motorboats, which meant Simon and he would have to raid hunting camps and isolated airports if they wanted to reach Lake Baikal.
Speeding over the pack ice, he began laughing at the arctic foxes and seals that lay in front of him, resting themselves in the morning sunshine. They seemed mesmerized by the oncoming airplanes, flying so low. At the last moment, the bug-eyed seals flipped down their blow holes and the little foxes streaked for cover, corkscrewing their white tails in terror. Had their mortal enemy, the polar bear, gone through metamorphosis? Hadn’t Mother Nature made their archenemy dangerous enough, without letting him fly?
Suddenly, he saw a real polar bear ahead, stalking along a narrow open lead in the pack ice, which always shifted with the winds and tides. He buzzed past, straight-on, watching the bear stand, more curious than afraid.
He had first learned about polar bears along Hudson Bay in his bright-eyed days as a professional bush pilot. One could count over one hundred white bears wandering up and down its lonely, windswept seashore at any given time, greatly endangering any human who happened to run into one. The villagers in Churchill, a frontier settlement halfway up the west side of the bay, had often warned him, watch out or you’ll be eaten alive.
They had told him polar bears didn’t fear humans and preferred fresh kills, and that everyone should remember they stalked their prey with deadly precision. They could swim under the ice long distances, holding their breath, and burst through its frozen surface and grab their victims like crocodiles coming out of swampy water. They could belly-crawl over the snow, blending in, and snatch seals off their beds like leopards jumping out of tall grass. They could lay motionless all day, let the snow drift over them, and cunningly wait for their quarry to walk by, just like lions waiting at a waterhole. The Churchill villagers had insisted no other animal was so fearsome, and like all big carnivores the devil bears started eating their kill before death even had the chance to end the horror of the attack.
At last Cape Nawarin loomed in the distance, black cliffs beaten back by the sea and darkened by time. Again, he looked out his righthand window at Simon, then waggled his wings, signaling he wanted to land on the first smooth ice he saw. He found a flat place, throttled back, pulled on full flaps, and felt the skis bounce along the snow. Slowing up, he taxied behind a pressure ridge, stopped the engine, and watched Simon park nearby. The sun had warmed the air and a light wind blew back and forth, promising more good weather to come.
He waited for Simon, then said, “We’ll wait here for awhile, watch for search planes, then paint on our phony licenses if no one comes out. We’re still on international waters so the Russians can’t really arrest us, but I suppose they would try.”
Simon gazed at the rugged cape ahead. “I don’t think there’s a soul within a thousand miles. There’s nothing’s more lonely than the frozen ocean, and we won’t see or hear a thing, except maybe for some pressure ridges building on the tide.”
“I hope you’re right, because otherwise we’ll have to make run for it. Let’s eat, get some rest, then keep going this afternoon.”
They ate dried salmon they’d carried along for the trip, taking advantage of Native Alaskan survival skills. A person could live for weeks on the nourishment found in salmon strips dried in the sun, and Athabaskans and Inuits were known to have walked hundreds of miles on just a pocket full.
Afterward, they pulled the baggage out of their airplanes, stacked it on the ice, and crawled inside the back of their Cubs to sleep for an hour or two. They hadn’t gotten enough rest in the past night, and the midday sun was now warm enough to let them sleep comfortably.
Jake catnapped with his cap pulled over his face, blocking out
Speeding over the pack ice, he began laughing at the arctic foxes and seals that lay in front of him, resting themselves in the morning sunshine. They seemed mesmerized by the oncoming airplanes, flying so low. At the last moment, the bug-eyed seals flipped down their blow holes and the little foxes streaked for cover, corkscrewing their white tails in terror. Had their mortal enemy, the polar bear, gone through metamorphosis? Hadn’t Mother Nature made their archenemy dangerous enough, without letting him fly?
Suddenly, he saw a real polar bear ahead, stalking along a narrow open lead in the pack ice, which always shifted with the winds and tides. He buzzed past, straight-on, watching the bear stand, more curious than afraid.
He had first learned about polar bears along Hudson Bay in his bright-eyed days as a professional bush pilot. One could count over one hundred white bears wandering up and down its lonely, windswept seashore at any given time, greatly endangering any human who happened to run into one. The villagers in Churchill, a frontier settlement halfway up the west side of the bay, had often warned him, watch out or you’ll be eaten alive.
They had told him polar bears didn’t fear humans and preferred fresh kills, and that everyone should remember they stalked their prey with deadly precision. They could swim under the ice long distances, holding their breath, and burst through its frozen surface and grab their victims like crocodiles coming out of swampy water. They could belly-crawl over the snow, blending in, and snatch seals off their beds like leopards jumping out of tall grass. They could lay motionless all day, let the snow drift over them, and cunningly wait for their quarry to walk by, just like lions waiting at a waterhole. The Churchill villagers had insisted no other animal was so fearsome, and like all big carnivores the devil bears started eating their kill before death even had the chance to end the horror of the attack.
At last Cape Nawarin loomed in the distance, black cliffs beaten back by the sea and darkened by time. Again, he looked out his righthand window at Simon, then waggled his wings, signaling he wanted to land on the first smooth ice he saw. He found a flat place, throttled back, pulled on full flaps, and felt the skis bounce along the snow. Slowing up, he taxied behind a pressure ridge, stopped the engine, and watched Simon park nearby. The sun had warmed the air and a light wind blew back and forth, promising more good weather to come.
He waited for Simon, then said, “We’ll wait here for awhile, watch for search planes, then paint on our phony licenses if no one comes out. We’re still on international waters so the Russians can’t really arrest us, but I suppose they would try.”
Simon gazed at the rugged cape ahead. “I don’t think there’s a soul within a thousand miles. There’s nothing’s more lonely than the frozen ocean, and we won’t see or hear a thing, except maybe for some pressure ridges building on the tide.”
“I hope you’re right, because otherwise we’ll have to make run for it. Let’s eat, get some rest, then keep going this afternoon.”
They ate dried salmon they’d carried along for the trip, taking advantage of Native Alaskan survival skills. A person could live for weeks on the nourishment found in salmon strips dried in the sun, and Athabaskans and Inuits were known to have walked hundreds of miles on just a pocket full.
Afterward, they pulled the baggage out of their airplanes, stacked it on the ice, and crawled inside the back of their Cubs to sleep for an hour or two. They hadn’t gotten enough rest in the past night, and the midday sun was now warm enough to let them sleep comfortably.
Jake catnapped with his cap pulled over his face, blocking out
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