year, money permitting. We were at Polar Bear Pass on Bathurst Island last year too.’ Anne kicked a pile of gravel with her booted foot. ‘I go where others are going—to sponge transportation, food and lodging.’
‘Do you think we’ll get there today?’ Simon asked, remembering the Colonel’s gloomy forecast.
Anne studied the sky. ‘Maybe. Colonel Fernald told us to be packed and ready to go by ten-thirty this morning.’ She laughed. ‘I feel for the guy—he didn’t really want to see us again, you know. Not after last year.’
‘What happened?’
Anne looked at him, her head cocked to one side. ‘Your relative—the one who fixed you up for this gig—didn’t tell you?’
Simon shook his head. Another score to settle with Sylvester?
‘One of our group, Phillip Loew, got lost last time,’ Anne explained. ‘We never found him.’
Simon halted in his tracks. ‘You mean he just vanished?’
‘Not exactly.’ She ran her fingers through her hair and then shook it back into place. ‘It was late in the year … end of September … and we had a blizzard. Phillip never made it back to camp. The army, the RCMP, everybody looked for him but we never found him. Must’ve frozen to death.’
Simon gave a low whistle. ‘No wonder Sylvester forgot to mention it. He knows I’m allergic to dead bodies.’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘Thousands of square miles of nothing and I have to head for the place with the corpse.’ A busman’s holiday for sure.
They approached the camp where a bustle of activity surrounded two helicopters. Under the watchful eye of Warrant Officer Beaulieu, the other members of the expedition were cramming the mountains of gear into these machines. Tony glared at his wife, who stiffened momentarily but turned away without saying anything. She and Simon pitched in as they all scrambled to be ready for the first signs of the fog thinning.
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.
