The next day he took his boat down the Driftwood River into the north end of Takla Lake. In the distance he could see the plumes of the new Silvacan sawmill, set up the previous year to cut ties for the railway, which they treated with creosote and pentachlorophenol. Far in the distance, large swaths of trees were being cleared from the shores. Blasts of dynamite could be heard as they leveled the rocks and cleared the grade-way.

Victor saw the headquarters as he rounded the spit that guided the Driftwood into the lake like a shoehorn. It was set up in a clearing just behind Bulkley House, a hive of ATCO trailers with machinery strewn about the nearby clearing. Overhead he saw an airplane, a small two-seater circling over a more distant airfield that the logging companies had cleared out of the forest further to the south.

He pulled up beside a big barge, walked up the bank, and into the clearing. A dog was barking, a generator rattling. Fuel tanks, 45-gallon barrels of diesel, and stacks of plastic oil pails were piled up off to the side. A rough lean-to was set up nearby with an ancient looking loader being dissected under its roof, its internal organs grease stained and mortally injured. A few men clambered over it, absorbed in their work. One of them noticed Victor, but didn’t pay much attention to him. Another, a stout, pig-like man with a metal hardhat, took a glance at Victor, assumed he was looking for work, and told him to leave. “We don’t need any work done around here,” said the man. “Maybe some chainsawin’ work next week. Come back then. We can’t have none of you hangin’ around the camp here now.”

When he told him what he wanted, that he wanted to talk about his trapline, he was ignored. He felt nervous, felt a cool sweat grip his back and palms. A knot formed in his stomach, a desire for invisibility grew strong. He suddenly forgot what it was he was going to say, how he would say it, what it was he had even come here for. Finally another man came out of the trailer, bookish-looking with a khaki vest, unassuming features, and a quiet voice. He examined Victor, listened to his story, deliberated for some time before concluding that he should talk to the general manager, inside the trailer.

Inside were several empty, cavernous-like rooms, laid out like operating rooms with drafting tables and engineering plans. They smelled heavily of cigarette smoke, were dimly lit, with white walls. It felt institutional, reminding Victor of residential schools, government offices, and police stations. A desk was edged up against a back wall, a portable, metal desk with cold, uncomfortable chairs. As he sat down, he noticed the smell of frying fat from the kitchen in the adjacent trailer.

The manager was a very ordinary looking man. Unexcitable, he entered calmly, closing the door behind him. He was not very tall, but not short either. He carried a cigarette in his hand, which he held deftly between his fingers that were also clenched around a notebook. His small, soft eyes offered no clue as to what he thought of Victor. His face carried no spark of recognition or appreciation, nor did it convey any sense of annoyance or disdain. His cheekbones were high-set, giving him an angular appearance, offsetting his small chin and slight jaw. Despite his neutral appearance, he upset Victor. He expected the manager to be his enemy, a man to be fought against, were it that kind of a struggle. But this was nothing of the sort. He inspired no immediate hatred in Victor, drew no sense of injustice. He seemed to be a perfectly reasonable man.