KANANASKIS
by
Jim Walker
SMASHWORDS EDITON
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Published by
Jim Walker on Smashwords
Kananaskis
Copyright © 2006-2010, James (Jim) R. Walker
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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For Chuck & Dad, and always, Irene
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KANANASKIS
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Prologue
The bears are skinny come spring. That is at least as far as bears might be concerned; and they are famished. Mommas and especially the cubs can be spotted grubbing around for anything they can eat up here in the high country after a long winter and, in some cases, a difficult birthing. Fortunately at this time of the year the forage is abundant. A mother and her twins had found a particularly good buffet in a meadow near the Spray River, south of Banff. A bear may be at the top of the food chain. Very rarely will any predator be foolish enough to attack; but not always.
If you are careful, well hidden and near enough; you could hear her calling her cubs with a low pitched 'woof-woof' and a whimpering sound letting them know that they could come and feast. The cubs are about the only thing that a hungry mother bear shows any affection towards at this, or almost any, time of the year. Anything or anyone else would have the benefit of, at its mildest, a very grumpy natured bear. A female in the spring can be particularly ferocious if an unwary male gets between her and her offspring. For a female Grizzly, or even a Black Bear in the spring, a male is the last thing they want to see; or a human for that matter. A female bear in the high country is in charge, and knows it.
Not even the hungry cougar that had been prowling the ridges above the meadow would go after the cubs frolicking in the tall, sweet grass. Unfortunately for this ten-year-old mother Grizzly there were other predators up here on this fine, sunny spring morning that were not particularly worried about whether momma was feeling a little grumpy.
Johnnie spotted the bear by the snag down below licking away at the honey oblivious to the bees swarming around her unsuccessfully attempting to drive her from the hive. A female with two cubs.
“Hey Louis.” He said quietly. “This one's got a collar.”
Louis looked over the rock they were hiding behind. “It’s about time. I’m glad this is the last one. They thing these things grow on trees? They wanted four. We got them four. It’s not our problem that they break one. Maybe they think we can just track these freakin’ bears, but without the tracking gadgets all we do is freeze our asses up here.”
He had been leaning up against their make-shift blind dozing in the sprint sun while his partner took the lookout shift. They had picked this meadow as a likely spot because of the hive. They were also down-wind from the snag, which also helped.
Bears may be near-sighted, but they had a wicked sense of smell and acute hearing. He picked up his scoped rifle and chambered a cartridge. The bear lifted her head and sniffed the air. Had she heard them or was it just her innate caution?
“Right.” He said, low-toned as she went back to tearing apart the snag. “We'll have to take the cubs too. A pity.”
Louis nodded his expression unchanged as he chambered his own round.
* * * *
Chapter One
Paris - the previous fall
Philippe Gardiner contemplated the ghost of himself in the darkened window; as if the reflection would somehow magically make his problems go away this evening early in September. His reflective smile seemed to have a slightly bitter cast to it. He thought about those nights when he, as a boy, lay in his narrow bunk at home staring fixedly at the ceiling trying to wish his current crisis into oblivion. It did not work then when he was a skinny, undersized kid living in the tough neighborhood of a small prairie town. It certainly would not work now as a tall, well-proportioned man living in a subtly tougher, much larger neighborhood in Europe. In a way, he supposed, this situation had spun out of his marrying the boss's daughter. In a way, it also had to do with the fact that he was a share-holder at Royer & Gasconne as well as the Managing Director of an old-style pharmaceutical house that had, under his guidance, become a small; leading-edge biotech firm. One that he knew was destined for much larger things. He and R&G were inextricably bound for greatness; or disaster.
He noted that the smile had, strangely, softened somewhat with that last thought. “I suppose I've done pretty well for a prairie boy from St. Boniface.” He muttered looking out at the long shadows cast by the setting sun as the streetlights that helped to give the City its famous name, flickered to life.
His doppelganger's expression bent into more sardonic expression. He could make his small concern a very large leading-edge corporation. Or, a very, very large multinational could gobble up R&G; a corporate minnow that had become just another tasty snack for one of the big fish in a rather small pond. Swallowed without so much as a hiccup in the inevitable Darwinism that is the life and death of enterprises large and small struggling to push back the edge out on the high-tech frontier. This was much like the days, he was sure when Europeans pushed west in a mad scramble to be first, not quite sure where being first would take them.
Gardiner had bent his life and that of another to R&G's survival by striving after being the first. He could not let all he had gained; and truthfully lost, die.
“If I was merely an employee drawing a salary, I suppose there would probably not be any issues of concern. I am, however, a principle share-holder and that makes this situation my problem.”
There was no one else in the room, just Philippe contemplating his reflection and his past, the present and his possible future. When you got to his level, compensation was not about the money; he would always be comfortable. It was about the stock options granted by the board, and the power. It was being recognized and respected in the halls of power. It was about a constant, unremitting climb to success as adjudged by his peers and the Bourse. Falter once, miss one opportunity and he would be just one more name sadly mentioned in the boardrooms as an object lesson on failure.
That would not be allowed.
Again, as he had for many days before, he listed R&G's limitations and their opportunities. Frankly, he thought, they had taken the Project about as far as they could with the resources they had at hand. It was as simple as that. When it became public, as it inevitably would, that R&G was a paper empire, his company would become ripe for the picking. Philippe's reflection essayed a grim tightening about the lips and eyes. However, Lacombe-Suisse Pharmaceuticals had the money and the clout to take the Project to the next step; to help make Royer & Gasconne a major player in the intertwined jungle of pharmaceuticals and cosmetics. Provided, of course that they did not discover just how weak the company was.
So far, Philippe had managed through careful manipulation to stave off the inevitable.
Lacombe-Suisse's CEO had been exerting increasing pressure on the respective companies' negotiating teams to complete due diligence on their memorandum of understanding. The offer was there, the stock market had reacted appropriately; after all one hundred and thirty million Euros would make any analyst salivate, it was time to close the deal. If they could get through due diligence. If the opposition discovered that the R&G's only real asset could be had for a thousandth the cost, the company would not be worth the paper used for the memorandum. He had to make sure that did not happen. He had put too much of himself, his family and his life into this to court failure when the Project was so close to fruition.
R&G's new product, the results of dogged work looked encouraging - no, he frowned, it is downright marvelous! His reflection mirrored his expression. It should have been smiling. Hah! It should have been drinking champagne and toasting the success of their little startup company. Instead this civil servant, this, this pip-squeak was about to throw them - me, into the gutter! Insufficient testing was the excuse. More likely pussy-footed cowardice, succumbing to the racket from the consumer groups, the squealing from the health advocates. As if life itself was devoid of risk. Was he not an example of the heights that risk-taking could take one?
That is what R&G, he, was offering the world - youth, endless vitality and vigor. Who would not want to take the risk? The old men for whom the opportunity had passed would not offer up what remained of their lives and reputations on such a bold venture. They would deny it to those who could use it; because there was a miniscule risk? Because that damned civil servant did not understand the realities?
Hah! Five years. Over eighteen hundred days of back breaking labour.
He, constantly nursing the project along; scheming, calming nervous shareholders ready to bolt because of volatility in the high-tech sector. He, keeping everyone in line, who wanted to dump the project because the risks were too high and the returns not immediate! He, calming nervous fears when the corporate watchdogs would come sniffing around. Everywhere corporate watchdogs hounding every business that was the least bit adventuresome. Now, when they were finally turning the corner, when the real money, the real power was almost theirs - this clown of a bureaucrat would destroy them. He would not let that happen.
If it came to it, he would destroy the redoubtable Dr. Asim Farouke, special assistant to the Minister, first.
* * * *
One of the unexpected spin-offs from the Human Genome Project's completion at the turn of the Century was that it set the global pharmaceutical industry scrambling to be the first to deliver the promise of Ponce de León, when he discovered Florida - a fountain of youth. At a time when exploration was largely underwritten by the ageing kings and queens of Europe, such a fountain seemed like a reasonable investment; especially since it had not been found anywhere in the explored world.
Slide a few centuries forward in time and we find that it is the baby boomers who underwrite everything, whether consciously or through their country's tax structure. The aging baby boomers who want to retain the semblance of youth and vigor that has driven so many changes through the latter half of the Twentieth Century. These same baby boomers who are now ironically flocking to Florida to retire, despite its devastating hurricanes, reputation for unabated crime and a less than comfortable climate for most of the year.
The famous “little blue pill” and its cousins were only the beginning. The preparations flogged on prime-time TV and the gadgets promoted during the wee hours of the morning are tiny, ineffective steps in the ultimate direction of Youth forever. Yet the women of the First World and growing numbers of men willingly squander their fortunes to enhance the exchequer of the cosmetics conglomerates; and increasingly the medical profession, for even the tiniest chance to remain looking youthful, alluring and powerful. It placed an absurd burden on societies that could use the billions wasted on, what in a former time, would have been called “snake oil”. Scarce resources that for their children and grand children could be put to better purpose.
Against this background R&G had achieved a quantum leap far beyond anything currently available in the marketplace. It was a product that had the actual potential to work. The revenue possibilities were an equal order of magnitude above anything currently raked in by the competition. Interestingly enough, no one realized what was in store for the world because the small Paris concern was not in the cosmetics business. It seemed possible that industry was about to be blind-sided.
It was a husband and wife team akin to the Curies, but in this case a bio-chemist and a mathematician, a topologist; who had made the initial theoretical breakthrough. This ‘biomics’ team seemed to have hit upon a way to circumvent the fabled 'kill-me gene' that pervades every living organism above the level of a paramecium. They had discovered that it was not the sequencing of the DNA that was all important but rather the structure of the molecules. Possibly millions of scientists had looked at the double helix of the DNA strand and studied its chemistry; the sequencing of the four amino acids, but how many had looked at the structure in three, or possibly more dimensions? Apparently, not that many people. At least not until now.
The Company at Philippe's insistence had funded a grant for the couple to pursue their ideas at the Ecole Polytechnique. After publishing and successfully defending their Doctorates, he had further inveigled the couple to join R&G where they could continue with their researches unencumbered by the burdens of tenure and teaching. One of his nightmares was that the landmark paper would encourage other labs to replicate the work. So far, that did not seem to be happening; perhaps due to the essentially conservative nature of the academic scientific community. He hoped that the peer review process even in this age of instant information, would continue to stretch out until they could market the results of the couple's research. It was only a matter of time though. He managed to burry their encouraging results in obscurity while paying hundreds of thousands to lawyers to tie up the rights to their research. The company now owned the patents on a process that looked like it would freeze aging.
* * * *
Philippe shook his head, not 'looked like', it would freeze the aging process.
The couple had proudly presented their female rat and its three hundredth litter to him when he had visited their lab. The animal had been at a reproductive age and fertile long past when it should have died. It would stay that way as long as it maintained the regime. That was the catch. It was also the source of endless revenue for the company that owned the rights to the process.
Who would not want to be young potentially forever?
The Project had gone a step further: the process actually seemed to stave off and, in some cases, reversed the effects of aging for certain minimum age groups. Most of the First World was moving into that particular demographic, which was a small window of opportunity for most women just after the onset of menopause. Interestingly enough, it appeared to have no effect on men. But that did not seem to matter, in Philippe's opinion as most men wanted the vigor of youth with the mature aspect that a few wrinkles and some grey hair defined as 'distinguished'; while to a woman a distinguished aspect was exactly the opposite goal.
The slight droop of the eyelids and the stretching of the skin at the neck was something a woman fought daily, almost from her early teens. The male physiology, on the other hand, appeared frozen at whatever age the preparation was started. A man would continue to have the wrinkles and grey hair or male pattern baldness if that was where he was at when he started the process. The researchers were still exploring the reversing effect on the female physiology. So far, they had no luck discovering what was happening A regimen that would freeze the aging process for both sexes was enough for Philippe.
The experimental results were enough for him to move forward to announce a new product to the World. It was enough for him to convince the board to court a larger company with the necessary marketing, production and financial clout to move the product into the marketplace. It was enough to insure Philippe's own ascent among the world's elite.
Was it enough for him to win back Madeline? Enough so that he could convince her to forgive him for the sacrifices that she, they both, had made?
His reflection shook its head and he sighed. He did not know the answers to those last questions. And so far, the board had stymied his wish to announce the breakthrough due to the interference from Farouke. He had won a partial victory when he had their approval to approach the Swiss concern. Still it was not enough.
Philippe thought about how he had prevailed upon the partners to bring the couple into the fold. He deserved his seat on the board, his shares and operational control of R&G! He was the right person at the right time.
He recalled with a certain melancholy given what had happened and, he supposed, what was about to happen the heady times setting up the lab near Toulon. He and Madeline working with the two young scientists through the long hours, snatching sleep where they could on a cot nearby or occasionally together with Madeline in the sybaritic luxury of the big old four-poster in the cottage the two couples shared. Philippe and Madeline, Jacques and Marie: four very bright people sharing an adventure in the intellectual frontier as great and as arduous in its own way as that of any of the ancient explorers searching for a route to riches or to the Orient.
At his urging, the partners were encouraged to retire from operations to play with their grandchildren and enjoy the fruits of their, and his, labours. That placed them safely out of any jeopardy and gave Philippe a free hand to move the company forward. But, none of his struggles would be worth anything if they could not realize the potential of his sacrifice. And thus, to the problem at hand: the aging principals of the company had jumped at the potential to be able to sit back and rake in the profits, but they were not anxious to do what was necessary to achieve those profits, whereas Philippe was. He knew that very often the way for a company to win big in the profit game was to merge with a larger concern that had the cash, but not necessarily, the product. Gardiner had been courting Lacombe-Suisse for the better part of a year. A short time as these things go.
Finally, it looked like they were going to get in bed together when La Presse broke the story:
'Anti-Aging Serum Linked to Possible Neuro-Muscular Diseases'.
No question mark. Just the bald statement as if it was an absolute fact. Implying, what good would it do to be to be forever young if you were confined to a wheel chair with Multiple Sclerosis or something like Parkinson's Disease? Philippe because of the damned board had never had a chance to announce and he still did not know who had leaked. It was possible that one of the people from Farouke's department may have decided, “in the public interest”, to release the story; which was exactly counter to the whole approval process.
He had moved into damage control mode.
R&G carefully countered with the fact that there was no absolute proof that any of the foregoing was true. They included photos and video bytes of frisky rats. Cute, little black and white ones. They fielded endorsements about the encouraging work R&G were doing from the top people in the field. They published other endorsements from every ageing celebrity they could find who was willing to undergo the still experimental treatments that had been tentatively approved by the American FDA for human trials. They inundated a cynical press corps with charts and graphs, comparison studies and blind studies. Strangely, it did not include the doubts of the couple who first stumbled upon the process and the press still believed that the results had been that of a full-fledged research lab.
The R&G public relations team had even given press tours.
Philippe had safely buried the couple at the secret laboratory that the four of them had set up what had seemed to be so long ago. So far they seemed to be unaware that they were incommunicado in a velvet-lined prison. The couple had reported to him that they felt it would take another five years, minimum, to ensure reasonable safety. That report had been passed on to the Government and had been leaked practically verbatim. The part that La Presse had left out was that the risks were statistically similar to those found in the regular population that had not used the preparation. Not that that fact seemed to matter.
R&G and consequently Philippe did not have five years. They might have five months, more likely five weeks, before Lacombe-Suisse bolted or, worse, realized how weak his company was and gobbled them up, freezing out the principals with 'adequate' compensation. R&G's shareholders would be co-opted into Lacombe-Suisse. The real profits would go to the board members and shareholders of the larger company. Philippe would loose any chance at the real power.
He grimaced at his reflection. “…And, any chance to reconcile with Madeline.” Somehow it had become all tied together.
The Company did not have the resources for another generation of research. Besides the chances, long-term, of any significant side effects had been repeatedly described as minimal: one in hundreds of thousands. Very close to the actual occurrence of the reported syndromes in the population. It was an acceptable risk. Also, any conditions that did manifest could be the results of a predisposition; the statistics were so similar. He had to quiet that pip-squeak of a civil servant or make him see…
“Not likely.” came the grim rejoinder from his reflection.
…that the risks to public health were not out of line compared to the overwhelming benefits.
Nothing is absolutely secret in the high-tech world, despite tales of industrial espionage; at least not to the insiders. Software companies, for example, have a good idea what the hardware people are up to. Not the specifics, but generally. They have enough information, often voluntarily shared, so that each has a sense of where they want to go in the marketplace. The same is true amoung the various entities of what is loosely called the 'bio-tech', or 'cosmetic' or 'pharmaceutical' industries: everyone sits on everyone else's boards. There is safety in numbers. Just ask any herd animal when the big cats are on the prowl. Rumours abounded in the industry about R&G, that it was weak, ready to be cut out of the heard and brought down for the kill.
Philippe had to staunch those rumors. He had to stave off any attacks from the fat cats. His reflection grinned back at him in response to the rather poor metaphor.
He turned away from his reflection, walked over to the bar and poured himself a 12 year old single malt. He may be French, but he still preferred a good highland malt. He dashed a little water into the glass and swirled it as he walked back over to the window that looked out towards the Arc de Triumph. R&G was a small house, possibly fallen on hard times, but it still had a respectable address. To keep that address, Philippe had a decision to make.
“Actually,” He thought rather grimly, “the decision is already made. I just have to figure out how to execute it.”
* * * *
Chapter Two
Banff National Park - the following spring
Sam found the Grizzly in that high meadow along the Spray River Trail. Rather Fashion, his mare, a Golden Palomino-Arabian cross, did.
He and Jessica, his Park Warden partner on this trip, had been working their way up along the ridge that opened into the mountain pasture located just below the tree line since early that morning. They had encouraged their still sleepy mounts from their trailers after driving from Banff through Kananaskis on Highway 762 to the Mt. Shark trailhead. The horses' riders were equally dozy but wanted to get into the cool uplands before the heat of the day. The team had hit the trail just as the sun was peeking over the foothills to their east.
This trip was part the annual Park Warden's spring trek shortly after snow melt. (It was) time to ready the cabin, which served as an auxiliary Warden's station, for the summer onrush of backcountry hikers and trail riders. The cabin, located near the head of Spray Lake, was about forty kilometers south of Banff on a trail that meandered through the high country to the west of Alberta's Kananaskis Country. Approaching mid-morning, they were almost at the meadow that fronted the final approach to the cabin.
The horses strained at their tack anxious to stop plodding along the narrow, shale strewn switchbacks that wound their way up into the high country. Part of this trip was to evaluate the condition of the trails, but the horses did not care about that. They could smell the sweet grass, flowers and clover that carpeted the springtime land ahead of them. Sam, Jessica and the horses had worked hard getting up here. They all looked forward to the break. For the riders it would be a picnic; a chance to rest sore muscles unused to even a short time in the saddle before the hour-and-a-half ride to the cabin and an early end to the day. Their mounts had their own ideas.
Fashion whickered and tossed her head, ready to gallop. Sam finally spotted the hollow snag at the opposite end of the meadow that marked the fork in the trail to the cabin. Not far to go now, he thought.
Snow still hummocked in the snag's shadow although the bees were already swarming in and out of the crenellated top, producing their honey; irresistible to famished bears just waking from their long winter's slumber. The meadow was an obvious feasting ground for bears and, from past experiences, Sam knew they had to be cautious. He tightened the reigns while talking quietly and calmly to his mount.
Fashion skittered sideways and continued to toss her head. She wanted to run! Now! That was the unspoken contract: when you got to the meadow, you got to run. Horses are generally not afraid of bears who are smart enough to give their hooves a wide birth. Why should she not be able to run? She eyed her rider. He, sensing her displeasure, leaned over to whisper while patting her neck, voice and hand calming the twitching muscles under her lustrous spring coat.
“I know. It's been a long haul, old girl. Just a few minutes more. Let's wait for Jessie and Shadow, OK?”
Fashion tossed her head and snorted. As if she had any choice in the matter.
A bear, even a hungry one, would sensibly back away from two horses and their riders, unless they were between her and her cubs. But, other than that after all, the honey wasn't going anywhere and bears, even ones with a rumbling stomach, are quite pragmatic. They had, as if by some genetic memory, learned to respect a horse's hooves. A horse may not be able to kill a bear, but no animal likes to have a steel-shod hoof in the nose. Sam looked up to make sure that he was not under a perch where a cougar could hide in wait to pounce on an unsuspecting or incautious, prey. Although he and Fashion had been along this trail dozens of times, he never took any chances. He clicked his mount forward a few paces.
Fashion snorted again and shook her head nodding then she settled down. Horses, although not as sensible as your average bear, generally know when to relax, although it can be very difficult for a beast whose life tends to revolve around the galloping; especially on a fine spring day, when that's what you did when you got to the meadow.
Sam twisted in his saddle acutely aware of the creak of the leather and the low, metallic clatter of the tack. It seemed that, as they made their way up the mountain, he shed his city filters; those banks we unconsciously put on our senses to dampen down the day-to-day jangle of even the most mellow town or city. The almost overwhelming quiet triggered his sensorium to a higher level of awareness. The world around him became one of clearer sight, crisper sounds, sharper smells with every breath of wind tickling the exposed hair on his forearms. Probably a good awareness to have in bear country, he thought as he watched Jessica guiding her tall Appaloosa-Arabian crossbreed carefully over a small slide that had partially blocked the trail.
Sam had already made a note of the obstruction to send down to headquarters along with the recommendation that this stretch of the trail was safe. Someone would eventually be up to double check his finding and to confirm that there had been no changes since his report. If trails became unsafe due to the ever-changing weather conditions or spring run-off, they would close this particular route until they could make sure that the rock fall was stable. The Park Service would post the closure at the information center and direct backcountry enthusiasts to other access points. Not everyone followed the Service’s directions, so every spring Wardens rode up here to the high country to set up the auxiliary station.
Jessica noticed him looking back at her and waved. Sam nodded and turned back in the saddle. A few minutes yet. She had lost the toss and was guiding the pack train while Sam scouted ahead and made sure that the way was clear. He had a small, portable radio clipped to his shirt, the twin of Jessica's, but they preferred to remain in sight of each other and use hand signals whenever possible. They both felt that yelling back and forth over the radios was akin to having a punk rock band perform a song with salacious lyrics in a cathedral.
Sam grinned at the thought. Not that there was anything wrong with a punk rock band. Probably it could even be a religious one, but still….
He felt the wind freshen against his cheek as he and Fashion paced ahead; sharp and cold off the heights where it traded its spring warmth after its long run over the Pacific and the Interior of BC to melt the snow pack on the peaks into the rush and tumble of the mountain streams. Fashion tossed her head, her eyes went wide and she flared her nostrils. She danced backward almost sitting on her haunches. Sam gripped her flanks and leaned into her. She cried, panic edging around her awareness.
“Easy.” He commanded stretching the word out gentling her. Rubbing her suddenly tense neck, reins held loosely in his right hand while his thighs gripped her flanks, a strong and sure comfort. He knew she was familiar with bear smell and wouldn't bolt if she scented one. This was something else, nearby. “What have you found, girl.” He said quietly again thinking about cougars. There had been reports of one in the region supposedly terrorizing the mountain sheep.
Generally, when they fixated on mutton, human was not an issue, but the big cats were opportunistic beasts and that word 'generally' had a way of rising up, or leaping down, and biting you. He glanced up again to confirm he wasn't under a perch. No, he thought, that's not it. “Come on.” he coaxed her into the meadow.
All thoughts of going for a run had fled Fashion's mind except to run in the opposite direction, which Sam was not letting her do. There was a 'bad thing' here and horses are particularly sensitive to 'bad things'. She skittered sideways attempting to turn back behind the shoulder of the mountain where the smell would be blocked and she could put it out of her mind. Horses, in some ways have very short memories. Finally, he dismounted and led her to the skeleton of a fallen tree that bridged the creek winding its way down the middle of the meadow, one of the many offshoots feeding the Spray River. It was a handy place to tie up the horses and check things out. He looked back towards Jessica to check her progress.
He saw the woman and the horses as they emerged from within the shadows of the mountain's shoulder as if from wings onto the sunlit stage that was the meadow. Shadow's nostrils flared when he came around the bend and he too scented the mystery on the breeze that Fashion had sensed. Obviously skittish, he was attempting to back around down the trail. The pack horses in turn attempted to reverse course as well. Jessica urged Shadow forward until she had a clear spot to jump down so she could coax and pull the younger gelding alongside Fashion who had calmed down when she could turn her hindquarters to the breeze: out of smell, out of mind so to speak. Sam took the other two horses under control and got them settled.
The horses felt nervous but if their people seemed calm they could be calm too. Besides, the humans would protect them. That is what humans do; have done for tens of thousands of years. Horses, wild and free, had been broken to the humans' will to be their beasts of burden, but the deal was: that humans bent their efforts to ensuring that horses were safe. These small, fragile-seeming, two legged animals seemed to be very good at protecting horses. It was a fair trade - wild insecure freedom for protection and, actually, not too arduous labour on the humans' behalf. The rest of the time, they had plenty to eat and drink, pretty comfortable lodgings and plenty of room to run around and play when they wanted to. If you were a domestic horse and knew no different, it was a pretty good life.
Sam had tied Fashion and the pack horses to the fallen log. Jessica did the same with her mount. Shadow took the older horse's example and gently bumped up against his friend. Sam and Jessica were old friends almost as long as the horses. Partners, off and on, for about ten years each had confidence in the other's respective skills. Silently, with nods and subtle hand gestures, they gathered what they needed to investigate whatever was spooking the horses and made their way across the meadow to the snag.
Although it was out of policy; Jessica, a crack shot, had the task in these situations to support Sam when they were teamed up together. By rights, she was not supposed to be carrying a weapon but Sam turned a blind eye. He rather liked the extra insurance, especially so far from a hospital. He would approach the subject, sometimes with an air rifle loaded with a tranquilizer dart; sometimes with a camera, and either sedate the animal or take its picture. So far, during these encounters, she did not have to demonstrate her skills, although Sam knew they were consummate.
She held her Remington .30-06 Mountain Rifle at port arms, moving out about two or three meters behind and to Sam’s right as they approached the snag, which was about thirty meters from where they had tied up. Now that they were afoot Sam noticed that the grey-white carcass of the tree was in a slight depression. Anything could be hidden there. If anything happened, his part of the contract was to move to the left, drop and curl up forcing the bear turn after him and expose its heart to her.
“I guess we won't have to worry about this one.” He said disgustedly waving off the black flies buzzing around the decapitated carcass, which was still bleeding out onto the greensward around it. Jessica unloaded her weapon, pulled the magazine which she placed in her daypack and propped the bag and rifle against the snag.
“Fagh!” She exclaimed looking at one of the visible legs that had the paw chopped off. “No wonder the horses weren't happy. …Poachers.”
The way she said it, Sam grinned and gently, jokingly chided her: “Wash your mouth out.” He shook his head. “…never heard of them coming up this high. Usually too difficult and the bears are too healthy. Guess we better call it in and get a chopper up here to clear the carcass. This is going to put an early crimp in the transportation budget.” Sam was not overly concerned about the expense. He just knew that his boss would comment on how the field personnel had no concerns for the realities of running the Banff National Park Service in an era of ever-tightening budgets.
If possible, the Park authorities retrieved the carcass as evidence. That is, if it hadn't decomposed or had been too badly damaged by scavengers, which was usually the case. This has to be a recent kill, Sam thought, looking around. They must have just missed the poachers. He couldn't recall spotting any ravens as they came into the meadow. Usually the black birds were on a carcass almost immediately in their role as part of the upland cleanup crew. He spotted some of the birds patiently watching them, perched on the scrawny trees that struggled to survive this close to the tree line. They had been below the meadow for most of the morning. It was unlikely that they would have heard any gun shots.
Jessica voiced what he was thinking. “How come we didn't scare off any ravens?”
Sam shook his head. “Don't know. You think the poachers are still around?”
Jessica thought about the rifle, wondering to herself if maybe she was a little too hasty safeing it. “You know, I wish we could carry side arms; even if it's just for when we're in the backcountry. Every season, it seems to get worse.” She gazed off to the ridgeline.
“Yeah, I better call in.”
They turned away from the ridge above them towards their horses missing the flash of sunlight off the lenses of the binoculars held by one of the two men watching them from the boulder field about two hundred meters above them near the saddle-back pass to the next meadow. The pair had retreated to their present cover about a kilometer away when one of them saw Sam come around the bend in the trail. He had been standing as a lookout while his partner had started to dismember the bear.
"Hey, be careful!" Louis said blinded by the glint off the lenses. He was down slope a ways from Johnnie and caught the full blast of the sun. His partner lowered the binoculars.
"They've gone back to their horses. They didn't see us."
"Let's get back. The chopper will be along anytime." His companion nodded. They scrambled along the boulder field eventually making their way to the pass leading to another meadow along the shoulder of the range.
"Hold up. One of them is using a radio. Give me the glasses."
…"Yeah, he's calling someone. We better beat tracks."
They made their way through the pass to the valley beyond. In their rush to get out of site, they made a critical mistake. Their movement skylined on the ridge caught Jessica's attention:
"Sam. There's someone in Saddle Lake pass."
Sam finished up his call in to headquarters and turned to where Jessica was pointing. "Don't see anything. They must have gone below the ridgeline. I'll call it in. Then I think we better find out what's going on."
"I don't think we're going to find anyone. Listen." She pointed in the direction of the ridge. Sam cocked his head hearing the distinctive beat of the rotors of a large helicopter. Sam had been in them often enough to recognize the beat. It was not only the sound of the helicopter that disturbed Jessica; it was also something about the bear.
She realized what it was and her voice caught. “Sam, that's a female marked bear.”
“Yes?” He looked back at her seeing her face pale under her freckles.
“So where are her cubs and her collar?”
“All good questions. Well, by the sound of it that’s a Huey. Not many people flying those around here. Maybe we’ll be able to track down some answers.”
* * * *
Chapter Three
Banff National Park, the cabin - later that day
A day that had started out so very early, yet so full of promise, finally ground down to something resembling an ending; but not the one that Jessica and Sam had planned. They arrived at the cabin in the late afternoon sunset with both the riders and horses feeling somewhat worn. The horses because the emotional upset in the meadow had been tough on them, not to mention all the extra traveling about. Their riders because of the death of the bear and subsequent investigation into the sighting on the ridge. Jessica's estimate of what they would find when they crossed the ridge had been correct; no one was there. They were unable to spot anyone. They had checked the valley beyond the meadow where they had found the bear carcass as that was the lead they were following. Unfortunately, there was no spoor to carry the investigation further. There was no indication that a helicopter had been there or that the people she had seen had been there. They had spent an hour in the bolder field casting about for evidence: footprints, shell casings, anything; but whoever had shot the bear had either done it from another location or had been very careful about policing the site. Yet, looking back from the field towards the snag and gauging the wind, they agreed that this was the best blind if you were going to down a bear. Finally, Sam suggested that the helicopter they had heard had ferried them out and that they might as well press on to the cabin.
Jessica sighed, nodded and tucked a stray hair under her hat. "If they were afoot or on horseback, we would have either caught up with them or seen them as we came over the ridge. Come on let's put the kids to bed."
They had bedded their mounts in the paddock attached to the side of the cabin and unloaded, watered and fed the pack horses before turning them loose with their mates. Jessica went about the big main room of the cabin lighting lamps and setting a fire in the wood stove that dominated the back wall, while Sam stowed their supplies in the kitchen alcove. Despite the day's warmth, temperatures could still drop below freezing up here at this time of the year. Hands on her hips, she arched her back working the kinks out from the long day. Up before the sun to prepare for the trek and get underway, then the long, careful ride up into the high country. The side trip delayed the task they had come up to do: set up the cabin for the season. Usually they planned to be up early enough in the afternoon to finish and have an early end to the day.
She twisted the handle a few times on the ancient field phone that was set up on a shelf by the door to the cabin. “Hey Chris. Just checking in. Looks like the phone lines made it through the winter.” Chris replied wishing them a good night. “Same to you.” Said Jessica in turn. The phone was one of those instruments that seem to persist well into an age of radios, cell phones and instant messaging because it worked, season in and season out. As long as the copper strung between the cabin and the office miles away and a few thousand feet below did not break.
Every year the Wardens drew lots for who would be the first team to ride up to ready the cabin and then take a ten day to two week duty tour. The Service used a Park helicopter to re-supply the station but at every start of the season, someone had to bring up the horses used for patrolling the trails. Sam considered Fashion to be 'his' horse, even though he shared her among a number of other riders. He always relished the opportunity to have her to himself, even if it was only for a few days until he and Jessica rotated out. In the off season, it was Sam who tended to Fashion, took her riding almost every week and made sure that she was happy. When they came up to the cabin the first team generally brought with them supplies for a few days. A Parks Service helicopter had been up earlier with heavy goods like feed supplements for the horses, fuel for the generator and such. One of the reasons hay burners still played a major role in patrolling the Park was that they could live very well off the land. A Park Warden on this duty had to be skilled with horses as well as experienced in the back country.
Some of Sam's colleagues looked on the annual event as a chore to be avoided, if possible, others as an opportunity to be embraced. Sam and Jessica always enjoyed the outing as a chance to get away from the paperwork and routine at the National Park headquarters in Banff. They considered the trip to be a chance to do some real Warden work out where they felt they belonged. For them, it set the tone for the coming season.
Jessica commented on it. “So far, this isn't shaping up to be a great year.”
“Hey, its early days yet. Don't let the bear put you off.”
“I suppose so. Strange that there is no radio collar.”
“Well we'll check with HQ tomorrow. Maybe they marked her but didn't get around to giving her a collar.”
“Yeah, I suppose so. Weren't all the bears around here supposed to be collared because of the big health conference in Kananaskis?”
“Yes,” she said “I remember reading about that. Part of the security, as I recall.”
Sam grinned at her. “Yep. I suppose they didn't want all the soldiers that are supposed to be running around up here having an encounter with a bear. Most of them are farm kids or city folks that wouldn't have a clue.”
“Suppose so….” She tapered off. Lost in thought Sam concluded.
Jessica poked at the fire in the big wood stove for, what seemed to Sam, about the twentieth time. That had been about the longest conversation they had had since the meadow. Preoccupied during dinner, quietly eating her meal, she grunted one-word replies when he tried to start a conversation.
When they had paired off on these trips in the past, Sam had taken to preparing something special for their first evening. He took an inordinate pride, by Jessica's sometimes very vocal and humorous commentary, in his chef's skills. He never tired of telling anyone who would listen that he had worked his way through university as a cook. Working at one of the many restaurants in the Township was his first experience with the Park, where he fell in love with the country. He knew he was going to be a Warden long before he signed on. Like many of his generation, Sam enjoyed skiing but had never really understood the backcountry until coming to Banff. Every summer between semesters, when he was not in the kitchen, he learned to ride, hike, canoe and acquire the other sills necessary to survive outside the civilized confines of the urban landscape. Still, cooking was his passion.
Tonight's dinner had been a porcini mushroom and pork ragout, modified with a red wine sauce and served up with baking powder biscuits. Sam had picked the mushrooms and dried them last fall and carefully cubed the pork loin and put it on ice for the trip up. Some would call the menu pretty basic, but the way Sam added spices and herbs then let the mixture simmer while they got the cabin ship-shape, added a certain flair to the meal. It was a recipe that he had learned from a new friend that he was excited enough about to tell Jessica. Generally, he had been pretty closed-mouthed about his past encounters during the winter in Banff finding it difficult to endure Jessica's sometimes acidic comments. He could not decide whether she was jealous of the other women (not likely!), or put off because he was having so much fun while she was slogging away at school. She had told him one time that she expected that he would become one of those pathetic roués that one can find in any resort town, who still think that they have 'it' as far as the ladies are concerned. Sam discounted the remark.
Although the powers that be frowned upon it, Sam had even brought up a carefully wrapped bottle of a BC Cabernet that Jessica liked. He thought it went well with the stew. They had, at least in the past, used the early break on the first day's night to catch up on what they had done during the previous fall and winter. Neither of them were the greatest for corresponding, except for Christmas and birthday greetings; so it was as if they had to renew their friendship every spring. He would ask about her studies - how they were progressing, her professors, her dissertation. As a part-time Warden she had been spending her winters working towards her Doctorate in Environmental Studies at the University of British Columbia, while Sam did his thing in Banff. His winter time activities seemed mostly to provide her with ammunition for the spring so that she would generally, half-seriously, rag on him about which ski bunny or bunnies he had paired off with while she was away.
To someone who did not know him, Sam could have been the poster boy for the original Banff Après-ski party scene. Perhaps it was his boyish good nature and lean athleticism that acted like a magnet to the opposite sex. Jessica thought that might be the initial attraction, but women seemed to hang around him because Sam was something rare in her opinion - a gentle, gentleman. The strange thing, she thought, was that he seemed to be completely unaware of the effect he had (on women). It was like all the best looking women seemed to be able to find him as if by magic. Lately, though, he seemed to have settled on someone named Nichole. He had actually written Jessica about her. Now, he seemed to be anxious to talk about her and the strange sensation of having the same woman with him for more than a few weeks at a time.
Tonight Jessica appeared to have broken with tradition. She had finished the meal virtually in silence, they did the dishes and she was still quiet. Sam, respecting her mood, had settled down with a book while she prowled the cabin finally ending up after the fourth or fifth circuit back at the stove. He put the book down; finally deciding it was time to talk.
"You better be careful." He said. "I think it’s getting ready to poke you back."
"What? What poking? Poking me back?"
Ignoring her reaction, Sam continued on, stretching out the syllables: "So, how was school?"
She shoved the stick she was using into the fire. The door closed with a thump. "Fine”
…Gazing off as if inspecting the meadow below her.
“What I don't understand is why they took the bear's head and paws. Don't they usually skin the carcass and get the organs? I bet if we checked we would find that they are still intact."
She was referring to the bear's gall bladder, gonads and heart, which had significance in various folk medicines. A poacher could make thousands of dollars from a single bear by marketing the parts to brokers in this illicit trade who redistributed them about the world. An intact grizzly pelt had become rare enough commodity to big game hunter wannabes that even a female was worth tens of thousands to a collector.
"You do love a mystery." He gibed. "I agree. Very odd poachers. They seemed well equipped. That big helicopter is not cheap to own or rent."
She nodded and dropped into the big wood framed leather chair opposite Sam. She looked around the cabin. Things looked to be in pretty good shape. She decided that they could afford to take the time. Besides it was their job. "Let's head back to the valley tomorrow and see if we missed anything."
Sam nodded. Sunset comes early in the high country. They still had needed to get to the cabin and set it up for the season. Sam and Jessica had given the valley a cursory look over after they found that it was deserted and had inspected the boulder field. It wouldn't be a bad idea to go back and see what else they could dig up.
That decision made, Jessica made the effort and shook off her mood. She gave Sam a sly smile. “Bill tells me that your latest is from La Belle Province…”
* * * *
Chapter Four
Banff Park Lodge - that same evening
"You have the collar?"
Louis jerked his head: 'yes', waved at the beat-up looking canvass rucksack over one shoulder and rolled his eyes, thinking about the aggravation this trip was causing him. He was quite happy to let others do the delivery grunt work. Although, so far all they had passed on to the man inside; well to the big Dutch or German hippy, was the location of the other collars. Tonight would be the first time that they would meet. Perhaps he wanted to give them a bonus for the good job they were doing. Still, he wondered why they were hiding the collars on the animal's range.
"He will see you in momentarily. Wait."
The man standing at guard, Louis supposed, outside the door to the suite waved them to the chairs that lined the wall of the foyer off the elevator. The poachers looked at each other, shrugged and slouched into the seats. Louis let the bag drop with a dull thump at his feet.
"Hurry up and wait." He grumbled.
Johnny nodded not really listening. As usual, his thoughts were elsewhere while Louis did all the thinking, planning and work on their side business. So far, he figured, they were ahead of the game. The guy from Vancouver's Chinatown was happy to pay through the nose for all the product that they could deliver. It was too bad about the pelts. The could have really cleaned up. Everyone would think that the bears were still alive and they would be long gone before anyone became the wiser. Still their main job was to get the collars and to do that they had to remove the heads from the carcass making the pelts useless. No guy boasting about his supposed kill would want a headless bearskin.
Still, they had the cubs from today's job safely hidden away and Louis was sure that some petting zoo would pay a pretty good buck for them, being twins and all. Would have to make sure that they got delivered pretty quickly with the mother gone before they starved. Too bad those Park Wardens showed up when they did. It would have been nice to have gotten rid of those cubs before coming down to Banff. For about the thirtieth time he wondered why they had to make a delivery directly to their employer. When they met the chopper previously, they would exchange the location of the latest collar for their money and go their way. Not this time. Perhaps Louis would have been wise to wonder why the change in procedure before showing up in town. Not that it would have made much difference in the end.
Their employer's instructions about the radio-tracking collars had been very specific: take it off the animal but do not sever the collar, which would disable the transmitter. He wanted it intact. Why would anyone want a live tracking collar? Louis shook his head. It didn't matter. Whatever the man wanted, so long as the money was good, was his business. Between this job and their guy in Vancouver, so far, the money had been good. He smiled feeling smug. Very good. He mused about the other strict instructions: make sure no one finds out about the dead bears. They were to get the collar, butcher the bear and hide the carcass and take the collar, he had repeated. Well, they had butchered the bear and hidden the remains.