“He's hurting, going slow and is some ways back.”“Blisters?”
“Yeah! He’s real gimped up”
“I’ll go on and see if I can give him a hand”, I said.
Doug, a Los Angeles product, had been in Alaska for five years. He and his wife, Nancy, moved north immediately after graduating from college. Doug was medium height, with a stocky frame. He once told me that in high school he shaved his head, donned a tight fitting tee-shirt, an ear ring, and walked around with a raised eye brow in an attempt to imitate Mr. Clean. I had no trouble visualizing that particular impersonation. Doug taught history and coached wrestling at West Anchorage High; Nancy was at Turnagain Elementary.
We met as he limped up the last slope, head down, and sweat flowing over his temples. “Its all down hill in another few steps. You want me to take that pack? I’m fresh.”
“No. I can make it”, he stubbornly replied. “But your company is appreciated.”
“I think Doug ought to row back”, Ed opined as we lay along the grassy shoreline.
“Me too”, Dan added. “Besides, I don’t want to be in that damn thing when bottom breaks loose. By the way, can you swim Doug?”
We had heard stories about overloaded rafts, stories of hunters loosing everything when the bottom split open, dumping the contents into the blue. The image haunted us - of rifles, equipment, and nine bags of meat sinking into the depths.
Doug wrinkled his nose. “That raft’s gonna hold”, he snorted. Just make sure we get the meat tied to the sides so all the weight isn’t on bottom.”
He climbed in, got positioned, and we handed items to him. He tied the meat to the sides, and laid the rest of the equipment on top, carefully balancing things. When all was ready, we shoved him off and started down the trail.
We trotted over the first part, following an animal trail that paralleled the shore. Doug leisurely paddled the raft a few feet off shore. The wind was to his back so he was getting pushed toward the cabin, casually dipping an oar now-and-then to maintain course. Ten minutes later we coast runners became mockingly resentful.
“Look at that jackass - like he’s on a Sunday afternoon excursion”, Dan audibly grumbled.
“Hey, you silly bastard, can’t you row in a straight line”, I added through megaphone hands.
Doug paused long enough to raise a war flag in our direction - his finger.
GO TO: Day 4, Part 10
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