Margaret Haffner - Snowblind

Curious to see how twelve-year-old potatoes looked, he bent over their box and ran his finger under the flap. The top of the carton gave way easily. Glue must be rotten, Simon thought … potatoes likely are too. But inside, instead of vegetables, he found a lump of dirty green canvas. He began to re-close the carton but curiosity stopped him. He grabbed an edge of the cloth and pulled, but it was jammed in tightly and wouldn’t yield. Simon wedged the carton between his feet and yanked, almost toppling backward as the canvas came free. He turned the bundle over in his hands and saw the pockets and leather straps of a backpack—a well-used one from the look of it. It felt heavy. He untangled the straps and set the pack upright on top of the coffee carton. When he smoothed out the creases Simon noticed the initials P.L. written in faded magic marker on the flap.

‘P.L.,’ Simon murmured. ‘Phillip Loew?’ He worked open the cord knotted around the mouth of the bag and peered in. He recognized the outline of a small soil corer and a rock chisel. He lifted the tools out and dug deeper to find a field notebook, plastic sample bags, blank tags and a crushed chocolate bar. Even before he found Phillip’s name scribbled on the flyleaf of the notebook he felt sure he’d found the pack of the missing man.

Simon sat back on his heels, a frown corrugating his forehead. What was Phillip’s pack doing crammed inside a potato carton at the IBP station? No wonder the RCMP hadn’t found it—or Phillip either for that matter. According to Jeff, they’d concentrated their search in the Pass itself.

Simon twisted around, peering deeper into the gloom. Was Phillip’s body here too? He sprang up and walked towards the rear of the quonset hut, every nerve at attention. He methodically searched the few areas hidden by the boxes. Nothing. He headed for the rectangle of light framed by the doorway, then crossed the few yards of open ground to the other building and stepped inside. The hut was as empty as he’d thought.

Chewing his lip, Simon returned to where he’d left Phillip’s pack. He repacked the bag, knotted it shut and slung it over his shoulder. As he surveyed the hut one last time he saw the notebook lying on the ground. He scooped it up and shoved it in his pocket. From the doorway he looked back. How much longer would the food stored here stay edible? When would the next traveller take shelter in this bleak sanctuary? How much longer would the quonset hut itself stand? Everything was completely still, totally quiet, and Simon felt as if he were the only living thing left on the earth. He stepped from the gloom back into the world of sunlight, birdsongs, and life. As he pulled the door shut the dissonant protest of the hinges signalled his return from an alien landscape.

As he crested a hill Simon spotted Eric and Viola not far away. Eric was gripping her arm and she seemed to be protesting. ‘Hello! Eric!’ Simon shouted.

They turned and stared at him. Viola waved weakly. By the time Simon reached them she’d pulled away from Eric.

‘Something wrong, Vi?’ Simon asked.

‘Nothing. Nothing at all,’ she replied hurriedly. ‘You look excited, though. What’s up?’

Simon held out the backpack he’d discovered. ‘Recognize this?’ He looked from one stunned expression to the other.

‘It’s Phillip’s,’ Viola whispered. ‘Isn’t it, Eric?’

Eric cleared his throat as Simon silently pointed out the initials. ‘Yes, it’s Phillip’s.’ He reached out to take it from Simon. ‘Where’d you find it?’

‘At the IBP station.’

‘The IBP station?’ Viola’s voice rose in disbelief as she shook her head. ‘Impossible.’

‘That’s where I found it,’ Simon assured her. ‘In a carton marked potatoes.’

‘In a carton? What on earth would it be doing in a carton?’

‘Good question, Eric. I didn’t see any sign of Phillip himself.’

‘Of course not,’ Viola said. ‘Jeff and Wally would’ve found him if he’d been there. They spent two days at the station during the storm, remember.’

‘And they would’ve mentioned the pack if they’d seen it,’ Simon murmured. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘Meanwhile, Simon, I’d like to keep Phillip’s pack,’ Eric said. ‘His mother may want to see it … a last reminder …’

‘Sure,’ Simon agreed. ‘It belongs to you more than anyone else.’

As the group sat around that evening, waiting for their foil pouches to heat, Jeff groaned and stretched out his legs. ‘God, I’m tired! This terrain really takes it out of you. And then lugging rocks too … Think I’ll spend tomorrow cataloguing my samples.’

Joan smirked. ‘Can’t stay the pace, Jeff? Getting a little soft? Too old for field work?’ She rose and moved lithely around behind him. ‘Shall I get you a hot-water bottle?’ She bent to put her mouth close to his ear. ‘Your knitting?’

‘Put a sock in it, Joan. I’m in better shape than you are.’ He brushed her away and turned to Simon. ‘Did I hear you found Phillip’s pack at the IBP station?’

‘Yeah. Packed in a cardboard box.’

Joan, half way back to her seat, stopped and stared. ‘How’d it get there?’

Simon scanned the circle of faces. ‘You tell me. I understood he had it with him when he disappeared.’

Anne winced. ‘You don’t suppose Phillip himself’s there too …’

‘I looked. No Phillip.’ Simon stirred the simmering water with a stick. The silver packages bobbed around, a skin of bubbles clinging to their sides like tiny jewels. ‘The funny thing is,’ he continued thoughtfully, ‘the pack was stuffed into the carton … squashed down so the top flaps could be closed. And the top was re-glued.’ Simon tried lifting a packet, balanced on his makeshift spatula, out of the water but it fell back in with a plop. ‘It looked to me like it had been hidden.’

Eric’s goatee vibrated as he frowned. Simon could hear the words before Eric spoke them. ‘Nonsense. You must be mistaken.’

‘You explain it, then,’ Simon invited.

‘I can’t form an hypothesis without all the facts. It’s unscientific.’

‘I can,’ Joan interrupted. ‘I bet Phillip put it there himself.’

‘Why?’ Jeff and Viola chorused.

‘Remember Phillip complaining his tent had been searched? And his stuff rifled?’

Viola and Jeff nodded. Tony and Anne glanced at each other.

‘Well, maybe Phillip hid it to keep it safe,’ Joan proposed.

‘But there wasn’t anything interesting in it,’ Simon objected. ‘Just field notes and tools.’ He turned to Eric. ‘You have the bag now. Did I miss something?’

‘No. It held just ordinary field supplies. Phillip wouldn’t need to hide it.’ Eric glared at Joan, who shrugged and locked her fingers behind her head.

‘Just an idea, Eric. Don’t lose your cool.’ She looked around. ‘Anyone got a better explanation?’

Simon’s eyes widened when Wally spoke up. ‘Phillip hid it so he could accuse one of us of stealing it.’ He wiped his thin mouth with the back of his hand. ‘It’s something he’d do … Phillip liked to make trouble.’

‘I refuse to sit here and listen to this!’ Eric stood up and stalked to the stove. ‘Give me my dinner. I’ll eat in my tent where the company’s better.’

The members of the research team settled into a routine. They rose early and had breakfast, making no attempt to socialize. Instead, each scientist was intent on getting started as quickly as possible on the day’s tasks. The crate of inedible breakfasts had remained untouched since the first morning. Now everyone ate lunches in the morning since these were more appetizing, and most of the cookies and chocolate bars were secreted in parka pockets for snacks during the long day away from camp.