Arctic Daughter. Jean Aspen

protruded into the current in graduating shades of blue, sheltering the canoe from the main stream.

      There were few mosquitoes on the bar. Their numbers naturally diminish by midsummer. We stripped off our clothes and hung them on small willow bushes to dry. A slight breeze tickled the naked hairs on my back and legs as I worked, but did nothing to deter several bloodsucking flies. They were as long as a finger joint with iridescent, rainbow eyes and sharp, triangular mouths.

      I staked down the tent floor as Net-Chet circled my legs, whining. She was never happy until home was established. Pushing in the last peg, I tightened the nylon guy lines. Phil had plucked a small seagull and was heating water to cook it when I plopped down in the warm sand by the fire. A large spider danced away, lugging her egg sack.

      “We need to refill Wonderbox,” I said.

      “Again?” Phil was squatting near the blaze, positioning the teapot.

      “Well, we’re out of pancake mix, oatmeal, sugar, and powdered eggs.”

      He looked helplessly at me. “We’ve eaten a third of our supplies.”

      “I know, but we have to eat something. And so does Net-Chet, and she eats almost as much as we do. If there were more small game or fish . . .” I trailed off. We both knew the problem. In the far north small animal populations are cyclic. We had seen only four arctic hares all summer and no spruce grouse. Our attempts to fish on the main river had been fruitless. We now ate the tiny tree squirrels.

      “Well, we may be hunting big game before too long,” he stated.

      “I haven’t seen any of that either,” I said. We stared at one another in silence.

      Phil poured boiling water into two mugs and added sand from a plastic bottle. I grinned at him. The day before I had spilled some sugar and he had saved it, dirt and all.

      “To my golden retriever,” he smiled, handing me a cup. “The way you jumped into the rapids after that gull I shot.”

      “A Bonaparte’s gull. Honestly, Phil. Next it’ll be chickadees,” I teased him. “Here’s mud in your tea.” We sipped in silence. “We might be better off if we ate more. As it is we are dull-witted and weak. Very ineffective.”

      “Any way you look at it, it’s a gamble. Use up all our supplies and keep strong to find more, or ration food and starve longer,” he answered.

      A vague hunger had come to live with us, an uneasy craving that even a full belly could not quench. We had planned to depend on small game for protein, but instead found ourselves living on diminished servings of starch. A listless apathy haunted our movements and we found ourselves inclined to sleep away long hours, even entire days.

      “I feel like I could eat a whole moose myself,” Phil told me seriously. “Waiter! Bring me a moose, medium rare, and a bushel of apples.” Phil was a big fan of apples. His mother would buy them by the box, for he ate eight or ten a day.

      “If we do shoot a moose we’ll sit and eat for a week.” I grinned at the thought.

      “Can you imagine drying a moose in the summer? Out here?”

      He had a point. Curing the horse had been hard work, even with a table, oven, and refrigerator. “I’d like a bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwich,” I said suddenly.

      He leaned forward with a wicked grin. “Well, I’d like a chocolate cream pie with a tender, flaky crust and mounds of real whipped cream.”

      He had me there.

      Net-Chet rose from her place on my coat and nosed into my lap. She really was a lovely animal, I thought, stroking her silky ears. Similar to a golden collie in color, she had a white diamond on her forehead and snowy ruff and legs. Her tail had the curl of a husky, but her fine bones seemed to promise a smaller dog.