Chugger's Hunt

by Roy F. Chandler

  Table of Contents

  Forward

  Introduction

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  EPILOG

  About Roy Chandler

  Books by Roy Chandler

  Copyright © 1990 and 2014 by Katherine R. Chandler. All rights reserved.

  Publication History

  ebook: 2014

  Katherine R. Chandler, Publisher

  St. Mary's City, Maryland

  First Printing: 1990

  Bacon and Freeman

  Orwigsburg, PA

  This is a work of fiction. None of the characters represent any persons living or dead.

  All characters and incidents depicted were created by the author.

  Forward

  Sometime in the middle nineteen fifties, Roy Chandler began pestering me to come to Alaska to hunt with him. Finally I was able to go, and, when I could, I went again, and then I went again, and it was always great fun, and we had good hunts together.

  We sat bleary-eyed in the smoke of campfires trying to keep the mosquitoes off us; we tired of each other's cooking; we stumbled through miles of tundra; we fell into glacial streams and packed food into remote caches that remain untouched to this day. And, yes, now and then we collected a worthwhile trophy.

  Chandler has spent considerable time in Alaska both as a resident and as a visitor. His book, Alaskan Hunter, which was published in 1977 was a success and sold out quickly. Hunting Alaska and The Hunter's Alaska followed. They are much sought after worldwide.

  Now comes Chugger's Hunt, a novel of Alaskan adventure. This is no "How-I-went-out-and-shot-a-grizzly" story. Get ready for a twist and some good suspense. With Chandler's experience, "Chugger" Martin develops as a believable, capable outdoorsman who discovers, almost too late, that he has become the object of a bizarre hunt. The writing and the story run true!

  In Chugger's Hunt, the Alaskan wilderness comes to life and will prod familiar memories among those who have experienced it. To the uninitiated, this book may trigger hungers to see and know the Denali as Chugger Martin does, hungers that have been lurking there, perhaps unsuspected, all along.

  If you appreciate a good yarn by a master storyteller, you will enjoy Roy F. Chandler's Chugger's Hunt.

  Dr. Arthur B. Troup, Jr.

  Introduction

  Although Chugger's Hunt is fiction, the geography in the story is accurate. If an interested reader chose to leave the Richardson Highway at mile sixty-two he could find Ernestine Creek and the cabins Chugger Martin encounters. The mountain goats, the glacier, the gorge—all of it is as I depict it. It is hard country. Do not challenge it casually.

  In the wye at Delta Junction, between the Alaskan Highway and the Richardson, lies Granite Mountain. Locals refer to the general area as the Granite Mountains. It is a readily accessible land that is inordinately game rich. Big yellow grizzlies reside there. So do moose, caribou, wolves, and Dall sheep. I began my Alaskan hunting there. Now special regulations protect area 20D, but in the 1950's only huge game limits controlled Granite Mountain hunting. Those were halcyon times, and I walked and rode the Granites many times over.

  That land too is accurately depicted in Chugger's Hunt. If you looked, you could find the camps and the tractor trails just as I describe them.

  A few of the individuals mentioned herein were living breathing friends or acquaintances. The old guide Slim Moore, the author Russell Annabel, and the remarkable Arthur Rausch come to mind. All have long gone to The Great Spirit's hunting ground, but in their time, they knew the mountains and flats that I write about. Because he was my special friend, let me tell you about one of them.

  Arthur Rausch stood about five feet eight inches. He was a block of a man, big boned and hard muscled. We sometimes called him "One Shot" because he never needed more to take his trophy.

  Art was a hunter who so loved the game that he spent virtually all of his free time, year round, in season and out, in the bush or on the mountains. To be with him was to continually learn. He seemed to know all that one might wonder about.

  Yet, Art's knowledge came from personal experience, and it was remarkable that in a single lifetime a man could gather such wealth of information. Art could find Bull Moose as easily as a farmer located his cattle, and Art knew the Jarvis Creek grizzlies better than they knew each other.

  Because Arthur Rausch took me under his wing, I was able to take a prime example of every major game animal in Alaska in my first hunting season. (Except polar bear which we did not hunt.) More importantly, I was taught about the animals and the land they lived on. I shared Art's appreciation of the Denali and will always see it through his eyes. In all of my Alaskan hunting books I tried to pass on that love of the Alaskan wilderness and its game animals.

  I hope that as you adventure with Chugger Martin, you too will gain a sense of the magnificence of The Great Land, and find within the story a little of this author and more than a little of the great hunters, guides, and writers I learned from.

  Roy F. Chandler

  Author

  Chapter 1

  The telephoto zoomed the mountain goat so close Chugger could make out individual hairs and see the animal's eyes shift as he fed. The goat had grazed to the edge of a cliff break perhaps eight feet across. Succulent green things grew on the far side. If all went well, the surefooted animal would leap the gap. Then Chugger Martin's shutter would click. If he was sharp, he might capture the sequence from takeoff through landing, but the photo Chugger wanted would show the white billy airborne with the seemingly bottomless gorge below. That kind of action shot could be sold to Alaska Magazine for a tidy sum, where no one would even examine yet another standing mountain goat.

  The goat looked across the gap and Chugger steadied down. Without apparent effort, the white body launched itself, stretched, and landed feather light within the small lichened meadow.

  Entranced by the ease and grace of the goat's leap, Chugger allowed the automatic camera to click a few extra frames before he got his finger off the button. His breath escaped in an admiring rush. Beautiful, just beautiful, and he had it all. Now he could relax and simply enjoy the wild goat and the surrounding magnificence of a perfect sky above the rugged splendor of Alaska's Chugak Mountains.

  It just didn't get much better. Alone in the high mountains, except for the wild things, the troubled civilized world faded into insignificance. Humanity's uncertain self-importance paled before the grandeur of nature's mountain kingdom.

  Icicle-sharp winds occasionally jetted from the nearby glacier, replacing warmer valley air, and reminding that the great mountains were not benign beasts that stoically bore the trampling of this era's dominant feet. The Alaskan wilderness held traps that could snuff life as quickly as an eagle's strike.

  To Chugger's left a rock slide promised quick crossing, but the broken mass was poised to let go. An unlucky step could send a hundred tons of broken stone crashing into the canyon. Not even the goats challenged its instability.

  The glacier too was best avoided. It was an old glacier, named by the creek that flowed from its eroded face. The half-mile-long ice bank was in retreat. Since Chugger's first view of it, a dozen years before, the ice had melted free a hundred yards of rock and gravel strewn creek bottom. If the melting continued, a century more could end the glacier's existence. What then of the rampaging creek? Glacier-fed, it would be withered to a hop-across streamlet.

  In the spring, with new snow disguising old crevasses, Erne
stine Creek glacier was genuinely treacherous. Now, in July, the ice surface was clear. Fouled with eroded earth and a million stones rattled down from higher elevations, the glacier could be warily walked on.

  Chugger had twice crossed the ice, working onto goats, searching for photographs like the series he had just taken. In crossing he had tested his steps and carried his rifle below his armpit, with the barrel pointing forward and parallel to the ground. The carry was Chugger Martin's own invention. In theory, if he slipped, the rifle might prevent his descent into a crevasse by spanning the gap. If they had seen it, his hunting buddies would have laughed and claimed Chugger was far more likely to just smash his sights on the ice when his feet slipped. They were probably right, but alone in the mountains, a man tried to be careful.

  Chugger had crossed the glacier to edge close to this goat's probable route. While crossing, he had maneuvered around an end of a six-foot-wide ice crack that went clear to the bottom. The sun was right and Chugger could see the stony earth under the glacier. He judged the ice a hundred feet thick, and the sound of rushing water came from the crevasse. Probably the quick melt of summer had scoured a huge water tunnel that grew larger under the ice until it burst forth as Ernestine Creek.

  Few humans would ever see the Ernestine Creek glacier. There were far easier places to hunt or photograph mountain goats. To reach the glacier, you drove sixty miles out of Valdez. If you knew the spot, you could find an abandoned road that allowed parking well off the highway, where your vehicle had a decent chance of remaining untouched.

  Before the pipeline construction days, no one hesitated to leave property unguarded, but the pipeline money drew thousands of outsiders. Many did not find employment and sought other money sources. The old Alaskan ethic that left cabins unlocked and undisturbed was devoured by a less constrained horde. Now a man guarded his possessions as tightly as he did in the other forty-nine states.

  Oddly enough, once you parked and worked through the spruce to the creek, two old cabins, equipped and undisturbed, seemed immune to the usual vandalizing.

  Once, moose hunters out of Valdez had built and used the cabins, but those hunters had died off, the road had grown over, and beavers had floated a pond across the way in. If you did not know, there was no reason to poke around this particular spot.

  Beyond the cabins, the Ernestine Creek canyon narrowed and wound through steep sided alder and willow thickets, fifty feet wide and thigh deep, the creek ran swiftly over a glacier stone bottom. Unless a pole was used as a third leg, crossing the creek was rarely successful. A foot slipped on a slick rock and down went the adventurer, to be well rolled by the fast water.

  The glacier lay a dozen miles upstream. To follow the creek to the glacier face required a final mile of negotiating a narrow gorge overhung by countless tons of loosened rock. Within the gorge, the water sluiced wildly, crowding the cliffs, making any passage a severe test.

  When he hiked in, Chugger made base camp just before the gorge. There, the canyon widened and groves of willows dotted its floor.

  A meat rack, seasoned through forty years, marked the campsite. Art Rausch, a hunter from the old days, had chopped the largest tree, skinned the log, and thunked it solidly into the forks of adjoining trees. From that rack had hung the quarters of dozens of mountain goats, a few moose, and a half dozen brown bear. Black bear too had seasoned on the old pole, and a pair of Dall sheep, taken well north of Ernestine, had been packed there for carrying out.

  Chugger used the old guide's fire pit and pitched his mountain tent on spots long flattened for best sleeping. A tiny rivulet came off the mountain and provided crystal water for drinking and cooking.

  The creek itself was gray with glacial runoff. No fish lived there. When he could no longer put it off, Chugger sank into the biting cold water and hastily scrubbed away a few layers of sweat, but he did it reluctantly. Ernestine Creek was too cold to enjoy.

  In camp, the sound of the creek's swift stony glide was often interrupted by the more sullen, wind-carried rush of the squeezed-in canyon water. Both were wild, primitive voices, as natural as the rumble of a moose's belly or the roar of a great bear. Chugger found the creek's harmony restful, and he fell easily into sleep beside it.

  There could be disadvantages in sleeping close to water. Sometimes the air was colder or more dank, and the water sounds always limited hearing. Once, a moose had stepped on Chugger's tent, tearing a hole and grazing the startled hunter's ribs. The moose too was astonished and was gone, leaving only his big deer tracks.

  On other occasions, Chugger found tracks where bear had passed while he slept. Once, young goats had cavorted unheard around his tent.

  Chugger appreciated those incidents. The animals were allowed. Deep in the mountains, he was the interloper. Each experience became a fond memory, and a few, like the moose, provided amusing stories.

  +++

  The goat's head rose and his back humped as though tensing. Chugger saw nothing unusual, but he instinctively raised his camera. Then the wind brought him sound. For an instant unrecognizable, a distant hum resolved itself into the familiar whump, whump of helicopter blades.

  The foreign noise alerted the mountain goat and irritated Chugger Martin. The rackety machines invaded everything. Although outlawed for hunting, some deep in the bush mines found helicopters indispensable. For those outfits, the only alternatives were long tractor rides or even pack trains to and from their remote locations.

  When it poked into view, the brightly painted chopper was handsome. Without hesitation, Chugger snapped the helicopter highlighted by the bright July sun with mountain peaks rising behind. It would be a nice photograph, and if he ran down the aircraft's registration number the owner might part with a few dollars for it.

  However, Chugger wished it away before the thump of its blades sent all the game into hiding.

  The goat stamped nervously and the chopper eased into a hover fifty yards beyond it. Chugger Martin's annoyance leaped. If the tourists, photographers, or whatever they were panicked the goat, he swore he would file a complaint. Harassing game by aircraft was out! He steadied his Konica. If the goat ran, he would get it on film.

  The telephoto lens pulled things in flat, and Chugger saw figures crouched in an open side door. He touched the shutter release and an instant later a gunshot buffeted his hearing. Disbelieving he saw the goat cringe. It buckled, recovered, and began to run. Other shots cracked and the goat tripped and went down.

  The beat of the helicopter's blades and thunder of its engine slammed against Chugger's senses. Belatedly, he got his finger off the camera's firing button.

  My god, they had shot the goat dead from an aircraft. The hunting season wasn't even in, although that was a minor violation compared to helicopter killing. Unbelievable, but they would not get away with it. A quick glance showed nine photos remaining. Chugger again settled down.

  The machine descended and blade wash stirred Chugger's clothing. The helicopter hovered almost above the dead mountain goat, and a figure dropped to the ground. Bent almost double, it scurried to the goat.

  Chugger clicked two frames, carefully conserving his film. Tucked, unmoving into cliff shadows, he would be hard to see. In contrast, the helicopter and its game violators worked in bright sun, perfect for photographing.

  The goat was dragged onto more open terrain. The chopper lowered almost to touching. Willing hands appeared, and the dead animal was flopped into the belly of the machine. The helper climbed aboard, and the copter sidled a little closer as it rose.

  Someone sat on the door, feet dangling into space. Through his lens, Chugger saw him grin as another slapped his shoulder. Suddenly, the features drew down, hard and intense. Eyes stared directly into Chugger's lens. The face turned and Chugger saw the mouth work.

  An instant later, its engine bellowing power, the helicopter shot upward and hurtled away. The face again turned toward Chugger Martin, who carefully clicked the last frame of his film.

  +++<
br />
  The helicopter and the goat were gone, as though they had never been—except for the 35mm film record neatly wound in Chugger Martin's camera. Engine and blade sound faded almost as fast as had Chugger's view of the copter. The pilot wracked his machine around a mountain nose and sliced across the ridgeline. Silence descended.

  It was not the same though. The meadow was empty without the goat, and even the wind off the glacier turned bitter.

  Bemused, Chugger emptied his camera and fitted a fresh film roll. The exposed film was returned to its plastic can and stored with another roll in double Ziploc bags. He dropped the film into a pack pocket, almost disgusted with what it contained.

  Chugger had hunted for most of his life, but he had only heard stories about the kind of travesty he had just observed. He knew men who stood in the path of migrating caribou, and others who motored close, then floated under cliffs to take goats an easy way.

  Such shooters were not to be admired, but at least their methods were legal. No animal had a chance against a helicopter, and to use one in hunting was probably the most unsporting—as well as the most illegal—outdoor act in Alaska.

  There were still many daylight hours. In July, dark would not come before eleven. Despite the sudden strike of the flying predator, game would feed and roam as usual. But, the day had been ruined. For now, Chugger had lost motivation.

  He rose, stretching cramped muscles. Camp lay more than an hour down the mountain. Tomorrow, after a night's sleep distanced the helicopter's intrusion, he would go past this goat meadow and cross the mountain ridge. From the far side he could glass miles of wild, broken valley; mountain goats were usually there.

  Chugger propped his packboard under a small overhang and took only his rifle and camera. He did not need the pack down below, and leaving it on top would save hours of pointless lugging.