Читать книгу Crossing The Gates of Alaska: - Dave Metz - Страница 9

I’m sitting on a waist-high hummock in the middle of a barren, windswept pass with my two dogs in the heart of the Brooks Range. The vastness of the land makes my jaw drop and I wonder how I will walk out of here with so little food. Much of the snow that had layered this land has recently melted and left the ground saturated with a network of miniature pools and streams flowing from every indentation around. I look northeast, far down the Killik River Valley. It stretches almost straight for four days’ walking time before veering north where it vanishes through jagged mountains. Then the valley spills its water onto the sprawling arctic plain.

Behind me, and flowing southward, is the Alatna River. Three hard days of hiking in that direction and I would reach the edge of the spruce forest that covers much of Alaska south of there. I might make it to the village of Alatna, a hundred miles downriver, if I were to leave now while I still have food left. Perhaps I would be able to build a log raft along the way and float out.

It’s a difficult decision. I’m already raked thin from rationing a backpack filled with food and marching eight hours a day. But instead of heading south into a more forgiving land that is already teeming with fresh blossoms and green grass, I choose to stick with my original northern route. As the crow flies, I’m about eighty miles from the village of Anaktuvuk Pass. I will have to hike across treeless terrain so exposed that it feels like the wind could pick me up and carry me off and over the farthest mountains. I get the chills looking back at the harrowing passes I’ve already come through. They are so menacingly steep and craggy that I don’t look back for long. I look forward now. I will have to move on or starve.

My body is burning itself away while I walk along such impassable ground. There are mountains to go around, gorges to cross, bogs to sidestep, oceans of brush to wade through, and miles of nagging tussocks to curse at as I waddle over them, day after day. For food there are a few lentil beans and some oats left. That’s it, to hike on for about twelve more days, and that is if I hike all day every day. Emaciation will come quickly in those final few days as my broken-down body searches for more energy to fuel itself.

I left Kotzebue, Alaska, on March 26, about sixty days ago. I began by skiing out of town with the dogs pulling me, across the Hotham Inlet, and then up the Kobuk River to the village of Ambler. Then I turned up the Ambler River and skied to its headwaters. I abandoned my sleds and skis and hiked over the final pass to the Noatak River. From there I crossed over another mountain range to the Alatna River and followed it to its source. This is how I got to where I am now, and I’m miserably hungry. Most of my own food goes to my dogs, and I have not considered calling for a rescue yet. My intention is to continue east to the village of Anaktuvuk Pass, get more supplies, and hike to the town of Wiseman on the Dalton Highway. Right now, though, I grow desperate with hunger and exhaustion. The fear of starvation looms over me constantly and I am beginning to understand what a wretched death it would be.

My Airedale terriers are the long-legged type from very pure strains, and they embolden each other. They are young brothers just barely a year old. I also have an old rusty shotgun with two remaining shells. I never planned to hunt, but I never thought I would be starving, either. So when I encounter a rabbit on the lower Killik River I become excited. I unfasten the straps to my pack and let it fall to the ground where I stand. I unleash the dogs for the first time in days. Right away, they sprint off tracking the rabbit’s trail down the willow-laden riverbank. They need no prompting from me because hunting is in their blood. I know the rabbit will double back on his trail repeatedly until tiring. I step back away from the willows and out onto a gravel bar to get a better view of the river’s edge. The rabbit comes back through several times but I cannot get a safe shot. I’m confident the dogs will not lose the scent; they can track animals through water.

After several more passes the rabbit finally stops beside a bush, not knowing I’m near. I raise my gun swiftly until the bead on the end of the barrel lines up with the rabbit’s torso, and I fire. The shot reverberates across the valley as the rabbit topples to the ground. I run to where he falls, and because I’m so hungry, rejoice over the kill. A half hour later we get another rabbit. The dogs have earned their keep today. Tonight we will eat.

The next morning I chuck my shotgun, leaving it next to some willows. With no more shells, it has become a worthless hunk of wood and steel that I cannot carry. I need to have a lighter load. I must travel faster. I can’t stay here; no one ever comes here and food is scarce. I haven’t seen a human being since leaving the village of Ambler about forty days ago. At least I feel some added strength now and I play a little with the dogs. Then I take out all our beans and oats, and examine them. I consolidate the packages and then burn the extra wrappers. Then I divide my portion from the dogs’ and carefully put all the food away into four separate, plastic bags. We will each have only one small meal a day, but at least we will be able to eat something. On the final day I figure we will have a cup and a half of lentil beans to share between the three of us, and then all our food will be gone.

I hoist my pack onto my back, buckle my straps, and tie the dogs’ leash to my chest strap so they will not run off and burn more calories than they have to. I look back towards the upper Killik River; however, I cannot see its source. I can see the pass I came over quite clearly, though. I turn back and look forward. Then I step out feeling strong, knowing that whatever happens, I will walk until I drop and am not able to get back up again. After twenty minutes I make the great sweeping turn onto Easter Creek and scan the eastern horizon with reverence, and some fear; I’m impressed by its grandeur, yet afraid that I cannot get across it. The land is enormous and so beautifully empty. The sun is already up, sitting over the starkly outlined peaks and rolling expanse of tundra that appear to be from a different, gigantic world. I walk on with deliberate and efficient steps over the tussock-filled plain and into the wild void beyond. I say to the dogs to lift their spirits, “We’ll make it, pups. We’ll make it.”