrying something heavy and working to keep from stumbling on the boulders. The person stopped for a while and rested and then continued the trek upriver. Curious, John started down toward the river’s edge.
“Mind if I ask what you’re carrying?” John asked as the woman approached. She had long black hair stuffed into a hooded jacket that seemed as if it was made of a mosquito net, the type he’d used on the trip in the Yucatán. She sat down on one of the rocks and gently rested a bundle beside her. Whatever she’d wrapped in the blue denim jacket, she felt it was precious enough to hide or protect.
“Not if you’re going to tell on me, or arrest me,” she said half-jokingly. “I’m too old to get arrested.”
“Don’t worry about that,” John said. “I’m just a teacher.”
“Me, too. Retired last spring. We’re leaving town in the morning. I had to go treasure hunting one last time.” She zipped open her hood and wiped the sweat from her face. “My last night on the river and look at the beauty I found.”
John
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