“Like a bridge toll plaza for commuters,” observed Pappy.
“Yea, but look how many died crossing on foot… and the ravens are pickin’ at ‘em even now.”
“Nothing helpful to see from here, I suppose. Let’s give ‘em the news.”
Preparing to move on, Tony asked no one in particular, “With this monster in our way, we need to decide if we’re going through or around. So, what’s the choice?”
Pappy answered, “If Tony can beat this barricade, we drive south over the bridge to Anchorage and down the Kenai Peninsula. Or… he could drive northeast through Palmer to farms in the Matanuska Valley; or… follow the river east into Alaska’s Copper River interior, or… to Canada and the lower forty-eight. It’s even possible to drive north from here back into the Talkeetna Mountains.
“So… big time decision.”
Mac asked, “Tony, can you get over this monster if that’s where we’re headed?”
“It’s a mind blower alright, but just so much dirt, big as it is,” replied Tony. “But before I try busting our way through so many big rigs just beyond, we should first check out that bridge and then decide for sure that’s where we’re headed.”
With an edge in her voice, Judy asked, “So how’s I’ll-know-it-when-I-see-it work for all of you trapped behind this barricade?”
“I like my honey lodge better all the time,” replied Pappy. “I’ve offered before… I’ll fly you wherever we want to look. Without eyes, we’re just guessing.”
“I agree with Tony,” said Jack. “We should check that bridge first.”
“That presumes we want to drive through Anchorage… and I don’t without knowing it’s safe,” replied Judy.
“Back to the airplane… otherwise how do you check out Anchorage.”
“The damn airplane won’t matter if we can’t cross that bridge,” replied Jack. “First things first.”
“South appeals to me,” said Mac. “We have to know if we can cross that bridge.”
“I’d rather see it for myself,” said Jack. “So why don’t Mac and I walk down the highway and find out? Might be a way through we can’t see from here. Lots of daylight left. We’ll be back in an hour or two. Give us three quick warning shots if there’s trouble.”
“It’s further to the second bridge,” said Pappy. “It’s gotta be four miles at least.”
“Back before dark, then.” Jack rose and set off without a word.
A forty-five minute walk brought Jack and Mac beyond the queued vehicles. The path became a broad vacant highway through tidal mud flats where it swept onto a double steel bridge across the fast flowing Knick River. They halted at the edge of what had been the last supported spans across the river. Both were gone.
The yawning gap above the muddy torrent was the perfect barricade. Across the gap, a line of forsaken vehicles continued from the river’s edge. The parallel rail bridge over the river was occupied by a stalled passenger train.
Back at the cat, Mac reported, “We have our answer. The auto bridge has big gaps open to the river and the railroad bridge has a passenger train obstructing the entire span. We didn’t see any other way around.”
“So let’s go find a place for the night,” said Judy, sadly. “Guys, we still need a decision. No more dodging.”
Pappy directed Tony to a vacant airplane hangar at the Palmer airport who parked the cat inside. Everyone was exhausted, frustrated, and unwilling to discuss the day. The miners agreed to keep watch and slept outside on cots. Nothing disturbed their sleep.
In the morning, everyone dallied while Tony rearranged the jumbled load on the cat under cover of the hangar. The man disliked disorder. Since gear and provisions had been thrown aboard helter-skelter, he repacked everything, securing all for extended travel. Reloading lasted beyond noon, so moving on was postponed until morning.
That evening, Jack learned the Old Glenn Highway had its own bridge across the Knick River. Pappy was certain that road would be blocked by a rock slide.
“Pappy, beginning with Nome, nothing on this trek has turned out as you expected,” said Jack. “Whether you come or not, Tony and I will have a look.”
Finally fit and tidy for travel according to Tony’s critical eye, the band left early. The journey was far longer than anyone anticipated. East from Palmer, the Old Glenn Highway crossed the Matanuska River bridge, meandered south through mudflats and across the Knick River bridge to the edge of Chugach State Park. The highway turned west trapped between the river and Pioneer Peak which rose six thousand feet above the road. In the midst of a high-bank road cut, they found a loose rockslide beginning a thousand feet above, deeply burying the road.
Daredevils had braved the perilous talus slope. A few motorcycles dotted the slopes partially buried in loose rock. Jack stepped tentatively onto the slide, dislodging tons of slowly moving rock barely resting in repose. He leaped back safely. The slide was indisputably unstable.
In spite of its impressive dimensions, Judy looked expectantly at Tony remembering the optimistic assessment of his abilities just the day before.
“Naw,” he said, answering her obvious question. “Wrong machine for the job even if I had a month to do it. No way… just no way.”
Nearing town, everyone heard the sound of a high performance motorcycle overtaking them from behind. Spotting the cat, the biker abruptly slowed, eyeing the machine with its undulating pair of flags. The biker, dressed in brightly colored garb unlike the brutes of Nancy Lake, accelerated and passed them on the shoulder.
Judy and the Captain waved. The man hadn’t appeared threatening. But by way of acknowledgment, the rider extended the infamous rigid finger of insult. The incident was curious and disappointing for everyone on the bridge except Jack, who was always mistrustful of untested people.
Across the Matanuska River Bridge, Tony found a secluded campsite among trees near the riverbank. Their excursion had consumed most of the day. While raising the tent, everyone listened to whining motorcycles approaching via the old highway. Near the bridge, they heard loud voices talking, then cyclists roaring off.
Judy said, “My God, not again!”
“Think they’re looking for us?” asked Tony.
“I think those bikers found their own way around that slide and has nothing to do with us,” said the Captain.
“We should act as if they are! That finger is always a message,” said Jack.
“We should avoid them while we have the chance,” replied Judy.
Pappy had a ready plan, “I’ll take you to an airport hangar I know.”
Soon the cat was sheltered where Pappy usually delivered his floatplane for service. One corner housed an office with windows overlooking the tarmac. The other corners were without windows which Jack found unacceptable for proper defense.
Determined to be better prepared, Jack cut a passage through the sheet metal at the far corner of the building. There he assembled a blind of shipping dunnage until satisfied that he could cover their backside unobserved. As evening approached, he unrolled his sleeping bag outside on a sheet of cardboard adjacent to his hole, grabbed a MRE and retired to his blind. Jack was resolute in his role as defender of his companions.
Seated on new military cots eating salt pork, cold potatoes and onions, Judy broke the silence, “So what’s our next move, guys?”
“Simple,” replied Pappy. “We can’t get to my lodge… or drive south. We’re not going back to Talkeetna and no one likes the cold mountains. So… that leaves remaining here in Palmer or traveling east into the interior… or even into Canada. Palmer has always been a place famous for good farms and good people. We should look for a farm off the beaten path.”
“Then let’s check out farms tomorrow. We need a safe place off the road.”
“I agree with Pappy. If that’s all
there is, I’m headed for the sack,” said Mac.
“What! Without your journal?” asked Pappy.
“On the Road Again isn’t what I wanted to write home about,” Mac replied.
33
South by Southeast. October 18th. On a routine patrol lasting two months, the USS Alaska sailed with seven tons of meat, two thousand dozen eggs, nearly three tons of flour, two tons of potatoes, four tons of fresh vegetables and fruit, five hundred pounds of coffee and four thousand rolls of toilet paper among countless other consumables and canned preserves. But now, one hundred fifty-five hands needed to be kept and fed indefinitely, a truly daunting task without port or tender. Finding unconventional food seemed possible, but acquiring critical supplies, especially replacement parts seemed highly unlikely.
The Chief needed old-fashioned skills for gathering food… deep-sea fishing, whaling, hunting and butchering, and hands knowledgeable in using the natural resources of the north. Their durable food could be extended much longer if they succeeded as hunter-gatherers. Inventorying their remaining antiscorbutic food and vitamins, the chief concluded that just six weeks remained unless they found a natural source of Vitamin C.
When the Chief asked his principal engineering departments to evaluate their limitations, the nuclear technicians were cautiously positive because their service needs were modest if one ignored prescribed maintenance in dry dock.
His weapons team, however, was not optimistic. Their scheduled return to Bangor specified rotation of all missiles and torpedoes and major service of all systems. During the current patrol, they had used every spare module to replace failed electronic systems, and projected that unreliable launch tubes would soon be taken out of service for safety. The Chief understood that with a silent launch command, the boat was already substantially neutralized in its primary mission of deterrent patrol.
Despite crew enthusiasm, the Skipper was reluctant to permit anyone to land on any of the frequented Aleutian Islands. Avoiding all contact precluded hunting parties unless they could be certain no one was about, which they could not. Instead, he directed that they concentrate hunting the sea.
Their course would soon bring them north of the Andreanof Islands. The coastal wilderness area sported excellent fishing grounds and infrequent maritime traffic. These islands were the likely place to begin.
The Chief directed all angling veterans aboard to make fishing gear suitable for halibut. With the help of underwater detection and deep tackle lines, the boat was transformed into a surface fishing vessel in waters only seventy fathoms above the seafloor shelf which was the limit the Skipper would risk the boat. Hovering near the edge of the continental shelf, ready to plunge deeper if needed, seventy fathoms was the maximum depth for catching halibut in their natural habitat of seafloor humps.
The day’s take was modestly successful… four hundred fifty pounds of delectable halibut. After cleaning and filleting the fish, the catch would feed the crew enough protein for only three days. Everyone celebrated the change in diet.
Meanwhile, the crew daily consumed the boat’s rationed supply of staples, preserves and critically short provisions of soap and toilet paper. Dreading the day when they finished the last of those commodities, the crew boiled grated soap flakes to make liquid soap and created thin salt water cloth for paper.
Ultimately surface fishing didn’t provide sufficient protein so gathering such food became imperative. A technical rating, familiar with Inupiaq hunting grounds, recommended following the natural food chain of the north. Native Alaskans understood the best sources of food were whales, seals and salmon.
The Chief canvassed the crew and happily found two men who had family knowledge of whaling. Killing just one gray whale could feed a village for a month or more, and provide all their needed vitamins and protein. Grey whales were already migrating from the Bering and Chukchi seas. The Skipper set a course nearly due west toward Adak negotiating the gaps among the Andreanof and Rat Islands. The Chief began training his crew for unprecedented duty he’d never seen performed. Whaling was going to be a unique experience among bubbleheads.
A host of specialized harpoons, floats, slip cleats, blades and cutting tools was made in the boat’s limited shop and then used in trial runs with a vessel never fitted for such an undertaking.
On their way as they traveled west, they would first try their luck with pinnipeds. They saw countless seals and walruses sunning themselves on bare rock islands and readied themselves. Excursions from the submarine could only be made by divers or with inflatable rafts but launching such craft required lengthy preparation. The pinnipeds didn’t wait.
34
Arctic Circle Wayside, October 18th. Lazlo and Christie rose at dawn to refresh the fire and talk as high clouds gathered.
“I think a storm is coming, Laz. We’re too exposed here with only a tarp for shelter. I think we should move on after all.”
“What about Ernie?”
“When the wind comes up, our open fire won’t provide heat so he’d be nearly as cold as riding on the sled.”
“I can repack the sled suited for Ernie now that I can start from scratch. All the tarps on top will give him good cover. We’ll bring as much firewood as will fit, so we’ll be traveling heavy, no doubt about it.”
“All I can do is fix a hearty breakfast fortifying against the cold,” said Christie.
The activity roused Ernie. Stooped over stiff with pain, he sought his cane for support. Christie gave him a heavy dose of ibuprofen, treated his frost bitten face again, and wrapped him in a sleeping bag while they packed. Snow began falling as they broke camp.
Climbing the highway into progressively deeper snow, the sled trailed clumsily. For the benefit of man and machine, Lazlo slowed his pace. A low sun didn’t warm the air. While the seat warmed his backside, ice crystals streamed over the windscreen sandblasting his face. For Ernie, riding exposed was a miserable experience. During a break to fill canteens, Christie cut eyeholes in her wool cap for Ernie to wear pulled down over his face.
Watching the clouds descend, Christie insisted they halt at Finger Rock Wayside despite poor progress for the day. As they unpacked the sled, the wind increased to a gale. Located on a treeless high plain of alpine tundra, the Wayside was a terrible choice for a weather camp.
Two block privies provided a traveler’s rest stop. They unloaded their gear in one and chose the larger handicapped hut for shelter, huddling on tarp bedding. The room was frigid. A warming fire inside proved impossible as Lazlo choked the tiny space with smoke. Ernie huddled in a corner shivering.
Outside, Christie built a hollow rock cairn against the downwind wall of the hut and lit a hot fire directly against it. Soon, Ernie could sit back and warm himself by the heat conducted through the concrete. The heated wall eventually took the chill off the air inside as well.
Christie heated stew in a cast iron pot immersed in the coals outside. Their rationed supply of fresh water must serve three people until they left the waterless wayside. They dispensed with hot tea for the evening despite its appeal against the cold.
The shrieking wind carried needle shards of ice which penetrated their parkas. Despite Lazlo’s best efforts to screen the cairn with the tilted sled, the wind dissipated heat from the fire. According to Christie’s instructions, Lazlo filled the cairn with chunks of split firewood and banked it with rock and gravel for the night.
Even Puppy, normally oblivious to weather, snuggled against the warming wall and refused to budge. Christie unrolled sleeping bags onto layered tarps to buffer the cold concrete floor. They encouraged Ernie to sleep against the warming wall nestled with Puppy. But with the fire banked, the wall no longer warmed the air inside.
Without heat, morning was forever in arriving. Using the adjacent privy, Lazlo heard the faint tinkling of ice and realized his urine was freezing instantly as it fell
. Returning, he met Christie wrapped in a sleeping bag headed for the same hut. She teased Lazlo about the danger of frostbitten body parts in frigid weather. He thought she sounded remarkably light-hearted after such a rotten night.
Christie spooned out a glowing cavity in the banked fire pit just enough to add wood chips and a small pot filled with hard cheese, berries and morsels of fish. Lazlo watched as she nursed the fire preparing breakfast without disturbing the cavity. Her skillful care put his cave man style to shame.
Christie knelt tending breakfast dressed in heavy fur garments wearing mukluks. She moved with agility and seemed wholly unaffected by cold, wind, or ice. No wonder she had been able to survive that winter storm caught out in the open on the tundra. Christie looked up, caught Lazlo staring and smiled back. “Something on your mind,” she asked?
“I’m marveling at how well you seem adjusted to this awful weather.”
“Not so awful where I grew up. I was taught as a young girl how to live with it.”
“You’re a marvel… no doubt about it.”
“I wouldn’t have survived that avalanche without you, dear Laz.”
“Me either. We’re doing well together.”
“Watch the pot, dear, and bring it in when the cheese bubbles. I’m going to check on Ernie. He should be stirring by now.”
As Lazlo lifted out breakfast, Christie returned and said, “Ernie doesn’t look well at all. He’s shivering and feels feverish to me. It could be aggravated ribs from the rough ride yesterday. We have to get him warm. We need to heat rocks and bring them inside wrapped in canvas for his back.”
“You’re the nurse… what do I know?”
“Dear Laz… I know you’re anxious to be on our way, but Ernie definitely can’t travel today in his condition… it would do him harm. Not even my family would travel in weather like this.”
Flight To Pandemonium Page 32