Flight To Pandemonium Page 26

“Get the gear and the packs outside!” said Jack. “Judy, we’ll do it, just stay out!”

  “Shotgun and water jug… and the tent!” shouted Tony.

  Twenty minutes later, the companions watched the cabin roof collapse, sending an inferno of sparks into the sky. Mac said, “There’s one of the other cabins, I suppose.”

  “Nope,” said Jack. “Got all our food.” Judy called it. Time to move on.”

  “Pity our nice warm beds,” said Mac trudging in the snow toward the sled.

  28

  Atigun Pass, North Slope, October 10th. Lazlo and Christie began climbing the lower slopes. Rounding the cross-sloped curves, the sled tracked the ice without crabbing. The condition of the high banks and chutes above the roadway were as stable as hoped. They easily mounted partially melted avalanche runouts across the highway. Lazlo’s concern subsided as they passed one slide chute after another without mishap. Their passage among the formidable chutes left most undisturbed. But snow ominously trickled down north facing slopes.

  Rounding a blind curve, the road disappeared beneath a spectacular obstruction. A chute towering into the mist spread a steep fan across their path. A cornice had formed where snow sheared off beyond the guardrail. The uprooted guardrail and stretched cable convinced Lazlo that the avalanche was impassable with the snowmobile, and deadly perilous on foot. Beyond doubt, their way was blocked.

  Lazlo and Christie sat stunned and disappointed. Lazlo dismounted and peered over the guardrail into the defile. The avalanche runout didn’t look as ominous at the bottom. Lazlo thought there might be a way around the flattened heap.

  Trapped between the continuous guardrail on one side and steep slopes on the other, they descended until a break opened in the rail at the service road to the Alyeska pipeline. Below the road, a vigorous icy creek flowed from a large culvert which became the headwaters of the Sag River. From there a deep cleft ran to the top of the pass.

  Lazlo shut off the engine to talk to Christie. “We have only two choices from here. Take this narrow pipeline path over the pass or blaze our own way over the Brooks Range wherever that takes us.”

  Christie’s anxiety of Atigun Pass returned, “The chutes are unstable, Laz. Once an avalanche flows over the road it pours into that canyon just ahead and straight down on our heads if we happen in the wrong place.”

  “We can try going up that cleft or return to our grizzly bears. So what’s the safest... the pass or the bears?”

  Christy dismounted to scope the pipe route. A path had been created up the cleft to inspect the Alyeska pipeline. Making their own way seemed desperate, but the pipe route also looked perilous. Far up the defile, bouncing snowballs hurtled down the slopes. And an avalanche could bury them instantly.

  “Maybe we should wait,” said Christie. “The slopes should freeze overnight and be less likely to discharge in the morning.”

  “I hate to waste all afternoon just camped here,” replied Lazlo.

  “There you go again,” said Christie, “that get-a-grip thing. Let’s play it safe.”

  “I suppose.”

  They unpacked the sled, spread the duffle tent on the tundra and settled in. Thinking that portaging might be necessary the next day, Lazlo spent the afternoon repacking the sled. He assembled like bundles with rope limiting their weight to what each could hand carry. They would load the tent last.

  They retired early satisfied that the day was productive after all. Morning dawned as crisp and well below freezing as Christie predicted. After tea, soft cheese and biscuits, they were off.

  They climbed the first stretch of the path easily. Further on, they found difficulty crossing icy rivulets of melt water whose course had been cobbled with rock. Reaching the first slide, Lazlo followed the cleavage of accumulated discharge against the opposite slope bank and the machine smoothly climbed firm snow. Learning quickly, Puppy confidently led them around each discharged slide.

  Well up the canyon, a natural rock intrusion spread diagonally across the defile forming a tall dike. Pipeline excavation had trenched directly through the formation, but a substantial snow slide nearly filled the trench. Their snow machine could not negotiate the steep slopes on either side of the gap. The only route went straight up through the gap. Lazlo tried but the snowmobile was unable to drag the heavy sled, wallowing hopelessly. Puppy bounded through and waited.

  Lazlo, resigned to portaging, unloaded the sled while Christie and Puppy explored ahead on foot. Long gone, Christie returned and reported, “Doesn’t get any better for a long way, Laz. I think we should cut steps through this steep stretch to a better stretch ahead. Then return, carry our gear, and follow with the snowmobile.”

  “Sounds like a bitch but I suppose we have all afternoon.”

  Side stepping mile long trips carrying their gear up the grade consumed the entire day. Once lightened, Lazlo raced the empty sled through the obstacles at breakneck speed beginning far down the path. After reloading, they reached the summit after dark using the lights of the snowmobile following Puppy’s lead as always. Gale force wind whipped through the pass, slowing their progress and sandblasting them with ice shards.

  Beyond the crest, they unfolded the sled’s weather tent near a tiny melt-water brook within a naturally formed rock amphitheater screened from the wind. By then, light snow fell steadily. They heated a can of stew on Lazlo’s tiny tripod burner and gulped it down, shivering with exhaustion, but pleased with the day’s progress and the warmth of Puppy’s snuggling.

  Opening the tent fly in the morning revealed snow still falling. The accumulation was troubling considering the tall avalanche chutes threatening their passage ahead. Lazlo set out on foot to explore. At the summit, the path of the pipeline and the highway converged briefly giving them the choice of descending either way. Thereafter, the routes and topography separated, leaving the choice to be made at the crest.

  Having successfully ascended via the pipeline route and fearing the avalanche chutes, Lazlo explored that direction first. The pipeline was enclosed beneath an active brook within a defile, dropping in cascades among irregular boulders between steep banks. The brook rapidly accumulated melt water and soon became a cascading stream. Without a negotiable side path, they would often be forced to travel directly within the tumbling streambed of boulders. That icebound route seemed impossibly perilous to Lazlo.

  Christie favored the highway despite the chutes. “Laz, someone has been working on this pass… grading down the slopes a bit. It looks quite different from what I remember. I think the road might be easier than it was.”

  “The road does look better,” replied Lazlo. “Those chutes don’t look as hairy as on our way up but I see tumbling snow in all of them.”

  “Let’s try the road,” said Christie, “but a stretch below has a notorious reputation among truckers.”

  Reflecting on Christie’s warning, Lazlo strapped the portage bundle containing the precious sleeping bags, insulated canteens and propane stove across the snowmobile handlebars.

  Rounding the first blind curve revealed a runout heaped against the highway railing. As they watched, a gentle snow shower hurtled down obscured by a cloud of drifting powder.

  Lazlo dug a passage inboard of the railing, heaving each shovelful over the barrier and down the precipice. He worked vigorously until he reached the halfway point. He moved the snow machine forward while Christie walked across the slide with a safety rope tied to the handlebars. For her, it was a frightening passage on slippery footing while Lazlo finished digging. Repeating the process on two following slides, both reached safety.

  From their new position, they could see three more slides ahead, one especially ominous. Experience brought them successfully across the first two.

  The third was fear-provoking. Lazlo thought the stretch must be the one of trucker fame. A continuous river of fresh powd
er and tumbling snowballs charged down the steep slope and over the guardrail. As Lazlo watched, the discharge left a gap at the cut wall where projecting rock above protected a narrow path. Lazlo explored the route on foot but found the next chute directly in his path. They must run a gauntlet of ten paces fully exposed and vulnerable.

  They carried backpacks, rifle, tent duffle and kindling to the crest beneath the rock projection. Lazlo roped the two of them together with twenty feet of rope and another for their bundle of gear. Lazlo passed through the cascade holding Puppy and avoided being struck. When Christie entered the chute, a heavy snow shower enveloped her and she collapsed face down, helpless. Lazlo leaned into his shoulder rope pulling with all his strength. Christie hurtled past the chute flat on her belly. Shaken but unhurt, they hugged each other.

  Hand over hand, they pulled the bundles of gear and supplies past the chute without risking themselves. But Lazlo couldn’t abandon the precious snowmobile and its gear. Planning a rescue by watching above, he timed his climb over the crest successfully avoiding the cascade.

  Driving over the steep snow barricade, Lazlo halted before whumping showers of sugar slabs. A new deluge struck him on the head, slamming his face against the anvil of the snow machine. He blacked out.

  Lazlo regained his senses as Christie pressed a thermos of warm tea to his lips. Parked before him was their precious snowmobile which Christie had somehow rescued along with some of their gear but not the hatchet and water jug which remained on the sled.

  While he recovered, Christie repacked the machine. Her only admonition was, “Let’s not take such a risk again.” Lazlo rose to his feet shaking off his painful lethargy and replied, “Before we move on, I should go back for gear we left.”

  “Laz, we’re not safe yet. We shouldn’t linger a moment longer until we get beyond the last of these chutes.” Persuaded, Lazlo found a lower roadside turnout on the outside edge of the pavement away from hazards. The spot appeared safe and he unloaded the tent duffel.

  While unloading, he heard a thundering avalanche begin in the clouds far up the road. The deluge whumped repeatedly filling the road in just moments. The chute nourished the moving slide, spilling a curtain of snow over the edge, fanning out in all directions, rampaging toward them on its sustaining cushion of air. On and on the avalanche rushed many times faster than could be eluded, catching Christie as she ran. As suddenly as the slide began, the runout ceased moving and seized up, covering Christie as she fell. Lazlo rushed to her aid, grabbed the shoulder straps of her back pack, placed his feet on either side, and with a titanic jerk, freed her. Quickly he cleared the snow from her mouth and face. She gagged and coughed, then smiled for him silently, dazed but unhurt.

  Stunned, Lazlo realized that had they delayed leaving even a few moments longer, they would have perished instantly. Lazlo repacked and returned to the road fully descending the slopes. They chose to camp safely in mid span on the bridge over the Chandalar River, above and beyond nearly any misfortune. Lazlo unrolled the duffle tent on a tarp and prepared a hot meal. They snuggled together with Puppy, chilled and weary but exultant and thankful for their deliverance. Now beyond the prison gate atop Atigun Pass, they had traveled only three exhausting miles.

  29

  Talkeetna River at Disappointment Creek, October 12th. With little choice, the six harnessed the sled and shouldered their packs. Following a course along Iron Creek to the Talkeetna River, already familiar to the hunters, they arrived opposite the confluence of Disappointment Creek and pitched camp by early evening. They settled around a campfire munching an unappetizing meal of jerky when Choc sounded her guttural warning.

  Three wolves stalked a lone Canada goose flapping its wings among river reeds. When it didn’t fly, Tony realized the bird’s webbed feet must be frozen in ice. The men stood as one and Tony yelled waving his arms with the shotgun in hand. The startled wolves withdrew.

  “Man, there’s the ultimate sitting duck,” said Jack. Let’s get ’im before those wolves come back and we’ll have a feast. We can spare one shell for a sure dinner.”

  The bird struggled just yards away as Tony squeezed the trigger. Nothing happened but an audible click. “Bloody dud,” said Jack. “Try another. If that’s old ammunition, it’s no good to us anyway.”

  Tony inserted another and aimed again with another audible click. “Damn lucky bird,” said Jack.

  Judy said, “If he was so lucky, he wouldn’t be trapped in the ice. Don’t leave him for the wolves, please, Jack.”

  Jack and Tony lassoed the goose, killed and cleaned it on the spot. Back in camp, Tony showed Jack the shells by the light of the fire. “Barely a mark on ‘em,” said Jack, surprised.

  “Wasn’t the ammo… t’was the gun. Worn out firing pin,” replied Tony.

  “Damn good thing we didn’t point that at somethin’ serious and found out then. No wonder someone left it in the cabin.”

  Early in the morning, the wolves returned, fighting and snarling. One of them sounded particularly frantic by the encounter, but shortly all fell silent, scattering upriver.

  Judy shouted, “Oh my God, where’s Choc?”

  Mac whispered, “Tony, I just saw her sniffing around that goose kill.”

  Tony sighed, “I’d better have a look.” Just beyond the goose site among the reeds, Tony found a bloody patch where the wolves had been scrapping. All that remained of Choc was a tiny unborn pup. He returned sadly shaking his head. Damned wolves were everywhere, thought Mac and hugged Judy. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered.

  The Captain’s abdomen was stiff and painful from the previous day’s high stepping through deep snow. As his companions set out in the morning, they relieved him of his backpack. The boat haulers could accommodate the load, they decided. Free of the burden, the Captain was able to keep up, and bore walking without involuntary grunts of pain. Even he agreed they should push for the satellite station.

  Driven by Tony’s enthusiasm, the three men alternated pulling the sled climbing the long path toward Christensen Lake. Arriving at the huge white dishes revealed the building’s entrance door gaping wide open, clearly deserted.

  A quick tour of the satellite station found racks of old communication gear but little else. No document could be found with a date more recent than their departure from Nome. Mac lingered inside, picking up phones, pushing old-fashioned buttons without hearing anything.

  Instead, Mac heard the slow grinding noise of a gasoline engine starting and stuttering. Having not heard the sound in a month, he warily crept outside to watch. Behind a caretaker’s enclosure, Tony was revving up an ancient motor home, producing clouds of exhaust in the process.

  “All aboard who wants aboard,” he hailed.

  Max slumped on a soft upholstered seat, effortlessly watching the hills pass by, a nearly forgotten luxury. The drive around Christensen Lake on unswept leaf strewn streets felt like a fall excursion. Houses set well back from the road among tall trees had the appearance of normality with a few scattered boats and rust tinged cars parked in classic Alaska fashion in untended yards.

  Stopping at his driveway, Pappy jumped out yelling, “Damn! My pickup’s gone!” He walked toward the house, then abruptly wheeled about and ran toward the lake. At the shoreline, his companions found Pappy standing hands on hips surveying a floating dock with steel utility steps and cleat tie ropes loosely bobbing in the lake.

  “Sons-a-bitches got my floatplane,” Pappy said, looking defeated.

  Another frustrating experience greeted everyone at his doorstep. His home had been forced, ransacked and looted, the contents of every drawer, wardrobe, and closet strewn about. Everything of value had been stolen including Pappy’s pistol hidden under his mattress.

  Pappy stared with distress at his ransacked bedroom, but then rushed across the house. He felt behind his water heater closet and yelled, “
Aha!” From its hiding place, Pappy withdrew a weathered leather scabbard holding an old Winchester pump shotgun and yelled, “The bastards didn’t get this…”

  Jack interrupted, showing little sympathy, “Pappy, are we staying here for the night or do you have somewhere else in mind?”

  “Why not stay here. There aren’t enough beds to go around, but there’s always the couch and the motor home. I’ve got something else to do before morning.”

  “Then I’ll organize cleaning up and prepare that goose for dinner,” replied Judy.

  The house had neither power nor water pressure, but did have an operating propane cook top. While Judy and the Captain fixed dinner, Jack and Tony scouted the heights around Christensen Lake finding an inconspicuous overlook of the airport and distant town of Talkeetna, where they long scoped both with binoculars. Town looked deserted with wind strewn waste.

  At dinner, Judy displayed her gleaning of what remained in the house…knives to use as spear points, a supply of candles, towels, linens, and Pappy’s fine hunting longbow.

  Pappy showed off his shotgun with its barrel sawn off, now a far more deadly weapon and patently illegal in a previous life.

  Mac reported that he had scouted every home in the neighborhood and found every one looted. Not a single motor vehicle of any kind remained.

  Jack and Tony had spotted neither lamplight nor a wisp of chimney smoke in town, only dismal looking businesses, many of them burned. Commercial airliners at the airport were caged in by a hundred small private craft. The snowplow still blocked the center of the runway. So many parked aircraft must have brought hundreds of refugees to town, but none could be seen anywhere.

  “See any floatplanes?” asked Pappy.

  “Hard to tell. Couldn’t see much through the sea of metal,” said Jack.

  “What was the attraction for landing here, I wonder?” asked Mac.