Into the Cold

Caleb Dulac loved living in the Brooke’s Mountains of the Alaskan bush. Their majestic snow capped peaks, the lines of the world softened by foot after foot of white beauty, and the blessed silence.

With that deep and abiding love came an understanding that when things went wrong they went really wrong, and he had no one to turn to for help. Spending eleven and a half months in the wild meant that the only things between him and certain death were his wits and being prepared.

He’d begun his day as usual, checking and oiling his traps to prepare them for the upcoming winter season and that he had enough bait for each of the animals he was seeking, checking to make sure his storage shed was animal proof, and that his dehydrated tanning supplies were placed well off the ground where they might get contaminated, just his normal day to day routine.

The one thing he hadn’t planned on was the blade on his axe cracking in the middle of chopping wood.

Well, shit happened out here and there was only one thing to do. Figure it out.

With only two weeks out of every year spent in Anchorage, Caleb had become efficient in his purchasing of supplies and storing them. He had his main cabin at the lake so he could have ready access to the water and the plane that picked him and his furs up and dropped him and his supplies off twice a year could land. He had five other smaller shacks spaced around this valley, each one he’d recently stocked and readied for hunting.

Thankful that he knew where a ready replacement was, but cursing that he’d only left it there three days ago, Caleb sighed. It was a walk of four miles and three ridges away and would take up the rest of the little sunlight he had left to get there and only about half the way back before darkness would fall over the valley making the trek more dangerous.

He thought about putting the trip off until the next morning, but he already had a list of chores that needed to accomplish then, where he was done for the day except for chopping wood.

Going to his cabin Caleb grabbed his rifle, revolver, and snowshoes. He loaded his sled with a few supplies he needed to move anyway and set out into the half-light of the early Alaskan fall. The unfortunate side of the sunlight getting less and less each day was that the snow was no longer melting, it was just getting deeper and deeper.

The going wasn’t too bad as Caleb broke a trail into the fresh fallen snow. It hadn’t been enough to obliterate his earlier path, but it did add a little more to his estimated time for getting out and back.

If all else failed, the camp he was heading to had been well stocked with supplies that would make it easy to stay the night if he got too tired to make it back to his main cabin.

Halfway along the trail, Caleb heard a resounding boom echoing across the mountain range, shaking snow off of the laden branches of the pines. Looking around, he saw nothing that could have made the sound. Despite his excellent hearing the hills distorted the directionality of it, he couldn’t pinpoint exactly where it had come from. Whatever it was, he hoped no one was injured. In this terrain they wouldn’t last long without help.

Shrugging, Caleb toiled on intent on getting to the axe, but keeping a watchful eye out for whatever could have made the noise.

After five hours of hiking Caleb crested the last ridge and looked down at his camp. At first glance, everything looked as he’d left it a few days before, but as he got closer he began to notice signs that something had been moving around the small cabin.

Shedding his pack and sled, Caleb drew his bowie knife and his Smith and Wesson .500. He began to circle the perimeter slowly and quietly, looking for indications that the intruder was still there. Seeing no movement and hearing no animal sounds, he advanced inch by inch keeping constant watch for the unseen invader.

He could see where the snow had been tramped down and some dark staining that could be blood, but he still heard no sounds. Whatever it was had moved in such a way that there were no distinct prints to be seen. Perhaps it was an injured animal.

As he reached the small cabin Caleb paused, listening, but when he still heard nothing. Using the tip of his knife to lift the latch, he slowly pushed the door open. Leading with his revolver he stepped into darkness ready to face whatever was there. In the dim light streaming through the door he saw more blood smeared on the floor leading to the far corner where there was a huddled mount of moldy tarps he used to wrap pelts in.

Unable to tell what kind of animal it could be, Caleb stepped forward silently readying for anything. Sheathing his blade, he kept his gun ready as he reached the mound, carefully using his free hand to pull the fabric back trying to expose the creature underneath.

There were no telltale smells of musk that would have indicated a bear, wolverine or any other type of animal he would have expected to find, but the smell of blood was stronger.

As he finally removed the last layer, Caleb was shocked to see, not an animal, but a battered, bruised and bloody female form hidden underneath. Not able to tell if she was dead or alive, Caleb knelt down and gently touched her throat, glad to find a slow but steady heart.

Uncovering the woman completely, Caleb began a full body assessment of her injuries, a technique he’d learned years before moving out to the bush, when he’d been a state trooper.

With just a field examination he could tell her left shoulder was dislocated by the way it lay at an unnatural angle. It would need to be popped back into place and wrapped. There was a large gash on her forehead that was crusted with dried blood, dirt and pine needles. Her clothing, what was left of it, was shredded and charred to a point that if she hadn’t buried herself under the blankets he’d left here, she would have frozen to death within hours.