Wild Man Island Read online

The sky—what I could see of it from my hiding place—was a hard blue like the sky back home. The sun was dazzling. Animals of some kind were breaking the surface out in the cove. Dolphins? As I shielded my eyes and squinted for a better look I realized they were much larger than that. I was looking at a pod of orca whales. Six or eight black and white orcas were breaching clean out of the water, playing wildly, as if responding to the flute.

  If that’s what it was, I felt the same way. Something about the beautiful flute melody and this Colorado-blue morning spelled deliverance. Someone had to be playing that flute. Was there a boat in the cove, anchored where I couldn’t see it?

  Hard experience on this island warned me to play it safe. Careful not to snap a twig or dislodge a rock, I edged closer.

  As the head of the cove came into view I could see it was extremely rugged. Cliffs hemmed it in on both sides. The only break in the cliffs was the mouth of the stream I had heard the night before.

  As I made my way down the slope, I stopped to watch the whales. Incredibly, they were racing underwater, straight toward the mouth of the creek. I had a good idea that they were rubbing their bellies along the shallow gravels at the head of the cove. I had seen a video of such a thing once, but this was nothing like TV.

  A minute later I caught a glimpse of the small gravel beach where the creek entered salt water. Where I had expected to see a boat anchored, there was nothing there. I could still hear the flute.

  Suddenly the water erupted at the shore, and the gigantic form of an orca surged onto the beach—after a basking seal or a sea lion? I’d seen orcas do that on the same video. I ran for a better look.

  To my amazement, a human form was standing next to the whale, a large figure dressed in bark clothing…the wild man.

  The flute player and the wild man were one and the same. I watched as he put one hand on the whale’s head, just placed it there, and kept playing.

  The whale worked its way back into the water and turned itself around. Its tall dorsal fin knifed underwater and the orca was gone.

  I backed away. I couldn’t begin to understand the wild man, but I knew I had to get away from him. He wasn’t any less dangerous because he’d figured out how to call killer whales out of the ocean. The shore was all cliffs; there was nowhere to go but inland. If I kept climbing I would spot a route back to salt water.

  A mile up the creek I recognized a downed tree that had fallen across the stream. I’d been here before. This was where I’d crossed with the dog a couple days before. I was only a minute away from the hidden entrance to the trail up to the wild man’s alcove. I’d come full circle.

  The tok-tok-tok of a raven came from the cliffs. It might be the wild man’s raven, I thought, and hurried upstream.

  The bird took to the air and followed me, croaking from tree to tree. I wished I had a way to shut him up, but silence returned to the forest soon enough. The raven suddenly flew back downstream and disappeared.

  I had an idea that soon the wild man would know where I was. After that I suspected every raven I saw.

  Bears in the creek ahead, splashing after salmon, forced me steeply up to the right. I climbed the face of the ridge, clawing for handholds in the rock and on the roots of the trees. At the thrashing sound of a raven’s wings just above me, I flinched. I looked all around but all I caught was its shadow, and only for a second.

  When I finally topped out on the ridge, heaving for breath, what I first took for a bush suddenly stood up. It was the wild man, spear in hand. He said nothing, just looked me up and down.

  I was so tired of being afraid of him, I didn’t care anymore. If I was under the lion’s paw, I wasn’t going to act like a rabbit. “It’s me,” I said. “Nice to see you again. Did you find your dog?”

  “No,” he said. He was still studying me, looking for answers without asking the questions. I guessed he was wondering how I got out of the cave.

  “I’m not surprised,” I said. “He’s probably running with those wolves. I bet they cover a lot of ground.”

  The wild man’s pale eyes, and then his voice, were full of disdain. “There are no wolves on Admiralty Island.”

  “Have it your way,” I snapped. “But I saw them pretty close. Some were gray, some black. I saw them feeding on a dead orca before I ever ran into you.”

  “You’re making that up. I would know if there were wolves on this island.”

  I wondered if his voice was rough as sandpaper because he hardly used it, or if his vocal cords were made of sand and gravel and broken bits of seashell. “I know what wolves look like,” I insisted.

  “Must have been feral dogs you saw.”

  “Maybe,” I allowed, “but I doubt it.”

  He seemed satisfied that I had backpedaled. Just to be contrary, I said, “Your dog was getting pretty torn up by the alpha male. He’s lovesick over one of the females. That’s why he took off so fast when he found you weren’t home, if you ask—”

  The wild man shushed me with a finger to his lips. He had his head cocked to one side, listening.

  Then I heard it, the faraway howl of a wolf. No, wolves.

  The wild man’s rock formation of a face yielded to astonishment. “Wolves,” he whispered, his voice etched in wonder. “Wolves on Admiralty.”

  “Hello…” I couldn’t help saying.

  His stare was as sharp as his spearpoint. “Who are you?”

  “Andy Galloway,” I said. “I’m from Orchard Mesa, Colorado. Near Grand Junction.”

  He just kept staring, as if I wasn’t making sense.

  “You see this life jacket? I was on a sea kayaking trip on Baranof. I got blown over here by a windstorm, lost my kayak.”

  “And what is it you want?” he asked slowly.

  “To get off this island! To get home to my family!”

  “Don’t shout,” he ordered, with a quick glance over his shoulder. “Those were wolves. What else do you know about the dog? Do you know a place he might have gone back to?”

  Right away I thought of the bear carcass. I remembered how the Newfoundland had fed there, and I remembered the wolf tracks all around. “I do,” I said, “but what about you helping me? If I tell you where to find your dog, can you steer me to help? Is that asking too much?”

  “I gave you the spear and the knife. It’s summer—food everywhere you turn. That should have been enough to get you by.”

  “Get me by? Your dog is more of a human being than you are.”

  He bristled like an angry brown bear.

  “I’m sick of being scared of you,” I told him. “I hate being intimidated. Tell me how to get off this island and I’ll tell you where I think you should look for your dog.”

  His hand went to his chin. The wild man pulled on his beard in an agony of indecision.

  “Is there a cabin I can walk to? A place where a fishing boat comes to shore?”

  He looked away, bit his lip. “There’s a village,” he said finally.

  “Now we’re talking.”

  “An Indian village, Angoon. The only civilization on the island.”

  I was so surprised. Here was something valuable. It had nothing to do with wanting to help me. He was this attached to his dog.

  “Can you take me there, to the village?”

  “No, but I can point the way. There’s nothing to it. I have to get my dog before those wolves kill him. That’s what they’ll do.”

  “We’re going to have to trust each other,” I said. “You tell me how to find Angoon, and I’ll be straight with you.”

  He nodded, anxious to get going.

  “I saw your dog eating meat from a bear carcass that some poachers killed. Lots of wolf tracks around. I think he’d go back there.”

  “That’s a good bet,” the man agreed, “but what’s this about poachers?”

  “I didn’t see them, but they took the hide and the head and feet, and just left the body, all the meat. That has to be against the law. It was disgusting.”

 
He spat on the ground. “Disgustingly legal. But I don’t have time to jaw about that. Follow me up here a little ways, I’ll set you in the right direction.”

  We walked a short distance to a bald spot on the ridge where we could see the mountains above. The wild man pointed out two peaks and described a route between them that would lead to the view of an inlet on the other side. I would know it was the right one by its length; it was called Kootznoowoo Inlet, and it poked eight or ten miles into the west side of the island. All I had to do was walk the south shore of that inlet. Angoon was where the inlet met Chatham Strait.

  In return I described the landslide scar on the mountain above the carcass, and how the carcass was out on the tundra grass within a stone’s throw of the trees. He knew exactly where I was talking about.

  We were both eager to go. I couldn’t help wondering if he was about to murder me now that he knew what he needed to know. I still didn’t know who this wild man was, or what he was about. Suddenly he said, “Leave that bag with me. Take some food out if you want and stuff it inside your life jacket. And when you get close to the village, get rid of those sandals of mine.”

  I must have looked at him like he was quite a few cards short of a full deck.

  “Nobody knows where I live,” he explained hoarsely. It wasn’t the first time he had told me this. “No need to stir them up,” he added.

  For the first time I noticed that his teeth were clean and bright as piano keys. So what? I thought, and said, “I hear what you’re saying. I understand. Anything I have of yours would give you away.”

  “I would appreciate it.”

  He paused uncertainly, then with a grimace, said, “Back at the cannery, I couldn’t risk it.”

  “I understand,” I said again, not really understanding at all. All I was thinking was, Just let me walk away, whoever you are, without heaving that spear into my back. You have plenty to hide, and if you let me go, I have plenty to tell.

  I took some pemmican and some jerky and stuffed it inside my life jacket. I felt it lodge against the ivory boat in my vest pocket. It didn’t look like he was going to going to add any apologies about confining me in his stronghold or chasing me in the cave, which was okay by me. I was never less interested in conversation in my life.

  I turned and walked away, and I held my breath. I didn’t look back until I was out of spear-chucking range. When I did, the wild man had vanished.

  18

  I STAYED ALONG THE BACKBONE of the ridge. All the while I kept my sights on the two peaks I had to pass between. Luckily they were staying visible. So many days, there wouldn’t have been a chance. My ridge was going to lead me all the way to timberline. I shouldn’t run into any bears; they were down on the creeks gorging on salmon.

  I was crossing Admiralty without a weapon of any kind. I’d accidentally left the stone-bladed knife behind when I fled the alcove. The wild man had probably discovered it, and he hadn’t given it back to me. I had to wonder if he was telling the truth about Angoon. Maybe Angoon was fifty miles to the north and as unreachable as Mars. Maybe the wild man was counting on the island to kill me.

  I couldn’t tell. What I remembered most vividly was his saying that nobody had ever found his hideaway before. It was how he said it, his face, his eyes, his voice. He seemed to be telling me that he was at my mercy.

  If he was telling the truth about Angoon, and I was shortly going to find my way out of this mess, he had taken a huge risk. He’d trusted me.

  This was something to think about, and I thought about it a lot on my way to timberline. My spirits were soaring as high as the eagles. If I crested the north-south divide of the island between those two peaks and found a deep inlet at my feet that arrowed out to Chatham Strait, I was homeward bound. I had no doubt I could split those peaks before the day was out. The island wasn’t that wide. Sometime the next day, I would walk into that village.

  No doubt Angoon was hooked up to the rest of the world by phone, fax, and e-mail. I was already rehearsing what I would say when I got hold of my mother. She was going to lose it, just lose it. A second after she got off the phone she would run down the lane to my grandparents’ house, and then they would go crazy. They’d all start yelling so loud we might lose the entire peach crop. This close to ripe, all that fruit would just fall to the ground.

  The next call I’d make would be to Adventure Alaska, to get a message to Monica and Julia. Then I’d call Derek. As casually as I could manage, I’d say, “Whazzup?”

  With Darcy, I’d just ask how she did at the horse show, maybe ask if she’s been out at the lake. She’d sound real serious and a little bit spooky. “Is this a joke?” And I’d say, “Why’d you say that?” and she’d say, “It really is you! You’re supposed to be dead.” And I’d say something like, “Somebody forgot to tell me.”

  Who knew what I was going to say, or what they’d say, but it sure was fun thinking about it.

  I came out of the trees at practically a gallop and shot straight as an arrow across the tundra toward the slot between those peaks. The deer were plentiful up there. They were built stocky, quite a bit smaller than the mule deer back home. Switching their black tails, they just stood and stared at me. I could picture the wild man stalking them with his bow and arrow or his atlatl. The deer would think they were looking at a bush or something and…thwack…lights out.

  Was he a fugitive or wasn’t he?

  Whatever he was, he was beyond strange.

  Suddenly I heard a whump-whump-whump, chop-chop-chop. I looked over my shoulder and saw a helicopter coming over the peaks. It seemed to be heading my way. They’re coming for me, was my first thought, but of course they weren’t. The chopper began to bank to the south.

  Fast as I could I unbuckled my life jacket and started to wave it like a crazy man. I jumped up and down, yelling and hollering and waving for dear life.

  There was only a small chance that someone was looking my way out of the side window. I was sure the chopper was gone for good when it turned on a dime, swung back around, and headed straight for me.

  I couldn’t believe my luck, just flat out couldn’t believe I wasn’t dreaming. Nothing on this island came so easy.

  Lo and behold, there they were above me, checking me out, the pilot and a woman next to him. She was pointing down at me, or pointing out a place to land, I couldn’t tell which.

  Land they did, about a hundred yards away, in a loud and windy fury. I’d never seen anything so beautiful in my life as that metal-and-glass dragonfly and the woman who climbed out of it.

  I grabbed my life jacket and ran toward her. She was crouching as she ran under the whipping copter blades. We almost collided. I was like a drowning man reaching for a life buoy. She had beautiful rich brown skin and long, straight hair as black as coal—an Alaskan Indian, I guessed. Her cap said U.S. FISH AND WILDLIFE SERVICE, and the nameplate on her starched gray uniform read SHAYLA MATLOCK. She was ten years younger, maybe, than my mother. Over the roar of the helicopter she leaned toward me and yelled, “What’s going on?”

  “I could use a ride,” I yelled back.

  The look on her face said I looked bad, real bad. “Are you by yourself, or what?” she shouted.

  “My name’s Andy Galloway. I—”

  “Holy smoke, I know who you are. Are you starved?”

  “I’m okay,” I told her.

  “I’m happy to hear it. C’mon, let’s go.”

  As I climbed aboard, the man at the controls was checking me out. I must have looked like a dirtball. I could have cared; I was safe.

  “It’s that Galloway kid who supposedly drowned over on Baranof,” Shayla told the pilot, whose nameplate said RIVERS. She buckled me into one of the back seats, and herself into the one alongside. “Am I right?” she asked. “Are you that one?”

  “That’s me,” I was happy to say. Shayla handed me a candy bar and a bottle of water.

  “You okay?” the pilot asked, and I said, “Never better.”


  “We’ve got a job to do near here, and then we’ll get you taken care of. Tell me quick—how’d you end up on Admiralty? Whale spit you out?”

  “Wind,” I said. He just nodded, and then, after stroking his mustache, he was all business. He put his headphones on, revved up the motor, and we lifted off.

  I couldn’t believe it. I was airborne. I was out of there.

  Shayla Matlock turned to loading a small rifle with something that wasn’t a bullet. “Tranquilizer dart,” she explained. My eyes fell on a large kennel cage and a hand-held antenna connected to a small black box, but I didn’t think anything of any of it. I was just so happy to be rescued.

  We’d no more gotten started, it seemed, than we were landing. Rivers put the helicopter down close to the trees in a high mountain meadow. The deer scattered. “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “We’re wildlife biologists,” Shayla answered. “Admiralty is part of our territory. We’re going to try to take out a dog that’s been running with some wolves. We’re afraid it will breed with them. We have to get it off the island.”

  I was still in a daze. It took me a second to register that she was talking about the Newfoundland, and then it hit me between the eyes. If I opened my mouth I was going to give away the wild man. A few hours before, he had thrown himself at my mercy.

  I said nothing at all, just gave a hand unloading the kennel cage. What about the sandals I was wearing? Maybe they wouldn’t notice.

  Shayla and I watched as Rivers disappeared into the trees with a pack on his back and the tranquilizer gun in his hand. He had a can of pepper spray holstered at his hip; Shayla was wearing one too. “There’s a carcass about a mile from here,” she told me. “We’re hoping the dog we’re after will still be there. I was on foot yesterday when I spotted them. Gary’s going to go ahead; I’ll follow after fifteen minutes with the kennel cage.”

  “What are you going to do with the dog after you catch him?”

  “Take him to the Humane Society in Juneau. I hope he’s not vicious, so he’ll have a chance of being adopted.”

  My mind was going this way and that. I didn’t know whether to side with these wildlife people or the wild man. He was going to take this hard, real hard. “How long have the wolves been on the island?” I asked.