by Will Hobbs
The rain broke loose just before midnight. The layers of live spruce branches above me did a good enough job as a roof. My life jacket shed the drips that found their way through, and the grove knocked the wind down. Lacking rain gear, I was thankful for my thermal underwear, my tight-weave trousers, and my long-sleeved, long-tailed shirt of synthetic fleece.
I kept thinking about Ryan, wondering how he was doing. Was he taking shelter or still searching for the raft? He’d better watch his step. Break a leg, and we would be even worse off. What about his pepper spray and bear bangers? I couldn’t remember seeing them on his hip. Had he lost them under the ice?
I slept in fits. Morning came dark and dreary. During a break in the weather I went to the river. It was running huge, nothing like the river we had started on. I wasn’t surprised. Our ground can’t absorb much rain. A few feet below the surface it’s permafrost, frozen year-round.
Ryan had talked about swimming across to my side, but that wouldn’t be possible anytime soon. The rain was moving in again. I hustled back to the trees.
Twelve hours after it had started, the deluge stopped for good. The sun came out, and so did the mosquitoes. I went to the river and caked my face and neck with mud.
To my surprise, Ryan emerged from the trees on the other side. He looked awful, all scratched up. As for bear protection, he didn’t have any. Both of us had lost our pepper spray off our belts when we went under the ice. He’d also been stripped of his bear banger pouch. Mine was packed away on the boat.
“DIDN’T FIND THE RAFT,” my brother roared over the raging river.
“WHAT IF IT GOES ALL THE WAY TO THE OCEAN?” I hollered.
“IT’LL GET CAUGHT ON A ROCK! LET’S GO FIND IT! TRY TO STAY IN SIGHT OF EACH OTHER!”
“GOT IT!” I yelled back. He was right, there was nothing to be gained from staying put—everything we needed was on the raft. But what were our chances of catching up with it?
The mosquitoes were bad. Ryan took his bug juice out of his pocket and dabbed some on. I took my gloves off and knelt to rub more mud on my face, neck, and scalp.
We started walking. On my side of the river—the eastern side, the right-hand side as we headed north to the sea—the going was fairly easy for the time being. The terrain was much rougher on Ryan’s side, with steep slopes crowding the shore. With no trails it was slow going, especially for him.
The mosquitoes were getting to my eyelids, where I had no mud. Their high-pitched whine was making me crazy. In Aklavik we spend most of June indoors. Then we head for the windy coast, as much to get away from bugs as for the fishing and whaling.
Here and now, the coast was eighty miles away.
Come midnight, the low-hanging sun was blocked by a mountain but gave plenty of daylight. When it rose over a ridge around 2:00 a.m. we were still trudging downriver. The Firth wasn’t brimful like before but was running way too high and fast for Ryan to swim across.
Less than forty-eight hours since we’d eaten, I already felt like I was starving. I thought of my ancestors—their legendary endurance during times of starvation—but couldn’t convince my stomach to stop whining. I thought about throwing rocks at the ground squirrels standing sentry at their burrows. Sik-sik, we call them, after the sound they make. From experience I knew that my chances of nailing one were worse than poor.
I came upon the site of a bear dig where a grizzly had bulldozed the ground-hugging tundra vegetation with its enormous claws and massive forelimbs. The excavation was eight feet across and a couple deep. That grizzly was a picky eater. The bear had left behind the heads of five ground squirrels, eyes open with terror. The sight made me lose my appetite for sik-sik.
Some places I came to, the valley floor was riddled with clumps of tussock grass. Afraid I’d break an ankle, I picked my way carefully among the hummocks. As much as possible, I walked the riverbank so my brother and I could keep an eye on each other. Whenever I lost track of him, I stayed put. Soon as he located me, it was time to start walking again.
Around 8:00 a.m. I came to a side stream with a pool deep as my chest. It was holding a few char, five-pounders or so. Too bad I had no way to fish them out.
I needed to find a shallow place to wade this creek. I turned upstream and immediately ran into grizzly tracks in a mud patch among the man-high willows. My hackles went up and I backed away from the bushes, keeping to the tundra. Across the river, Ryan had caught sight of my detour and was waiting for me to ford the creek.
Twenty yards upstream, the creek ran in two channels around a gravel island. The narrow channel on my side of the island was the shallower of the two. I was about to start wading when I spotted a big char holding in shin-deep water under the bank. At the head of the channel, the water ran only ankle deep. I got an idea.
With a rush, I jumped into the channel just below the fish. The char darted upstream and I gave chase. Where the water got too shallow, the big fish turned and darted back in my direction. It was going to run past me or between my legs unless I did something fast. I threw my body down, flat out across the channel. The fish headed back upstream.
I got up and ran after it. This time the char tried to force its way through the ankle-deep water at the head of the channel. I leaped on it and pinned it with my forearm, then bashed its head with a rock.
I held up that silvery char for my brother to see. Ryan got all excited and yelled, “BRAVO, LITTLE BROTHER!” from across the river. I kind of liked him calling me that.
I took out my hunting knife and cut a filet from either side of the backbone. The red flesh was absolutely delicious. It was a shame big brother missed out.
We kept going. I felt stronger even though I was still bleary from exhaustion. By noon the upper valley of the Firth was pinching to a close with mountain slopes crowding both sides of the river.
After a bit we reached a spot where it got rougher yet. On Ryan’s side, a cliff rose hundreds of feet out of the river. Ryan yelled that he was going to have to climb above and around. It was up to me to search this stretch of the river for the raft. I should wait for him at the first place where it looked like he could get back to the river.
I watched Ryan climb up the edge of a rockslide until he disappeared in the trees up above the cliff. Queasy with him gone again, I headed downriver, keeping my eye out for the raft. The terrain on my side of the Firth was getting rough, and I had to struggle to get a visual on every stretch of water. The stakes were life-and-death. There was food on the boat, not to mention the satellite phone and bear protection.
It was maddening to try to figure out where Ryan could get back to the river. It continued to be way rough and steep on his side. I kept going on mine. At two in the afternoon the sun was blazing. I was overheating but didn’t shed my life jacket, tempted as I was to carry it in my hand. It would help protect my vitals if I got mauled by a bear.
I was falling-down weary but kept putting one foot in front of the other. My throat was so dry I could barely muster saliva. I realized I was getting dehydrated, which was stupid with water so close at hand. I worked my way down to the river, looking upstream and down for the easiest place to drink. Upstream the bank was choked with chest-high willows. Downstream the willows thinned out.
I turned downstream toward an open spot on the shore where a rock slab angled gently into the water—a perfect place to get a drink and even to lie down and get a little rest.
As I approached the slab, I caught the scent of decay. That wasn’t good. I froze in my tracks and looked down the shore. Not thirty feet away, a massive, humped bear was lying asleep beside the bloody, half-eaten carcass of a bull caribou.
In a heartbeat, I knew I was in a deadly predicament. Without taking a breath, I looked over my left shoulder to make certain of my escape route.
Before I made my move, I looked back at the bear.
Too late. The grizzly was awake and staring right at me. The bear erupted in a full-throated roar. In an instant, it was on its feet, charging me wi
th terrifying speed.
You don’t run from a charging grizzly, but this was no bluff charge. This bear was protecting a carcass and out of its mind with rage. I took one, two steps. Another instant and the bear would be on me. I had only one chance, one way of escape. I leaped into the river.
11
A GAUNTLET OF GRIZZLIES
Once more I found myself in the ice-cold river. The shock hit me like ten thousand volts. Floating on my back, I swept with my arms to get away from the shore. Over my shoulder I saw the bear rushing into the river after me. I got on my belly and swam hard, arm over arm.
When I reached the main current, and was taken by its power and speed, I flipped onto my back again with my legs pointed downstream. The bear had given up the chase. It was already climbing ashore next to the carcass.
I knew I should try to haul out on the opposite shore, but the river was too swift along the west bank, the shoreline too rugged.
I let myself get swept farther away from that bear. Ahead, the river was dividing into two channels around an island of gravel. The tip of that island might be my last chance to escape the cold that was squeezing the life out of me.
The current was fast, and the island was nearing. I let the life jacket buoy me along, saving what strength the cold hadn’t already sapped. Halfway to the head of the island I saw antlers and carcasses in the shallows there—two more bull caribou. There were ravens on them, but no bears as far as I could tell.
I couldn’t afford to miss my chance at the island. I swam with everything I had left to break out of the current. I managed to escape it—just barely—and struggled into the shallows on my hands and knees. The dead caribou, I noticed dully, were bloated. Then I smelled them. The ravens took a few hops and flew away.
Try as I might, I couldn’t muster the strength to stand up. I crawled out of the shallows and onto the dry gravel, heaving for breath. When I sat up, motion on the eastern shore caught my eye: a grizzly feeding on a bull caribou. I was all confused. Was this the same grizzly that charged me before?
No, the answer came finally. Same side of the river, different caribou, different grizzly.
Suddenly the bear became aware of me and stood up tall to get a better look. Its ears went erect. The big brown bear huffed at me two, three times, then swayed back and forth and clacked its jaws. I stayed down in hopes I wouldn’t appear as a threat.
With a ferocious growl, the grizzly went back onto all fours. It was no more than a hundred feet away, and could swim the channel between us in no time. Froze up as I was, I should have been running up and down that island, trying to get my circulation going, but that would provoke a charge. I should have been taking off my clothes and wringing them out. I couldn’t chance that either.
The bear went back to rending flesh and feeding on its prize. Like a dog over a bone, it paused frequently to growl at me.
The big brownie didn’t seem aware that another grizzly was coming down the bank to the river. This one was big too, and battle-scarred around the shoulders. The new bear stopped to survey the situation and smell the air, then lumbered on down.
Soon as the intruder reached the riverside, the bear on the carcass rushed it. The two rose and came at each other, roaring horribly. They met standing upright in a fury of claws and teeth.
The battle raged on, up and down the shore. Both were eight feet tall and massive, but the newcomer was more aggressive and able to draw more blood. The grizzly that had been there first finally backed away from the carcass.
After skulking for a few minutes, and feinting as if it was going to rejoin the battle, the defeated bear turned its attention to the island and the two carcasses right next to me. It waded into the river and began to swim, heading my way.
I lurched to my feet. As the grizzly came ashore, I was wading into the far channel. I plunged headfirst into deep water and let the river take me again. The current swept me past the foot of the island and into the powerful water where the channels around the island became one again. I was in a panic to get out of the river but didn’t see a place where I could. Down a long straightaway, I floated past eight more grizzlies on carcasses—both sides of the river—including a mother grizzly and two small cubs.
The racing river swept me around another bend. Dozens more drowned caribou appeared, all bulls, none with bears on them. Their eyes were missing, pecked out by the birds.
A gravel bar appeared ahead, on the left side, my last chance. As poorly as my limbs were responding, I didn’t think I could get there, but I had to try. The fast water alongside the gravel bar swept me halfway down its length in a frightening hurry. I swam with one last effort, out of the current and into the slowing water at the foot of the gravel bar. In knee-deep water I struggled to stand, stumbled onto dry land, and collapsed.
I was content to lie there. I wasn’t shaking, and the cold wasn’t painful anymore.
Something was bothering my rest. Never say die, I heard a voice saying. The voice was my own. Then I knew. If I didn’t get up now, I never would.
I tried to rise and fell down. I tried again, staggered to my feet, and lurched into motion. I had to keep moving or I had no chance. Up and down the gravel bar I stumbled, falling down and getting up and throwing my arms back and forth, stamping my feet, slapping my sides and my legs with my frozen hands. I had to keep my heart pumping.
It would be warmer, I thought, if I could get away from the ice-cold river at least a little. I crawled up the riverbank and onto a carpet of tundra. I had been in the water longer than the first time when I was under the ice. I couldn’t have started a fire even if I had trees within reach, which I didn’t. With my frozen fingers, stiff as claws, it was all I could manage to get my life jacket and sopping-wet clothes off.
I was in for a bloodletting. There was only a breath of wind, not enough to keep the mosquitoes down. I hurled myself into a frenzy, jogging in place and slapping the circulation back into my limbs as I swatted mosquitoes. I couldn’t take this anymore.
I stifled the urge to scream. The sound of my voice, full of fear, might bring the bears.
Soon as I’d wrung as much water as I could from my clothes, I put those long sleeves and trousers back on. The mosquitoes came at my face. Lying down on a slab of rock facing the sun with my life jacket under my head and draped over my face, I gave up. I’d done what I could do. I was going to recover or not.
Like a ground squirrel coming out of stone-cold hibernation, I came gradually back to life. It was the heat of that scorching midsummer day that revived me. All done in, bears or no bears, I fell asleep on that slab of rock.
It must have been the cooling air that woke me. My clothes were dry. I was in the shade and the daylight had dimmed. My watch said 11:00 p.m.
I sat up feeling exposed, all out in the open like I was. I looked to my right and saw nothing. To my left, no more than thirty feet away, an enormous white wolf was rising to its feet. The wolf had been lying there watching me for who knows how long. Now it was sizing me up.
My hand went to my hip. On second thought I didn’t draw my hunting knife. I might provoke the animal. There was nothing threatening about the wolf’s body language. Behind those staring yellow eyes, its intelligence was obvious.
Many a time Jonah had seen lone wolves take down healthy, adult caribou, even bulls. Our Arctic wolves are that big and powerful. These days, we don’t see them very often. When we’re out on our snowmobile in search of spring bears, we might spot a wolf. I killed one once when I was with Jonah. It ran like the wind soon as it heard us. Neither of us felt proud about running it down, but we didn’t pass up the chance. Their fur makes great ruffs for winter parkas, second-best only to wolverine.
To be this close to this white wolf—standing so tall on its legs, with the wind rustling its fur, its curious eyes still taking me in—kind of shook me to the core. This was the most magnificent animal I had seen in my life. I remembered Jonah saying that nobody knows why they don’t hunt us when they could, l
ike bears do once in a while, especially polar bears. Wolves won’t kill you for the meat on your bones, but they’ll help themselves if they come across your dead body. Why is that?
I trusted that the wolf meant me no harm, and it turned out I was right. I even spoke to the animal, and it perked up its ears and listened. I told the wolf how hungry I was, and how grateful I would be if it would bring me something to eat, only please don’t swallow it first—I wasn’t partial to throw-up. I really did say all of that and more. I was half out of my mind. It kept me calm, and the wolf seemed to find it of interest.
The wolf decided it had seen enough of me. It turned and trotted off. When it turned and looked at me again, I called, “Thanks for not ripping my throat out.” The wolf trotted away, this time without looking back.
On the spot I decided I would never shoot another wolf.
12
YOU HAVE TO BE PATIENT
In the wake of the wolf, I went to the edge of that shelf of tundra above the river and took a look down. The river was back down to what it had been before the big rainstorm. The deluge that drowned all those caribou had flushed on through. They should have waited before trying to cross. Like Jonah always said, they’re great swimmers but don’t always make good choices.
And now I found myself on Ryan’s side of the river, the western side. I tilted my head back and scanned the slopes above, treeless here. He wasn’t up there. Ryan had said to look for him at the first obvious place for him to get down. This wasn’t it—far too steep and rugged. I had to go farther downstream to find the place where he would come back to the river.