Chapter 31
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Taku Harbor—Stephens Passage, AK
Marco fought back a yawn, mouth wide open, as he gunned the outboard.
The dinghy rose up onto plane. Salt spray blasted his face, stinging his cheeks.
Water shot out from both sides of the hull as the boat accelerated.
Wind and mist fogged his sunglasses, and he wiped them with one sleeve, which only made things worse.
He steered by looking over the top of his shades.
Bill sat in the rear-facing bow seat of the dinghy as they sped across the water toward the head of Taku Harbor. The two men had dropped crab traps the night before, and Bill was ready to go first thing this morning, asking Marco if it was too soon to check for crab, like a kid on Christmas.
Bill zipped his coat up to the neck and shouted back toward Marco, “Thanks for letting me wear your jacket. Coming up here in July, I guess I just assumed it would be, you know, summer.”
Marco let himself laugh, shouting back over the roar of the engine. “This IS Alaska summer. It can get warm, but remember the Juneau Icefield just behind these hills is over 1,500 square miles. Of ice.”
It was his first laugh in days. Bill was the fresh air and perspective he needed. He hadn’t realized the funk he’d gotten into over the missing woman—the feeling that he’d failed her. The helpless weight of another loss.
He spotted the red-and-white float of the first trap and turned toward it. “I always carry an extra jacket or two and some guest XTRATUFs. Basic survival gear up here.”
Marco removed his sunglasses and stuck them in a pocket. He pointed at the pilings and dilapidated buildings onshore. “This over here was a cannery back in the day. Canneries operated all up and down the Inside Passage. Most of them are abandoned ruins now.”
Bill twisted to the other side, surveying the shore. “Anybody live here?”
“Nope, I think it’s officially a state park or something,” Marco shouted. “There’s a camping cabin onshore. Lots of commercial fishing boats overnight here.”
He slowed the boat, reached over the side, and snagged the float of one of their crab traps. Cold water ran up his arm and into the sleeve of his waterproof jacket. He handed the float to Bill. “Okay, bring her up. Just let the line pile in the bottom of the boat.”
Bill pulled the leaded line hand over hand. The crab trap broke the surface. He let out a whoop. “Whoa! How many? I can’t even count them.”
Marco handed Bill a pair of blue Atlas rubber gloves.
“Okay, reach in and get them one at a time. Don’t let em pinch you.
Like this…” He reached into the trap and grabbed a large male.
His thumb pressed hard along the bottom of the animal, his palm cradling the top of the shell.
He flipped it upside down. The claws flailed frantically.
Marco’s grip kept his fingers just out of reach.
The crab calmed and stopped struggling after just a second on its back.
Marco held his measuring device across the back of the shell to make sure it was within the legal limit.
“Any of them smaller than this mark—that’s six and a half inches—we throw em back.
Also any females—see how that one is smaller and has a wider center shape on the underside? That’s a female. Toss her back.”
The two men emptied the rest of the traps, filling their bucket with keepers, then headed back to Radio Flyer.
After they had stored the traps, Marco pulled a crab from the bucket. “I’ll show you how you clean em.”
He held the crab upside down, gripping it from both sides, and slammed it down on the sharp vertical edge of the cleaning table, breaking it in half.
The claws on each half of the crab continued moving, grabbing at nothing.
He lifted each half of the carapace off and threw it in the water.
Then he took a finger and removed the gills and entrails from the middle.
He finished by spraying each half with the boat’s washdown sprayer.
“That’s all there is to it. Think you can do the rest? ”
Bill nodded and picked up a crab. The claws began reaching for him. He let out a yelp and dropped it on the floor. He looked embarrassed, picked it up again, seemed to struggle a bit, and finally managed to crack it on the table.
One of the benefits of having guests. Crab-cleaning service.
“So, what do you think about what the cop told us about that woman’s family?” Marco asked.
“What do you mean?” Bill said.
“Well, the whole situation just never made sense to me,” Marco continued.
“If she supposedly just fell overboard, why did she have an SSB handheld on her, and how did she survive a swim in those conditions to get to shore? And then why would her in-laws—these Pykes—be offering a reward? Seems like maybe they don’t buy it either.
Did I tell you about the weird flat-black RIB that was out there?
Wonder if the Pykes hired some paramilitary outfit to look for her. ”
“I think you should move on, buddy.” Bill picked up another crab and cracked it against the edge of the cleaning table. “Worrying about her isn’t doing you any good, and it won’t bring Michelle back.”
“Probably right,” Marco said.
Marco climbed down into Radio Flyer’s engine room to do the checks for their voyage. The SSB was still hissing away up in the pilothouse. He was far out of range of any signal from the missing woman, but he just couldn’t bring himself to turn it off. Not just yet.
Once he completed his checklist, he closed the hatch and returned to the rear deck.
Bill was still struggling.
“Wanna go for a hike?” Marco asked. “There’s some cool stuff to check out here. Then we can get on our way down to Tracy Arm Cove.”
Bill threw a crab carapace into the water and rinsed the body. “Sounds great. I’ve just got two more crabs to go. Gonna take us a while to eat these things!”
Marco laughed and pulled on a boot. His sock was soaked—some water must have dripped in. “Dang, got me a soggy bobbie!”
He pulled on the other boot. This one was dry.
“Partway through the season, I’m usually trying to come up with more ways to have crab.
Crab dip, crab enchiladas, crab cakes, crab risotto, crab eggs Benedict, just plain crab.
Michelle made fabulous crab wontons.” Marco tried to push back the catch in his voice.
“Sometimes I get so tired of picking crab, I don’t bother to put down traps. ”
“Well, I’m not quite as jaded as you yet, Mr. Floating Gourmet.” Bill pulled the last crab out of the bucket and cracked it. “Dungeness is still quite a delicacy where I come from.”
“There’s a decent chance there are salmon right outside the cove here.” Marco pulled his Grundéns jacket off the hook and checked the lining to be sure it was dry, then slipped it over his hoodie. “I hear the coho are just starting to come in. Maybe we’ll try our luck before we head out.”
Bill dropped the last of the crab halves into the bucket and washed the yellow-green guts and gills through the drain holes at the back of the cleaning table.
He leaned over and used the spray to rinse the remnants of the slaughter off of Radio Flyer’s hull, then sat down and pulled on the rubber boots Marco had loaned him.
“Oh, take this.” Marco handed Bill a bright orange spray canister with an illustration on the side depicting an angry bear, mouth agape, baring huge sharp teeth. “This plastic part is the safety. You slide that off and then squeeze this trigger. Don’t use it unless you have to.”
Bill turned the can over in his hand, examining it.
Marco clicked his own bear spray onto his belt loop with a carabiner. “There’s a cargo pocket in that jacket where it’ll fit nicely.”
Marco led Bill up the small dock toward shore.
At the top of the dock, he headed down a narrow trail, his XTRATUFs sinking several inches into the mud with each step.
“First, let’s go check out the tree swing.
” It was the largest rope swing Marco had ever seen.
He had no idea who had put it up or when, but it was one of his favorite things at Taku.
Bill held up a sealskin pouch, bound by leather ties. “What’s this book thing here in your coat pocket?”
Marco was confused. “What are you talking…Oh, I forgot about that. I found it when I fell off the cliff. The eagle musta carried it back to line her nest. Stuck it in my jacket pocket and then got a little preoccupied, you know, trying to avoid plummeting to my death and all. It’s got a book in it? ”
Bill held the pouch up. “Feels like it. I didn’t open it. Didn’t wanna invade your privacy. Once you’ve borne witness to another man’s true confessions and unicorn doodles, you can’t unsee that.”
Marco ran his fingers along the soft fur of the pouch. “Ah, well, it’s not mine. We’ll check it out when we get back to the boat.”
Bill dropped it back into the coat pocket. They emerged from the muddy trail into a clearing in the forest where a giant rope swing hung from a high tree limb.
Bill gasped. “Wow! You weren’t kidding. That’s gotta be, what, fifty feet high?”
Marco held the thick rope toward his friend. “Take it for a spin!”
“Okay, I’m twelve again…” Bill hoisted himself onto the wooden seat. “Can you give me a push?”
Marco pulled Bill back as far as he could lift him, then let go. “Feet up! Don’t drag em! Watch those tree roots!”
Bill’s hair blew wildly as he lurched forward. “Oh my God. Yes!” he squealed.
Marco took a turn on the swing, then led Bill back down the trail the way they’d come. He wanted to walk Bill through the cannery ruins, where there were all kinds of rusting cannery artifacts that visitors had arranged on top of old pilings, creating a sort of impromptu abstract sculpture garden.
The path broke out of the woods and into a clearing that went down to the shore. Marco caught a whiff of something.
Wild.
Game-y.
Movement.
“Bears.” Marco held his hand up and froze. He kept his voice low and smooth. “Bill. Stop. Don’t make any loud noises. Just stand here and talk with me in a normal calm voice.”
Bill bumped into Marco from behind. “What?”
Marco’s pulse quickened. His hand shook as he reached cautiously for his bear spray. “Sow with two cubs over there to our left. They’re coming this way. Don’t make any sudden moves. We need to stay calm. She already knows we’re here.”
“Marco…” Bill whispered back, sounding frantic. “I’m…”
Marco fumbled removing the safety clip from the spray canister. “Just stay calm and keep talking. Don’t use the spray unless she charges.”
Bill whimpered.
A bear cub tumbled from the tall grass into the middle of the trail ahead of them. It started in their direction. Marco took a small step backward and Bill followed.
The cub looked up, noticed them, and bolted back toward the mother. The sow stood on her hind legs, head raised, sniffing the air.
Marco had seen bears stand up like this before, but always from a distance. He’d always thought they looked like a man in a bear suit—particularly early in the season when they were skinny and hungry. This close, it was a whole different story.
Marco knew he needed to keep vocalizing, keep the bears calm.
“Their sense of smell is really keen. They can supposedly smell a carcass up to twenty miles away. She probably smelled us before she heard or saw us. Let’s just stand here for now and keep talking.
We don’t want to end up between her and the cubs, so if the cubs come near we should just back away slowly.
Keep an eye on them, but don’t make eye contact. ”
“Marco, let’s get out of here. Shouldn’t we run?” Bill’s voice wobbled.
“Nope. Just hold our ground and keep talking.” Marco held his reassuring tone, hoping it was convincing—to both Bill and the sow.
Bears can run over thirty miles an hour. She’d be on us in a flash.
The sow walked into the trail directly ahead. The two cubs followed in the grass behind her. She turned and took a couple steps toward the men, then stood up on her hind legs again, facing them, nose in the air.
She was enormous, maybe half again taller than Marco. Her paws were the size of baseball gloves, with knife-sharp claws protruding several inches from her toes. Her odor was strong, like an old wet dog who’d tangled with a skunk, musty with a bit of vinegar.
One of the cubs scampered up behind her and peered cautiously around her side at them.
The bear spray shook in Marco’s hand as he tried to aim at the sow’s face.
If she charged, he’d have only a second.