Ike Hamill: Migrators

The back of the field was just the start of the property. They had almost three-hundred acres on this side of the road, purchased at an inflated cost from Liz’s cousins. Most of the back woods were planted pines, put in by previous owners. They had rows and rows of monstrous trees that should have been harvested at least a decade ago according to the forester.

Alan took the little path that he and Joe had cleared. It ended at the nearest row of pine trees. Once you got to the pines, it was an easy walk between the rows. Only at the edges did other trees have the temerity to try to spring up through the thick blanket of pine needles. Here in the center of the planting, there was nothing but pine trees and brittle branches.

Alan walked the length of the pines, holding the bag of smelly shells out to his side. He switched it to his other arm when his shoulder began to stiffen. At the end of the pines, he pushed through low bushes and out to the snowmobile path. This was still their property, but the family had always granted snowmobilers rights to a trail across the land. Alan followed the path down the hill. Now he was about three-quarters of the way across their property. This last quarter was the hardest.

The snowmobile club kept the path clear of trees and brush, but in the summer the grass grew tall. Only the deer and moose kept the grass trampled. They seemed to have a time-share arrangement with the snowmobiles.

Alan walked along the path and wondered if he still needed to worry about ticks this time of year. He stopped to tuck his pants into his socks, just in case.

Near the edge of the property, Alan found a couple of wooden pallets propped up on logs to bridge a little creek. The Colonel would have never approved. Alan crossed carefully. He looked at the creek and down at his bag of shells.

“Nope,” he said. He kept walking.

At the edge of their property—this property assembled and curated by the Colonel until his death—a family of beavers had dammed the little stream and formed a pond. This is where Alan intended to dump the lobster shells. They’d come from the ocean, but perhaps their remains would find peace in the little beaver pond.

Alan smiled as he reached the edge of the pond. He hiked upstream a bit and then picked apart the knot at the top of the bag. He dumped the shells and lobster guts into the water. He shook out the bag and then wadded it up carefully before enclosing it in a second bag from his pocket. He tucked the whole contained mess in a side pouch of his camera bag and washed his hands in the beaver pond. The smell was foul. He wiped his hands with a cleaning wipe from his bag before he touched his camera.

Alan worked his way down towards the pond, looking for a shot. The sun was wrong for what he wanted to capture. He picked a path carefully over the dam and tried to find an angle to get the surface of the pond, the dam, and the beaver lodge in one shot. He was accustomed to taking action shots of protesters about to throw rocks at a line of armored police. He was accustomed to finding a way to frame the mutilated corpse of a forgotten soldier so the viewer could feel the despair of wasted youth. He couldn’t find the edge in this shot of the beaver dam. He couldn’t find the drama.

At the top of the beaver lodge, one branch stuck out. Three wilted leaves hung from the branch. A pretty yellow bird landed near the leaves. It turned its black-striped head and sang. Alan zoomed in.

As he took his shots, something up the hill banged, sending the bird back to flight.

Alan sighed. He reviewed his last shots. He saw three pictures of a yellow blur.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Alan turned. What was up that hill? He picked his way across to the other side of the dam, miraculously keeping his feet dry, and beat his way through the grass up the far bank. These woods weren’t orderly rows of planted pines, they were the twisted intertwined work of unchecked nature. Alan fought his way through a patch of raspberry bushes and closely-packed alders.

Bang. Bang. Buzz.

Alan cocked his head. The last thing sounded like an air compressor that you might use for a nail gun. The hill was getting steeper. Alan paused and looked left and right. He saw daylight to his left. He headed towards it.

Through some scraggly, thorny bushes, Alan emerged onto a path. He saw a sign. It read, “Kingston Snowmobile Club.” Below the words were a picture of an ATV with a line through the machine.

Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.

Alan walked up the path for a bit and then as it curved left, he picked his way through a more manageable forest of respectable trees.

Bang.

The sound was close. Alan dropped to a crouch and turned slowly. He held his camera near his face. He felt like a lion cub, play-hunting by chasing his father’s tail, but it was better than taking a blurry picture of a yellow bird. Alan crept towards the source of the noise.

Movement caught his eye and Alan froze. He got down on his knees and lowered himself to his belly for the second time that day. He hid his face behind the camera and scanned up the hill through his lens.

He found his quarry.

It was a man—gray hair at his temples, thoughtful dark frames on his glasses. He wore a blue felt shirt rolled up to the elbows over a white t-shirt. He wore clean blue jeans and hiking boots. He carried a nail gun tethered with a red hose.

Bang.

The man fired a nail into the underside of his deck.

Bang. Bang.

Alan snapped a couple of photos of the carpenter as the man climbed down from his ladder and moved it over. The man picked up another short piece of wood and climbed back up.

Bang.

Alan got photos of the man, his deck, and the house. He pointed his lens to the sky and slinked backwards, staying low until he got to a tree. Alan used the tree for cover as he stood and backed away slowly.

Bang. Bang.

The farther he got from the tree, the less it shielded him from the house. Alan edged around the side. The carpenter held his nail gun at his side and turned Alan’s direction. Alan froze. The carpenter raised a hand to shield his eyes from the sun and peered right at Alan’s position. The man began to climb down the ladder.

Alan turned and ran.

He reached the path and tucked his camera under his arm as he barreled down the hill. The trail ended at the edge of the beaver pond. Alan turned left and tried to keep his speed as he tromped through the tall grass at the edge of the pond. He had to reach the dam before he could cross and get back to his own property. Out here, he felt exposed.

Alan reached the dam with only a little mud splashed up his pants. He sprinted across the top of the dam, staying light on his toes and willing himself across. He had a big smile on his face as he reached the other side. He pulled at the low branches as he jumped over a muddy patch on his way back to the snowmobile trail.

The trail was right there, only a few steps away, when his foot came down in the wrong spot. His shoe disappeared down into a black muddy hole. The mud made a slurping noise as it sucked the shoe from his foot. Alan looked down at his sock, half-pulled from his foot and soaked through. He began to giggle.

With his camera capped and zipped into the bag, he hung it from a branch as he plunged a hand into the cold mud. He found his shoe. The ground didn’t want to let it go. Alan laughed out loud as he liberated his shoe from the ground. It was covered in thick black slime.

He groaned as he slipped his foot back into the cold shoe. Before heading down the path, he looked back over his shoulder. The man with the blue shirt and professor glasses was standing on the opposite bank of the pond. Alan waved and smiled. He grabbed his camera bag and ran back towards his house.

By the time he got home, Alan’s lungs ached every time he took in a deep breath. He ran right past the farm truck—he didn’t want to get the inside all muddy. In the dooryard, they had a little pump hooked up to an old well. The water wasn’t good for drinking, but it was good enough to hose off his muddy pants and shoes. Alan stripped down in the dooryard as he got cleaned up.