“That should keep you warm enough for a while,” Hinton said. He wished that he hadn’t lost his own flying suit. He supposed it didn’t make much difference. None of them were dressed appropriately for the frigid temperatures and they shivered and shook every time they stopped to rest. This forced them to build a fire at every rest stop, using up more of their precious matches. Hinton looked in the matchbox. There were only four left.
Without the bulky suit restricting his arms and legs, Farrell was able to walk more quickly, but he still struggled to keep up. By the time they stopped for the night, despair had begun to settle in.
As they sat around the campfire, eating the last pigeon, Farrell wondered aloud if he’d ever see his wife and two children again. “It’s funny, isn’t it?” he said, staring into the bright flames of the fire. “Here I was so worried about my poor daughter sick with scarlet fever. But at least she’s warm and safe in bed, with doctors to attend her. Chances are, I’ll die out here and she’ll, God willing, recover.”
Kloor shivered. “Let’s not talk about dying,” he said.
Hinton disagreed. “We can’t ignore the fact that we may not make it out of here alive. We should at least prepare ourselves for the worst.”
“What are you talking about?” asked Farrell.
“We should each write farewell letters to our loved ones,” Hinton replied. “We can stuff them in our pockets. Then, if we don’t make it, when they find our bodies they can send the letters on to our families. It could provide some comfort to them to know we were thinking about them at the end, if it comes to that.”
“That’s a grim thought,” said Kloor.
“I think it’s a good idea,” said Farrell. “I’d want my wife and children to know what happened if we . . . well, you know.”
They all knew. But while Farrell and Hinton wrote their letters by the firelight, Kloor stared into the fire. He didn’t want to think about dying. He was the youngest and had too much to live for—a fiancée back home and a long career ahead of him. Tomorrow, he told himself as he lay down to try to sleep. Tomorrow we’ll find people. Tomorrow we’ll be rescued. Tomorrow the nightmare will end.
Chapter Six
End of the Trail
Kloor awoke on the fifth day of their ordeal with a feeling of dread. Despite all their efforts, they were no closer to safety. There was no house, no dog, no people. And now, having eaten the last pigeon, no food. Nothing except a white wilderness that was all but swallowing them up in its vastness. He was beginning to doubt that they would ever get out of this place alive.
Overnight the temperatures had dropped even lower, and the creek had frozen over. While it was a bit slippery, walking on the smooth, ice-covered creek proved to be easier than walking among the trees.
Then, just after midday, their hopes were finally rewarded. The creek widened into a rushing river! Finding a settlement along the river was their best and last hope.
Afraid they might fall through the ice covering the river, the men scrambled back up the riverbank. In his excitement, Farrell lost his footing and crashed to the frozen ground. He realized he couldn’t feel his hands any longer. Had frostbite set in? The thought brought a rush of terror to his heart. He quickened his pace and stumbled again, down into a three-foot-deep hole. Farrell cried out, but before his two companions could reach him, he managed to struggle out of the hole himself. Sharp pain ran down his legs. He looked down and saw he had badly scraped his shins. With relief that he could feel his legs and feet at all, Farrell forced himself to get up with a desperate determination. The three men resumed walking, this time following the river.
A short time later, Kloor, moving as quickly as he could and scanning the horizon for signs of civilization, walked right into a thick tree branch that stretched out before him. He went down to the ground, stunned by the blow. The branch had also caught on his flight suit and torn a large hole in the side of it. He looked into the hole but saw no sign of blood. As he rose to his feet, he cursed to himself for not looking where he was going.
Hinton was the next to go down. He tried his best to keep up with Kloor, but his foot caught on a gnarled root and he fell headlong to the hardened earth. Kloor heard his anguished cry and turned. Hinton waved a hand to indicate he was all right and rose heavily to his feet. Kloor gave him a thumbs-up but in his mind he began to wonder how long the two other men could last. He considered for the first time the awful possibility that he might soon be on his own, alone in the wilderness.
Then Kloor saw something that made his spirits soar again. Two deep parallel lines in the snow. “Look!” Kloor shouted back to the other two. “Tracks!”
Hinton and Farrell rushed to catch up to Kloor, moving as fast as their bodies could take them. When they reached him, they gave a feeble cheer. There in front of them were sled tracks! There was no mistake. This was their first sign of humans!
“Come on!” Kloor cried, voice cracking and legs pumping in the deep snow. Doggedly, they followed the tracks along the river.
An hour passed, then two. Exhausted as they were, the men moved faster than they had ever moved before. A desperate but genuine hope drove them on.
Soon the river emptied into a huge lake. At its edge, the tracks simply disappeared.
Their eyes searched the ice desperately for a sign of the sled tracks.
“Gone!” cried Farrell. “The tracks have just vanished into thin air.”
“It’s not possible,” said Kloor, shaking his head vigorously. “The sled must have gone onto the lake. It might not leave any tracks on the ice.”
“If that’s so, then we can find the tracks again on the other side,” reasoned Hinton, the excitement rising in his voice.
“Well,” cried Farrell, suddenly energized, “what are we waiting for? Let’s go!”
They tested the lake ice by tapping their feet on it to see if it was strong enough to hold their weight. Convinced they were safe to continue, they began crossing. Kloor again quickly took the lead. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest with every slippery step.
They were more than halfway across when Kloor saw it. The figure of a man on the far side of the lake.
Kloor couldn’t make out his features, only that he was standing still and appeared to be staring directly at Kloor. He was sure of it. “Hello! Hello!” he cried as loud as he could, waving his arms wildly in the air. The man didn’t move. He just continued to stare. Then, without warning, the man turned and started running away.
“No! No!” cried Kloor. “Help! Come back! Come
back!”
But his cries only seemed to make the man flee all the faster. Kloor fell to his knees on the ice and covered his face with his hands. Here was their first and last hope and he was leaving them. Leaving them stranded in the wilderness, leaving them to die.
We have finally reached it, Kloor thought, the end of the trail.
Chapter Seven
An Unexpected Meeting
Kloor slowly got to his feet, his eyes still focused on the running figure in front of him. Hinton and Farrell ran up to him, panting heavily.
“We’ve got to catch up to that man,” said Hinton breathlessly. “He’s our last hope.”
Kloor nodded. Of course he was right. It couldn’t end this way. Not when they had come this far.
They began to run toward the figure in the distance. Then, suddenly, Farrell slowed. “Look!” he cried. “He’s stopping!”
The man had stopped running and was looking directly at them.
“Let’s go,” yelled Kloor, “before he decides to take flight again.”
Within moments they reached the stranger’s side. He was a large, middle-aged man with brown skin and long, dark hair. Kloor guessed he was Native American. Farrell and Hinton jabbered away, asking questions, yet the man simply shook his head.
“I don’t think he speaks English. If we can’t communicate with words, perhaps this will work,” said Kloor. He took out a crumpled cigarette from
his pocket and offered it to the man, who smiled and took it.
“We seem to be getting somewhere,” said Farrell. “Do we have anything else we can give him?” he asked Hinton. “To show him our gratitude.”
Hinton reached into his pocket and pulled out a dollar bill. The man took it and examined it carefully. This gave Hinton another idea.
“Are we in the United States?” he asked, pointing to the bill.
The man shook his head. “Canada,” he replied.
“He does know some English!” Farrell cried.
“So we’re in Canada,” mused Kloor. “We really did get off course.”
The man they had met was Native Canadian not Native American. It quickly became apparent the men’s words would get them nowhere, so they communicated as best they could with hand gestures. They motioned to their mouths with their hands. They were hungry. The man nodded and pointed into the distance.
“He must be telling us his house is nearby,” said Farrell, excitement rising in his voice. The man motioned for them to follow him and started to run.
“Come on!” cried Kloor. “We can’t lose him now.”
“Not when we can get somewhere dry and warm and out of this blasted cold at last.”
The men did their best to keep up, but quickly lagged behind. In a short time, a sled pulled by two horses appeared in the distance. The driver, also native, stopped and spoke to the other man. Their rescuer pointed to the three of them as he spoke in his own language.
“Look! He’s coming for us!” cried Hinton.
When the sled stopped in front of them Hinton smiled and thanked the driver for giving them a lift. The man nodded, his expression neutral.
“I wonder if this is the sled that made the tracks we followed,” whispered Farrell.
“It could be,” said Hinton. “Either way, I’m grateful we found it—or he found us.”
The other two nodded in agreement and climbed aboard. Farrell needed Hinton and Kloor to help him up into the sled. Kloor was worried that the frostbite on Farrell’s hands was serious enough that he might lose them. But that would have to wait. The three of them flopped down in the sled, and it took off swiftly across the snow.
In just a few minutes the driver brought the horses to a halt in front of a weathered shack.
“Well, it may not be exactly home, sweet home, but it’ll do,” said Farrell.
Each man climbed off the sled and thanked the driver, who nodded. He said a few words in his native language to their rescuer, who had followed behind them, and drove off. The inside of the shack was small, but it was warm. Their host revived glowing embers in the makeshift fireplace and added more wood to the flames. He gestured for the men to sit on a wooden bench before the blaze, but Kloor saw that Farrell was barely able to stand.
Hinton turned to their host. He gestured to Farrell, who had plopped down on the bench, his eyes closed. “Our friend,” he said slowly. “He needs to rest. Is there a place he can lie down?”
The man looked at Farrell and seemed to understand. He gestured to a bunk a few feet away from where they stood in the tiny hut. Hinton and Kloor thanked him and got Farrell to the bunk. Within moments, he was asleep and snoring loudly.
The man smiled and the two others laughed. “Asleep like a baby,” said Hinton.
“I never heard a baby snore like that,” quipped Kloor.
The man gestured back to the bench and the two men sat and warmed themselves by the fire. Then their host went to a corner of the hut that served as his kitchen. He filled a kettle with water and put it on the fire, brewing tea. He gave the grateful men mugs filled with the steaming beverage. Next he brought them boiled fish in wooden bowls.
Kloor took a bite or two and stopped. “I can’t eat anymore,” he said to Hinton. “It’s delicious, but my stomach must have shrunk from the little we’ve eaten these past days.”
“Me too,” agreed Hinton, after taking a few bites.
The men were afraid they would offend their host by not eating, but fortunately, he was preoccupied with stoking the fire and didn’t seem to notice how little they ate.
In a short time, the men heard voices outside the hut. Another native man, much younger than their host, entered. His long, loose hair was jet black and his brown eyes glistened.
“My name is Erland Vincent,” he said. “The man who brought you in his sled told me you were here.”
“You speak English!” exclaimed Hinton.
“Yes,” said Vincent. “I am a member of the Cree Nation, like Tom Marks, the man who rescued you. We will bring you to the trading post at Moose Factory. They will take good care of you there.”
“Moose Factory?” repeated Hinton.
“That’s the village where the Hudson’s Bay Company trading post is located,” explained Vincent. “It’s where many Cree, like Tom, bring their furs to sell. It’s not far. Just a mile from here.”
“Well, what are we waiting for?” said Kloor.
Marks went to the bunk and gently awakened Farrell, who seemed better after his short nap. Kloor and Hinton told him where they were going and the three men said their warm goodbyes to their host.
“We can never repay you for your kindness,” said Kloor. Then he pressed a handful of dollars and all the remaining cigarettes he had into Tom Marks’s hands.
“Thank you,” Marks said.
“We wouldn’t be alive if not for you,” said Hinton, embracing Marks in an awkward hug.
Farrell, clearly overcome with emotion, blurted out “Darn right” to Hinton’s statement and patted Marks on the back.
They went outside, where a crowd of Cree were gathered around, staring at them.
“What are they doing here?” Farrell asked Vincent.
“They came to see you,” Vincent explained. “You are already big news in Moose Factory.”
The men laughed and climbed back into the same sled that had brought them to Marks’s hut. The sled took off and they sat back, eagerly awaiting the next chapter in their adventure.
* * *
THE CREE PEOPLE
The Cree people were hunting moose and caribou and trapping beaver in the forests of North America long before the arrival of Europeans. They lived in birch-bark wigwams and paddled canoes on waterways rich with fish. When the Europeans came, the Cree traded their animal pelts for other goods.
The Canadian Cree mostly live in the region from Alberta to Québec, as well as portions of the Plains region in Saskatchewan. The American Cree live in the Rocky Mountains region and along parts of the Atlantic Coast. Few Cree today speak their traditional language. Most speak French in Canada and English in the United States. While some Cree continue to make their livelihood from trapping, others work in the mining industry or frozen fish factories.
See more about the Cree people at the end of this book.
* * *
Chapter Eight
The Trading Post
The sled flew across the snowy countryside. The icy wind felt cold but refreshing on the men’s faces. The landscape quickly changed from the natural world to one made by humans. They passed buildings and homes. Farrell thought he could smell smoke from home fires and the sweet scent of meat cooking. The sled finally came to a halt in front of a large wooden structure.
“This is the Hudson’s Bay Company trading post,” said Vincent. “As you can see, they’re waiting for you.” Some thirty-five men, including several native Cree, were standing outside the trading post, shouting merrily and waving their arms in greeting.
As the three men climbed out of the sled, a tall, imposing man with a grizzled beard stepped forward to shake their hands.
“I’m William Rackham,” he said. “I’m the agent here for Hudson’s Bay Company. We’re happy to have you as our guests and we want to hear the whole story of how you got here.”
“That will take some time to tell,” said Hinton.
“Time is something we have plenty of here,” said Rackham. “But first let’s get
you inside, where it’s warm.”
The trading post’s main building was spacious and inviting, with a large stone fireplace and wood furniture. The three men sat around the blazing fire in comfortable, cushioned chairs as the men of the trading post listened intently to their story. When they got to the part about the balloon crashing in the trees, Rackham called Vincent and whispered something to him. Then the young Cree left with several others.
“What did you say to him?” Kloor asked.
“I asked Erland if he would go out and look for your balloon,” Rackham said. “He was very happy to do so.”
“Thank you,” said Kloor. “I’m sure the US Navy would appreciate it if they found it.”
After the men had finished their story, they were allowed to rest in beds with real mattresses while a dinner was prepared for them. One of the postmen who had medical experience treated Farrell’s frostbitten hands and feet. To his great relief, Farrell was told that the frostbite had been caught and treated in time and he wouldn’t lose any fingers or toes. But his full recovery would take months.
The dinner prepared for them was roasted moose meat and potatoes. By then, their stomachs had digested the fish stew and they were ready for more. All three declared it was the best meal they ever ate.
“Better than pigeon?” joked Rackham.
“The poor pigeons!” sighed Hinton. “They made the ultimate sacrifice, and we’re grateful for it.”
“We are truly grateful to you for helping us,” Kloor told Rackham.
“And we’re just as grateful to have your company,” said Rackham. “It isn’t often we get visitors. It’s lonely up here in northern Ontario.”
“We can imagine,” said Hinton. “What with these terrible winters.”
Rackham smiled. “What are you talking about?” he said. “This is the mildest winter we’ve had in Moose Factory in twenty years!”
Everyone in the room laughed, and the three balloonists realized now, more than ever, how lucky they really were.
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