Alone at last. My stomach fluttered, a mixture of joy and trepidation. It felt like standing on top of the world. No one would bother me up here.
I picked up the binoculars and glassed the valley below. Hitch from the Ranger Station and his two mules descended the ragged peak, weaving between the sporadic Douglas Fir. We had hiked half a day to get up here, the mules carrying food and water and tanks of propane. The trail is the only way in and out and gets steep and slippery near the top. Hitch smirked when I stumbled and sent smooth pebbles down the incline. He told me it always happened to the ones who were wet behind the ears.
Further down the valley the trees grew thicker and obscured the bone-coloured rock of the mountain. Atop a sharp ridgeline across the other side stood a small wooden structure, a tiny speck even with the aid of the binoculars. It was another of the fire lookouts.
My lookout was a square box six paces by six paces. It would have felt small except that all the walls were windows. There was not much in the way of furniture, a low-height dresser and single bed on one side, a square wooden table and chairs and propane fridge and cooker on the other. In the middle of the room was what looked like an oversized horizontal compass, with a map of the forest on the face and a rotating metal slit around the perimeter. If a fire broke out during my watch, I would use this to pinpoint its bearing. An old pot-bellied fireplace stood at the back next to a shelf full of books.
Yes, this would do.
I had applied for the lookout position in the winter and when I didn’t hear back I took an internship at the paper. Two weeks into the season the Parks Department called and asked if I could come right away. Absolutely I could. The overcrowded office whose thermostat was always set a little too low had already worn thin. Hitch said my hacking cough would clear up in no time on the mountain. I hoped he was right.
I stepped outside onto the timber deck and leaned against the rail. I gulped in a lung full of mountain air and spluttered it back out again and had another coughing fit. Whatever magic the mountain air contained did not do its work immediately.
A rusted steel cable hung limply from the roof on the north-west corner. It ended in a stainless steel eyelet and anchor. I scanned the ground and then stepped off the deck and circled the lookout. Each corner of the roof had a cable and only one of the four was taught, the cable extending to the ground and to a bolt embedded into the rock. They were like tie downs on a temporary marquee you might see in a backyard at a party. That only one of four remained in place was disconcerting.
I ran a critical eye over the rest of the structure. At the base stacked timber planks raised the lookout about a foot off the ground. I had expected the lookout to be on stilts with a stair for access, those were the images google sent back when I searched fire lookout. It struck me that an animal, a bear or wolf, could step onto the deck without much trouble. Better keep the door locked.
The whole arrangement gave off an air of fragility. A tiny timber box atop an exposed and wind swept mountain peak.
The hairs on my arms stood on end and at first I thought it was from the cold. I spun around at a subtle buzzing in my ears. Out on the horizon clouds of deep purple coalesced and blanked out the sun. The storm. Hitch said there might be weather, and if it meant business I would feel the electricity.
I shut and locked the door and switched on the light against the gloom. The second of the two radios crackled. The first was the link to the Ranger Station and together with Hitch I had radioed back the first of my weather reports. It had to be done twice a day every day, feeding the information from the tiny weather station fixed to a pole on the roof. The second radio was a link to the other lookouts. I picked up the radio and twisted the volume button.
“You must be the new guy?” The voice of a woman. I guessed a little older than I was.
I cleared my throat and coughed a couple of times. “Who is this?”
“Martina. Lookout 2. I saw your light turn on.”
“You were watching?”
“I’m always watching. It’s the job. I’ve had to cover your area until you arrived.”
That was fair. I hoped I hadn’t come off as too defensive. The tone of my next reply overcompensated.
“I’m Tom. Tom Winslow. Came up with Hitch today.”
“And he didn’t stop to say hello?”
“He wanted to beat the weather.”
“Hope he gets off the mountain before the storm gets here. The electricity is making my hair stand on end.”
“Mine too.”
“You got a fire going?”
I looked to the black wood burning stove. “No.”
“Get her lit. The temperature is about to plummet. You don’t want to sit through the storm shivering.”
“Roger that.”
An audible sigh came through. “It’s funny hearing that.”
I cringed a little. Was that something people really said over the radio?
“Did I say something wrong?”
“No. No. The guy who was in that lookout before you. His name was Roger. Is Roger. I miss talking to him.”
I didn’t know how to respond. I depressed the button a couple of times without saying anything. “I better get the fire lit.”
“Nice talking to you Tom.”
The strengthening wind pushed me along as I scurried to the east side of the peak. There stood a three-sided enclosure for firewood and next to it the outhouse. I filled my arms with logs and squinted against the wind. A haze of rain already shrouded the peak and lookout across the valley. I was about to get wet.
I hustled inside and dumped the wood in a thin walled metal container by the fireplace. I didn’t have any kindling so I stripped some bark from the logs and scraped up the leftovers in the bottom of the container. The windows rattled against the wind and I eyed them nervously. The flame caught as the skies opened and dumped rain on the roof.
A low rumble of thunder drew my attention from the fireplace. The sky near the horizon lit up. The rain hammered against the western windows in the evening twilight, all but extinguished by the storm clouds. A fork of lightning illuminated the ridge line across the valley.
I took up the binoculars and found the light from Martina’s lookout shining like the beacon atop a lighthouse. I picked up the radio and considered checking to see if she was alright. But it occurred to me she would have seen worse. Didn’t want to out myself as a wet behind the ears newbie.
I pulled a chair up to the fireplace and dumped a bigger chunk of wood onto the fledgling coals. Flames hissed and spat and then engulfed the log. I raised my palms to the warmth.
Wind whistled in through tiny gaps in the window frames. The whole structure shook and moaned as the storm roared outside. The air cooled and felt damp. I pulled a sweater from my bag and crossed my arms against my chest and coughed. Some summer job.
I cocked my head at what sounded like whispering. Barely audible over the drumming of the rain on the roof, distinct, deliberate and with the cadence of speech. I concentrated and tried to parse out the whisper, and could only make out subtle shhh sounds intermingled with breathy syllables.
A flash and then a crack of thunder that made the floor vibrate. The wind gave a final push and, as abruptly as it began, the rain relented. The windows ceased their rattle. Silence, the echoes of the thunder and the rain ringing in my ears.
To the east dark clouds spilled down the valley beyond leaving a fluttering trail like a long dress billowing in the wind. To the west the clouds cleared enough for a final glimpse of the sun before it sank below the horizon.
The radio crackled. “Did you survive Tom?”
I smirked. “Still here.”
“You got the fire lit.” It sounded like a statement rather than a question. “I can see the glow.”
I trained the binoculars on Martina’s lookout. A warm orange glow spilled out from the windows. “You too I see.” I lifted the button as another uncontrollable coughing fit rose in my chest.
“That sounds nasty Tom. Get some food and some rest. You have a long day of sitting and watching tomorrow. If you need anything give me a holler.”
“Rog.” I stopped myself before the rest of the word came out. “You got it.” I tapped my index finger against the radio and then pressed it down again. “Say, what happened to Roger? I asked Hitch why the position came up so suddenly, but he didn’t answer. I think he pretended not to hear me. It was weird.”
“Roger went missing a week ago. One day he was on watch and the next day he missed his weather report and wasn’t answering his radio. No one has seen him since.”
“Did he hike down off the mountain?”
“Doubt it. All his gear was still in the lookout when Hitch got up there. He didn’t leave a note. He didn’t tell base anything. He didn’t tell me anything. He wasn’t the type to pick up and leave without telling anyone.”
“That’s strange.”
“Don’t worry Tom. The typical day up here is uneventful. Get some dinner and get some rest. You must be tired from the hike up.”
She was right. The excitement of arriving and then the storm wired energy direct to my brain, but now it was done I felt the effects of a long day. “Will do.”
The flame of the gas burner packed more bite than I anticipated and the enclosed space soon filled with smoke. I opened the door a crack and sat on the dresser and rested a plate of charred sausages on my lap. Martina’s lookout twinkled orange on the horizon below a sky filling with stars. The weather had passed and the night was clear. It would get colder still.
The realisation that this lone orange light on the hill was the only thing resembling civilisation within a half-day’s walk brought a smile to my face. A solitude so close to being complete had long been the subject of daydreams. It started in school and kept on during a failed attempt at college. Working life in the city rubber stamped the desire to escape, and to escape alone. And here it was, finally.
My stomach full, another grumble came, but slightly lower. I couldn’t put it off any longer. The one drawback to my new living situation were the amenities. I did not relish sitting on the long drop in the dark, but the urgency would not be denied.
The light from the windows spilling out onto the ground was enough to navigate the stone’s throw to the small timber structure built atop a hole in the ground. The door to the outhouse had a simple wire latch on the outside and a similar arrangement on the inside of the door. I turned my head in anticipation of the smell and found it surprisingly bearable. Using the latch as a handle, I closed the door and plunged the freezing space into darkness. Shit, should have brought my phone if only for the light. I considered going back for it, and then felt behind for the cold and clammy seat and sat.
A light breeze pushed through small gaps in the timber siding and my bare skin prickled. The door shifted and the thin wire of the latch pulled tight. My heart skipped a beat. I told myself that it was only the wind. I watched the thin rectangle of light at the edge of the door and took in a sharp breath. A shadow flitted into the light and then was gone The door rattled again, harder than before, harder than what the light breeze could do. My stomach clenched.
“Is someone there?”
My voice was thin and high pitched. The question itself was ridiculous. There was no one up here. There was no one for miles. The door shook harder again. I feared the latch would pull free from the door. I put my hand up to the door and applied pressure, and something pushed back. Something was out there, banging on the door. An animal? What animal pounds its fists on a door? Through the cold of the timber came a subtle warmth, like hot breath.
I took my hand away and grasped my knee in a feeble attempt to stop it shaking. My eyes squeezed shut. I tightened into a ball. Flashbacks from high school raced through my head. Hiding in the toilet stall, hiding from them, my tormentors. They too had banged on the door. They laughed and howled and taunted, and I cried. Waterworks Winslow they called me. And the more they did it the easier the tears came. I sobbed now, trapped in the outhouse and in the dark atop a mountain.
And then, silence. The door sat mute. I lifted a trembling palm and felt for the warmth and found only oppressive cold. I pulled up my pants and lifted the latch. The door unlocked, I paused, listening for signs that my tormentor was gone. After a deep breath, I flung open the door. The lookout shone its light on the open ground. I looked left and right and found nothing.
I closed the door and there on the outside, right in the centre, was a black equilateral triangle about the size of a closed fist. It looked like something from art class where we used a hot wire to carve letters and shapes into chunks of wood. I traced the charred outline of the triangle. It retained a subtle warmth and smelled of smoke. This was made just now, while I sat, while I held my palm up on the inside of the door. Any notion that it had been an animal, some curious bear perhaps, dissipated into the night sky.
“Is someone there?”
The question went unanswered. I scuttled back inside and locked the door behind me. I would have closed the curtains, only there were none. The interminable darkness of the outside world surrounded me on all sides. There was nowhere to hide. My mind filled in the darkness with all manner of men and beasts. I whimpered.
I picked up the radio and almost depressed the button. Embarrassment stopped me. As comforting as Martina’s voice would be right now, I couldn’t do it. Like I couldn’t tell my parents about the bullying at school. How I was nothing more than poor old Waterworks Winslow. I propped myself beside the fire and trained my gaze on the horizon and the safety of the glow of Martina’s lookout.
A thought occurred to me. Was this a hazing of the new guy? Was Martina behind this, and Roger as well. Could it all be a ruse? I latched onto the idea and held it close to my chest.
The night passed in heightened alertness despite my fatigue. Sometime after midnight I ventured to lie down on the bed, but my eyes never left the door for long. I kept the fire going if only for the comfort of the heat and the light. I coughed and spluttered. I have passed many a miserable night, but that one tops the list.
In the cold morning light I unlocked the door to the lookout and ventured outside. I crept towards the outhouse and prayed to gods I did not believe in that there would be no mark on the door. No burnt triangle. That somehow it had been a trick of the mind, a reaction to the first night out here.
I made exaggerated blinks over tired and sore eyes. There it was. An equilateral triangle burned into the door. It had not been there when Hitch showed me around yesterday, of that I was sure. It hadn’t been a dream. I had felt the warmth through the door.
Something caught my eye to the east. Down the slope a little way the lone charred skeleton of a burnt out tree stretched into the sky. It was a misfit, a jagged black trunk devoid of branches surrounded by healthy and unharmed trees on all sides.
I scrambled down the slope and in my excitement almost slid too far. Two puzzle pieces of information lodged immediately into my brain and only added to the mystery. The ground around the tree had been cleared by persons unknown of all loose and flammable material. It was as if someone planned to destruction of this tree, and this tree alone. The second item turned my stomach in on itself. At about head-height above the ground, an equilateral triangle had been carved into the enormous trunk, the same shape that had appeared on the door of the outhouse. That one was in black, this one white as bone in the charred carcass of the tree.
I scanned the eastern slope of the peak for any other burnt out trees and found only mottled green mixed with brown. I turned back up the slope to the lookout, only the roof visible below a brightening sky.
What the hell is going on? X