Let’s Keep It Real
August 22, 1958. Far north. Remote backcountry.
Mike Cornell was following a faint game trail through a stand of cedar and pine. He was 39. Straight-backed. Sure-footed.
On his back was a pack with his take. Three sable pelts. Good ones.
They’d bring in decent money. In his hands was an old double-barreled shotgun, a Model 54. Worn smooth with age, but dependable.
He was a trapper and hunter. He’d worked these woods for twelve years. Knew the country like the back of his hand.
August had been hot that year. Sun beating down. Mosquitoes thick as smoke.
Mike had been out three days from his trapping cabin. He’d pushed deeper into the woods than usual, following sable sign.
He’d gotten three. Good enough. Time to head back.
But he picked a new route. Shorter. Over the ridge.
On the map it looked like it would shave off about ten miles. He figured it was worth the gamble. By evening he came out on a strange little clearing.
A meadow in the middle of dense timber. Flat, tidy, cared for. And in that clearing—there was a garden.
Potatoes, carrots, cabbage in neat rows. Everything weeded and orderly. In the center stood a cabin.
Solid-built, thick-log walls. Roof planked over. Small windows with hand-carved trim.
Smoke was coming from the chimney. Mike stopped. Somebody lived here.
Out here, sixty miles from the nearest settlement. He’d covered this country for twelve years. Never knew this place existed.
Who in the world was living here? He stepped closer. The garden had a woman’s touch to it, and there were flowers too.
Marigolds. Nasturtiums. Laundry hung on a line. Dresses, blouses, headscarves.
All of it old-fashioned, homespun-looking. On the porch sat a basket of berries. Blueberries.
Mike climbed the steps and knocked. Silence. He knocked again, louder.
Inside, floorboards creaked. Then a woman’s voice, quiet and cautious. “Who is it?”
“Traveler,” he said. “Lost my way. Could I get some water?”
There was a long pause. Then the bar slid back. The door opened a crack.
In the gap appeared the face of a young woman. Maybe twenty. Gray eyes. Frightened.
A headscarf tied in an old-fashioned way, snug under the chin. “Who are you?” she asked. “Mike. Hunter.”
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