Bygone Tails

The brisk night wind cut through the tall pines, whistling the haunting call of this lonely harsh environment,— deep in Alaska’s interior. Trees cracked and groaned under the stress as the relentless song wavered up and down its random melody, with each gust followed by a subtle lull in nature’s remote symphony.

Joshua pulled an oiled leather glove from his right hand and unbuttoned a deep pocket pouch to retrieve a piece of dried moose jerky as he studied the cloudy sky. Tonight’s storm would dump a few more inches of dry powder and possibly make travel even more difficult as he chewed the tough spiced foodstuffs. It was time for him to make a decision.

The restless pack of sled dogs whimpered and whined at the unwanted pause as Joshua replaced his glove, but continued to gnaw on the meat, unconcerned at his animal’s anticipation. They had been acting unusual for the last couple of hours, but the man guessed they knew they were almost home. He was a day ahead of schedule as this week’s hunt proved less than successful, but he was in no hurry to return empty handed. He considered heading to a small lake just a little north of his position as an icy breeze cut through his leather parka around his unbuttoned neck strap. Shifting his hand to fix the nuisance the lead dog began to bark defensively at something to the right, followed by the entire pack voicing defiance. Joshua pulled his rifle from its boot and cocked the weapon. He had run across Kodiaks before, but in the past, they had never made a direct confrontation with a pack of sled dogs putting up such a fuss.

Squinting he tried to see the antagonist, but could discern nothing when an unusual roar erupted from his left. Turning at the new disturbance, Joshua raised his rifle and fired at the sound hoping to scare the intruders away; but a screaming howl resounded behind him and the man knew he was surrounded by something out of his experience. Re-cocking the repeater, he then placed his left hand on the sled and yelled, “Mush!”

The lead dog spurred to the command and the sled charged forward as Joshua ran for a short spurt then stepped onto the back while looking behind. To his chagrin he could see three dark shadows moving through the trees behind and too the side of him. It was too dark to determine what the animals where, but the gait of the foremost creature didn’t appear to be a bear. Besides, bears don’t normally travel and hunt in packs.

“Mush!” The man shouted again as he hopped off the back of the sled and ran to quicken the pace.

Joshua again looked back. The lead creature behind was keeping pace.

“What the hell?” Joshua barked as he hopped again to his ride, and looked back. “The damn things are playing with me.”

The man slid his rifle back in its boot, pulled a side arm from his belt, and aimed at the foremost creature. The pistol fired: once, twice, three time at his antagonists; but the motion of the sled defied accuracy and the noise had no effect. Joshua cursed and holstered the weapon.

Breaking through the woods the trail left the trees and continued out over a white blanket of icy tundra. The minimal light of the night sky reflected of the crystalline landscape and removed some of the barriers to sight as the man looked again over his shoulder while running behind the sled. To his amazement, they appeared to be cats,— huge cats — as large as a bear.

I thought tigers roamed the Siberian north,— not here:— “Not in Alaska.” Did tigers hunt in packs? He considered the thought. Could they have migrated here? Joshua gave a desperate look over his shoulder as the sled topped a tall drift. His adversaries appeared to be following at a leisurely pace, not gaining nor falling behind. They were just going to exhaust their quarry then attack. He had seen wolves use the same approach often when hunting caribou. A pack would separate an old or sick animal, and then take turns chasing it until it was exhausted.

The sled went airborne at the pinnacle of a drift and flopped with a muffled thud in the powder under the frozen wave, like a boat cresting a white top on a stormy sea. Joshua jumped off the back and dragged his feet to keep from going over the dogs bogged down in the soft drift. Turning the sled the man called to the team and began a course parallel with the tree line. The dogs were unnervingly quite as they followed the lead dog almost as if in fear of their plight.

Joshua pulled his knife and slit the ropes holding his cargo, consisting of skins from the week’s trapping and foodstuffs. The hindquarters of a young caribou shot earlier in the week to feed the team rolled from the sled; it came to rest as the dogs with renewed energy pulled free of the soft drift, and jerked the sled to even greater speed. Joshua again looked behind as he increased his distanced from the contoured wind swept hill.

“If you’re just hungry try some caribou!” He shouted back at his antagonist; but to his chagrin, the lead cat ran right by the cache. “What the hell?” For the first time in his life, Joshua was fearful he was going to die. Animals hunt for food and he had, in essence, just dropped dinner in their laps; but apparently, they were more interested in desert. The more he thought about it the less he like the thought of, Joshua kibble on the damned tabbys' food buffet. "You're going to have to work for it!"—— “Mush!”

The wind picked up on the open terrain and Joshua knew out in the open the pack behind would eventually wear his team down then attack. "Shit!"— Out running them bitches is going to be a problem; as they matched his progress in a steady pace over the miles of tundra and the intermitted powder, dropped in pockets by the wind, which bogged down the sled and the dogs for short intervals allowing his adversaries small gains.

The cats bounded over the soft drifts with ease. Ahead and to the left, the dark shadows of a northern tree line broke the endless field of white and marked the borders of a large river twenty miles southwest from Joshua’s cabin. He was five miles off course from home and thirty miles from a small village and trading post to the northwest where he did most of his trade. The river would be heavily ice this time of year and more than likely, wind swept,— making travel easier; but the dogs would need to stop for a rest long before he could reach the village. His cabin was closer, but the terrain would be more difficult. Joshua made a life and death decision as he veered the team west,— heading for the river.