40 Yards

It's difficult to survive in the Canadian North. Even for a trapper.

McCabe knew he had made a mistake. Possibly a fatal one.

The snowstorm had overtaken him with little warning, and the temperature on the trail had fallen from twenty degrees below zero, which was tolerable for this part of the Canadian Shield, to minus thirty. That was when the moisture in McCabe’s laboured breath started to freeze on his beard and mustache. He even felt his nose-hairs crackle as he breathed in the frozen air.

He could see only a few paces ahead in the swirling snow, but McCabe was confident he could find his way back. He had trapped game in the Marten River area of Northern Ontario since he was six, learning from his father and grandfather.  The trail was well-marked by slashes axed into in the trees by three generations of McCabes. He just had to make it back to the cabin without freezing to death.

But he was fifty-eight now and the trail was tough. His nose and ears tingled with the first signs of frostbite. His feet and fingertips had already gone through that stage, from tingling to burning, then to numbness, and although the lack of sensation made each step less painful, his legs felt like cotton-wool, giving a strange spongy sensation to each step. McCabe wondered if his toes had already turned black. Most of the trappers he knew had lost toes to frostbite.

He was tiring quickly, each step becoming a supreme effort. His legs felt heavy and wooden, as if they were no longer a part of his body. Just lifting them was exhausting. He stopped frequently to catch his breath and his ribs ached with the effort of breathing cold, heavy air.

He almost stumbled over a fallen birch tree blocking his path. He could see a slash-mark on the trunk, so he was still on the trail. Painfully he climbed over the birch and rested on the other side, lungs aching and heart pounding. He was so tired. The birch had fallen on a young cedar, bending the branches to create a small area of cover against the storm. McCabe peered ahead at the trail.  He could see nothing but swirling snow. The refuge of the fallen trees looked inviting and he came to a decision.

He would rest just for a moment, then continue. McCabe knew the danger of stopping, but was too exhausted to care. He crawled under the cedar branches, sat back against the birch,  and pulled a flask from inside his coat. The whiskey went down easily. It melted smoothly in his throat and flowed downwards, spreading the warmth within him. McCabe smiled. He knew his whiskey and only bought the “good” stuff from Charlie’s Liquor store in town. It was the one luxury he allowed himself. Charlie joked that McCabe was the only trapper in the North who appreciated decent whiskey.  The rest drank any old gut-rot if it was cheap enough. Slowly he closed his eyes. Much better. He started to relax and without warning dropped into unconsciousness.

He was jolted awake by a searing pain in his left leg. He looked down to see a wolf at his feet chewing on a small chunk of flesh. With horror he realized the flesh was from his calf. He kicked frantically and the animal backed off, snarling viciously.  McCabe was suddenly wide awake. How could he have been so stupid as to have fallen asleep? He struggled to his feet, dropping the flask as the pain pierced his calf.  No matter. McCabe was tough. He knew he could reach the cabin. If he could avoid the wolf.

Now that McCabe was standing the wolf retreated. It must be on its own, McCabe reasoned, otherwise he would have been torn to pieces by the pack by now.

He tested the left leg. It felt curiously strong despite the missing piece, and the pain had subsided to a mild throbbing thanks to the anaesthetic effects of subzero windchill.  McCabe knew that the muscle would be bleeding but decided to head for home. The blood would likely freeze after a few steps anyway.

He felt strangely light-headed and alert. The whiskey, and the adrenaline rushing through him after the wolf’s bite, seemed to have given him extraordinary strength. He moved through the snow with surprising speed despite his injured leg. At times he could glimpse the dark shape of the wolf through the whirling storm, sometimes quite close but always retreating when McCabe waved and yelled. At times he could hear a snuffling behind him and imagined that other animals were close enough to breathe in his ear.  At times he felt like he was floating through the forest, snow falling around him, looking down on the lone wolf trying to kill him. If he hadn’t been so tired he would have been afraid.

Then the cabin appeared before him. It took his last ounce of energy to get through the door. The wood stove, already stacked with logs, soon warmed the room. Curious, he looked out into the snow just as the wolf appeared at the window, its huge snarling head separated from his own by a quarter inch of glass. The two stared at each other for a long second, then McCabe threw his head back, roared with laughter and collapsed on the cot. His bed had never felt softer. He allowed himself to relax. Then he was out like a light.

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

Sergeant John Willis of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police dismounted his snowmobile and eyed the cabin.

“McCabe”, he yelled. “It’s John Willis. RCMP”

Willis knew better than to walk up to a cabin in the wilderness without announcing his arrival. That was a perfect way to receive a gunshot wound to the chest. He had been asked to check on the cabin by Charlie at the liquor store.  McCabe hadn’t been by to pick up his whiskey in a while.

But the cabin looked deserted. Snow had piled up against the front door. There were no footprints leading to the porch and no smoke rose from the stovepipe in the roof.

A half-buried snow-shovel leaned against the rail of the porch. Willis used it to clear the snow from the foot of the door and lifted the latch. The cabin was empty. The cast-iron stove was stacked with fresh logs but the metal was stone-cold. A pot filled with ice sat on the stove. The cabin was freezing. No-one had been here for days.

Willis stepped back on the porch and headed for the trail that marked McCabe’s trapping line. He spied the body almost immediately. McCabe lay under the branches of a cedar with his back against the trunk of a fallen birch. His left leg was gone, and the rest of the corpse had been partially eaten. But it was definitely McCabe. He was surrounded by wolf tracks and an empty flask lay by the body. Willis looked back over the trail. The cabin was clearly visible. He estimated the distance and shook his head. “McCabe”, he murmured. “Forty yards. Only forty yards.”