The Great Alone

At the end of their driveway, they drove into the sunlight and onto a real dirt road.

They rumbled past the Walker metal gate and the Birdsall sign. Leni leaned forward, excited to see the marshes and airfields that signaled the outskirts of Kaneq.

Town! Only a few days ago it had seemed worse than an outpost, but it didn’t take much time in the Alaskan bush to reassess one’s opinion. Kaneq had a store. Leni could get some film and maybe a candy bar.

“Hang on,” Dad said as he turned left into the trees.

“Where are we going?” Mama asked.

“To tell Bo Harlan’s family thank you. I’ve brought his father a half gallon of whiskey.”

Leni stared out the dirty window. Dust turned the view into a haze. For miles there was nothing but trees and bumps. Every now and then a vehicle was rotting at the side of the road in the tall grass.

There were no houses or mailboxes, just dirt trails here and there that veered off into the trees. If people lived out here, they didn’t want you to find them.

The road was rough: two beaten-down tire tracks on rocky, uneven ground. As they climbed in elevation, the trees grew thicker, began to block out more and more of the sun. They saw the first sign about three miles in: NO TRESPASSING. TURN AROUND. YES, WE MEAN YOU. PROPERTY PROTECTED BY DOGS AND GUNS. HIPPIES GO HOME.

The road ended at the crest of a hill with a sign that read, TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT. SURVIVORS WILL BE SHOT AGAIN.

“Jesus,” Mama said. “Are you sure we’re in the right place?”

A man with a rifle appeared in front of them, stood with his legs in a wide stance. He had frizzy brown hair that puffed out from beneath a dirty trucker’s cap. “Who are you? What do you want?”

“I think we should turn around,” Mama said.

Dad leaned his head out the window. “We’re here to see Earl Harlan. I was a friend of Bo’s.”

The man frowned, then nodded and stepped aside.

“I don’t know, Ernt,” Mama said. “This doesn’t feel right.”

Dad worked the gearshift. The old bus grumbled and rolled forward, jouncing over rocks and hillocks.

They drove into a wide, flat patch of muddy ground studded here and there with clumps of yellowing grass. Three houses bordered the field. Well, shacks, really. They looked to have been made of whatever was handy—sheets of plywood, corrugated plastic, skinned logs. A school bus with curtains in the windows sat on tireless rims, hip-deep in the mud. Several scrawny dogs were chained up, straining at their leashes, snarling and barking. Fire barrels belched smoke that had a noxious, rubbery smell.

People dressed in dirty clothes stepped out of the cabins and shacks. Men with ponytails and buzz cuts and women wearing cowboy hats. All wore guns or knives in sheaths at their waists.

Directly in front of them, from a log cabin with a slanted roof, a white-haired man emerged carrying an antique-looking pistol. He was wiry thin, with a long white beard and a toothpick chomped down tight in his mouth. He stepped down into the muddy yard. The dogs went crazy at his appearance, growled and snapped and groveled. A few jumped on top of their houses and kept barking. The old man pointed his gun at their bus.

Dad reached for the door handle.

“Don’t get out,” Mama said, grabbing his arm.

Dad pulled free of Mama’s grasp. He grabbed the half gallon of whiskey he’d brought and opened the door and stepped down into the mud. He left the bus door open behind him.

“Who are you?” the white-haired man yelled, the toothpick bobbing up and down.

“Ernt Allbright, sir.”

The man lowered his weapon. “Ernt? It’s you? I’m Earl, Bo’s daddy.”

“It’s me, sir.”

“Well, slap me silly. Who you got with ya?”

Dad turned and waved at Leni and Mama to get out of the bus.

“Yeah. This seems like a good idea,” Mama said as she opened her door.