Backstay had no homes at all on it that they could see, but the amount of fill necessary to put in a foundation would have beggared anyone who wasn’t a billionaire. The ground now fell so steeply away from the road that they caught glimpses of the view they had both imagined and it promised exceedingly fair.
There was no street sign at Crow’s Nest but it was the only turn remaining so they took it, another hard hairpin right. The grade was so steep Liam shifted into low and let up on the gas very slowly. “I don’t think they have to worry about being burglarized.” He wondered how big a turnaround there was at the top. He was definitely turning in his miles for this case.
They rocked and rolled for another interminable five minutes. It was a relief when they finally topped out on a narrow flat of gravel carved from the wall of the bluff. The top of the bluff and Heavenly Drive were less than a hundred feet above.
A tiny log cabin was built flush against the face of the bluff. To the right there was an outhouse and to the left a six-by-six garden plot where the cabbages and Brussels sprouts were doing well.
Liam had stopped and Wy reached for the door handle. “Wait,” Liam said. He backed and filled until he had the truck pointing downhill again. “Okay, you get out and stay here. Crow’s Nest went a little way the other direction at Backstay. I’m going to leave the truck there and walk back up.”
Wy nodded. If Ms. Petroff saw the truck in front of the cabin she might run for it. She got out and Liam inched over the edge of the rise and out of sight. He’d left the truck in low and she could hear it grinding its way down the hill. Better his truck than her Subaru.
Before her Chungasqak Bay stretched from left to right with the Kenai Mountains lining the southern horizon in full relief. It was very nearly the same view out their new front window, just a little lower, and she wondered if custom would ever stale its infinite variety. She couldn’t imagine it. She knew in her head that the mountains were four and five thousand feet higher than where she stood, but her eyes told her she was level with their summits. Every white-topped crag and crest was clearly outlined against a sky going a rich, deep blue. The lagoon, inlets, bays, and fjords that lined the coast below cast dark, mysterious shadows on their waters. Lights twinkled from only a few far-flung locations. There were more lights scattered about the Bay, boats on the way home after a day’s fishing.
She turned to look at the cabin. It had been made from logs a long time ago, and those logs had not been oiled in a long time. The roof was covered with a thick mat of vegetation that was more than moss and might even flower in the summer. The front door was offset to the right, and on the left was a large picture window. Wy couldn’t imagine how they’d gotten the glass up here without breaking it.
She walked to the door and knocked. “Hello? Hello, is anyone home?”
There was no answer. She reached for the handle and the door opened easily inwards. Inside was a single room, about sixteen feet by twenty, where a full-size bed took up most of one corner. A wood stove sat in the opposite corner with two easy chairs flanking it. A small dining table with two chairs sat in front of the window and a kitchen area consisting of a high, freestanding counter with shelves beneath stood against the wall in back of the door. There were two more windows, sliders with screens, one on each side.
A propane lantern hung from a hook and she took it down and pumped it up and lit it with matches she found in an ashtray on the table. With the gloom dispelled more details revealed themselves. The cabin might be old but it was clean and neat, with none of the funky smell that came with age in so many of its brethren. There were two sets of shelves, Blazo boxes three high each, one for clothes and one for books. There was a five-gallon water jug on the floor under the counter and a small metal tub on top with toiletries neatly arranged around it. A rectangular mirror in a plastic frame hung on the wall. The shelves below held a selection of canned and dry goods, heavy on the Spam, and a flat of bottled water. There was a saucepan, a frying pan, a moka pot, and a two-burner Coleman stove. On a single shelf nailed to the wall above sat two plates, three bowls, and a collection of public radio mugs. A rusting coffee can held cutlery and utensils. A small wooden box with a lid that locked held a bag of ground coffee and packets of raw sugar and creamer.
There was a nightstand next to the bed. On it was a headlamp and a stack of books, including a fat textbook on fossils in east Africa by Maeve Leakey, a tattered paperback copy of The Lincoln Lawyer by Michael Connelly, the first three novels of the Codex Alera series by Jim Butcher, Willie Hensley’s autobiography, and a slim volume titled Mapping the Americas by Shari M. Huhndorf, subtitled “The Transnational Politics of Contemporary Native Culture.” It was published by Cornell University Press and looked dense but interesting.
She put the book down and looked around the cabin again. She thought she would have liked Erik Berglund, too, and she was suddenly angry that the pleasure of his acquaintance had been stolen from her, and that the community of Alaska had been
