Mystery in Trib 2 Read online

  Was it really four years since he’d made his own winter trip by snow machine? A trip planned especially to haul the first of the mining equipment to the claim. Boy, that had been some adventure. Foolish really.

  He could see it now. He had been alone in the wilds. The snow lay much deeper and softer than he had anticipated. He had spent three days trying to make headway, repeatedly digging himself and the machine out of the snow. He had penetrated only a few miles before he had to throw in the towel.

  It had beaten him at first. If it hadn’t been for a chance meeting with Tony he would have returned home an abject failure. Tony had rescued him from the depths of despair. Tony, the Good Samaritan of Tok, had taken him to his home, patched up his ego and his broken snow machine and sent him on the trapline trail to the Ladue. It was an unusual gesture because such trails were traditionally a closely guarded secret. But it had certainly proven to be a much easier route.

  Except for the water. Hagen squirmed in his chair at the memory. The water had almost been a killer. He had made really good progress until the machine and sled fell though the thin ice of an overflow by the Ladue. Below the thin ice lay a foot of water and it wasn’t long before he was soaked to the thighs. At 30 below zero it had been a very dangerous situation and it was only his calm head and tenacity that saved him. Eventually he recovered his machine and dried himself and warmed up. He was lucky to have survived with nothing worse than a pulled muscle or two.

  Doug flew over in the 150 shortly afterward to check on him and to give him a moral boost. They talked on walkie-talkies and, though several hundred feet of air separated them, it had made him feel less isolated. The rest of the snow machine trip had been uneventful, almost pleasant. He succeeded in caching the mining equipment near the Glory Hole.

  He particularly recalled one clear, cold night on the return leg. He sat in the warm circle of his campfire, wrapped in a blanket and tarp. He almost wished that it could have been a buffalo hide or bearskin. The surrounding forest was heavily laden with snow and the campfire cast ghostly shadows. Small yellow eyes glinted from the perimeter of light. Foxes maybe? The aurora moaned across the heavens, all the colors of the spectrum visible. What a wonderful display it had been.

  For hours he sat, absorbing the warmth of the fire, reliving his experiences and dreaming what could be. Was he lonely? No, not really. He had the wilderness. For the moment it was all his. He alone owned it. The bulk of the trip was behind him. He had survived this trial and was warm, dry, and well fed. Even his strained back was feeling better.

  In his mind, he was a mountain man, an early pioneer. The ultimate test–survival in the wilderness—had been overcome. Winter or not, this was the way it was meant to be. Man in tune with nature. It would have been wrong to go through life without taking some risks.

  Risks. Now—four and a half years later—he thought about returning to the university. Giving up a well paying job, selling his comfortable house. Did one really need a degree to survive these modern times? The things one had to do to seemingly make headway and conform. Conformity meant steady employment, taxes, medical insurance, pension, social security payments, savings for retirement. The alternative was the more simple, subsistence, wilderness way of life. Decisions. Decisions.

  The decision was made. These were modern times. Sometimes one had to conform. Doug was right. He could be tenacious and stubborn. But he could still choose a way of life when he had the degree. He would even have more choices. He could do it and he would.

  * * * *

  “Yes,” he said, sitting upright, not realizing it had been fully 15 minutes since either of us had spoken. “I’m sure Tony and Carl will take over the claim. You could be a partner.”

  I looked over the claim that had provided us both with so much hard work, recreation, and satisfaction for five years. The adventure of the initial exploratory hikes, dropping supplies from my plane, checking on Hagen during his winter trip, the joy of finding gold, and the R and R days hiking and fishing. I had the sinking feeling it was coming to a rather sudden end and I had a big lump in my throat.

  “No. If you’re going to Hawaii you won’t have time for any of this crap next summer. You’ll have too much to do, selling the house, packing and getting ready. As for coming out here with someone else? It just wouldn’t be the same. I need someone like you to kick my butt now and then to keep me motivated. I don’t think I would enjoy it with anyone else.”

  I stood up to pour more steaming tea into both cups–partly to hide my emotions—passed the sugar and then settled back in my chair. Decision time. Time to bite the bullet. Make his decision an easier one.

  “Tell you what. Let’s really put our backs into it for the next few days and then have a damn good tidy up around here. We can take all our worthwhile equipment with us—the pump and the like. When we pass through Tok we’ll stop and ask Tony if he and Carl would like to make us an offer for the whole lot. He can take a look at it.”

  “You don’t really mind?” Hagen asked, sounding a little surprised at the speed at which things were moving. “I know how much you relish this too.”

  “Of course I do. But let’s face it—we’re both getting a bit burned out. When you get right down to it we really aren’t making a fortune. Anyway,” I feigned cheerfulness, “if you get set in a posh high-rise condo in Waikiki I’ll be able to visit three or four times a year. It’ll be fantastic. Think of all those sun-bronzed chicks with skimpy bikinis. The bird-watching will be great.” I shaded my eyes. “Don’t see too many bikinis out here.”

  “Huh. High-rise condo you say. I’ll probably be lucky to find a windowless broom closet I can afford.” Hagen laughed, obviously assuaged that I had taken his decision so well, “And as for bird-watching, or chasing, I’d better leave that to you, or I’ll never be able to concentrate on my studies.”

  “Well, no harm in looking, is there?” I stood up and rinsed my teacup. “You have to admit, it has more appeal than the winter parkas and mukluks you would have to put up with in Fairbanks.”

  Hagen laughed aloud and stood up too. The raven took off with a soft flutter of wings and Freddy hopped for shelter. “Okay then. We have four days left to find the rich pocket of gold that might just make me change my mind. If we don’t find it then we’ll wrap it up. Like you said, Tony and Carl will probably jump at the chance to take over. Must be lots of people who would buy the trailer and ATV just for hunting if nothing else.”

  “We can still follow up on this crashed airplane business during the winter months,” I said. “ I would be really interested to get to the bottom of that mystery before you leave.”

  “Yeah. We can do that too in between other things.”

  It was settled. As the days went by we talked endlessly about the arrangements that would have to be made but stuck to the basic plan. Four very productive days down by bedrock but the mind-changing “big one” eluded us. Plan A would move ahead.

  Porcupine — Near the trail. Very well camouflaged.

  Chapter Eight

  Flight to the Ladue

  Anyone flying recreationally understands you don’t really need an excuse to fly. This is especially true in Alaska where there is so much spectacular scenery all around it is difficult to resist the temptation to go drill holes in the sky every clear day. There are practical limitations, however. Work tends to get in the way some and expense is high on the list, so it is always nice to have a tangible excuse to take wing.

  We were in the midst of a spell of pretty September weather. Predictions for the next few days were favorable so we decided to fly over the gold claim one last time. Nostalgia as much as anything I suppose. But we also had in mind to have a good look for any signs of an aircraft wreck.

  The flight to the Ladue was one we had made numerous times over the past five years. It was a round trip of almost 800 miles if one counted scouting around the valleys. On a clear day the scenery would be fantastic.

  It was a cool and clear at seven in t
he morning as I finished prepping the 150 at Anchorage International Airport. Sunrise was turning the sky silvery above the Chugach Mountains. At seven thirty my plane lifted from runway 32 and I pointed the nose across the gray waters of Knik Arm toward Point Mackenzie. I was making the short hop to Wasilla to pick up Hagen.

  Early morning air traffic was light but I would be flying a popular corridor so I kept a keen eye open. Radar approach and departure control could do only so much for small planes. They advised me occasionally of aircraft in the vicinity but couldn’t always give the altitude. I held my own aircraft steady at two thousand feet and maintained a course parallel to the Knik Arm shoreline for fifteen minutes. Then I turned to a new heading directly to Wasilla.

  As I crossed over Lake Lucille the runway came into sight; I applied carburetor heat, throttled back, switched on the landing lights and commenced a gradual descent. Careful, as always, not to let down into the path of other aircraft I conducted some gentle turns and banks to obtain a clear view below.

  There was no apparent air traffic, so I entered the midpoint of the downwind leg for a landing to the west. The windsock beside the runway hung limp. Not a breath of wind to worry about. As a courtesy I announced my intentions over the airwaves. No one responded or, for that matter, needed to.

  A 1,000-feet-long gravel runway set almost parallel with the George Parks Highway serves Wasilla. Commercial property lies in a haphazard pattern between the highway and the runway. Residential property is strung along the northern perimeter. There was much talk of building a new airport further to the west of town but it hadn’t happened yet.

  For now this runway served our needs just fine because Hagen’s house overlooked the midpoint of the runway. It started life as a small cottage but we worked together to add a two-story extension. Lots of sweat equity which, if his plans came to fruition, was about to be turned to cash.

  Still no traffic in sight, so I selected a little flap, turned gently onto base leg—more flap—then to final. Nicely aligned with the runway I hung out the final degrees of flap and adjusted throttle and pitch to maintain a steady rate of descent to the threshold.

  The 150 cleared the tops of the silver birch trees–brilliant with yellow autumn leaves—then the perimeter road and fence. I eased back on the power and on the control yoke and the plane settled toward the surface. A brief squawk from the stall warning indicator and the main wheels contacted. Loose gravel immediately pinged from under the tires and rattled off the underside of the fuselage. I maintained rearward pressure on the control yoke to hold the nose high and thus avoid gravel rash on the prop. As the speed decayed I raised the flaps and deselected carb-heat. Now I had time to glance toward Hagen’s house.

  He had obviously observed my arrival and was already striding down his driveway with a small pack over his shoulder and his pump-action shotgun in hand. This was evidently going to be a brief stop. A glance through the rear window confirmed there was no traffic on final so I stepped on the left pedal and toe brake and did a smart one-eighty turn to taxi back along the runway.

  Hagen had already crossed over and was waiting. He smiled and raised a hitchhikers thumb. As I brought the plane to a halt, he slipped under the rear of the right wing and opened the door. His small day-pack and the shotgun were quickly tucked into the baggage compartment behind the seats and he climbed in. Sensing the moment as he latched the door, he said: “Good morning. Tanacross. And make it fast.”

  I laughed and simply replied: “Yes, sir,” as I applied power.

  I imagined this is how a New York City taxi driver feels when picking up a fare. My passenger was already on board and the plane had hardly stopped rolling.

  I busied myself preparing for takeoff. We would have lots of time to talk. Hagen strapped in and settled himself.

  Still no traffic, so we were soon climbing away from the runway. The plane was quite spirited since it was lightly loaded. Just the two of us, two sleeping bags, a pack of emergency supplies, the shotgun and two small packs with a few “possibles” as Hagen liked to call them—after the fashion of the early pioneers. I knew his habits well and was confident he would not go hungry. Probably loaded with enough tough German rye bread and “squeeze-cheese” to last a week.

  “Well, Hagen, it looks like we have ourselves some nice weather. Look at McKinley over there. ” Mt. McKinley and Mt. Foraker, 120 miles away, were both clearly visible above some early morning haze.

  “Yeah. I think it will be a good one. Hopefully it will be the same to the east of the mountains.”

  “The forecast was still good so we shouldn’t have any problems,” I replied. “The one thing was that we could encounter some headwinds. That’ll slow us down a bit.”

  I brought the plane around in a nicely coordinated climbing right turn, then leveled off at 1,500 feet. After a couple of minutes I handed over the controls to my companion.

  “Here, it’s all yours. Take this plane to Tanacross. I need to call in our flight plan.” I glanced at my wristwatch. Ten after eight. I guess the Palmer Flight Service Station will be open.”

  Our planned route was “visual” Highway 1: the Glenn Highway to Glennallen, then “visual” the Tok Cutoff to Tok Junction and Tanacross. There we would make a pit stop and I would close the flight plan for the first leg.

  Hagen was a fair pilot. Though he had never gained his full license, he had practiced a lot and had accumulated maybe twenty hours in control of my Cessna. In fact, it helped him because he tended to get a bit nauseated on long flights if he had nothing to keep his mind occupied.

  The Flight Service Station attendant had just come on duty. We must have been his first business of the day. It took only a couple of minutes to relay the information from the pad strapped to my right thigh. I thanked him and signed off.

  We were passing over the fertile plain of the Matanuska farming area with the aircraft nose aimed at the entrance to the Matanuska River Valley. Close on our left the Talkeetna mountains and the entrance to Hatcher Pass. Ahead and to the right the massive bulk of the Chugach Mountains. The town of Palmer with its small airport lay three miles away to our right. Twenty-five miles away, framed by Lazy Mountain and Pioneer Peak, lay the broad, gleaming expanse of Knik Glacier.

  “Okay, Hagen. That’s the formalities taken care of. Let’s climb to 9,500 and cruise.” Our elected flight level for the trip.

  Hagen eased in full power and established a best rate of climb. He adjusted the trim control wheel to take all unnecessary pressure off the control column. Thus trimmed, the plane maintained its climb rate and required minimal input from the pilot.

  There was some moderate clear air turbulence as we climbed through 4,500 feet. It was typical for this area because of the colder air sliding out of the glaciated valleys. It gave Hagen something to work with for a couple of minutes. I was pleased to note he dipped the nose occasionally to have a good look around. We didn’t want to climb directly into the path of another aircraft.

  As we gained altitude, the view opened up. Soon we were surveyors of a tremendous mountainous vista. As far as the eye could see were mountain peaks. Many, we knew, were unnamed even on the best of maps. Fresh snow, “termination dust” already cloaked the higher peaks. Below and to our right the Matanuska River came into sight. Gray and silt laden it coursed southward toward the Knik Arm. The thin ribbon of the Glenn Highway was visible wending its way beside the river.

  Somewhere over Jonesville Mine we reached our planned altitude. Hagen gently throttled back to 2,100 rpm and trimmed for flight level 9,500 feet. He leaned the fuel mixture until there was just a hint of decrease in engine speed then set it back up just a tad.

  Now we settled for the long flight. There would be no need for navigation as such. We were both familiar with the terrain and would keep the highway in sight all the way. However, flying at this altitude enabled us to skirt over the shoulders of the mountains and maintain a reasonably straight course.

  We had a wonderfully spectacular vie
w in all directions. From this altitude we could see over all but the highest mountain peaks. In high relief the mountains stood boldly in the morning sunlight, valleys still in deep shadow. The sunlit slopes were dressed in foliage of autumn colors: yellow, golden brown and purple. Colors that were emphasized by the gleaming white snow on the higher peaks.

  Close on our left the Talkeetna mountain range: Granite Peak, Lava Mountain, Anthracite Ridge. I reached behind the seats and brought out my 12 by 60 binoculars. While Hagen concentrated on piloting, I would play tourist. I focused on the mountain slopes and finally located some Dall sheep on the rocky escarpments of Lava Mountain overlooking Kings River. It was easy to tell which were the rams because they occupied a dominant position above their respective flock of females and lambs. I counted thirty-four sheep in all and undoubtedly there were many more.

  “There are lots of sheep over there.” I indicated the spot but Hagen couldn’t see them with the naked eye.

  I made to pass the binoculars but he declined the offer. “Won’t be quite so many soon. Its open season in a couple of weeks.”

  “Shall we cut through behind Gun Sight Mountain or stay to the right?”

  It was actually more direct to take the valley to the left of the mountain but I always preferred to keep right and then follow the shorter route on the return.

  “Let’s stick to the flight plan. Keep to the right. Anyway it’ll give us a better view of the Glacier.”

  I was glassing the Glenn Highway. A number of vehicles were visible heading east, motor homes, fifth-wheelers and campers mainly. Some had smaller vehicles in tow. It was the time of the year when there was an exodus of summer visitors heading for the Canadian border and points beyond. Probably making an early start on what for many would be a very long and bumpy ride down the Alaska Highway to the Lower Forty-eight.

  I located the Matanuska Glacier lookout point—an ideal spot to view the glacier—and observed a number of parked vehicles. We had stopped there ourselves and already had some excellent photos of the glacier taken from that vantage point.