Margaret Haffner - Snowblind

As Simon watched the two helicopters disappear into the cobalt blue sky, panic momentarily gripped his heart. There’s nothing to worry about, he admonished himself. You’ve left all your troubles fifteen hundred miles to the south … nothing but peace and tranquillity for four weeks.

Simon was standing a little apart from the others as the choppers took off but the huddled group was visible out of the corner of his eye. They too were watching their link with the familiar world vanish.

Eric was first to shake himself free of the spell. ‘Let’s get this camp organized!’ He pointed down the gentle slope. ‘Four sleeping tents in a circle with supply tents off to the side.’

Eric took command, barking orders with more force than Colonel Fernald had mustered. Simon joined his tent mate, the unprepossessing Wally Gingras, to put up their shelter.

The army had supplied large, circular tents of heavy green canvas. All the poles and pegs were neatly rolled in the cloth but Simon couldn’t find the instructions.

Wally hurled impatient directions at Simon. ‘Over there … no, there …’

Simon tried to steady the centre pole while Wally pounded pegs into the frozen earth with a small wooden mallet.

‘No, not like that! It’s not straight,’ Wally complained. Simon bit his tongue and swung the tip of the tent post a millimetre to the left.

‘Hold it now! There. That’s got it. No … not quite …’

Standing back for a better view, Simon thought it looked fine, but Wally still wasn’t satisfied.

‘It tilts to the left and we’ve put the doorway on the outside of the circle. We’ll have to fix it.’

‘No way,’ Simon protested. ‘It doesn’t lean and I want the door facing the scenery, not the neighbours.’

‘But it’s facing into the prevailing wind.’

‘Then we’ll keep the flap down.’ Simon stretched his cramped arms. ‘I’m going to unpack my equipment, Wally, so if you want to change the tent around, do it yourself.’ Simon made his way back to the mound of supplies.

‘Hey, you, Hollingford!’ Jeff, his disapproving scowl glued to his face, loomed up behind him. ‘How about helping with the supply tent?’

‘Sure thing.’

‘Put it here.’ Jeff let the tent bag fall at his feet and walked away.

‘You’re welcome,’ Simon said under his breath as he bent to unroll the kit. He struggled for some minutes to do the impossible before he heard a chuckle in his ear.

‘Need some assistance?’ Viola asked. ‘Joan and I finally got our tent up so I’ll help you while I’m still in practice. I forget from year to year how to erect these damn things …’ In minutes the tent stood taut and tall.

‘There.’ Viola smiled. ‘Teamwork. Now let’s move the food into the second supply tent.’

By eleven that evening some semblance of order had been established and Eric called a halt for the night. Although the sun still rested along the southern horizon they were tired and anxious for sleep.

‘Who’s for cocoa?’ Anne asked as the activity level died down.

‘Me,’ they chorused. Every sleeping tent had a single-burner Coleman stove and she and Jeff each brought one out into the circle and lit it with practised skill. As they waited for the water from the nearby stream to boil, everyone found something, a collecting pail or sample crate, to sit on. Simon felt the cold penetrating through his windbreaker now that he’d stopped moving about. He donned the government issue green parka and white mittens. Others did the same and they looked like a chorus of green frogs perched on their respective logs.

‘Just like last year,’ Viola commented with satisfaction.

‘Not quite,’ a nasal voice intoned. ‘Dear Phillip isn’t here to annoy us.’

‘Wally!’ Anne said, shocked.

‘Don’t give me any of that “don’t speak ill of the dead” crap, Anne. You can’t tell me you miss the bastard.’

‘That comment is in very poor taste, Wally.’ Eric spoke with authority. Wally spat between his boots, following the script of a ‘B’ movie.

‘Phillip himself was in poor taste,’ Joan declared with characteristic vitriol. ‘Thanks to his stupidity, I lost three weeks of field time.’

‘You can’t accuse him of stupidity,’ Viola put in quietly. ‘No one knew that storm was coming up. It could just as easily have been you lost out there in the blizzard.’

Joan tossed her head. ‘Not me.’

Anne shivered. ‘Poor Phillip. Do you suppose we’ll find his body?’

Her husband snorted. ‘The RCMP spent three weeks last year looking. If they couldn’t find him then, we’re sure not going to find him now!’ He shifted around so that his back was towards her.

‘They didn’t even find his pack …’ Anne murmured, red-faced.

Joan sprang up from her crate and planted herself in front of Eric. ‘I think Phillip came to a fitting end. It’s appropriate a man willing to sell out this land to an oil company should end up having his body here. Maybe in a few million years he’ll be oil!’ She stirred her hot chocolate so savagely that it slopped out on to her parka. ‘Shit.’

‘You’re exaggerating,’ Eric protested. ‘Besides, he was my son. Have a little consideration for my feelings.’

‘Your stepson, Eric, there’s a difference,’ Wally said in a voice hollow with pain.

‘A technicality.’

Joan put her hand on her hip and pointed her finger at Eric. ‘Don’t try to con us. We all know you couldn’t stand each other!’ Eric shifted his feet, ready to spring up but Anne leaped into the breach. ‘Have some more cocoa, Eric,’ she urged, waving the pot of water and a drink packet between the potential combatants. Eric hesitated momentarily, but relaxed again. Joan laughed harshly and headed for her tent. Simon felt a twinge of disappointment—the conversation was just getting interesting.

Before turning in, Simon decided to uncrate the radio—his major charge. The tent farthest from the circle contained the scientific stores and doubled as the communications centre, a grandiose name for one short-wave radio. The instrument was well wrapped in bubble pack inside a heavy crate. Colonel Fernald’s radio operator had provided instructions but basically the radio was idiot proof. Twice daily Simon was to check in with the army camp, once at 0800 and once at 2000 hours, starting the next morning. He’d have to be up early to erect the aerial in time for his first report.

Carefully he set the radio on a sturdy crate which had contained the emergency medical supplies. Joan, as the senior Red Cross graduate present, had taken these to her tent. As well as the usual disinfectants, splints, antibiotics and painkillers, there were several ice-packed vials of blood for emergency use. Duplicate medical histories of everyone had been provided—one copy Joan kept next to the medical supplies and the other Simon now hung on the side of the radio. He skimmed the medical histories—nothing interesting—and they showed an average cross section of North Americans with respect to blood type—three A’s, four O’s and a B.

Easing herself silently into her sleeping-bag, Anne tried not to disturb her husband who lay, similarly shrouded, on the far side of their tent.

‘So you finally decided to join me.’

Sighing, she answered. ‘Viola and I were completing the sanitation facilities.’ Why am I explaining, she asked herself? It’s my right to go to the toilet! But anything for peace.

‘I heard you. So did everyone in camp, I expect. Do you have to keep the rest of us up half the night with your stupid chatter?’

‘Good night.’ Anne wiggled farther into the down bag as if hoping it would shield her from her husband’s inexplicable anger and her own silent misery. Sleep was long in coming to both sides of the battleground.