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The loons watched that morning as the first fall flights of geese crossed their lake. The loons would soon follow.
The man walked down from the cabin to the lake, smashed some of the brittle shore ice with a stomp of his boot
and filled his water buckets. Siwash Simmons smoked his pipe, looked at the loons and flared his nostrils against
the cold bite of morning air. For more than forty years this man had been coming to stand on the shore of this lake:
one again, he savored the sliver of time when the world was preparing to change.
The first ice clutched at the roots along the edge of the lake. The geese and ducks called as they flew for the
warmer regions. The velvet sheaths were off the antlers of the moose and caribou bulls as they readied for war. The
bears would be pacing the high tundra constantly now, gorging on the sweet bite of berries against the long sleep.
Simmons rubbed his beard, smiled and waved at the loons, sending them swimming toward the beaver lodge. He
laughed and looked at the sky, his old gray eyes searching the scattered clouds for clues, for hints to the severity of
the winter that was almost upon him, and looking for the plane bringing his dogs back to the cabin at the lake. The
thick gray smoke of a new fire poured from the stovepipe as Simmons walked back up the trail. He looked with
pride on the stack of firewood, thought about the arrival of his dogs, and made a mental note to comb his hair in
honor of the occasion.
The loons saw the old man go into the cabin and heard the pleasant clink of the lids dancing on pots growing hot on
the stove. They swam slowly back into shallow water and watched for minnows and sticklebacks.
From 2,000 feet, the taiga belt of forest slipped by beneath the plane, twinkling like a varicolored carpet. The gold
and rust of fall were yielding to the starkness of barren birches and the charcoal green of the spruce. Buck Davis
loved this time of year. Each season has its consolations, and the abrupt end of fall brought with it the savoring of
final flights in the floatplane and the exciting prospects of the quick agility of a ski plane.
The dimpled gray of muskeg swamp slipped by, broken by an occasional moose trotting high-kneed away from a
pond. Buck swung the wide floats more to the east, and gazed down at the lumpy silhouette of the plane skimming
across forest that would have taken weeks to traverse on foot.
The mountain was hidden in clouds that day, except for the jagged glacier ends poking out the bottom. The clouds
roughly covered the wild river valley, and the Cessna 185 began encountering them as it headed east. As each
cloud approached the plane, Buck would involuntarily duck his head and grin at himself. The morning was a gem,
cut sharply by the snap in the air, holding the country still and alert. Buck reached down and ruffled the ears of one
of Siwash’s dogs that had stuck his head between the front seats. All three were asleep. There hadn’t been room
for them in the plane that took Siwash to his cabin just a few weeks earlier.
“You boys comfortable?” he asked, then answered immediately, “Why certainly, Captain Davis. We especially
enjoyed the meal and the dancing girls, and how about playing us a tune?”
“You gentlemen have any particular favorites?” he asked. The dogs looked up at him. Buck gave his best attempt at
a bark and said, “Well, Captain, do you know ‘Ride of the Valkyries’ by Wagner?”
“Of course, fellas, but it’s too nice a day for that. How about a taste of ‘Jinny Git Around’?”
Buck pulled the harmonica out of his jacket pocket and began the sweet, bright music that was barely audible
against the roar of the engine. The dogs perked up their ears and then went back to sleep. Buck’s habit of talking to
himself in the airplane was embarrassing only when he found the passengers looking strangely at him, especially
when he had forgotten he had passengers.
The loons looked up from their work at the sound of the engine and flew off. Siwash Simmons appeared in the door
of his cabin, hastily combing his beard and smiling. The engine noise seemed a civilized symphony in the utter quiet
of the forest, and would be enjoyed for its brief reminder of other places. The sound of the engine was nearly as
welcome to Simmons as the disappearance of the sound would be later, when silence recaptured the forest.
As he swung into the downwind leg, sweeping low over the lake and the cabin, Buck Davis checked the ribbon tied
to the stick near the lake, the simple device locally known as an “Alaska windsock.” The ribbon confirmed Buck’s
appraisal of the wind direction and strength. He watched the great floats beneath him swing into the far turn. He
throttled back gently, saw the lone spruce tree on a point of land disappear beneath him, and dropped the plane
gently onto the lake. The dogs still slept.
Siwash waited at the end of the short dock and tied the floats to the rings. The men shook hands.
“Got some passengers for me, Buck?”
“Maybe. Got a crowbar?”
“Crowbar? What for?”
“Those dogs of yours like my plane so much they decided to spend the winter in it. Come on out, boys.”
The dogs bounded out and jumped on Siwash, and the five walked up to the cabin.
“Time for some coffee, Buck?”
“I’ve always got time for coffee.”
Buck recalled with a twinge of pain the first time he had flown to this cabin more than twenty years before, and was
asked the same question. In the rush of youth, But had wanted to get back to the village and had told Simmons he
was in a hurry, and would take a rain check.
“That’s the trouble with young people,” Simmons had said, looking hurt. “They’re always in too much of a hurry to
visit a spell.”
Buck had found the time that day, and on every flight since. Only a full-blown emergency could keep him from
having the coffee and the hospitality that was so important to these occasional hosts.
“Well, what’s new in town?”
Siwash poured coffee and swept the huskies out the door with a broom. Buck looked around the cabin. The floor
was swept, the magazines were stacked neatly, the dishes clean. Necessity and a small living space made Simmons,
like most sourdoughs, an immaculate housekeeper.
Like a practiced town crier, Buck Davis gave the news as shortly and sweetly as he could.
“The Hunter family’s mare had a colt. Yep, a little stud. Bay like the mother. Looks good. Frank Granger had
another accident. Seems he got drunk and broke two ribs. Fell on a widow woman while dancing. Nope … just
mashed her corsage, that’s all. Coffee’s six bucks a pound. Yeah, I know. Tea just don’t have no substance, but
we may have to get used to it. Tried that once, too, but spruce tea is still tea, and just doesn’t make it. Hemingway
Jones wrote a poem about it … the coffee, not spruce tea. Can’t remember it, but you know how he is. It’s full of
Shakespeare-type words. We thought he had a girlfriend a while back, but she decided to stay with the tour and go
back to Iowa. Yeah, smart.”
“Sounds like civilization is managing to keep going OK without me, Buck.”
“That’s a matter of opinion. When you want to come out?”
“Don’t know for sure. Check with me after freeze-up. I’ll wait until a good snow to make my marten sets. If we get
some decent snow this winter, we should have a good season.”
“Siwash, what kind of winter you figure?”
“Lots of snow. Cold, too, I imagine.”
“Way I figure it, too.”
“That boy of yours still flying the flame tails?”
“Yep. Sam thinks those jets are the only way to go, I guess.”
“I always kinda figured he’d be flying with you by now.”
Buck Davis stared into the coal black of his coffee. “Well, this kind of starve-to-death business isn’t for everyone, I
guess.”
“Ain’t nothin’ finer than being a bush pilot, Buck, and you know it. Imagine trying to bring in a 737 on floats?”
“Man’d need the ocean, I guess.”
Buck grinned at the thought. “Like to see one of those captains set a big one down on that gravel bar in the
Tokositna River ...”
“Yep!” The old man laughed. “You know, if that was my boy, I believe I’d have a word with him!”
“Sometimes words don’t count for much, Siwash. It’s darn hard to argue with that steady money.”
“There’s something to that, I suppose,” Siwash said.
Buck did the honors on coffee. “What do you hear from over the ridge?”
“Was over there last week, and the mayor of Lynx Lake is looking poorly, Buck. Wish you’d look in on him.”
“Figured to check on Kelly today.”
“You know,” Simmons said quietly, “old Pete has more imaginary diseases than forty old women, but I think
something’s really wrong with him this time.”
“He’s something all right. The last time I was in there, he planned to leave his feet to science. Said something about
grafting them onto a cheechako so the newcomer could run around the woods on really tough feet!”
“That man thinks he’s a scientist, Buck. Honest. We was pardnered up along about twenty years ago for a few
seasons, you know, and he like to drove me crazy with them scientific experiments. He thought for a while he could
harness lightning bolts to cure insanity. Darn near burned the cabin down. When I yelled at him, he said the
experiment failed, ‘cause I was still crazy.”
“Well, a man can get peculiar notions living all by himself at Lynx Lake.”
“Peculiar? Well, I guess. Maybe he really ought to go in for a checkup, Buck.”
“I’ll drop in there today, and thanks for the coffee.”
The dogs romped around Buck on the way out to the plane, but ran back when the engine started. The four
residents watched the takeoff, waiting for the customary waggle of wings as the plane crossed the ridge and became
an invisible hum in the background.
From Simmons Lake a trail climbed over a steep hogback ridge and meandered along a creek for several miles
before coming to Lynx Lake. At the far end of the lake was a cabin, and unlike the interior of Simmons’ place, this
one was a rat’s nest.
Stacks of magazines dating back years made moving from the single bunk to the stove treacherous. The magazines
would have dated back further than that, but a fire fifteen years earlier had erased a twenty-year collection of
scientific, medical and outdoor journals. It had also eliminated that cabin.
In stark contrast to the confusion of the present cabin, Pete Kelly always kept himself remarkably clean and well-
dressed. He shaved daily and washed thoroughly, knowing for a certainty that dirt hid germs that would destroy a
man’s body before he knew what happened. His clean clothes, also, were the latest in backwoods fashions,
according to the experts at L.L. Bean, Cabela’s and Eddie Bauer.
Pete lay back on his bunk, holding in one hand the microphone of a battery-operated cassette recorder. He pushed
buttons, then frowned as he flipped the microphone switch. He looked to be sure the reel was turning, then spoke
deliberately into the mike.
“Now this tape is for Siwash Simmons living over at the next lake. This is Pete Kelly, and whoever finds my body,
please see to it that my niece Sherry gets this place and the traps and all.”
Pete switched off the microphone and played back what he had said. Smiling in satisfaction, he pushed the buttons
again and continued.
“Now Si, I want you to see that this tape gets into the proper hands and all, and I know you will. The reason I’m
doing this is, well, you know how everybody dies sometime, but nobody knows what dyin’ is really all about.
Nobody. Even those guys they give heart massage to … they may know … but they ain’t tellin’. Now I figger if a
man’s got a right to know anything in this life, it’s what dyin’ is all about … got me? I mean … everybody does it,
don’t matter what his beliefs is, or if he’s a Communist or if he’s a colored or if he’s a Eskimo … he still dies.”
Pete switched off the machine while he coughed. The coughing aggravated the pain in his chest and made him gasp
for breath. When it stopped, he resumed.
“Sorry, Simmons, old pard … had to cough. Now where was I? Oh yes, the part about everybody dies. Well, Si,
being as how I’m interested in medical stuff and such, I thought to myself, what can I leave behind to help people?
This old body would more than likely get rejected if I gave it to somebody … ‘less they wanted it for bait, maybe.
Well, I got to thinkin’ that if a man had some warning of when he was going to die, you know, like these chest pains
I’m havin’, and this hard time breathin’ and all. Well, sir, he could make a tape recording of how it actually feels to
die so others would know. You remember the story of that girl what almost drowned down in California there on
the beach? They got her all pumped out later … but she said that while she was busy drowning she saw lots of
pretty colors and heard beautiful music and all that. Now of course she didn’t die. And that’s the thing to
remember, Si, she didn’t die.
“She might have been just making up a story, or she might’ve seen those colors and all. Hell, lots of people almost
die. So anyway, I gets this idea … that is, if I got this little tape machine, I can describe to people exactly what it’s
like to die, the real thing, you know, so’s they’ll know for sure. Chances are it won’t be too bad. Maybe there will
be pretty colors and organ music and such. I made a list of things to look for, but I guess we’ll know pretty quick
now.
“Now just picture what’ll happen when this tape is revealed to the science world. Boy, that’ll be something! Of
course, I won’t be here to see it, but it’ll be something, I can tell you. You’ll probably be a celebrity or something,
you know, for bein’ my partner and all. Glad to do it, Siwash.
“This’ll sure be different from most people dyin’, won’t it? It’ll be a damn sight better than Shorty when he got froze
to death after going through the ice that time … you remember, Siwash? Ol’ Shorty just layin’ there sayin’ ‘I sure
am cold’ … ‘course ol’ Shorty never did know overflow ice from parboiled owl puke anyway. Well, I’ll see you on
the other side … s’long …”
Pete Kelly got out of bed and started slowly for the kitchen table where he’d left his makin’s, but he didn’t get
there. He didn’t hear Buck’s plane buzz the cabin and land, either. The next thing he knew, it felt as if someone was
jumping up and down on his chest. He opened his eyes and focused them on the worried-looking face of Buck
Davis, who was pushing on his chest, over and over again.
Kelly lifted his hand up to his mouth, forgetting he didn’t have the microphone with him, and said, “Siwash, the first
thing you see when you’re dead is Buck Davis.”
Buck laughed.
“You’re not dead, you old fool, but you will be if we don’t get you to town pretty soon.”
“I can’t go now, Buck,” Pete said in a hushed voice, “I haven’t finished dying yet. It’s all in the plan …”
Buck stopped the massage and looked at Kelly.
“You mean you want me to go away without you now, let you die, and then come back after you…”
“Yep. That’s the plan.”
Buck rubbed his forehead and thought a minute. “Now Pete, I’m here now and can take you in. Right?”
“Yeah.”
“But if I wait until you’re dead and then come back after you, that’ll have to be charter rates. You got enough
money for charter rates?”
“No. You’ll have to trust me for it.”
“I have a policy, Pete. Never trust a dead man.”
And so Pete Kelly flew to town with Buck Davis, and lived.

Chapter 2

When the South Seas Roadhouse was built, it was just the Roadhouse. As the years went by and the nearby mining
area flourished, another roadhouse was built down the mud street and named the Kahiltna Roadhouse. Not to be
outdone, the Roadhouse’s owner, Frank Granger, named his business the South Seas Roadhouse. This choice was
made partly because the local artist could paint nothing but palm trees for the shaping of the sign.
As the mines waned, so did the population of Kahiltna, until there was only enough business for one roadhouse. The
die-hard settlers in the village divided their time and money equally between the two and waited to see what
happened. Finally, one cold night in December, the Kahiltna Roadhouse solved the problem by burning down.
After fifty years of abusive weather, the sign read “S ut Se s Roadh u e,” and the palm trees had been erased,
trunks first, until only some fronds were left at the top. Tourists often mistook them to be fiddlehead ferns.
In a small Alaska village, the roadhouse is more than rooms, food and drink. Within its walls marriages are made
and lost, as is an occasional fortune. Despite state laws to the contrary, dogs and children are welcomed there. The
children are forbidden to drink. Many of the dogs are too. People died there, gave birth there, formulated plans to
get rich there, went broke there, laughed there, cried there … and drank there.
During the Depression, at attempt was made to turn a profit in the South Seas Roadhouse. The experiment lasted
two weeks, and consisted of an import from Anchorage – a woman named Ruby. It was a great party, but the
owner counted a net loss on the deal of more than $30 due to the cost of medication for twenty-seven men and one
woman.
The floors had long since been worn smooth and the doors didn’t fit properly. The rooms upstairs were cold in
winter, and middle C on the piano had been dead for thirty years. Some said Wild Bill had purloined the C string to
repair a snowshoe, but no one was ever able to prove it.