9

The shack lies on its side in the hard frozen snow.

Where do people even ice fish on this stretch of the river? Is there a pond upstream?

Even on the verge of freezing to death, I can’t stop my mind from posing questions.

Most Maine fishing shacks are the size of porta potties. By that standard, this structure is downright spacious. I eyeball its dimensions as eight feet by twelve feet. It was built of two-by-fours and sheets of particle board. The inner walls are insulated with pink fiberglass, chewed to shreds by hard-working members of the rodent community. The shanty lost its floor during its float trip down the Androscoggin. One of several opaque plastic windows remains intact. At first glance I see nothing I can use to build a fire.

Snow has blown in through the missing floor—now a missing wall, since the structure lies on its side—and has accumulated over the half-detached strips of Owens Corning’s finest.

As I crawl inside, my foot kicks something. It is a glass bottle of Michelob Ultra. There are crushed cans and empty bottles everywhere, I soon realize. Beers mostly but plastic nips, too. Allen’s Coffee Brandy, Fireball Cinnamon Whiskey, Popov Vodka. The teenagers who rescued this shack have turned it into a clubhouse for drinking and drugging. Sex, too, probably.

I sweep the floor with my hands, blindly searching for a blanket I hope one of the young lovers left behind.

All I find is a girl’s discarded puffer vest. I’m a beggar not a chooser. I stuff the dirty coat inside my parka as an extra layer.

My eyes are adjusting to the half-light. Wasps have built an oblong nest of paper in one corner of the “ceiling.” Everywhere lie cigarette butts and roaches. One is still attached to an alligator clip. Crushed packs of Marlboros and Newports. Ripped bags of Red Man chew.

Rivard used to use Red Man moist snuff, I remember.

Focus.

Matches. There have to be matches.

I continue to brush the floor with my gloved hands, scattering snow-dusted trash left and right.

And then there it is: a book of matches.

When I flip open the cover, I see stubs like dual rows of missing cardboard teeth.

For fuck’s sake.

What about a disposable lighter? It doesn’t even need to have butane in it. The metal wheel of an empty Bic can still throw a spark that can be caught in a nest of lint, sawdust, what have you. But I am out of luck.

I clear a circle of plywood. Then I empty my pockets again, not even bothering with the bandanna this time in my haste.