Hamilton God of the Brooks

1. Auflage 2018
ISBN: 978-1-5439-2587-6
Verlag: BookBaby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: PC/MAC/eReader/Tablet/DL/kein Kopierschutz

E-Book, Englisch, 184 Seiten

Alaska is beautiful and full of wonder, but for those unaccustomed to surviving in the frozen tundra, the Land of the Midnight Sun is an early grave. Follow Bruce through adventures across the Alaskan wilderness. Many dangers must be faced and overcome - plane crashes, grizzlies, frostbite - all before a hopeful homecoming can even be prayed for. Along the way, Bruce will rely on his faith and see divine miracles proving that God is in control even in the magnificent landscapes and mountains of Alaska. God of the Brooks is a fictional narrative based on real-life events from the author's life.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Hamilton, Bruce

Leseproben

— 1 — THE CRASH I knew the griz was gonna charge. I’d been bluff-charged by enough bears to know this beast wasn’t bluffing. The breeze, once friendly, had betrayed my presence. As soon as he caught my scent, he emerged from the brush popping his teeth, slobbering profusely and pouncing up and down on his freshly killed moose. As impressive as this display was, I knew that once he pinpointed my location, the real show would begin. Strangely, I was unafraid. Instead, a mixture of anger and guilt swept over me: anger, because just a few weeks ago, my best huntin’ buddy had died on the mountain; and guilt, because I too should’ve died. But I didn’t. And in this moment, it seemed as though the only thing between me and home was this insane animal. Refusing to become bear scat, I lifted my .454 Casull hand cannon. The movement, though slight, gave me away. He spotted the motion, leapt over the moose carcass and came at me full tilt. Even though this animal probably weighed close to a thousand pounds, he came with haste. Grizzlies can outrun the fastest racehorse the first one hundred yards. Every time his front paws hit the tundra he blew—“Shoo!” “Shoo!” “Shoo!” “Shoo!” He sounded like a steam engine locomotive and looked as big. Every jump brought him twenty feet closer, so I had just seconds to aim, exhale, and pull that trigger. If my first shot didn’t count, the moose would be his entrée. I’d be his dessert. I’ve heard it said that when someone’s about to die, his entire life flashes before him. Well, I got cheated because all I saw was the last three weeks. The adventure began on a September Monday morning in my hometown of Fairbanks, Alaska. We loaded our food and gear into Les’s Cessna 185, and while taxiing the plane to the south end of the runway, Les called FAA weather. The report crackled in our headphones: “Brooks Range: scattered clouds, ceiling—8,000 feet, visibility—2 miles, winds—west/northwest at 10 knots, possible showers mixed with snow, possible IFR conditions by tomorrow.” “Let’s get while the gettin’s good,” Les said with his usual chuckle. Then he pushed the throttle, and we were airborne. We headed north, looking down on the campus of the University of Alaska-Fairbanks. Turning slightly west, we were soon flying over Minto Flats. Seeing the many sloughs and lakes below brought to mind my first fishing adventure in Alaska. I was just a boy, nine years old. My dad had hired a floatplane operator to put us on one of the hottest fishing lakes in the interior. A day later we had so many giant northern pike that the pilot complained about possibly exceeding the maximum weight limits of his plane. As a boy, I had no clue what he was talking about, nor did I care. I was wide-eyed all the way home. I’d never seen so many huge fish. “That’s a great memory,” I whispered, smiling. About thirty minutes later, the mighty Yukon River came into view. More hunting and fishing memories came to mind. I had hunted this famous drainage so often that it felt as if I was surveying my own backyard. The Yukon River divides Alaska completely in half, flowing northwest out of Canada and then west across Alaska. It looked big, even from four thousand feet. The fall colors were astounding. The golden leaves of the paper birch contrasted with the dark green spruce. The tiny but countless blueberry bushes added a breathtaking splash of red for miles around. Occasionally, the landscape was punctuated by on old mining cabin, a homestead, or a native village. This was familiar territory. These were the things I was used to. This was my comfort zone. I felt blessed to have lived in this great state for over forty years. Les and I had anticipated good flying weather all the way through the Brooks Range. As was our habit, we checked in with the weatherman again upon landing at Cold Foot. Cold Foot is the northern-most truck stop in the world, located at milepost 275 of the Dalton Highway. Because it was about the halfway point to our hunting area and because it had a nice airstrip, it had become our traditional refueling stop over the years. Of course, it didn’t hurt a bit that they served up some great food in their café. We made it a point to be there by noon. The forecast we had been given before leaving Fairbanks held true and had even improved a bit by the time we finished lunch at Cold Foot. The flight thus far had been exceptionally beautiful, and we were looking forward to getting airborne again. If only we had known that things were about to change— dramatically! Our desire was to hunt the Killik and Colville Rivers, north of the Brooks Range. To access these game-rich drainages, we had decided to take a different route and, by so doing, scout new territory. Our plan was to fly about a thousand feet “off the deck” of the Alatna River, as Les put it, all the way through the pass, then on to the Killik and Colville. By the time we got to the Brooks Range, however, the weather conditions had deteriorated. Soon the red and white Cessna was being tossed around like a mosquito in a hurricane. Les made another of his famous statements: “The weather man lied again.” Only this time, he didn’t chuckle. We decided to climb our way out of the storm. I glanced at the altimeter and noticed that we were steadily gaining altitude. Ice pelted the aircraft. Massive clouds surrounded us. Visibility quickly diminished. Les and I had flown through tough conditions before, but never like this. Several tense minutes went by, and then we saw what appeared to be blue skies in the pass ahead. We even got a brief glimpse of sunlight. However, like bears being drawn to deadly bait, we were only lured deeper into the storm. About the time we thought it couldn’t get any worse, it did. I expressed my fears, and Les quickly nodded his head in agreement. We were at eight thousand feet and climbing. Nervously, I watched ice forming on the edges of the wings. I knew this could get deadly if the weight of the ice became more than the Cessna could handle. I worried even more when Les, with wrinkled brow, kept looking out his side window and mumbling under his breath. I’m sure he was calculating … and praying. Then, as if on cue, the plane began shaking. One look at Les’s face and I was scared enough to pray—out loud. He wasn’t a man of fear, but fear is what I saw. I knew just enough to understand what was wrong. The weight of the ice had started to exceed the limits of the aircraft. Suddenly, it banked sharply to the left. “Are we turning around?” I shouted above the noise of the storm and engine. “No!” he shouted in reply. “I’m going to circle upward and try to get above this mess!” He immediately reached for the throttle. I could tell the 185 was losing power. In response, Les gave her all she had. With strained voice he cried, “Lord, I need you now!” We were completely helpless, at the mercy of God and the storm. Then, out of nowhere, a plateau appeared in front of us. It was littered with boulders and was, at best, two hundred feet long. Les quickly cut the power and lowered the flaps. We hit—hard! That was the last thing I remember until I heard someone moaning. It was me. I was trying to say “cold,” but my mouth could not form the word. My body was wracked with pain. I was in and out of consciousness. For how long, I do not know. All was dark when I next awoke. This time, I gained just enough consciousness to realize that Les was dead. Though I could not see him, I sensed it. I could hear death in the silence. There was no breathing, no moaning, and no movement from the pilot’s side of the plane-just darkness … and silence … and cold. My thoughts were disjointed: “Why aren’t we … why no … heat … no flying?” I struggled to think in sentences. “Thirsty … my leg … my head … the pain … thirsty … somebody help …” I was hanging nearly upside down. The aircraft must’ve flipped upon hitting the rocks. I struggled to release the seat belt. Half falling, half rolling towards Les, I felt his claylike, lifeless body underneath. He was already stiffening. In the darkness, I struggled and pushed my way through our gear and the mangled fuselage. Pain shot up and down my left leg. I screamed. The involuntary, raspy noise startled me. As consciousness increased, so did the pain, this time, in my abdomen and head. I could tell my nose was broken. My face was caked with blood. I could hardly open my mouth or breathe. More broken sentences punctuated my brain: “Thirsty … dry … throat … dry … so cold … oh … the pain!” When I next regained consciousness, it was daylight. Shivering severely, I longed for warmth. If the injuries sustained in the crash didn’t kill me, hypothermia would. I knew very well the dangers of hypothermia; after all, more outdoorsmen in Alaska meet their demise as a result of severe body heat loss than from any other cause. Yet, ironically, the cold had probably saved my life by slowing the loss of blood. I forced my way further into the back of the wreckage, found a military mummy bag and crawled...