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We want to narrow it down to two plus a backup. Then we have to make more visits as the seasons change. That’s partly about seeing how the weather affects the land, but it’s also about watching for signs of Indigenous people using the land for hunting or trapping. Sure, we don’t want anyone stumbling on our new town, but more than that, we don’t want to trespass any more than we already are.
The Yukon is, for most people, an unbelievably huge swath of uninhabited wilderness. That’s not because no one wants to live here. Go down to Whitehorse, and see how tight the housing market is. Outside the town, you’ll find suburbs of houses on what seem like small lots, given the expanse of “empty” land up here. Except that land isn’t empty. It’s inhabited by wildlife, and it’s hunted by those who were here before us.
You can’t just find yourself a nice chunk of land and build a cabin. Jackasses try that all the time.Hey, no one’s living there. Must be free for the taking, right?No, it’s Crown land. I’ll admit, I don’t have as much respect for the government as I probably should, but I sure as hell respect the right of those whose traditional hunting grounds we might be squatting on.
Wherever we choose, I’m very aware that wearesquatting and that we have no right to the land we build on. All I can do is know that I’m using it for good and that when we left Rockton, we picked up every damn screw and raked the earth and returned it to its natural state.
Does that mean it’s okay? Absolutely fucking not. But the best thing Casey and I can do to ease our consciences is make as many trips out there as we need to be sure we aren’t building near land used for hunting, even if that means giving up the best spot we find.
We work all morning debating the potential sites. Then Casey glances at the window.
“It’s a nice day,” she says. “Break early and take a longer walk?”
“Over to the bluffs, where whoever wrote that note met her lover?”
“It’s silly, right? It’s history—distant history. Not a mystery for me to solve.”
I shrug. “Better than a fake dead body. No harm in answering our questions if that’s how we choose to spend some well-earned rest time. How about a picnic lunch? Getting a bit chilly, but we can start a fire.”
She smiles at me. “That sounds like an excellent idea, and not at all as if you’re humoring me.”
“If it means I get to spend a few hours outdoors, it’s not humoring you—it’s jumping at an excuse.” I push up from my chair. “Find us a picnic blanket and pack Storm’s lunch, and I’ll gather ours.”
4
Casey makesthe walk a tracking game for Storm. That’s partly to keep up her training, but it’s also a mental exercise that the dog appreciates. I’d bought Storm as a puppy for Casey. It was something she’d always wanted, and so I got her a puppy with a half-assed excuse about needing a tracking dog. Yes, Newfoundlands aren’t known for their noses, but it was Casey’s dream breed, and she hadn’t been at the stage where she’d have been comfortable accepting a dog unless we could at least pretend it served a purpose beyond being a pet.
Stormisa tracking dog, but she’s more than that, and not just for us. People like having pets in the community. Even those who don’t want their own seem to enjoy having Storm and Raoul—Mathias’s half-wolf dog—around.
In our new town, we’re going to hold off on getting horses. I feel bad about that—both Casey and I love riding—but it’s one of those luxuries we reallycan’tjustify. Pets might be an option, at least for the staff.
Like Casey, I’d never had a pet, but now I can’t imagine life without one. Storm is the perfect dog for us, a companion who does nothing but enrich our lives.
On that walk, I’m glad for the joy she brings to Casey, who loves the training games nearly as much as Storm. I’m also glad that they’re occupied enough not to notice that my mind has wandered.
Casey isn’t the only one concerned by that note in the bottle. I wouldn’t say I’m worried about what happened to the couple involved. It was thirty years ago, distant enough that they’re like characters in a story where I can care what happens to them while knowing the outcome doesn’t affect me.
For me, the story is an unwelcome reminder of something I’ve been trying very hard not to deal with: my adoptive parents and the circumstances of my adoption. That letter told the story of a woman fleeing abuse who met a man and planned to run off in the wilderness with him. That’s also the story of my birth parents. Mom came to Rockton fleeing a thesis advisor who wouldn’t take no for an answer. There she met Dad, and they ran into the wilderness together and had two sons.
I’ve spent years trying to pretend they weren’t damn near perfect parents who’d given me a damn near idyllic childhood. But they were. Yes, they were young, and the whole idea of running into the forest was more romantic than practical, but they loved each other, and they loved us.
And then along came the Daltons.
Gene Dalton had been sheriff of Rockton. He’d “found” me in the forest and “rescued” me, bringing me home for his wife to raise as their own. According to Gene, I’d been alone and scared and malnourished, a neglected wild child abandoned in the forest.
That was bullshit.
I don’t remember exactly what happened. As Casey says, trauma fractured the memories. All I know is that I hadn’t been lost or starving or neglected. I’d been a curious and independent kid, nine or ten years old, trusted to explore the forest on my own as long as I was back for meals and chores. While wandering, I’d spotted a camp of strangers, and I’d returned for days to spy on them.
The next thing I remember, I was in Rockton. What happened after is a blur of terror and rage that lasted for months, and when I came out the other side, I’d accepted my new life because I accepted the story Gene told: that I’d been rescued, that my parents didn’t want me.
How do you make a kid reject his entire reality? You brainwash him using whatever techniques Gene learned from his time in army intelligence. But you also point out the obvious.
Look, your parents didn’t come for you. What kind of parents are those?
That’s what I’ve spent half my life trying to reconcile. The good parents I remember with the ones who abandoned me. If they did that, theyweren’tgood, right?
I know now it’s more complicated than that. My parents had told Jacob I was in Rockton, making it sound as if I’d gone away to boarding school. I was healthy and happy, and when I was done, I’d come home.
