by Hunt, Jack
Good. She figured she’d have to run at it the way a stone skipped across the water, touching the least amount possible — but doing that while dragging a stretcher?
No. He was right, it was madness.
She wasn’t thinking right.
Kara turned, shook her head, and contemplated another option.
“You up for this?” she asked her father. His eyes were wide, he’d been listening. He responded with a cough and a nod.
Nine feet out from the edge, the rope around her waist spanning over to Frank. Nope. To the horror of Frank, she began to untie herself. Instead, she looped her end around the rope connected to her father’s stretcher. A hard tug and she felt it was secure.
“What are you doing?” Frank asked.
“Don’t worry. I’ll get behind it and push it like a bobsled. It’s the only way I can get enough momentum. You’re right, I can’t drag that fast but I might be able to push it across the bridge. It’s only eight feet.”
“That was not the agreement.”
“Yeah, well agreements change, right?”
“Kara. If that snow bridge doesn’t hold…”
“Let’s hope it does.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Hey, if it doesn’t, it would just be like me, only slightly heavier.”
“Oh, that’s great.” He threw both hands in the air.
Frank repositioned his feet, knowing he could be holding the full weight of her father if this failed. Kara removed her snowshoes and placed them inside the stretcher.
She didn’t want anything to slow her down.
No longer restrained by rope, she got behind her father like a bobsledder. She would use gravity and the incline to her advantage. She took a few deep breaths and glanced up at Frank. He looked terrified. “On three. One, two, three!”
Pumping her legs like pistons, she powered forward, letting the slope take the sled as she got behind it and forced it as hard as she could toward that bridge. Eight feet, that was all it had to clear. Snow billowed up on either side, as the metal cut through it.
As soon as she reached the edge, she pushed it out with every ounce of strength she had.
It slid across and for but a second, maybe two, she thought it would hold but then the bridge gave way, snow tumbling down, and her father vanished in a cloud of white.
Snow exploded upward and when the air cleared, Frank was on the other side, boots digging into the snow, slipping forward toward the edge, holding on to the other end of the rope. His jaw was clenched, agony all over his face, his body spasming.
“I can’t hold him!” Frank shouted.
“Don’t you let him go,” she yelled, backing up just enough that she could get a run and jump.
Kara launched herself over, landing easily on the other side, and as quick as a flash she joined the fight, grabbing the rope in front of Frank and pulling. She knew the rope wound around a boulder behind Frank would hold him but the rope attached to the stretcher could give out at any moment. “Dad!”
“I’m here,” he replied.
Relief was short-lived. The two of them tugged with all their strength, hauling him up toward the edge. They could hear metal scraping the side of the rock. The weight of it tugged hard at them and a few times the rope slipped through her hands. Her father let out a cry, thinking it was his last. The metallic coffin clattered against the rock as they hauled it up to the safety of the ledge.
Slowly, inch by inch, they eventually managed to get it to the top. Once done, both of them laid back, exhausted, breathing hard, relief and fear mixing, a toxic high that made the heart pound and made her slightly lightheaded.
“Let’s never do that again,” Frank said.
She tapped him on the shoulder. “I won’t argue with that.”
They both let out a nervous laugh as they clambered to their feet, put their snowshoes back on, and brushed powdery white off their gear. Her father’s face was pale, shock, fear, all of it had taken over. Finally, out of harm’s way, they looked off toward a wall of rock in the distance and the pass that would take them through to the other side of the mountain. After untangling the rope and placing it back in the stretcher, Kara pointed ahead. “About one mile and we should be there.”
They trekked on, aware of the danger of an avalanche or falling rocks. Staying vigilant as they approached the saddle of the mountain, Kara paused and tilted her eyes toward the steep slopes that came together, a single point of entry, a narrow short line that wound through the range. “This is it,” she said grinning. They were almost hesitant to enter, unsure that if they didn’t pay a toll they would never see the other side. Not wasting any time, they cut through until the pass widened and an immense valley spread out far below, an endless blanket of snow-brushed treetops, rich vegetation, and the fearsome Chickaloon River snaking off towards the horizon.
“Thank God,” Frank said eyeing it all.
30
Frank shouldered the weathered door on the rustic backcountry cabin. It burst open, releasing a plume of dust as they entered. Although seeing the valley below had given them a huge mental boost, that soon faded. It was almost sunset by the time they’d navigated to the foothills of the mountain. They’d walked more that day than any of the previous days. Hours of hiking, and tugging her father through shifting weather patterns had taken its toll — physically and mentally they were broken — cold, thirsty and hungry, but more than anything, exhausted. So when they spotted the lone shack nestled in the forest, close to the river’s edge, it quickly lifted their mood.
Designated public-use cabins were all over Alaska. Wrangell-St. Elias had fourteen while Tongass and Chugach were supposed to have anywhere from a hundred to a hundred and fifty spread throughout and that was just in those regions. The old mining, trapping, or hunting cabins were set aside for those needing shelter or as a haven for those lost. This one was like a palace to them. Warm, dry, close to a place to fish. After what they’d endured, it was like hitting the jackpot. “Looks undesignated,” Kara said gazing around the ramshackle abode. It was as if no one had been there in months, maybe even years. While DNR did their best to maintain the cabins for recreational use or an emergency, time and Mother Nature had beaten this one down.
Cobwebs, dust, and grime had taken over, covering the darkened corners, and the simple setup: a set of wooden sleeping platforms covered with gray blankets, a rectangular pine table and benches tucked beneath. There was an antique wood-burning stove with a chimney in the corner. Alongside it, a stack of pre-cut firewood and a hatchet. A few rusted cabinets with peeling white paint lined the log walls along with multiple shelves. Some were stacked with dusty books, others held cans, steel milk jugs, cups, and cutlery. Primitive rusted tools were hanging from hooks, a reel of rope, and a bearskin nailed to the wall. It was like they’d stepped back in time to the pioneer days.
Two large windows on either side let in a dim light that created shadows that stretched on the floor, giving the whole place a very eerie look. There was even a .22 high-caliber rifle attached to the wall. “This is wild,” Kara said, intrigued as she breathed in the damp and moldy atmosphere. Her father had mentioned the cabins but she’d never been in one, they were too far out and required a lot of effort to reach them.
“Yeah, they’re in every region,” Frank said, strolling over to the table and running his hand across an inch of dust before lifting one of the candles only to have a spider scuttle away. “We’ve flown hunters out to them. They’re mostly found near remote lakes, rivers, streams, and saltwater beaches. Without road access, you’d need a floatplane, hiking trail, or boat to reach them.” He walked over and crouched in front of the stove. “Some of the newer ones have oil and gas. Not this one.” He turned. “Hey, Henry, you think this was one of your old gold prospector’s cabins? Maybe old Mad Trapper Johnson?” He chuckled. “Quick, search the floorboards for gold,” Frank said with another chuckle while Kara dragged the stretcher in.
“What do you think?”
she asked her father.
He didn’t reply but just coughed hard, trying to catch his breath. Frank found a box of matches and used them to light two candles, illuminating the inside.
“Here, Dad, drink.” Kara brought the water bottle up to his lips.
“I can tell you what I think,” Frank said, picking up a can and brushing dust off the label. He smiled, showing her it was beans. There were others nearby, corn, peas, even pumpkin puree, and pears. “I say we hunker down here, build a fire by the water, create an SOS on the ground using rocks, and wait it out. There’s sure to be someone over the next 48 hours. People go rafting down this river all the time,” he said, looking out the window and drumming his knuckles against the wall.
“Not this far north they don’t,” she said. “Most enter around Moss Creek.”
He cast a glance back and gave her a confused expression. “And you would know?”
“Summer camp. You get a lot of rafters riding the Chickaloon.”
“You’ve done it?”
She chuckled. “Not this. It’s too wild and I was too young,” she said, picking up the box of matches he’d left on top of the stove. “But I did go on a Class I and II in a tandem elsewhere.”
He sniffed hard and continued checking out the rest of the cans.
“Well, we can stay the night because it’s too late in the day but we should head out once the sun comes up,” she said.
“C’mon Kara, look around you, this is the best shelter we have found since the crash. We’re closer to civilization. Give it a few days. We’ll be seen.”
“A few days?” She gestured to her father. “Have you forgotten?”
Frank groaned and set the can on the table. “You want to keep moving?”
She nodded. “Head south to the Matanuska River and Glenn Highway.”
His brow furrowed. “You know how many miles that is?”
“Around thirty.”
“And you want to hike that?”
“No, head downriver. It will be faster.”
“In what?”
She jerked her head and he followed her outside where she showed him a large canoe butting up against the side of the cabin. It was partially covered with a thick tarp. There were oars, a spray skirt, and PFDs. “Figure someone used to ride the rivers a lot.”
“Yeah, but not that one,” he said, “and besides, it probably has holes in it.”
“The cabin might be old but this isn’t,” she said, rapping her knuckles on the side of it. It was red, durable, roughly 14 to 16 feet long, made out of fiberglass, certainly enough for two people and some gear, maybe three but it would be a squeeze. At a rough guess, it couldn’t have been more than five years old.
Frank looked off toward the churning waters. “You’ve never run that river.”
“No, but I was younger then and didn’t have a reason to. Now I do.”
“It’s not just that, Kara, this boat is more for touring, not riding a Class II or higher, and especially not with three people. They probably used it for fishing in calmer waters.”
“Well, it’s all we’ve got.”
He brought a hand up to his face and trudged back into the cabin. She followed. When they entered, Frank turned to her father. “Let’s at least rest a few days. Get our strength back. Weigh our options. Henry, you could use some downtime, right?” he said, looking at him but not getting an answer. Her father had taken a turn for the worse. His temperature had risen and he was coughing harder. She’d given him some ibuprofen to treat the fever but that would only go so far. She was worried he might not even make it through the night but they were both exhausted and there were so many miles to go.
Before Kara could say anything more, Frank clapped his hands together as if trying to distract her from the conversation. “Right, let’s get that stove on and warm this place up. I think all of us could use a hot meal,” he said, snatching up the large can.
“Frank.”
“I heard you, Kara. Okay!” He slammed the beans down and began looking for a can opener. “Now there has to be one around here somewhere.”
“Use this,” she said, handing him the Leatherman. He stared for a second, then began using it with a look of glee as he went about breaking the seal. After, he handed it back and Kara looked around and pulled down the bearskin off the wall. She shook it outside and coughed, then brought it back in and placed it on the end of a bed ready to roll out. At least tonight her father would sleep in some level of comfort. If she could keep him warm enough and dose him up with more ibuprofen, perhaps he had a chance.
Frank filled the stove with kindling and logs, tore up some old newspapers, and scrunched them up, and within seconds after he tossed them in, it was ablaze. He closed the front and stepped back pleased with his handiwork.
As the warmth of the fire emanated out, Kara collected water from the river in a bucket. She boiled it over the fire and went about cleaning her father’s wounds, changing the bandages. There was a medkit at the cabin but it didn’t offer much. Ointment, one bandage, and a pair of scissors. After, she covered him up with the bearskin and the blankets and tucked the edges in tight as the walls of the cabin weren’t windproof.
She sat beside him, untwisting her hair from the tie. As the long hair flowed down past her shoulders, her father lifted a hand. “Indi?”
Was it the dim light? The meds? Was he beginning to hallucinate?
“No, it’s me, Dad,” she replied as he drifted back to sleep.
Kara had seen old photos of her mother from when she was younger, they were very similar in appearance, the same dark eyes, oval face, dimpled cheeks, and smile. Across the room, Frank poured some bourbon into a tin cup and downed it in one go. He’d looked like a kid at Christmas when he found it tucked away in the small bedside cabinet. After he heated the beans and filled three small bowls, she and Frank devoured theirs fast but her father didn’t seem to want to touch his. “He’s right, you know,” Frank said as he refilled the cup. “You look a lot like her now that you’re older.” Frank offered her a drink as she got up and walked over but she declined, so he took small sips as he leaned back against the table, boots off, feet angled toward the stove. A man that had already begun to embrace comfort.
“You think he knew the location?” Frank asked. “Of Drake’s gold?”
She shrugged. “I think he wanted to believe it. Whether it was true or not, I don’t know,” she said glancing over to him. “I doubt he’ll get another chance to return.”
“One thing’s for sure, the damn thing must be cursed.” He shook his head and took another drink. “Your father was telling me about those who’ve gone missing looking for it. Apparently, it’s happened a lot with all these lost treasures, you know — Oak Island, Tutankhamun, the treasure of the Templars. So many have lost their lives in the pursuit and never returned.” Frank sighed. “I hope that’s not in the cards for us,” he said, dipping his head.
“We’re getting out of here,” she added, confidently.
“There’s not much room in that canoe, Kara.”
“It could fit three.”
“Yeah, right. That’s a tandem. I saw the spray deck. It’s made for two.”
“So we remove it.”
He laughed. “You haven’t run a river like the Chickaloon, have you?” He paused for a second. “Out there, without the deck or spray skirts, it would fill up with water and the damn thing would sink within five minutes. Hell, it probably will with it.” He took another swig, shaking his head. Frank looked over at Henry and back at her. “We could leave him and return.”
“What? No.”
“Look at him, Kara. He’s barely hanging on. I’m not sure he would survive the trip downstream. But us, we’re strong, together we stand a chance.” He paused. “He’s… extra baggage.”
“Baggage?” She was beyond surprised.
“I meant to say, he would only weigh down the canoe and…”
“I’m not leaving him behind. Okay?” She narrowe
d her eyes, unable to believe what he was saying. It wasn’t that it didn’t make sense, it did, it was just that… her mind drifted to her mother, that moment she had to leave her behind. No. It wasn’t happening, not again.
She rose to her feet.
“This isn’t like the plane. He’d be safe here. We stock the stove with enough wood to keep him warm, seal the door, we ride out tomorrow, and before the day is out we could reach help and have a helicopter sent back. Maybe even the same day.”
“NO!” She stabbed her finger at the floor.
Silence stretched between them.
Frank nodded slowly. “All right. All right, Kara. We’ll do it your way,” he said, scooping up the rifle, some ammo, his drink, and the bottle and heading outside, slamming the door behind him. She let out an exasperated sigh and moved over to her father. She placed the back of her hand on his forehead. After, she rose to make some tea from whatever she could rustle up from the cabin’s supplies when her father piped up.
“He’s scared.”
She stopped walking and looked back, his eyes were open, lucid even.
“You heard all of that?”
Kara returned and perched herself on the edge of the bed, her father took hold of her hand. “I heard enough.” He breathed in deeply. “I guess this is the end of the line, the conveyor belt has one last piece of baggage.” He snorted. “Me.”
“He didn’t mean it that way. He’s got kids, he has every right to be scared.” She looked down at his wrinkled hand. “Maybe I’m not thinking clearly.”
“No, you’re the only one that’s thinking clearly.”
“Well, he’s right about the canoe, there’s only room in that for two. The hull would be impacted by the additional load. It would be harder to maneuver those rapids. So… what do we do?”
