The Cold, Hard Truth

Ed McKenna crouched behind the fallen Spruce tree. Struggling to protect himself from the howling wind that raced through the trees, he squeezed himself into the space between the tree trunk and the wall of earth clinging to the root.

The snow had stopped, and now frozen rain pelted his face and head. He tugged at his backpack. Using his left hand, he opened it, and pulled it over his head. Encased in the nylon bag his head was sheltered from the stinging pellets of ice, whipped across the lake by a wind that made the spruce moan, and the alder rattle their resentment. With his head in the confines of the half shredded backpack, Ed endured the pain that seemed to subside as the thermometer dropped. He reached back to remember when this all began. It seemed as if it were years ago, but it was far shorter than that.

A month ago, he had been at the pharmacy preparing a prescription for Al Hughes. Albert was more than a customer; he was a fellow Rotarian, and a member of the same country club. It was natural for Al to tell him about his aborted trip to Alaska.

He remembered the conversation.

"Yeah, Ed, the doc says I can't go to Alaska. It's a pity. I just paid a guy five hundred dollars for a week in his cabin on a lake. No one around for miles. I was really looking forward to spending a week alone."

"Sorry to hear that Al, but maybe in a few weeks . . ."

"No, no chance,” said Al. “One more episode like this and I'm done. I can't be alone anymore. If you know anyone who's interested, I wouldn't mind getting my five hundred back."

The seed was planted. A short pregnancy followed, and the developed thought was born when he heard himself say to Mildred, "I'm going to Alaska for a week or two." The words came almost before he realized he had decided to go.

He didn't ask her opinion. When they were first married, Mildred had often tried his patience. He attempted to hide his annoyance when she replaced a book in the wrong space, or moved something on his desk, but she saw his displeasure. She tried to ignore his reproachful attitude with an understanding smile and by obediently correcting her error. That was a long time ago. Mildred, now, seldom trespassed into his domain.

A week later Ed had purchased his ticket and hired an extra employee for the pharmacy. He began packing for what he thought was to be a late life adventure; a brief excursion to make up for the mundane suburban existence that he was forced to endure.

Along with his clothes, a camera and a few books, he packed an old Winchester rifle that had been his dad's. He cherished the memories of the days when he tagged along on his father's deer hunts. The heft of the old Model 71 pleased him. Having it with him just felt good.

When he arrived in Anchorage he went directly from the airport to the hotel, pausing briefly in the terminal to stand, awestruck, by the brace of full mounted bears. They stood like sentinels guarding the exits. He couldn't determine which of the two was larger—the Polar or the Brown. Each was bigger than he ever thought possible. Measured against the standing ten-foot bears, he would stand only slightly higher than their navels, and he was almost six feet tall.

Finding the cabin was not difficult. He contacted the rental agent, and the next day he was met at the hotel by a seedy looking gent dressed in farmer's coveralls and a red and black checked wool shirt. His ruddy cheeks were covered by the tangled growth of a salt-and-pepper beard. It appeared to have captured and retained breakfast as well as some mosquitoes. He took his gloves off, stuffed them into his back pocket, and extended a meaty hand.

"I'm Jules. Mr. Hargrove asked me to take ya up to the cabin."

Without another word, Jules picked up his duffle and placed it in the bed of a battered Chevy pickup. Ed climbed into the passenger's seat and looked through a mud-splattered windshield to the snow capped Talkeetna's. The dash was littered with pads, pencils, and empty coffee containers, all covered with a generous dusting of dirt. Ed's new leather boots slipped along the tops of a few pebbles mixed with the dust covering the floor as he shifted his weight and fastened a coffee stained seat belt.

Jules climbed behind the wheel and offered him chewing tobacco from a red and white striped foil pouch. After an unspoken but obvious refusal, Jules stuffed a wad between his gum and cheek and began to talk. Ed watched as the streets of Anchorage slid by the open window.

"I hope ya enjoy your visit, Mr. McKenna. I know you're a stranger up here but the mountains are great, a little lonely up at the cabin, but nice this time of year. Crisp at night, about thirty or so, but days are downright warm, about sixty."

He spoke without taking a breath, except to reach for an empty coffee container on the dash, into which he spat brownish tobacco juice. He took the grease stained, green and yellow John Deere cap from his head and allowed his mop of hair, more silver than black, to fall over his ears.

Jules's rambling went on, and Ed said little in reply, except in answer to direct questions. In ten minutes they arrived at a lake.

Jules said, "This is it.”

Ed was surprised. He hadn't given it much thought, but he had assumed the cabin would be further out of town. Jules, with Ed's duffle in tow, started down to the dock where several floatplanes were tied. His knee-high rubber boots clumped along the wooden structure. We need a plane to get there, Ed thought. Maybe I should have asked more questions.

He followed Jules past a Super Cub, several Cessna 150's, and a pair of 182's, before Jules stopped by a ragged looking Cessna 182 at the fueling dock.

Jules stowed his gear and helped him into the passenger's seat. Ed looked about a cockpit that mirrored the interior of Jules' pickup. He began to wonder if flying in this crate was the intelligent thing to do.

"Do you fly this plane?" he asked.

"Oh yeah,” said Jules. “She's a stout ship. This is my third, all 182's."

"What happened to the first two?" Ed ventured.

"Sold the first, wrecked the second,” said Jules. “'Surance bought this 'un"

"Is it safe?" Ed asked.

Jules, standing on the left float, looked at Ed over his right shoulder, smiled, and continued examining the left aileron.

"Oh, you'll be fine, Mr. McKenna,” he said, looking over the top of his aviator style sunglasses. “Remember, I'm in this plane too."

Ed, still doubtful, wondered silently if this little aircraft was properly maintained.

He tucked his concerns into the corner of his mind that held those things he had little control over. He bit his tongue, buckled his seat belt, and pulled it tight. After all, he did want to experience life in Alaska, and flying was part of it. Before long they were taxing across the lake.

The Cessna picked up speed, shrugged itself from the suction of the water, and climbed steadily across the lake. Jules banked the plane steeply, leveled out, and resumed climbing on a heading of three hundred fifty degrees. A two-lane road traversed a landscape deeply veined with small rivers and streams, but no other sign of humanity was visible. Soon the road was left behind.

"Mount McKinley," Jules bellowed over the engine's drone, "Is right up there." He pointed to the north. Ed smiled his acknowledgment, but he couldn't see Mount McKinley.

Jules nudged Ed's shoulder, "Kahiltna Glacier—that ice you see up there."

Ed pulled his camera out, and the pilot banked the little plane to give him a better view of the rugged tongue of ice that slid between snow-capped teeth.

The flight was short, and 45 minutes after leaving Anchorage they circled a lake, narrow but quite long. Jules descended skillfully, crabbed into the wind, and landed smoothly on the lake's glassy surface.

Taxing to the lake's edge the pilot pointed. Ed could just make out a small cabin behind a stand of alders that grew alongside a small rivulet of water that emptied into the lake.

The cabin was a stark shelter of un-insulated plywood over a frame of rough-cut spruce logs. As he surveyed the one-room shack, Ed was discouraged, if not dismayed, to find that it was barren of all but the most basic amenities. It was dark, with the only light admitted coming through the open door.

Ed placed his gear on a rough table that occupied the middle of the small room. Made of spruce logs, it was fastened with nails, as were the two chairs that stood at opposite ends of the table. Jules struck a match and lit the propane lantern that hung from a roof truss in the center of the room. A folding canvas cot stood between the table and the back wall.

Ed walked the three steps it took to reach several rows of shelves. They contained canned goods and the usual hunting camp staples. Two saw horses spanned by a half sheet of plywood supported a chipped, speckled gray enameled basin. Jules pointed.

“Ya sink," he said. He gestured to a roughly scrawled sign that was pinned to a shelf, which read: "BURN ALL GARBAGE."

“D'bears,” said Jules. “Don't leave no garbage around."

Jules struck another match and showed Ed how to light the propane stove. They picked up the water bucket and walked to the brook about thirty-five yards from the cabin. Jules scooped a bucket of water. While coffee brewed, Jules showed Ed the wood stove. Converted from a cast off fifty-five gallon drum, it was the cabin's only source of heat. It stood on a bed of rocks in a corner with a supply of dry wood close by. They sat on the porch and finished their coffee.

Jules pointed to a three-sided structure with a shed roof. It was so small it could have been only one thing.

"Outhouse about a hundred feet yonder. There's good fish in the lake. If ya look in the corner there's a old fishing rod ya can use."

After a few words regarding the pantry and wood stacked for the fire, Jules left Ed with only one admonition

"I know you don't have a hunting license, but carry your gun, the bears ya know. I know ya heard it all before now, but be careful. I always pull a body or two out of the bush every year."

Jules turned and left the confines of the tiny hut, pausing only to take his soiled cap from the solitary nail by the door.

Ed heard the Cessna's engine cough and settle into an idle. A few minutes later he heard it at full power. It receded into the afternoon sky and was gone. Ed was pleased to be rid of the unkempt pilot. As the last sound of the little plane's engine faded to silence, Ed began to realize he was at least fifty miles from the nearest living human being. He was alone.

Reconciling himself to the fact that he was there, and that it was impossible to return until he was picked up in seven days, he spent as much time as he could exploring and photographing his surroundings.

Two wolves, one black, the other gray, visited the creek one evening. He looked up from his book and they were there. A second later, like the fleeting shadows cast by the setting sun, they were gone.

The night sky was magic. He had never seen a sky as full of stars. Without the ambient light of the city, the sky became black velvet frosted with silver. Stars so numerous filled the heavens that one could almost read by their light. The Milky Way took on new meaning as a river of light, and the constellations of the fall sky leapt out, greeting anyone who took the time to look up.

He spent the early evening hours sitting in a chair, propped up against pile of firewood. He assumed a semi-reclined position to peer at the heavens until the cold drove him into the cabin and to the comfort of the makeshift wood stove.

The next morning he watched a bull moose wandering along a sand spit on the far edge of the lake, while a solitary eagle circled above.

All these things were interesting and occupied some time, but the greater portion of his day was spent sitting on the small porch and thinking of his life. Particularly his married life and how it died. He had known it for a long time, but some things are hard to confront. It was hard for him to say, “My marriage is dead,” and worse yet, “I really don't care.” He considered it a personal failure. Alone, without the props of urban convention, he faced it. What should I do? Do I go home and just say “I'm leaving?” She doesn't care whether I'm with her or not. She certainly didn't mind my leaving for two weeks. He would have preferred that she had asked him not to leave. She hadn't.

Their Long Island split-level was beginning to show its age, and the rotting door sills and window frames echoed the condition of their marriage. They had only one child, who would have been sixteen had he lived. Little Michael had been killed at the age of six, struck by a car while returning from school. It was the end of their lives together. Mildred cried every day for months, and then started a regression from married life that he did little to stop.

Gradually they withdrew into their own space. They declined invitations. Mildred no longer volunteered at the St. Agnes Home for the Aged, and he stopped visiting the skeet range on weekends. They sold their 23-foot Mako open fisherman. Boating was to have been a family activity to bond them as Michael grew. Instead, he devoted himself to his business, while Mildred devoted her time to Mildred.

He had always thought that it was Mikey's death that caused their estrangement, but after some soul searching he admitted to himself that, while tragic, that event wasn't the cause of their marital condition. It was the excuse for it. Mikey had become the crutch for the demise of their marriage. He thought that admitting his mistakes and taking her to task for hers would be the right thing to do. If she couldn't face the facts, he would get a divorce, and find someone else to fill the emptiness. That's what he wanted to do . . . fill the emptiness.

Once more nightfall replaced a sunset resplendent with blushing clouds. He settled into his makeshift recliner and marveled at the starry skies.

Gold and crimson, dawn broke through night's velvet mantle. Stars faded, the sky brightened and turned blue. He spent most of the morning as he had the previous days, sitting on the rough bench on the cabin's porch. Finally, exhausted from thinking of what had been and what could have been, he grabbed his backpack and rifle and started to walk. He set out to the east, around the tip of the lake, a direction he had not yet explored.

He intended to visit the sand spit where he had seen the moose. He walked briskly, and the exercise proved to be cathartic. He began thinking of the country around him and the magnificent opportunity he had to hike these hills. After all, he wasn't dead— even if his marriage was.

In spite of this diversion, his mind once again settled into the rut he had been digging for days. He went over his marriage again and again. He thought of the good days as well as those that followed. Mildred was a beautiful woman. She still turned heads. He began to wonder if she was seeing someone else while he was away. Was that why she was eager to see him go? Was she with another man? Why not. She was always a sensuous woman. She enjoyed sex, always had. Why shouldn't she be looking for companionship?

His thoughts rambled and he stopped looking at his surroundings. The sky became leaden, and a breeze began to ruffle the lake's water into tiny white caps. He trudged on, oblivious to the changing weather. His mind focused inward on himself and his relationship. He continued on, walking faster and still unaware of the changes taking place around him. The wind stirred the leaves of the alders and the spruce boughs, but it wasn't until the first snowflakes struck his face that he realized a storm was breaking and he was miles from the cabin.

He worked his way to the lakefront and found a sand spit that reached out into the lake. It may have been the one the moose used to reach the water. Walking out on the barren rocky point to get his bearings, he saw the cabin on the far side of the lake. It would be shorter to continue around. If he hurried he would be back before the gray sky turned into inky blackness.

The wind now came from the northwest, driving the tiny snow crystals against his face, stinging, forcing him to keep his head down. He pulled the collar of his jacket up, and brought the zipper as far up as he could. He wished he had taken the drawstring hood with him, but he hadn't and now the snow was forming its own cap for his head.

He continued on, his rifle slung over his right shoulder, using both hands to push through waist-high brush. He stopped again to assess his position, but the rapidly diminishing visibility now hid the lakeshore from view. He started toward a stand of conifers he associated with the west side of the lake. He was sure the cabin lay about a mile on the other side of the tall spruce trees. The walking will be easier and quicker there, he thought. He took several quick strides, and parted the last remaining brush between himself and the tall trees. He stopped and stared at the carcass of a moose.

He thought he screamed, but whatever was in his throat never made it to his lips. The bear rose and swung a giant paw. It struck him on his right side. The force of the blow broke the rifle stock. Ed flew through the air and landed on something hard. He felt the air leave his lungs, and he gasped for breath. He had no time. The bear was lightning fast; another giant paw came crashing down striking his chest. That's all he remembered.

His next conscious thought was that he couldn't see. Slowly his mind told him that if he couldn't see it should be black; he saw gray. He could only blink his eyes.

He began to try to understand what had happened. It came to him, not in a rush, rather in drips and drabs. He was in Alaska, oh yes . . . the cabin, the storm. . . . And then at last he remembered: the bear that appeared from nowhere.

The mind, once again whole, began its inventory of the body. Pain . . . pain was everywhere. A signal from the brain elicited a response, first from a toe that could respond and move. Slowly the inventory was sent. Toes, fingers, and then a leg and an arm responded. It wasn't good. Ed thought he could move his left arm, but he wasn't sure of much more.

He realized he was lying beneath a mound of snow, but his vision was impaired. His right eye seemed to be covered with something, but he was afraid to move under the snow's protective blanket. Was the bear still there? Would it come back?

He tried to use his left hand to wipe away the snow that covered his eyes, and succeeded in removing enough of it to see the snow had stopped. A silence filled the copse of alder where he lay. He rested and thought.

His rifle was gone, probably buried in the snow. He was sure his right arm was broken. Each breath brought searing pain from his shoulder to his right hip. He couldn't move his right leg, but thought it might be whole. His left side ached but still felt strong.

He wanted to lie still but he knew he couldn't surrender to the cold and the pain. Surrender meant death, and he wasn't ready to die. Bear or no bear, he decided he had to move.

Ed's first move caused him to cry out in pain. The moan became an obscenity as he pulled himself along using his left arm and leg. Ed managed to move toward the lake. It was a decision made from expediency rather than reason. It was the easier route, slightly down hill and with fewer trees to impede his progress. Ed pulled himself along, and ten feet turned into twenty before he stopped to rest.

It was the first time he looked at himself. Reclining on his left side he could see his blood-covered fingers protruding from a tattered sleeve. His pant leg was gone from the knee down; he couldn't see any skin. Congealed blood covered what he could see of his leg and he realized his vision was obscured by clotted blood. Ed craned his neck to look at the marks he had left in the snow. He couldn't see any blood, but it was almost dark.

He thought of the big gray wolf that drank at the stream by the cabin, and then pushed the thought from his mind. He began to crawl. He had no idea how long it took him to reach the fallen tree. It had tipped sometime in the past and lifted a semicircle of root. Ed pulled himself behind the roots and out of the wind that blew across the lake. He huddled, exhausted by his effort and loss of blood, and thought of what brought him here. Now he wondered if he would ever leave.

The wind blew harder as the night progressed, and the snow began again, rapidly turning into freezing rain.

He hunkered down and managed to maneuver what was left of his shredded backpack over his head to protect him from the stinging pellets of ice. The last thing he remembered was looking into a sky as black as coal dust and wondering where all the stars had gone.

***********************************************************************

He awoke without a great deal of pain. He couldn’t turn his head. He was aware that he was no longer behind the uprooted tree, but somewhere warm. He didn’t know where he was, nor did he care. His eyes opened, but he couldn't see. He returned to his refuge, and slept.

Nourished as he was through tubes, with his sensory perception muted by bandages and depressed by drugs, there was little reason for him to return from his personal cave. However, as strength returned, so did the need to remove himself from darkness and re-join his kind. He awoke again.

He found the energy to speak. It was no more than a murmur. A voice responded.

“Mr. McKenna? I’m a nurse. You are in a hospital. Don’t worry; we will take care of you. You can’t see because your eyes are covered to keep them from moving. You’re going to be all right.”

Sleep reclaimed him before she finished.

Mildred arrived at the hospital less than eighteen hours after being notified by the Coast Guard that Ed had been in an accident at a remote location north of Anchorage. She went directly to the hospital after arriving and was directed to a nursing station on the second floor.

“I'm here to see my husband, Edward McKenna. The Coast Guard told me he was here.” She spoke to a small woman with dark hair. A name tag on her uniform said she was Alice Baker.

“Oh, yes, Mrs. McKenna. Mr. McKenna is right down the hall, but before I show you to his room, I’d like to discuss a few things with you. Please sit down.”

Mildred, anticipating the worst, sat on the wood bench facing the nurse’s station.

“Mr. McKenna was mauled by a grizzly, did they tell you that?”

“No! Oh no. Only that he had an accident, and was in critical condition.
How bad is he? What happened?”

“Well, first of all, let me tell you, when you see him, don't worry too much. He has some serious injuries and it's important that you don't make it worse by being negative. Be as upbeat as you can. He’s going to have some lasting effects. I'll tell you what I can.”

Mildred sat, her hands clinched, squeezing a wad of tear-moistened tissue. Alice moved to the nursing station counter, retrieved a box of tissues, and returned. She offered it to Mildred.

“Mr. McKenna is suffering from head and facial wounds. His scalp has been lacerated, part of it is gone. What was left was replaced, and will probably grow back. His left eye is seriously injured, and as of now, we don't know if he will have sight in it.”

“Oh, my fault! It’s all my fault.” She began to cry, gently rocking back and forth, her fist held to her mouth.

“No, of course it's not your fault. It happens.”

“Oh, it's my fault,” she said between sobs. “I should have told him not to go. I didn't want him to go. I just let it happen. I should have told him I wanted him to spend time with me.”

“Well, let me tell you the rest.”

“Oh dear, there's more.” It was a statement rather than a question.

“Yes, I'm afraid so. He’s very lucky to be here at all. His right arm is broken, and all the ribs on his right side, and two on his left side.”

Mildred squeezed her eyes closed as if to stop Alice from talking. Tears coursed down her face, and splattered against the purse in her lap.

“His right lung was punctured. However, that's been repaired. His right leg, unfortunately, had to be amputated at the knee. He has relatively minor lacerations to his left leg, probably not due to the mauling.”

Mildred held her breath. “May I see him, please?”

“Of course, but he has been heavily sedated since he got here. He regained consciousness, and even spoke a few words, but fell right back to sleep. If he wakes, be positive. Don't dwell on his injuries; he doesn't know his leg is gone.”

Mildred walked into the dimly lit hospital room. White bandages hid his face and head. A cast covered his right arm. The sheets covering his legs were tented. Alice motioned her to a recliner by his bed. She sat and waited.

Exhausted from the flight and the stress of learning of his injuries, Mildred soon fell asleep at Ed's bedside. Alice gently covered her with a blanket before the end of her shift.

Mildred awoke when she heard him stirring, and threw off the blanket that had been covering her. She pulled her chair close to his bed.

He felt the warmth of a hand on his, a soft caress, and then a gentle squeeze. "I'm here Eddie. It’s going to be all right."

She held his hand to her lips and kissed it. He felt a tear fall on his finger.

“Eddie, I am so, so sorry. It’s my entire fault. I should never have let you go.”

Bandaged and breathing through a tube, he could do no more than pat her hand. The slightest nod of his head said, “No, it wasn't your fault.” Soon he fell asleep again. In that short exchange, the walls that had separated them for ten years seemed to dissolve like morning fog.

Mildred stayed by his side for days. She found a hotel room, but spent all day and sometimes all night in his room. Leaving only to shower, eat, and hurry back to his bedside, she became his primary nurse.

Jules was a constant visitor. He appeared at the hospital on the day after Mildred arrived. He peeked around the open door.

“Hello, I'm Jules, Jules L'Hommidieu. You must be Mrs. McKenna. I was, er, that is, I’m a pilot. I took your husband ta’ the cabin.”

“Oh, you're the man who found him. Oh dear, thank you, I don't know how to thank you”

“Now, ya don't have to thank me. T'was no big thing that I did.”

“Tell me what happened, how did you find him? Where was he?”

She bombarded him with questions. He explained as much as he could.

“I flew over the cabin the next morning, ya know, after the storm. There was no smoke from the cabin and no footprints outside. I got a little concerned and I flew around the lake a couple of times, and I saw where he dragged himself through the snow. I saw there was blood, ya know. So I landed and sure 'nuf I found him by a blowdown.”

“You saved his life, yes, you did.”

“Well the Coast Guard guys, they came with the helicopter, and the doctor. They sent a doctor out with the ship. Don't usually do that.”

Jules tried his best to disavow any credit for the rescue, but Mildred knew if it hadn’t been for Jules, Ed wouldn’t have survived.

Over the next two weeks the periods of wakefulness increased in length. The tube was removed and he began to eat light meals. He was told about his leg and he seemed to take it well. He understood why they had to do it.

“It's OK, it’s gone, can’t get it back,” he said. “More importantly, you’re here,
Millie."

The doctors removed some bandages and exposed the damage. His left eye didn't respond, so they covered it with a black patch. His scalp remained bandaged. His face was not badly scarred except for two angry red lines that traversed his forehead, one dipping down below his left eyebrow. That one had cost him his left eye.

Bathed and clean-shaven he began to look like himself once again. Two weeks later he was discharged.

Jules took Mildred and Ed to the airport.

"Mr. McKenna, your rifle ya know, it wasn't in bad shape. I could send it to you. It'll need a new stock, but it is a beauty. It would be a shame not to get it fixed." Jules said while piloting Ed's wheelchair into the terminal.

"You keep it, Jules. I won't be using it again."

"You've been most kind already."

"No, keep it. I hope it does you more good than it did me."

Jules wheeled Ed through the terminal with Mildred by his side. Ed raised his hand motioning to Jules to pause as they passed the mounted bears. He looked up from his wheelchair, and Mildred just shook her head in disbelief, took his hand, and squeezed it.

************************************************************************
Mildred sat on the arm of Ed's large wing back chair. He slowly caressed her hand as he read the clipping from the Anchorage newspaper she handed him.

It all came back now, vivid and urgent—how it had happened, three (or was it four?) years ago. His one remaining eye strained to see the writing through his tears. “. . . Jules L'Hommadieu was killed on Sunday, October 4th when his plane crashed attempting a high altitude landing while trying to rescue two mountain climbers lost in a storm. . . .”