Alaska! Up North and to the Left

by Steven Swaks

  Franklin picked up his thermos, served a cup of warm soup and extended it towards me. I was giving up, no more pride, no more manners, I did not care.

  “Thanks!” I gulped the soup like a survivor in the desert who just found a water fall. My strength was coming back, I was ready to face the wolf again.

  The next few hours were a frozen repetition of the morning, a succession of stop and semi-hope of catching a wolf, but the beast was nowhere to be found. The fresh paw prints tempted us, the wolf was there, nagging us, staying under the cover of thick bushes, sniffing the crisp and cold air for cues, continuously gauging the human intruder. The wolf knew man was a threat. It was best to stay hidden and observe.

  We stopped on the trail. Henry stepped out of the snow-go, opened his back pack and pulled out a trap. There was no talking; chatter would have been useless anyway. The seasoned hunters went through their routine, digging a small hole in the snow just below the path’s surface, gently setting a jaw trap. This little outing was a time machine, a step back in the trappers’ age over a hundred years ago. Aside from the two snow machines behind us, there was no real way to tell time in a land without poles or roads, cars or structure of any kind for miles. We were no longer in the XXIst century, and the ageless metal trap was our rudimentary tool to catch the predator. The jaw opened and came under tension, the small disk in the middle of the trap was ready to tempt the passing wolf and crushing its ankle with hundreds of pounds of blunt force. Henry powdered snow above the trap and attached the chain to a nearby tree, at least, if the wolf stepped in the trap, it would not limp away with it. Henry stood up satisfied to perpetrate an old tradition.

  “Henry, if we catch a wolf, what are you going to do with it?” I asked.

  “If it’s still alive, I’m going to shoot it. Then we skin it and treat the pelt to conserve it.” Henry said nonchalantly from decades of practice.

  “Do you eat the meat?” I wondered.

  “No, we never eat that. They’re carnivores and they’ll scavenge just about anything they find. And they’ve got all sorts of diseases, they’ve got rabies left and right, they’ve mange and so on. You really don’t want to eat that stuff.”

  “Mange? What’s that?” I asked.

  “Some kind of skin disease. I think it’s contagious, I’m not so sure.”

  Franklin was becoming edgy. There was too much talking and not enough hunting, “all right, all right, let’s hop on, let’s go.” The entire time since the trap had been set, Franklin had been waiting seated on his snow machine. Talking was overrated, it was time to hunt.

  We left the woods for a large section of open tundra. The vegetation was reduced to sparse frozen bushes, even the endless moss was covered by a thick layer of snow and ice. Three Step Mountain was dying away as we started to head back west towards Bethel.

  The two snow machines hurdled down onto a narrow brook, the vastness of the open tundra had turned into a cramped and tight trench. At times we felt like prisoners surrounded by a towering embankment, other times the river bank stayed low to let us see our surroundings. After a long series of rises and falls, the river bank flattened and opened up again onto a vast plain.

  Perched on a frail tree, a large gray and white Snowy Owl was stoically staring at us. We were neither intruders nor a threat, but simply strange creatures going by. She might never have seen men before and she had decided that we were not worth the effort to fly away. Even the endless drumming from the snow machines was not a source of concern, it might even have been a welcomed distraction in the heart of the Alaskan silence. We stopped, shut off the engines, carefully stepped away from the machines and walked towards her slowly. Her eyes were emotionless, barely intrigued enough to look towards us to find out what the fuss was all about. I was much more aroused. I approached the creature as furtively as I could, which did not mean much in my city boy’s standard with small branches cracking and deep snow caving under my heavy boots. Without any sudden movement, I took my high end point and shoot camera out of my jacket inner pocket. Quietly, I removed the lens cap. I was the hunter approaching his prey. I pushed the ON switch, the objective powered out of its receptacle and… stopped half way down to the full open position. I recycled the power switch and did not obtain anything; the lens did not come back in nor traveled out. My camera had reached the end of its rope. Fifteen below was it, the rebellion point, the temperature where normal users should stay home and take family pictures in the living room by the fire place. I gently pushed the lens back in (at that moment I did not know if it was a wise move, but it turned out to be harmless for the camera which regained consciousness a few minutes later). The touristy picture taking was a failure, I was bound to relax and enjoy the sight. Untamed wilderness was in front of me on this cold winter day, her light feathery coat quivering in the breeze.

  The owl flew away startled by movements behind us. We turned around and witnessed three or four caribou stepping out from a nearby grove. The handful turned into a dozen. The caribous kept coming one or two at a time, then a dozen passed by. It was not an isolated group anymore but an entire herd strolling a hundred yards from us. I was overwhelmed; perhaps 150 or 200 caribou trotted by and regrouped to graze on the snow covered tundra.

  The ride back was nothing short of miserable. I was told several times that spring riding was fantastic, and that the snow machine trails were as smooth as freshly groomed maltipoo pups, the result of months of layer upon layer of compacted snow. Soon, the temperature would rise to the high twenties and the summer would be around the corner. In a few months, the river would thaw and the rider would trade his coat for a life jacket. But spring was not there yet, we were still in the heart of the arctic winter, and the temperatures were obscenely low. The smooth trails to be were still in the making. At this stage of their maturity, they were still rebellious teens against the snow machine’s authority. The rough draft of their path had been carved by generations of travelers and hunters, but they were a diamond in the rough, a sketch of what they would become in a few months. Each bump on the trail was a sharp edge, a villain trying to throw the rider away from his machine. I was not even a rider, I was only a passenger hanging on in the back, my hands locked by a death grip on flimsy plastic handles. I could not feel my fingers deprived of warm blood flow, my arms were like two high tension cables latched on the snow machine, I could not let go. Each bump on the trail was a new test of my strength. The snow-go flew on the trail. It was almost an out of body experience with the outside world projected on my helmet’s visor, a stronger breath occasionally steaming the screen but soon clearing and revealing the same lifeless tundra.

  At one point, the rhythm was broken, the steam vanished and the perspective was different. The forward view became much grander with an entire scenery spreading before us. A few scattered trees were further down beside a narrow frozen stream leading to a larger river. The horizon was opening up to a beautiful postcard like landscape. Then, it dawned on me, my sluggish and frozen thought process was trying to alert the rest of my crystallized being. It was crawling to pull on the alarm handle and warn me there was something truly unnatural about the sudden change of perspective. I looked down and saw… nothing. Rather, I saw the end of the cliff that offered us that unique panorama. The front of the snow machine went on a dive, barely held by the fleeting trail. Henry was, I hoped, still under control and my passenger’s condition offered nothing reassuring, only a violent shove forward and the extraction of the last remaining air in my lungs in a grotesque scream proportional to the negative gradient of the slope.

  I could hardly handle it, my potato bag status had left the fun section a long time ago. I was a survivor dragged on a back seat. Occasionally, I felt a little devil hitting me with a baseball bat just for the fun of it. I was a wreck.

  It took us two hours to reach Bethel, but it felt like an eternity. I was semi-conscious when we stopped in front of Henry’s house. I quickly thanked them and sat in the bitterly cold 4Runner. I someh
ow made it back home. I entered the house, vaguely looked at Lydia and raised my hand as high as I could -perhaps a few inches-to say hi. I crawled upstairs and undressed in the bathroom. I looked at what was left of my reflection in the vanity mirror, there was a white dot on my nose (of all the places, it had to be my nose), another frost bite. I knew the drill, I massaged it and hoped it would heal without scarring. I turned on the hot water and entered the most delightful place on earth, a steaming shower. My frozen knees gave up and I collapsed. Even in a mostly enclosed hot shower, my knees still felt cold. I palpated my knee caps and did not feel anything, again, I might as well have been touching the soap dish.

  I stayed in there for a while, I dried up and I walked downstairs to recount the day to Lydia. My knees regained life as the evening went by. Over the next few days my nose peeled a little but did not generate much embarrassment. That was the most important thing I guess. As for the wolf, it had stayed hidden, the animal had always been a legend, and it was probably better that it stayed that way. Little did I know the real predator was not hiding in the woods, it was so much closer, ready to hit.

  The Talk

  February

  The relationship between Jim and the pilots were kept to a minimum and we liked it that way. We arrived in the morning, said a quick hi, chatted about the latest weather updates and went on with our day. Between two flights, we might have seen him cussing at the ground crew and walking away with an occasional twitching, physical manifestation of his nervousness.

  Tonight, as I came back from yet another milk run, I entered dispatch beat up by a day of labor fighting the elements. Toad was standing behind the dispatch counter, doing nothing with his typical satisfied smirk. I wondered what it must have been to live in Toadland, but it did not look bad at all.

  “Hey Steven, Jim wants a meeting with everybody in the hangar at 5:00.”

  That was something unexpected. I could see the excitement in his eyes, something unexpected was probably good, at least it was something new to give a break to the daily routine. Toad was always searching for the little spice in life, the little je ne sais quoi that makes life worth living. So many times, I had found him sneaking into my plane before start up. That was his way to get a slice of the adventure. Me, I was overdosing on it.

  “Sure, what is it about?” I asked.

  “Don’t know, but that sounds pretty darn serious.”

  “Well, I guess we’re going to find out,” I said unconvinced. It did not really matter, I just wanted to head home and recover from a day in and out of arctic temperatures.

  It was 4:45, I went on to finish my flight times for the day and walked into our hangar. Five One Charlie was parked inside behind Seven Eight Mike, another 207. A small group of Norton employees were already gathering at a corner of the hangar, right beside the large blue bi-fold door that ran the entire width of the building. On the other side, the Alaskan night was settling in and the thermometer was dropping beneath the abyss of reason.

  Max and Brent were there quietly laughing at an inaudible comment Max had just made, not that it was hard to figure out what they were talking about. The female condition was the only topic interesting enough to compete with aviation, and an aircraft engine was not nearly as amusing. There was a group of ground crew, Danny, Trent, Dave, and a few more, they were corralled by the wall as if they were bracing for something bad to come. They were not saying much, they only had to wait, we all had to wait. Jim was not much of a public speaker and that meeting was the first of a kind, who knew what was to come? The pilots looked more neutral. Robert and Nick were already there, I walked towards them with an inquisitive look.

  “So? What’s going on?” I raised my arms and opened my hands palm up in an unrealistic hope to obtain an actual answer to my question.

  “Don’t know. Jim didn’t peep a word,” Robert said without much concern. Years flying in the Delta had taught him that it was useless to speculate. Soon we would find out, there was no reason to worry about it.

  Nick was fidgeting with his hands in his pockets, impatiently waiting. He was at the dawn of his career and could not afford a layoff, neither could I. Why was I even thinking about that? Jim had not said anything; he was not even there yet. Norton Aviation was doing well, our numbers were up, and new pilots were desperately needed. There was nothing to worry about.

  Jim ran down the stairs from his office with the smoothness of a barbarian on a rampage and barged into the hangar.

  “Damn busy afternoon! Good, you guys are all there!” Jim strode across the hangar to face us. We formed a perfect half circle in front of him. The setting was not glamorous, behind him were two oil drums laying on their side, some dirty rags, and a utility sink for the mechanics.

  “Ain’t going to beat around the bush. Those jerks from Bush Air are going to buy us.” The news dropped like an atom bomb. A murmur of protest travelled the room with the speed of wild fire. Everybody looked at each other to get a clarification, a word, something. Jim continued, “They are going to take us over next month. I don’t even know what the hell that means. I don’t know what they plan to do. I don’t know. Don’t even bother asking me. I told you, I don’t know. The only thing I know is that they bought Bethel and Dillingham. They got everything, the hangars, the planes, the fuel truck, everything. I’m sure they’d have bought my damn underwear if they could!” Jim had a solemn look. His twenty years with Norton had just taken a serious hit. Decades of working for the small hub were under attack from an enemy down the ramp. “Now, I’m one of those guys who thinks that change can be good. You know, the grass is greener on the other side type deal. So, don’t panic, sit tight and let’s see what happens. Thanks guys.” Jim passed us and walked away to his office. The king had been assaulted, it was not a direct hit, but an insidious strike, the small cut in a secondary vein that lets the victim bleed for a while before passing out.

  We were left by ourselves, dumbfounded.

  Robert shrugged, “Well, won’t be the first time.”

  The ground crew scattered around and left.

  Max had his hands in his pockets. “Looks like we can go find a job!”

  Brent smirked and the duo disappeared to the back of the hangar. Nick and I stayed there looking at each other. We had not expected such a turn of events.

  “Do you know why they are buying us?” Rob said with a point to make.

  “What do you think?” Nick said inquisitive.

  “Bush Air and Norton are the only two companies to specialize in freight and bulky loads. We keep running flights at ridiculous prices to a bunch of villages. Guess what, if they get rid of us, they can crank up their fares. And on top of that, we are the only ones to fly large freight on the Skyvan with passengers on the side. The techs love us. Bush Air doesn’t do that, they can’t take passengers,” Robert said. The logic made sense.

  “And I bet you the insurance companies are on our back. We’ve had a bunch of incidents lately,” Nick declared. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Bush Air is using that chance to whack us.”

  “We’ll see what happens, we can only speculate for now. I just hope we can keep flying. Next month I’m scheduled to train on the Skyvan,” I mostly muttered.

  Everybody was entering their own zone, thinking about the next step, the potential after Norton. A few minutes prior, our future was paved towards the majors and the Skyvan was our ticket to get there, but a storm was brewing and nobody knew how we would ride it.

  Thank You for Choosing Norton

  Late February

  The next few days after the initial blow was routine; we reported to work and waited to get some updates from our management in Anchorage. There was nothing, no word, no news, not even bland answers to reassure us and make us feel better. We were left simmering in our doubts and questions. Some did not care. Max was at the head of a small platoon of worry free employees confident in the future of the company and faithful in their own abilities to find a new job if the Norton ship sunk. Max co
ntinued his days leaning against a wooden pole for a colorful chat with a fellow carefree trapper. In the meantime, other employees perhaps not as financially stable, or concerned pilots about their aeronautical careers held onto Jim’s every word, every bit of information was a precious diamond sparkling in the sun. Jim’s once secluded office became the heart of the crisis, the nerve center with the potential latest scoop which was not coming.

  Nick walked upstairs, loosened his shoulder for an instant, and walked another few steps to come into Jim’s den. “Hi Jim!” He said with a forced jolly voice.

  “Hey Nick! Come in!” Jim was organizing his desk, dusting piles of untouched folders. “There’s so much crap in here, I don’t even know where to begin!”

  “Are you… cleaning up your desk?”

  “Yup, I have to! I mean, no, no, just some dusting off, that’s all! Did you go fly this morning?”

  “I went to Scammon Bay.”

  “That’s great!” Jim peeked outside, the sky was a deep blue reflecting on the fresh white snow. “Looks great out, how’s the coast?”

  “Good, bit foggy, but nothing bad.” Nick paused. “Did you hear anything from Anchorage?”

  “No… nothing… they are keeping their damn lips tight. There’s no rumor, no word, nothing.” Jim looked at Nick, then grabbed a pen and rapidly fluttered it between two fingers.

  “What about Bush Air?”

  “Those jerks are even tighter than Anchorage. They’re the ones at the origin of the deal but they don’t want to talk to us. They’re treating us like a bunch of misfits. Those bastards kicked us in the groin and they don’t even have the guts to finish us and tell us what the hell is going on.” Jim was turning red, leaning forward, fuming, his chest was rising and falling faster, filled with anger and frustration. He settled back in his armchair, aware of Nick’s growing concerns. “Don’t worry buddy, we might just slap a Bush Air logo on the side on the planes and do the same thing we’re doing right now.”