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Authors: Gaylon Greer
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blanket-clad feet through the leg holes in the backpack. With his parka snapped around both of them and the diaper bag tied to his waist, he gripped his rifle in one hand, his snowshoes in the other, and headed for the porch. At the door, he turned for a final glance at Pia.
She had set her mouth in a stubborn line. The eye that had been plastered shut was closed. She stared at him with the other. When she saw him looking at her, she spoke again. “Watch over him, Alex. Someone wants to harm him. Don’t let them.”
A new tack, another lie. He stepped onto the porch and strapped on his snowshoes. That should have been the last he saw of her, but the specter of her ravaged face and defiant expression stayed with him as he trudged across the sunlit expanse of glistening snow that sloped gradually toward the Warrior River Gorge. Pushing back at guilt that dogged him for hitting her so hard, he reminded himself that she had been the aggressor, that her determination to make off with Frederick could have led to the kid’s death in the frozen wilderness.
As he approached the gorge, Alex’s introspection gave way to thoughts about how to negotiate the icy slope. It was too steep for a direct descent. He would have to maneuver obliquely, looking for footholds. Perhaps soothed by the rhythmic movement as they approached the gorge, Frederick had fallen asleep. Alex prayed that the nap would last until they reached a place where the river, too swift elsewhere, stilled enough to ice over. He prayed also that the ice would be thick enough to support the two of them.
Chapter 7
Even though Alex knew the area, his first glimpse of the Warrior River Gorge always awed him. At three hundred yards, it appeared as a massive rent in the earth. As if an all-powerful landscaper had grown impatient, the terrain abruptly dropped thirty-odd feet to a narrow shelf lined with evergreen shrubs. Beyond the shelf, the ground fell away too steeply to be visible.
From the shelf, the slope down to the river was steep but negotiable over a mile-long stretch. Alex’s problem was that first thirty-plus feet. He hiked along the lip of the gorge until he found a gully that started as a tiny break in the snowpack but deepened as it approached the lip. He eased down into the gully to a point where it sloped abruptly to meet the shelf. Here the drop-off was only about twelve feet, but the line of evergreens that formed a protective fence along the shelf thinned.
If he moved Frederick around to his back, Alex could slide down to the shelf on his stomach and grab an evergreen to avoid slipping over the edge. At least, he hoped he could. Worried that he was burning too much daylight, he settled in the snow and anchored himself by digging his heels into the icy sheet under the loose powder. He pulled off the thermal mittens he wore over his gloves and unbuckled the backpack. “Just shifting you to the rear for a little while,” he said, trying to soothe Frederick. “When we get down to the river, we’ll travel face to face again.”
Frederick chose the moment of transfer to throw a temper tantrum. The wild kicking and squirming cost Alex his grip on the backpack.
Knowing he was going to drop it, he batted the pack so that it hit the snow uphill from him. Twisting like a wrestler trying to avoid being pinned, he grabbed it as it started to slip by on its way to the bottom of the gorge.
The move unanchored him from the ice. Belly down, feet first, he began sliding.
Gripping the shoulder strap of the backpack with one hand, he clawed at the snow with his other, trying to grasp something—anything—to arrest their slide. Twisting sideways, he angled his body to increase the likelihood of finding a handhold.
He became airborne for a moment and then landed with a jarring thud. His foot hit something solid—a root or a rock protruding from the shelf. He kicked hard and stretched his free arm, grasping for the
She had set her mouth in a stubborn line. The eye that had been plastered shut was closed. She stared at him with the other. When she saw him looking at her, she spoke again. “Watch over him, Alex. Someone wants to harm him. Don’t let them.”
A new tack, another lie. He stepped onto the porch and strapped on his snowshoes. That should have been the last he saw of her, but the specter of her ravaged face and defiant expression stayed with him as he trudged across the sunlit expanse of glistening snow that sloped gradually toward the Warrior River Gorge. Pushing back at guilt that dogged him for hitting her so hard, he reminded himself that she had been the aggressor, that her determination to make off with Frederick could have led to the kid’s death in the frozen wilderness.
As he approached the gorge, Alex’s introspection gave way to thoughts about how to negotiate the icy slope. It was too steep for a direct descent. He would have to maneuver obliquely, looking for footholds. Perhaps soothed by the rhythmic movement as they approached the gorge, Frederick had fallen asleep. Alex prayed that the nap would last until they reached a place where the river, too swift elsewhere, stilled enough to ice over. He prayed also that the ice would be thick enough to support the two of them.
Chapter 7
Even though Alex knew the area, his first glimpse of the Warrior River Gorge always awed him. At three hundred yards, it appeared as a massive rent in the earth. As if an all-powerful landscaper had grown impatient, the terrain abruptly dropped thirty-odd feet to a narrow shelf lined with evergreen shrubs. Beyond the shelf, the ground fell away too steeply to be visible.
From the shelf, the slope down to the river was steep but negotiable over a mile-long stretch. Alex’s problem was that first thirty-plus feet. He hiked along the lip of the gorge until he found a gully that started as a tiny break in the snowpack but deepened as it approached the lip. He eased down into the gully to a point where it sloped abruptly to meet the shelf. Here the drop-off was only about twelve feet, but the line of evergreens that formed a protective fence along the shelf thinned.
If he moved Frederick around to his back, Alex could slide down to the shelf on his stomach and grab an evergreen to avoid slipping over the edge. At least, he hoped he could. Worried that he was burning too much daylight, he settled in the snow and anchored himself by digging his heels into the icy sheet under the loose powder. He pulled off the thermal mittens he wore over his gloves and unbuckled the backpack. “Just shifting you to the rear for a little while,” he said, trying to soothe Frederick. “When we get down to the river, we’ll travel face to face again.”
Frederick chose the moment of transfer to throw a temper tantrum. The wild kicking and squirming cost Alex his grip on the backpack.
Knowing he was going to drop it, he batted the pack so that it hit the snow uphill from him. Twisting like a wrestler trying to avoid being pinned, he grabbed it as it started to slip by on its way to the bottom of the gorge.
The move unanchored him from the ice. Belly down, feet first, he began sliding.
Gripping the shoulder strap of the backpack with one hand, he clawed at the snow with his other, trying to grasp something—anything—to arrest their slide. Twisting sideways, he angled his body to increase the likelihood of finding a handhold.
He became airborne for a moment and then landed with a jarring thud. His foot hit something solid—a root or a rock protruding from the shelf. He kicked hard and stretched his free arm, grasping for the
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