For What He Could Become Read online

  Bill. We got some food together for

  you because we know by now

  you’re tired of chicken. But just in

  case you aren’t, Major Russell is

  sending some more. Hope you and

  the dogs are doing well. We pray

  for you three times a day and are

  waiting for the radio to tell us where

  you are. All the best,

  Ilene, Carolee, Maj. Russell

  Bill smiled, stuck a piece of smoked salmon in his mouth like a cigar, and nodded to Morris.

  “Thanks. I’m going to feed the dogs and get back on the trail.”

  He clumped down the steps to the sled, gave each dog a ball from the DOG sack, and went back to Morris’s cabin.

  “Jerry, who was the last musher through here?”

  “Roger Stanley. He’s ahead of you maybe three hours.”

  “How far to the next checkpoint?”

  “Rohn? About seventy miles. If it was nice and smooth like what you came over it wouldn’t be too bad, but you’re headed for Ptarmigan Pass. Then through Hell’s Gate and up the Kuskokwim. Those are some of the roughest places on this trail.”

  Bill nodded. “Any weather coming?”

  Jerry tapped the barometer twice with his fingertip and turned the center dial. “It’s reading 29.4 right now. That’s not good. Down a little from this morning.”

  Bill thought back to his army training. “What would a good storm read?”

  “Oh, going down any further than twenty-nine would be a problem this time of the year.”

  Bill figured he’d try and beat the weather to Rohn.

  Jerry stepped out on the porch as the team trotted by. “Be careful at Happy River,” he said. “It’s a steep trail down.”

  Bill waved. How bad could a place be called Happy River? The snow machines and the other dog teams had left a hard-packed trail, a virtual highway for him to follow. Being last had its advantages.

  Rusty broke into a lope, and Napoleon moved with him. The rest of the team got into the act and the sled moved fast through the buried trail. Here and there tops of spruce trees stuck out, and he guessed the snow depth at more than four feet. It got deeper, and he could see places where teams had hauled off the trail, an occasional hole where a musher had stepped in up to his chest.

  After an hour they started off the top, following the steep trail down the side of the bluff to Happy River. He could only see edges of the trail carved out of the snow—where it went beyond that would be a discovery for the lead dogs. They picked up speed, and as the sled crested the hill he spotted the dogs below him heading straight downhill. He slammed his left foot on the brake and threw his weight to the right runner, forcing it into the snow.

  “Whoa! Whoa!”

  He yelled until they reached the bottom. His left pant leg was full of snow packed in by the brake. When they hit the bottom he pushed the brake with every ounce of his strength. It held, and he jammed the hook in with his foot.

  “Whoa!” He jumped off and ran to the front of the team.

  Four dogs hung by their harnesses over a cliff a thousand feet above Happy River. Their feet just touched the side of the cliff on each swing, but there was no purchase for them.

  He took the tow line with both hands, but it slipped through his mittens. He shook off the mittens, pulled the gloves off with his teeth, and wrapped his bare hands around the line.

  “Rusty! Napoleon! Here, boy—here, boy!”

  He pulled hard on the two hundred pounds of dead weight. The dogs’ back feet touched the wall of the canyon on each swing, and during that brief moment they sunk their toenails in. He had the tow line stretched over his shoulder; each time they touched, he pulled and they gained a foot. He called again and they got all four feet into the side of the cliff and strained, their shoulder muscles flexed like racehorses.

  He slid the tow line over his shoulder and took up the slack. His strength alone was holding them up. It was like a tug-of-war with a swinging bag of lead. One dog showed his head above the edge, front paws dug into the snow, toes spread wide, curved toenails gaining inches at a time. The swing dogs were up.

  He went further down the tow line and wrapped it over his hands and wrists. He called and pulled. Rusty and Napoleon rose up over the edge, and he fell backwards. He lay there a moment, then sat up, pulled on his mittens and gloves, and slapped his hands on his knee over and over again. From where he sat the view over Happy River was stunning. He grabbed Napoleon and hugged him.

  “Let me know next time you’re going to do a high dive.”

  He could see Rainy Pass Lodge several miles before they reached it, and he had already picked out a place to rest and feed the team. The darkness came on them while they were driving in. All through the feeding process the light had dimmed so that he didn’t notice how dark it was until he started looking for his food. He craned his neck up and gazed at the stars. They were going to spend the night here. That changed the whole picture. He ate a few bites, then took the axe and began looking for spruce boughs for dog beds.

  Every swing of the axe hurt. He cut eight armloads of boughs, snow-shoeing back and forth. Most of the dogs had lain down on the snow, and he had to get them up to put the boughs under them. He wondered if it was worth it.

  He sat on the edge of the sled and ate the warmed-up beaver tail so rich in flavor and tallow, something that would stay with him, and then he stopped chewing. His eyes closed and his head dropped to his chest. The beaver tail didn’t make a sound when it slid into the snow.

  How long he slept there, Bill didn’t know. What he did know is that his hands and face were numb. He tried three times to pick up the beaver tail melted down into the snow, but his fingers were so stiff and unfeeling that he gave it up and stood.

  With the darkness had come a slight wind from the northwest over Rainy Pass. He stamped his feet. They were stiff but still responded. He did some knee bends, twists, squats, then put mittens on over the gloves and wrapped a scarf around his face, leaving just his eyes open. He cupped his hands and blew his breath into them to melt his frozen eyelashes.

  Why had he ever agreed to do this?

  He lay down on the sled and did pushups. He smiled at the thought that he was doing calisthenics when he and Wayne had done everything possible to avoid them while he was in the army.

  He worked the big muscles that gave off more heat. When he was done, he considered building a fire or crawling into the sleeping bag. The bag won. Just before he zipped the outer cover he glanced at the dogs, each wrapped in a ball, their faces tucked under their tails. They would get more sleep than he would this night.

  A smacking sound awakened him. He peered through the sleeping bag opening. One of the dogs was eating something close to the sled, pulling the last piece from the snow and tilting his head to get it into his mouth. It looked like beaver tail to Bill. The other dogs were watching him eat but none were challenging him for it.

  Back to chicken. He wondered what time it was. The stars had moved—he’d probably slept five or six hours. Weather looked good. The quicker they got to McGrath the quicker he could get out of this race and get his life settled down again.

  Settled down to what? What is there in my life that’s settled? What’s good about it?

  He hadn’t thought about his life since he got fired from the hotel job. Well, that wasn’t quite true. He had thought about whether he had a life at all. He wanted to stay numb most of the time so life wouldn’t interfere with him. He couldn’t think of any plans he had. He knew where to go when he was cold, when he was hungry, and where to get enough for a bottle. And clothes…they gave him clothes at several places. There was some satisfaction in knowing he had learned the street lessons George taught him. He wasn’t dead, like Wayne. Old Wayne, who had dodged more bullets coming out of the Snow Eifel than you could shake a stick at, dying in an easy chair.

  Unlike him, Carl had had trappings: house, wife, dogs, truck, gold.
No kids, though. Wonder why he and Ilene never had any kids?

  What does Ilene want out of me? Why did she pick me to run this team? She could have found someone else. I just want to get to McGrath, buy a drink – my God – I don’t have any money! He thought a moment. I’ll sell something. A dog or something. I’ll need a drink when I get there. Matter of fact I need one now.

  He worked his way out of the sleeping bag and threw each dog a ball. He hesitated when he came to the dog that had eaten his beaver tail. The name on the collar read Ned.

  “Ned is a dog’s name?” he said.

  The dog looked him in the eyes.

  “You full of my beaver tail?” The dog looked from Bill’s eyes to his hand holding the meatball.

  “I’ll expect a lot of you today. You get me to McGrath, I’ll let you have beaver and meatballs too.” He threw Ned the ball.

  He checked his supplies, repacked the sled, and hitched the dogs, giving each one a pat and a rubdown. He stepped on the sled runners.

  “Hyaaa!”

  The front teams had marked the trail, and that kept Rusty and Napoleon sniffing the tracks when they turned down into Hell’s Gate. As they neared the pass, a flock of Ptarmigan erupted into the air and the team burst forward. Each dog thought he had a bird for sure and leapt at it, snapping his jaws in the empty air.

  The sled shot out from under Bill and left him hanging by his arms from the drive bow, his body trolling behind like a rudder. The birds crossed the trail, gaining altitude toward the pass, then the lead dogs made a sharp right turn after them and buried themselves in soft snow up to their necks.

  In an instant it was quiet. The birds were out of sight and the dogs, tongues dripping saliva over their jaws, tails wagging, looked back at Bill with innocent eyes. Wasn’t that fun, boss? Wasn’t that a blast? He laughed for the first time in years. Then he cried.

  He was alive. A vitality coursed through his body, alone in the high country with a view from horizon to horizon. He had traveled far enough that morning to forget his pains, and his head felt like it belonged to him again. The sharp air purged old habits. The tears came quickly and at first he was ashamed, his head bowed. Then he lifted his head to the bitter chilled sky and let the tears run down his checks.

  The dogs left standing chest-deep in the snow seemed to be figuring a way out, as if just standing there letting their feet ball up didn’t make sense to them. They stamped their feet and yelped. Bill did not respond.

  The tears stopped and he took a deep breath. At that moment the sun broke the horizon and he turned his face to it. The sun is warmth, the sun is life. You who made the sun and the heavens and earth—help me.

  Napoleon yelped. Bill looked at him.

  Crazy dogs. You stick us in the snow, then holler about it.

  He pulled the sled back onto the trail and set the snow hook.

  The rest invigorated the team, and they headed down toward Hell’s Gate with enthusiasm. The southwesterly wind blowing on top kept the snow from piling; Rusty drove right into the wind but Napoleon turned his face from it. On bare ground Bill got off the runners and jogged to lighten the load. The team picked up the pace, and within fifty yards Bill was running like he did in high school. But he couldn’t keep it up at 3,200 feet, and he jumped back on the runners, which soon slowed the sled down. He got off and ran again.

  In daylight it was simple to see the entry into Hell’s Gate. The team turned along the trail, which began to serpentine, and Bill could only see his leaders occasionally since they were around a corner before the sled got to it. The river bank was high, and previous crashes were very visible.

  Rusty and Napoleon disappeared, and the other dogs followed two by two until the sled zinged over the bank. Bill’s heart seemed to jump out of his chest and into his mouth. He stopped breathing and clutched the drive bow as the wheel dogs and the sled became airborne. In that fraction of a second in the air he could see the drop was only ten feet.

  “Hell’s fire—we’re gonna live through this.”

  He was being pulled down the trail at maybe fourteen miles an hour. There was no time to think. The lead dogs were making most of the decisions, but somebody had to stand on the runners, steady the sled, and stop it if he could.

  Ahead he could see parts of trees, blow downs, and sweepers, frozen and sticking up through the snow and ice. They could tear a sled up or impale a dog. He slowed the team down.

  “Whoa!”

  The leaders slowed from a trot to a walk. Where the canyon narrowed, Bill heard the gurgle of open water just as the leaders hopped over a tree and disappeared. He got off the sled and pushed it over the tree. It smacked into the team, bunched up in front of a crevasse. Each group of two dogs jumped across as they came to it, and finally with all sixteen dogs on the other side, the sled was pulled toward the crack.

  Bill jumped off, grabbed a stanchion, and heaved with all his strength to throw the front of the sled over the crevasse. But the brush bow tipped down, caught the ice, and the sled dived into the water. The tow line slid along the face of the ice until it jammed into a crack, stopping the team as if it had hit a stone wall.

  He braced his feet and pushed back on the sled. It didn’t move, but his feet slipped and he slid into the water up to his knees. He scrambled out of the water and jammed the snow hook into a crack in the ice. He took the axe out of the bag, jumped the crevasse, and tied the snub line to a blow down. By the time he sat down at the water’s edge to chop the tow line, his legs were numb.

  One clean swing of the axe and the tow line separated, but the sled didn’t move. It was caught under the slab of ice. Under the tilted-up back of the sled he chopped two pockets in the ice for his feet, then got under the sled and lifted. The moment the bow scraped free, the sled came down on him. The 200 pounds of sled and gear squeezed him against the ice—then he reached a stanchion and pulled on it. The sled moved a few inches. He tried to get his toes to work, to push him out, but he had no feeling in them. On the next pull he reached the brake. He stopped for breath. Two more pulls, and he was out.

  He pushed the sled to the other side of the crevasse, took off his mittens, tied the tow line to the bridle with a double halfhitch and yanked it twice. It would have to hold. With numb hands he gave each leader a pat and rubbed all the dogs on the neck while he untied the snub line.

  “You’re good dogs—just don’t know the sled can’t jump.”

  He stood up straight and stretched his back. It was sore but nothing that getting to McGrath wouldn’t cure. He couldn’t feel his feet. From the map it was maybe five miles through Hell’s Gate, and he looked to see how much daylight he had left. He would have to build a fire and thaw out. The camp would start here.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  There was no light except for the stars when Bill awoke. He studied the sky for a minute from the warmth of his sleeping bag, then decided it was close enough to the new day to get started. The fire had burned out, and while he chugged around gathering up firewood the dogs opened an eye or two but none of them got up.

  The feeling had come back into his feet, but from there up every joint, every muscle, was sore, and his skin felt like it was scraped raw.

  A little coffee and food and he’d be okay. Dogs seem subdued today.

  He cooked a double batch of dog food and stood over the dogs while they drank their water. Then he sat on the sled and dawdled with a breakfast of coffee, dried blueberries, and frozen chicken, reluctant to get started. The horizon was beginning to lighten as he pitched the coffee grounds over the windbreak and got the outfit ready.

  The ache in his stomach muscles from hauling, lifting, and pushing the sled yesterday had him feeling dragged out. The dogs were moving but not making great time, the wind in the Kusko canyon partly to blame. It was 10:00 by the time the team pulled into the Rohn Roadhouse. He tied the team off, threw them a snack, watered them, and tried to stand up straight. When he got what he thought was straight he put his arms out like a scare
crow.

  Another musher walked over, limping. “Hi, I’m Randy Duncan.”

  “Hello. Bill Williams.”

  “How did it go through Hells’ Gate?” Randy asked.

  “I see how they named it.”

  “Yeah. Crippled up a couple of my dogs. And me,” he added.

  “You hurt bad?” Bill asked.

  “No. Stove up. Don’t think anything’s busted. How your dogs doing?”

  “They seemed lazy coming up the river,” Bill said. “They worked hard yesterday, though.”

  Randy put his hands on the small of his back and stretched back.

  “I don’t know. I’m thinking of scratching. The lead teams are in Nikolai and McGrath already, and here I am stove up and two dogs hurt.”

  “I’d like to at least get to McGrath,” Bill said.

  “Me too. But I think I’ll scratch here. I can’t see any reason to keep on pounding down this trail.”

  Bill rubbed his eyes. The windburn had made them sensitive.

  “Your eyes hurt?” Randy asked.

  “Yeah. The wind, I think.”

  “Don’t you have any sunglasses?”

  “I didn’t pack my bag,” Bill said, “but I didn’t see any.”

  “Boy, you’ll need them to get to McGrath. Across that Farewell the wind blows a hundred miles an hour, they tell me.”

  Randy limped back to the water hole. Bill sat down on the sled and felt the ache going through each section of his body. He could go back with Randy, the two of them together. That would make a load for a bigger plane, and they could all get back to town today or tomorrow. To hell with McGrath, he could be in Anchorage in half a day.

  No. He stood up and headed for the checkpoint. The checker, whose introduced himself as Mike, pushed a clipboard at Bill and handed him a pencil. “You’re the last signature I need.”

  Bill took the pencil, but his hand was stiff and he shook it at his side. He looked up at Mike and smiled.