Free North of Hope by Shannon Polson Page A

in the day … Rich.
    I was glad we hadn’t faced similar winds or aufeis so far. It was hard thinking of Dad and Kathy out on this river, fighting the wind. It was harder thinking of them having been on the river, and then no longer being. This journal entry was Father’s Day, the day I had talked to them on the sat phone.
    The three of us walked the tundra around our chosen campsite, looking for bear sign and for areas to set up the tents and the kitchen. I automatically recalled my military training, a posture of aggression and defense that felt both natural and unwelcome. I looked for clear fields of fire, lines of sight. Open tundra rolled away from our campsite for a mile or more before reaching the base of the mountains, and the low mosses, sedges, and lichens allowed visibility that satisfied both wilderness and military requirements.
    We made our kitchen two hundred yards north of the boat andclose to the river. The kitchen is where we would store the food and all the cooking and personal hygiene items. When camping in bear country, anything that has a fragrance must be stored well away from the tent, because it can attract bears. We knew that we had far more gear than we needed—several stoves, water filters, and tents, in case anything broke down, clogged, or tore. Fortunately, heavier loads are easier to manage in a raft than in a backpack. Sally brought a bivvy sack and a large mesh tent, anticipating the mosquitoes. Ned brought two smaller mountaineering tents. I brought a tarp. The redundancy, even if excessive, offered all of us a sense of security.
    Of the many suggestions to mitigate risk that percolated among the guiding community after last year’s attack, one was that sleeping in a floorless tent might help afford visibility and preclude entanglement in the tent fabric. That’s why I’d brought a tarp; it would provide shelter, visibility, and, if needed, mobility. But as I attempted to set it up, the wind ripped the thin material out of my hands. Annoyed with myself, I borrowed one of the two tents Ned had brought with him.
    We also set up a bear fence around our sleeping area, a set of thin electric wires on stakes and a small battery-powered energizer. Bear fences were first developed in New Zealand to control sheep. Some outdoors outfitters used them to protect food stashes or even bush planes. The fence was intended to shock and thus deter a curious animal. Dad and Kathy had traveled with a bear fence on the Canning River, but had not brought one with them on the Hulahula. I was far from convinced of its efficacy. Sally and I began to set up our camping gear. I pulled out the collapsible tent poles and assembled them before threading them through the sleeves of the tent.
    “I’m sure people would think we’re overreacting, setting a bear watch, on top of having a bear fence, guns, and bear spray,” I said. I blew into the small valve of my sleeping pad to inflate it, soon feeling light-headed from the attempt.
    “Well, the bear watch is fine with me,” Sally said.
    “I doubt that anyone else does it or would even recommend it,” I said. “It just seems like a good idea, given everything. Our family back home will be more comfortable. Maybe it will even be nice, having a few quiet hours alone at night.”
    Ned said nothing, finally clipping the last wire of the bear fence into place and connecting it to the ground and energizer. He pushed the power button, and the quiet but persistent high-pitched beeping, assuring the user of its operation, began.
    “Works,” he said, his voice flat. Ned wasn’t engaging, at least on the surface. From experience, I knew this meant he was holding things in. It had been so long since I had seen him that I no longer knew how to expect his reticence to manifest. On a family trip in college once, he’d lunged at me from the guest bedroom he shared with Sam when I came in to get my roller bag; afterward Dad pinned him against the wall to make the point