Surviving Bear Island Read online

  I stuffed more berries into my mouth and wondered if anyone had found the truck in Whittier, and if searchers had already been to the Sentinels.

  Had any of our gear been found? It could’ve drifted for miles. Pushed back and forth with the tides, or washed up on shore and then covered with seaweed or stuck in the rocks in places no one could get to, like the blue dry bag I’d seen. The more I thought about this, the more convinced I became that no one would find me.

  Dad’s face, bobbing in the waves popped into my mind. He was alive the last time I’d seen him. Still, my own death lurked in the back of my brain, waiting for me to make a fatal mistake, or just give up. And what would I do if I survived and my dad didn’t? What difference would it make? I’d be an orphan. An orphan. I felt my face getting hot. I squeezed my eyes closed a couple of times, opened them and then kept going.

  I hadn’t heard Dad’s voice in a while, except for last night when I woke with a gasp, the cold waves pushing me under. Only in this dream I couldn’t make it to the surface. And through the water I looked up and saw my dad floating face down, waving at me. And I just kept sinking until I couldn’t see him.

  I had bad dreams after Mom’s accident, but they were about what was happening to her, not me.

  I stuck to the small bluffs, where the walking was easier. But my feet ached from walking all day in the rubber boots. I could feel the blisters forming on the insides of my arches and on the tops of my toes, hot spots burning with every step.

  I heard the water before I saw it. A constant roar.

  At the edge of a gorge, I looked toward the bay and then upstream, toward the snowy mountains. On the far side of the gorge the open land continued a little longer and then turned into forest; that’s where I needed to be.

  I walked along the rim of the gorge downstream, searching for a place to cross, but was soon staring over the tops of trees on a steep slope next to a huge waterfall. The white water rushed over the lip and plunged maybe sixty feet, the mist continually floating up, covering my face. It was Lord-of-the-Rings beautiful, but I hated it. All I wanted was a muddy trickle that I could step across.

  I turned and headed upstream.

  With the wind at my back, I climbed up and over little hills of jagged rocks. Then I saw two lakes in the distance, surrounded by forest and connected by a channel.

  The first lake was small, a holding pond for the stream that rushed down the gorge. The water was shallow and spread out and had a current. While the water was still wide and shallow, I crossed the stream just below the little lake, and hiked the shore toward the larger lake.

  The big lake filled most of the valley. At the far end a forested pass led to … somewhere.

  I felt the breeze on my face as I stared at the pass. Was it a shortcut to the Sentinels? I didn’t know. If only I had a map. What if I went that way and ran into cliffs on the other side of the pass? I put my tongue where the canker sores had been, and felt two bumps where scar tissue had grown.

  The first drops of rain splashed on the lake. I turned to a twisted spruce tree, broke dead twigs from the low branches, and stuffed them into my pocket.

  I couldn’t just stand here and freeze. One more day, and maybe I’d be on the open coast. And maybe I’d spot a boat. No chance of that if I headed inland.

  Two more bays between Hidden Bay and the Sentinels, or three? And how many miles of open coast? I couldn’t remember.

  A shortcut would be sweet.

  I took a couple steps toward the pass, then stopped. I took a couple more and stopped again. My chest felt raw, my throat dry. I stood there, my feet cemented to the ground, just wanting to know the best way to go. Where was Dad’s voice now?

  “What should I do?”

  I waited. No response.

  I stared at the ground and tracks stared back up at me. Bear tracks? People tracks? There were no pads or claws, just depressions and no tread marks. But my dad’s boots were probably worn slick on the bottoms. They were over twenty years old. Were these his tracks? And if they were, which way was he traveling? I took a few forceful steps and compared my tracks to the ones on the ground. They looked almost the same except mine had tread. Some of them faced the pass and others faced the shore.

  The rain came harder. I pulled my hood up, turned away from the pass, and retraced my steps to the outlet of the small lake.

  I glanced over my shoulder. A short cut? I didn’t know. I didn’t know anything except if I hugged the shore that I’d eventually make it to the Sentinels … unless I died first. And I hoped my dad would think the same and keep to the shore, too.

  As I angled my way down toward Hidden Bay, the open land turned into forest.

  On the shore, the breeze barreled into the bay from the southeast. I turned away from the wind and headed toward a small point, hoping to find protection.

  My boot-tip caught a root and I fell onto one knee.

  I pushed myself up and my knee throbbed like I’d just smashed it on the gym floor.

  On the far side of the point, I picked a lone, low-growing branch under a big tree. I dragged deadfall back to the spot and made a slanted roof of sticks and boughs, and then gathered firewood.

  I ducked under the roof, kneeling on my good knee, scraped the wet needles away and set down half of my last fire starter stick. The first two matches sparked but wouldn’t light. The third one flamed enough to ignite the fire starter stick. I fed it the dud matches and the twigs from my pocket, then bigger sticks until the fire took on a life of its own.

  I huddled over the flames and my clothing steamed. My stomach called out for fish. I reached for the fanny pack, then pulled my hand back. “Wood first,” I said. “Before it’s dark.”

  So I dragged more deadfall to the shelter, then carried armloads of branches, and pieces of driftwood, my knee throbbing with every step. I put one end of a large log on the coals. Then I dragged another log on from the opposite direction, and settled onto the life vests. But it wasn’t a restful rest in this sorry-excuse-of-a-shelter with only a roof and three open sides. The wind ripped through wherever it pleased, tearing at the fire.

  Water dripped from one corner of the lean-to. I used a stick and weighted an empty Ziploc baggie under the drip. At least I’d have some drinking water.

  Blue and yellow flames curled around the large logs as twilight faded into darkness. The wind died down and the rain settled into a steady pounding on the bay. I draped one of the emergency blankets over my head and shoulders to keep the drips off me. This was gonna be a long night.

  CHAPTER 20

  LATE the next day, I topped the last headland between Hidden Bay and the open coast. A breeze from the south warned of more wet weather to come.

  After a long night of shivering by a small fire, the day so far had been one long trudge. Headland after headland. Climb up. Climb down. At least it wasn’t raining right now.

  I’d eaten a half fish at mid-day. One fish left in the fanny pack. One fish separating me from starvation.

  My blisters must’ve popped because they stung all the time. And my knee hurt steadily all day. And my neck was itching again. I was pretty much a hazard to my own health. A walking disaster. If I were a horse I’d be first in line at the glue factory.

  I sat down. A rocky beach, maybe a half-mile stretch, lay below me before the next point. Once I was on that beach, I’d be outta Hidden Bay. I’d crawl if I had to.

  Small goals. That’s how I’d make it to the Sentinels.

  Today. Out of Hidden Bay.

  Tomorrow? I couldn’t even imagine tomorrow.

  I side-stepped my way down the slope to ease the pressure on my toes. I hoped I’d find a flat spot at the far end of the beach to make camp.

  Small waves lapped at my boots as I walked along the shore. I didn’t see any tracks but the tide scrubbed the beaches clean every six hours or so. A peach strip of sky at the horizon separated gray rainclouds from the water. If only those clouds would stay over the water.

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sp; Then I glimpsed something shiny. It was up in an old strand line bordering the forest. I might’ve missed it if I hadn’t stopped to rub my sore knee. There were specks of plastic in the strand line but they were usually either dull in color or they stood out because they were so obnoxiously different from seaweed and driftwood. But this was twinkling, almost winking at me. Begging me to come check it out.

  I dropped my gaff and spear, and walked toward the old strand line.

  Where the forest met the beach, seaweed and fragments of driftwood formed a thick, bulging mat. Imbedded in that mat was a silver square a little smaller than a CD case.

  I squatted and touched the object. It was some kind of metal. I pulled the knotted seaweed away, then grabbed the metal with both hands and tugged. A mass of seaweed and bite-sized pieces of driftwood tumbled forward and this rotten salty odor invaded my nose.

  And in my hands, a stainless steel bowl—about a foot across and six inches deep—smattered with dents.

  I sucked in a shallow breath and squinted. Besides the dents, it was just like Mom’s popcorn bowl.

  Countless times I’d come home from school to the smell of popcorn. Mom’s favorite afternoon snack. We’d sit on the couch, sharing popcorn, and tell each other about our days. We still had that bowl, but Dad never used it.

  My gaff and spear were half in the water, riding the incoming tide. I lifted them off the water and continued along the coast with the bowl. At the end of the beach, I crossed deer tracks leading from the water’s edge straight to the forest. The land was too lumpy for camping, so I kept going even though my toes were screaming to stop.

  I scrambled over a rocky point and took in the small cove.

  The muscles in my neck tightened.

  I’d camped here. With Dad. The day before the accident. Spent two days here, mostly in the tent, because of the lousy weather and big waves.

  I dropped the bowl and kicked it, and my toes stung even more. Then I smacked it with my spear.

  I picked the bowl back up and walked toward the cove.

  Swim for shore.

  “I did swim for shore,” I said. “The question is, what did you do?” I put my hand on the raincoat fanny pack, then touched his life vest. “If this stuff made it to shore, then you must’ve too. Right?”

  I waited, but the voice didn’t come. It never came when I wanted it to. When I actually asked a question.

  I reached the back of the cove and sighed. I had work to do.

  I faced three huge Sitka spruce, and set the bowl down under the biggest one. Rain pelted the tops of the trees, and started working its way through the branches as I roamed the forest for deadfall.

  With arms of lead, I leaned three limbs against the Sitka spruce and dug their ends into the ground so they wouldn’t slip, then started laying branches and boughs across them.

  I pried rocks from the intertidal for a fire ring, and for throwing. Then I collected firewood. And in the trap of my mind I saw my dad bobbing in the waves and wished I’d seen what I needed to see, then maybe we wouldn’t have had an accident. And I wished I’d gone on that bike ride with my mom.

  It was a small shelter, barely five feet tall next to the tree. About six feet long and four feet wide.

  I used the dry twigs in my raincoat pocket to light a fire. I fed it larger sticks, then took my bowl to the small stream Dad and I had used.

  I squatted, filled the bowl partway, rinsed it, filled it again, then drank a whole bowlful of water. And then drank another just because I could. Because I thought it was so cool that I didn’t have to scoop water with my hands twenty times just to quench my thirst.

  I refilled the bowl and walked back to camp.

  The raincoat with the fish lay next to the fire. The fish I’d hoped would get me to the Sentinels.

  It all came down to food.

  No food meant no life.

  At home, when I opened the freezer to get some ice cream, or made myself a peanut butter sandwich, or some scrambled eggs, it never crossed my mind that I was eating to survive. I was just having a snack, or breakfast or whatever.

  And who cared if I didn’t finish the sandwich and tossed some of it out, or if I left eggs on my plate. There was always more. Now I wished I had all the remains of all the sandwiches I’d never finished. I’d even take the cabbage, beans, and broccoli—the ever-present leftovers on my plate when Mom was still alive. We had a big garden with a seven-foot-tall fence to keep the moose out, but Dad hadn’t touched it since Mom died. It was all overgrown with fireweed and saplings. But if I wanted to change that, I could. I didn’t have to wait for Dad to decide to fix up the garden. Just like I didn’t have to wait for him to learn how to play guitar. To play my mom’s guitar. When I get home, I just need to do those things. Just like right now. If I wanted a shelter, I had to build one.

  I took a hunk of fish and put it into the bowl, raked some coals to the side of the main fire, and centered the bowl on top of them.

  “Fish soup,” I said. “I’ll eat hot fish soup.”

  The water got a brownish tinge to it as more of the fish gave itself over to the boiling liquid, and a rich, fishy odor filled my sorry little shelter.

  I put on my ragged wool gloves, lifted the bowl off the coals and set it on the ground.

  Little bits of salmon hung suspended in the liquid, like the silt in the Tanana River in Fairbanks. We’d scooped river water for a science experiment last year. At first it seemed like there was more silt than water, but after it settled to the bottom of the container, I was surprised by how little there was.

  After a few minutes I took my gloves off and felt the side of the bowl. It was warm but not hot, so I lifted it. I let the steam warm my face, then gulped a couple mouthfuls of broth and set the bowl down.

  I wanted it to last forever. To sit here and sip warm broth until a boat buzzed into this cove and found me. A boat with my dad on it.

  After the broth was gone, I ate the clumps of warm, mushy fish, then licked my fingers.

  Week-old, mushed-up, boiled-up salmon—I loved it, every mouthful. I’d eat it three times a day if I could. Or twice a day, I’d settle for that. Even once a day would be great, as long as I knew it was coming.

  The rain didn’t let up. A continuous drip of water formed at one corner of the shelter, so I put the bowl under the drip.

  I draped an emergency blanket over my shoulders and leaned toward the fire, keeping the blanket open a little so it’d trap the hot air.

  The bowl, I thought. It rocks. And it couldn’t have come from very far away, because once it filled with water it would’ve sunk. Probably fell out of a boat, but when? Or someone left it on the beach. How long ago?

  Maybe it really was a gift from Mom. I felt my cheeks lift a little. But how could it be? Like it really couldn’t be the bowl we used at home. Like one of those Hunger Games magic parachutes had delivered it. But still, here it was, and I’d found it mostly buried in dead seaweed.

  The warm air was building under the blanket, surrounding me while the broth warmed me from the inside. Sleep. I just wanted to sleep. Could fall asleep right now.

  Sleep and dream about being with Mom.

  Eating popcorn.

  With butter.

  And salt.

  Maybe even hear Mom’s voice.

  I heard a pop, and a crackling noise. And I smelled the popcorn. I was there, warm, with her.

  I felt the heat on my face and jerked my head back.

  My blanket. A whole quarter of it was gone. Burned up on the coals.

  Another stupid mistake.

  I’m just lucky the whole thing hadn’t gone up in flames or melted onto me. Or that I hadn’t collapsed onto the fire.

  One of my mom’s friends passed out by a campfire and burned up her hands. She was standing up and fainted. Fell right into the fire. She had to wear bandages for weeks, and have surgery. “If I burned myself like that,” I whispered, “I’d be done.”

  I had Dad to thank for the b
lankets. For everything. Not just the knives and matches and fishing lures, but what he’d taught me. And not just skills, but ideas about how to live. And Mom, too. Her songs were all about living, and risk taking, and paying attention.

  Yeah, I’d made some mistakes, but I was still alive.

  The less I have, I realized, the more thankful I am for what I do have.

  Like the bowl. Who’d ever think to be thankful that they had a bowl?

  And out here, I wasn’t using my bowl as just a bowl—I used it as a pot, too.

  The bowl was half-filled from the drip. I raked some coals to the side of the fire, flattened them a little and put the bowl on. I slipped another hunk of fish in the water.

  Only a half a fish left.

  Never enough food.

  And firewood. The pile wasn’t as big as I’d like it to be. I stayed warm enough when I hovered over the fire with my blanket open, but I couldn’t trust myself to not fall asleep and land in the flames.

  If only I could take a break from this. Just for one day. If I could be back at home for one day. Just to sleep in my bed. And rest, and eat, and take a long, hot shower. And put band-aids on my blisters and some stuff on my neck to keep it from itching. Just one day to block it all out and pretend everything was normal.

  The next morning I stirred the coals in my fire ring and a few red embers surfaced. I must’ve fallen into a deep sleep. Deep enough that I wasn’t constantly stoking the fire. And I hadn’t seen Dad bobbing in the waves. I hadn’t seen Mom either.

  I placed twigs I had dried by the fire onto the coals, and blew until tiny flames licked upward.

  I fed the flames with larger and larger sticks.