I blink. I blink again, but longer than a blink.
Just long enough that the moisture on my lower eyelid and my upper eyelid freezes them together. I open my eyes and feel them rip apart with a pop. I look around, survey the bobbing heads in front of me and the snow white landscape around me.
My eyes close. Only four hours of sleep in the last two days, my body feels weightless. I hear only the soft slipping of the runners across the snow, the patter of dogs’ feet on the snow. The panting, panting, panting, pitter patter lullaby.
My sleep is broken by the sound of rushing, cracking, breaking. My boot scrapes hard pack snow, my knees strike ground, my body flattens, my eyes open quickly to see only my face smashing into the snow. The hard ice burns my cheeks. My body wakes before my brain and reaches for a handle that is no longer there. I lift my head to see the sled slipping away from me in the white. I see the thick black line of rope, pinned between my body and the snow. The rope slides easily away.
I reach for this lifeline…I grab hold and feel it cut into my thick wool mittens. Then I am aware of the burning in my hands. The rope slips past until I reach the large knot tied in the end of the rope. My body is suddenly jerked forward, like a sled at the end of a tether. My body swings wildly; out of instinct I spread my legs and right myself back onto my belly.
Pulled behind the sled on the anchor rope, I slide on my arms and stomach. I can hear someone screaming. They are yelling, “Whoa…whoa…stop!” I don’t know who is yelling. I know it’s not my voice. The disembodied voice is yelling, “Stop, Buster…stop!” I know better. Buster is the lead dog. He will not stop. He lives only to run. He would run himself to death if given the chance. Buster…he will be no help. Buster is just barely tame, a wolf with a collar.
My arms begin to hurt. My fingers stiffen as I struggle to hold on. I try to pull myself up the rope, closer to the sled. As my elbows dig into the hard-packed snow and ice, my right elbow strikes something and erupts in pain. Whatever I hit found its way through my parka and sliced cleanly through the skin.
And then I let go….
In that moment I can say that I know what it is like to give up on life…and let go.
Even though I let go, I find myself on my feet. As the sled slips further and further away I can hear the sounds of feet crunching on the snow added to the sound of someone screaming. I look down at my feet, surprised to find myself running.
I run. My breath hangs in the sky, clouds of frozen air behind me. I run until, despite the bitter cold, sweat pours down my forehead and mixes with the blood from my nose and the tears in my eyes, dripping into a pool around the collar of my parka.
With each passing moment the sled slips further away and my boots grow heavier until it is all I can do to lift one enough to clear the toe and take another step. My pace slows to a walk, then a shuffle.
That person isn’t screaming anymore, the voice gone hoarse.
I take a labored breath…the kind of breath a ten-year-old boy takes when he has fallen off his sled, and has been crying.
Everything begins to wander through my mind. Dad and Grandpa were ahead of me. Dad is on the snowmobile; he will probably not stop until he reaches the cabin. It is about midday now; he won’t stop for another eight hours. Grandpa’s behind him on the other sled. Grandpa never looks back to check if I’m ok.
I try to breathe, but the sobbing makes it hard.
I try to find a reason why Grandpa would stop and wait. I find none.
The tears rolling down my cheeks form icicles on my skin. I wipe the blood from my nose. It freezes on my mittens. I feel for my elbow, still numb from the shock, but I howl in pain and the tears increase.
I look around and see the wind is blowing. The kind of wind that covers tracks in hours. Dad will not realize I have fallen behind, not for hours. Maybe not until my sled cames in without me. I will lose the trail in a few hours, unable to tell where they have gone. At night without a fire I will starve to death and freeze, I tell myself. I look down the trail to see the last sign of my sled disappear in the distance, around a bend in the river. And then I am alone. Alone.
Ten-year-old boys don’t carry watches. I don’t know how long I walk. I walk long enough to realize that the only sound I can hear is my own footsteps and the sound of my crying. I walk long enough to realize that I am crying, and there is only me to hear it. Since there is no one to comfort me, and crying is not making me feel better, I decide to stop crying.
And I keep walking. I dig my hands into my pockets and survey the contents. The pocket knife Dad gave me on my eight birthday. A jar of lip balm Mom insisted I carry, a handful of candies Grandpa filled my pocket with that morning, and a few books of matches. I look around at the occasional dark green spruce poking up through the snow.
“Ok, so you can build a fire tonight; you might not freeze,” I tell myself.
I wipe the blood from my nose and pinch it just like Mom said. I throw my head back as I walk. I take a deep breath and try to calm the spasms in my chest. My head clears.
I can follow the trail until it is gone. I can stay in the river bed, out of the wind. If they don’t come looking for me tonight, before it gets dark, they will come in the morning. I can build a big fire and sleep under a tree. I have enough chocolate candy in my pocket to survive the night. Alone.
I break the icicles of blood and sweat from the collar of my coat and off my gloves. I hold my elbow and check to see how much it hurts. I straighten it and feel the pain shoot through my arm. I bite my lip and keep walking.
I follow the trail as it drops down and rounds a corner in the river. The stillness of the winter’s midday, the crunching of my boots on the icy snow accompany me. My mind begins to prepare, to plan, to think through the night. I begin to wrap my mind around the idea of being alone in the wilderness tonight.
The silence of my solo journey is shattered by a shrieking “Caa-Caaa!” from a nearby tree. I have traveled for so long in silence that the sound startles me.
I look across the frozen river to see a large black Raven perched atop a spruce tree. It caws again, then takes to flight. Speckles of snow crystals lift into the air as it spreads its wings. With two great beats it lifts up and then lands on a dead log not a few feet from me. It caws loudly again at me as it lands.
I look at the Raven. Its black eyes, ringed with tiny white feathers, the blackness of its feathers almost a haze of blue. My feeling of being alone, like magic, lifts. I stop and stare at him for a while. He turns his head, looking around. I feel as though he was talking to me. I take a step forward and reach for him.
In a flash of black he lifts again, beating his massive wings. I feel the air hit my face as he turns and flies down the river following the trail I am bound to take, and then, in just a second, he is gone.
I feel the urge to run after him but decide to save my strength. I walk just a short distance around a bend in the river and find my team. The sled tipped over on a corner. The team dragged it only a few more feet before the weight of the sled dug into the snow and anchored it there. The dogs, tangled in line, waiting patiently for me to untangle them, looking on, ready to run, as if nothing has happened.
Years passed and I often thought of that day. The day I gave up. The day I decided to stop crying. The day I met the Raven on the trail. I once told that story to an Alaska Native friend of mine. He said that the Raven was my totem, my spirit guide, that my life is forever tied to that dark trickster. He also said that was the day I became a man.
