This Way North

By Olly Williams

www.hollandbrownbooks.com

Prologue

Sunlight streamed through the dense canopy, diffusing rays of golden late afternoon light through the Alaskan spruce forest. Already there was a chill in the air, the high country resting under a good dusting of mid-November snow. Lower down the valley the bull moose moved carefully along the creek, pausing after each step to listen for any noise that would betray the presence of danger. His summer coat was nearly gone now, the last strands of his light pelt replaced by a new, thick, oily, chestnut brown winter hide that glistened in the dappled sunlight. He was looking for the last of the new shoots and shrubs on the low ground; soon all would be seized in winter’s icy grip and he would be forced once again to survive the long winter months on coniferous tree bark and low-lying willows. Despite his inbuilt awareness to danger, he had little to fear in the forest.

Standing six and a half feet at the shoulder and weighing 1,600 pounds, the Alaskan bull moose was a formidable adversary for any predator, including wolf and bear. During the past five years of rut he had triumphed over all the other bulls and had sired many young. Now thirteen years old, he was approaching his prime, and judging by his great size he had many mating seasons left in him. But still he sensed danger – that was his nature. Earlier in the year he had stood his ground and fought off a pack of timber wolves. Refusing to turn and run away, he had thrust his formidable rack to and fro, keeping the wolves at bay. In a confrontation that had lasted many hours, the wolves had eventually retreated and then run, yelping, tails between their legs as the bull gave a victor’s chase. They knew there was easier prey to find; it was not their day.

Having spent the early part of the afternoon feeding in the lower creek, the moose followed the tree line up a steep rise and began to feed on a fresh area of young saplings, leaving a tell-tale browse line along the forest’s perimeter. He was, if anything, a creature of habit and followed the same trail day after day, making only the occasional detour into the thick scrub if he spotted a particularly succulent willow on which to feed. By last light he had stepped gracefully across the snow line, making a neat alternating walking pattern, his huge half-moon hooves leaving their unmistakable imprint in the fresh snow. A light wind carried messages of passing through the valley and across the forest. The bull moose tasted the air, standing perfectly still. Grunting as if to reassure himself, he pushed deep into the trees and began walking in ever-decreasing circles, clearing away the light dusting of snow before bending his great legs and resting in his new bed. Never completely at ease, he lay still and drifted off into a light sleep, for that was the lot of a solitary moose. Too deep a sleep and it could be your last. Tonight at least, all seemed well.

The hunter had picked up the fresh moose tracks shortly after dawn. The spoor was probably only minutes old, judging by the way the night’s icy crust had been stamped cleanly into the permafrost, leaving soft and fluffy snow beneath. The hunter gently laid his large framed pack by a tall spruce and began to track the moose carefully, carrying only his rifle and knife. Hugging the tree line he hunkered down low, almost creeping, alert and listening for movement. Despite the moose’s immense size, he knew from past experience how these animals could melt into the forest and if spooked remain hidden, sometimes indefinitely. It was this characteristic that made moose such a challenge to hunt. For the first time that year the hunter had the feeling he was being watched from the tree line, and it made him feel uncomfortable.

In search of new quarry the hunter had ventured further than before, landing his float-plane on the Great Bear Lake and crossing the Kuskokwim range on foot by a low mountain pass the previous day. The enormity of Western Alaska stretched out before him, a vein of new life totally undisturbed by man, two million square miles of roadless wilderness. The hunting was still good here, wilder than his native Wyoming, and in the crisp morning light the hunter knew it would be his day. He could feel it. From within the forest, eyes were on him. He waited, perfectly still, listening, his eyes closed, his breath held, but he could hear nothing, not even the familiar sound of raven in the muffled snowscape. An eerie silence engulfed him. The moose tracks had led him further than he had wanted to go without his kit and now he wondered if he should quickly retrace his footsteps and recover his equipment in case the weather turned.

As he opened his eyes and once more turned toward the large spruce tree, the bull moose walked out into the open, as if defying his presence, only yards from where he was standing. Barely believing his luck, the hunter slowly brought his trusted Heym Express rifle into his shoulder and pushed forward the safety catch. Many safaris in Africa had taught him well. In close cover he always hunted with the gun loaded and cocked, safety catch on, since he often needed to take a snap shot. Hunting dangerous game alone and without back-up in Alaska was no exception. Closing his left eye, he aligned the iron sights at the huge musculature of the bull’s shoulder and, exhaling gently, squeezed the trigger. The heavy rifle jerked violently upwards, as the delayed report of the .505 Gibbs round echoed around the valley. The moose staggered backwards and then, for a brief while, stood motionless. The hunter deftly worked the bolt from his shoulder and aimed once more, this time keeping both eyes open, looking for signs of a charge, his adrenaline pumping. But a second shot was not necessary. It rarely was with the .505. In slow motion the moose tried to kneel and then crumpled sideways into the snow, emitting a low, deep grunt. Past experience had taught the hunter to hold his ground and wait, keeping the rifle aimed at the dying animal. He waited, and he waited some more.

After a few minutes he carefully approached the moose from behind and prodded its open eyeball with the muzzle of his rifle. No reflex movement, no retinal dilation. The moose was dead. The hunter immediately set to work. First he felt for the space between the moose’s forequarters and, pushing and turning his blade vigorously into the moose’s soft chest region, he punctured and bled out the beast’s heart. Next he made a shallow incision along the moose’s stomach to clear away the hair and skin. Placing his finger on the flat top-strap of his knife, he worked along the underbelly, cutting a clean and bloodless line. Warm steam gradually began to waft from the open cavity as the hunter positioned the moose’s head above his body on the gradual slope. He heaved the moose’s lifeless body downwards and, delving into the steaming hulk, pulled hard from within the abdominal cavity, easing the stomach and large intestine out on to the snow. With his boot he kicked the huge stomach and offal to one side and set about field dressing the animal. He deftly cut around the moose’s foreleg joints, then, taking the massive head in his hands, he made a deep incision in the neck and cut out the windpipe. Next he began to saw through the sternum with the serrated part of his knife and managed to cleave open the chest cavity. Then he broke the hindquarters, splitting the thighs at the saddle, and began to pull away the skin from either side of the flanks. As he worked he began to sweat and as he began to sweat he started to get cold. He was grateful for the warmth of the dead moose but he was conscious of the time it would take to prepare the massive beast for the long walk out. After an hour he was nearly finished and stood back to survey his handiwork. The butchered moose stared lifelessly up at him, the head and rack sitting neatly above the folded and bloody cape. The two thighs, ribs and saddle lay nearby, the deep purple meat set like rubies in the glistening snow. He would leave the rest of the beast as food for ravens, foxes and the odd lone wolf. In this harsh winter habitat nothing would be wasted.

It was now late morning and the best of the day’s light was beginning to fade. By three it would be dark and the hunter knew he would need to make camp and hang the meat in the trees before nightfall. Looking toward the mountain pass he noticed dark snow clouds forming. There was spindrift coming off the highest peaks and the wind on the higher ground would make a bivouac on the pass impossible. He knew the weather was beginning to deteriorate and decided to make a sheltered camp in the nearby forest. He would tackle the pass the next day and fly out that evening.

Leaving his trophy in the snow, he quickly collected his pack from the tree line and strapped the moose’s great head, rack and cape on to the rucksack for his first load carry into the woods. Despite his good fitness he found the going hard as he pushed on through the deep snowdrifts down the slope, keeping his eyes peeled for a suitable clearing in which to pitch camp. The adrenaline of his hunt still coursed through him and soon enough he found his rhythm. After no more than twenty minutes the snow began to get thinner underfoot and the going less tiring. The spruce trees became denser and the valley got darker. The hunter stopped. He could have sworn he had heard a sound, the breaking of a branch underfoot. He knelt down on one knee and looked into the dark low forest. Yes, he saw it again, a movement, a deer maybe, or a raven. Taking off his pack, he quickly walked toward the trees and peered once more into the impenetrable depths. As he strained his eyes trying to make out movement he thought he could see the outline of a wooden structure, a cabin.

He could see it clearer now; it was definitely a cabin, not thirty yards into the trees. Walking up along the line of spruces he soon found a small game trail that led into the forest. He pushed the branches aside and entered its mass, straining and pushing against the sea of pines and spruces. The hunter was amazed at how the dry brown needles crackling under his feet were barely touched by the snow on the surrounding slopes, and by the thickness of the cover of the forest canopy. He had heard of hunters sheltering under pine trees during winter storms, using their branches as one would use a tepee, but here, crawling into the cover of the forest would be enough to escape the driving snow and wind. He pushed on into the depths of the wood.

The hut stood on wooden tree stumps, a primitive structure, but practical and solid. The clearing looked to have been cleared by hand and was big, at least twenty yards square. The stumps of the felled pines showed the tell-tale signs of a manual saw blade: they stood uneven and rough. Whoever had cut this clearing had done so without a chainsaw. The hunter guessed it must have been made many years ago by a trapper wanting to live out an undisturbed, solitary existence.

The hunter called out, ‘‘Hey! Anyone home?’’

There was no reply. He walked up to the door – there were no tracks, and any earlier ones would have been covered by the fresh snowfall that day. The door had no handle, and he gave it a good push. It opened with ease and the hunter gingerly went inside. The interior was sparse. In the center of the room were a single chair and table; a caribou skin lay by the stone hearth. There was no glass in the windows, which were just two small openings covered with fur flaps as makeshift shutters. In the corner by the door was a large moose pelt covering some kind of structure. The hunter couldn’t help his curiosity. He lifted the skin back and laid it on the floor. Underneath stood a beautiful antique sled, its runners perfectly polished and its five wooden slats oiled and well smoothed. On the sled lay a thick, tightly strapped roll of felt with a small tin of what smelled like wax and a pressed metal flashlight. ‘‘How strange,’’ thought the hunter, for on closer inspection the sled appeared to have been made in Germany, the old Germany, bold Germanic text crudely stamped quite clearly into the right- hand runner. It must have been an old family heirloom used for transporting kills along the trap line, he thought. Without further delay he replaced the pelt as he had found it.

Tired now, he sat down on the lone wooden chair and noticed a roll of fabric on the floor. Again it was felt, a roll that was probably no more than a foot long. The hunter unraveled the roll and could make out the rusted impression of a large knife, an oxidized sepia stain defining the blade’s outline in the thick fabric. He began to feel uneasy. He was in a stranger’s cabin and that person had a big knife. It was time to leave. He had let his curiosity run away with him far enough. Without looking behind him he made his way back through the narrow line of trees and out on to the open slope. He collected his rucksack and made his way hastily to collect the meat. He had decided he would now try his luck further up the valley so he would not have to travel so far in the morning. The dense forest and the cabin had given him the creeps. He didn’t want to meet its owner, not tonight at least.

Soon he was over the last rise and powering his way toward his cache of meat. As he approached he noticed ravens.

‘‘Hey! Get away!’’ he shouted.

The ravens jumped and cackled and flew a few yards away, watching him intensely. He knew he had been stupid not to carry all the meat with him, but he had anticipated the possibility of not finding an appropriate site for a camp and returning. What the hell, so long as he didn’t lose the meat to a wolf or wolverine, the odd raven could only do so much harm in the twenty minutes he had been gone. But he was mistaken. Before him only the ribs remained and these had been half-consumed by the birds, their tell- tale footprints surrounding the kill. But the hind legs, ravens couldn’t have taken those. The hunter was visibly shaken. He started to fear the worst. Only a bear, wolf or wolverine could have made off with his prize cuts. Christ, how stupid he had been. He paced to and fro until he saw them . . . unmistakable tracks in the snow. At first he feared a winter bear, unable to sleep and brought out of his den by the smell of the kill. But on closer inspection he realized these were not bear prints, they were something much more sinister. They were human prints, primitive hand- made snowshoe prints.

The hunter froze in his tracks. Just as he had felt earlier in the day, he now knew he was being observed, watched by someone or something close by. The hairs on his neck began to stand up and he felt a cold trickle of sweat roll down his back. Grabbing his pack, he swung it over his shoulder and checked the chamber on his rifle. The big Heym was loaded. He raced up the slope trying to retrace his tracks, which were beginning to be covered by light snowflakes. Time was against him but now all he cared about was getting out of the valley. He was shaken, really rattled, and his mind was racing. Who lived in that cabin? Who was following him? And why had his meat been stolen? As far as he knew no one could survive in this area without re-supply from civilization, and whoever was living out here was at least 200 miles from the nearest settlement in any direction. He had not seen any evidence of a mooring or floatplane on Great Bear Lake, which if his flight maps were accurate was the only suitable lake large enough to take off and land on in the whole region. As he came to the crest of the snowfield he passed the spot where he had laid his rucksack before stalking the moose. The tree was larger than the other trees, its bark covered in the thick lichen that indicated the purity of the Alaskan air.

The hunter couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was that made him walk around the tree, especially in light of his rush to get away from whoever it was that had stolen his moose meat. But as he walked slowly around the mossy trunk he noticed that a patch of bark had been recently removed. He crouched down and brushed aside the lichen. A word had been carved in the trunk, the trunk of a tree that grew in a valley of a million similar trees. True it was slightly larger and it stood at the head of the snowfield, reasoned the hunter, but by the law of averages . . . a billion to one, no, a trillion to one . . . It made his head spin.

He began to read the carved letters out loud to himself. ‘‘N-E-M-O,’’ he said in a slow, low voice. ‘‘NEMO,’’ he repeated.