Read Online Caribou Island by David Vann - Free Book Online Page A

low over the coast now, waves crashing white against black rock, evergreen forest grown thick down to the edge. A few wide gray pebbly beaches, driftwood. Spectacular, all of it. And no houses along the shore. This was what most amazed Monique, coming from D.C. It really was a frontier.
    I don’t want to go back to Soldotna, Monique said. I want to stay out here. Let’s get a hotel in Seward, something with a hot tub.
    Jim wasn’t sure what to make of this. He looked over at Monique, but she was gazing out her side window, turned away from him. He didn’t know how he’d explain to Rhoda, but maybe he could say he had to take a trip to meet that potential partner for the practice. That would probably work. And a hotel, the two of them, spending the night, didn’t sound bad. Monique might still just yank him around, but there was a chance.
    Is that all right? he asked the pilot, finally. Could we stop in Seward and get picked up tomorrow?
    Yeah, I don’t see why not, the pilot said. There’ll be an extra fee, of course.
    Gary worked alone through the morning, loading more logs. For a small cabin, it seemed like a hell of a lot of wood. But he had done the math himself.
    Underway, finally, crossing the lake on a sunny afternoon, light breeze, perfect weather. Bits of spray from hitting the small waves head-on. He stood at the stern, the throttle arm up, and he liked being here, liked doing this. The air crisp and clear.
    As the island came close, he swerved in an arc and drove toward shore. Fell forward onto the logs when the boat hit submerged rocks but caught himself with his hands.
    He turned off the engine, climbed forward, and began unloading from over the gate, dragging one log at a time, sloshing through the water. It was not difficult, the work a pleasure.
    Gary had always liked physical work, building something, a contrast to the academic life. He liked Vonnegut’s idea—really Max Frisch’s idea—that we should be called Homo faber rather than Homo sapiens . We live to build. It’s what defines us. This was true, he thought. Imagining something, turning it around in your head, walking through it over and over in dreams, then making it happen in the real world. Nothing more satisfying than that.
    Gary dragged the logs ashore until all were lying in rows and small stacks. He tromped through low thickets to the building site, carrying a shovel. He was keeping this simple. He’d just clear some ground here in a rectangle, even it out, and bury the first logs partway into the dirt. No other foundation, because it wasn’t necessary. The point was to build a cabin the way it used to be done. No cement pad, no permits. The cabin itself an expression of a man, a form of his own mind.
    He looked at the lake, checking the view, checking perspective, shifting a few feet this way and that to make sure he had it right, then he dove the shovel into what would be the center. Breaking ground, he said. Finally. After about thirty years. How the hell does that happen?
    Then he walked three paces to the side, made another mark, and walked three paces to the other side. A cabin six paces wide, and he’d make it four paces deep. No measuring tape. Just walk it out. With the sides marked, he made corners.
    Okay, he said, standing in the middle again. His left shoulder ached, bursitis from years ago that acted up whenever he worked. He hiked over to a spruce tree and braced his hand against that to give his shoulder a good stretch. Then he stretched the other arm and shoulder, and stretched his legs a bit, too. He was starting this project so late in the season, he didn’t have time for injuries. All had to go smoothly. It was mid-August already. He had meant to start in late May.
    He hiked back to the cabin site and cleared all the dead wood, throwing branches and also a few stones. Then he dug in with the shovel. Dark earth, rich and airy, but so many runners and roots he could never get a shovelful. A rake might have been