Introduction:
This tale I spin is a hearkening back — back to the oil boom in Alaska some four decades past. While some who read this may remember those times, but many have come into this world in these past many years who will not. Since this is a Valentine contest entry, and I know you'll be wanting to read many of them; I've kept this one shorter, four and half pages is a pretty close guess. Thus, humor me awhile and I'll set the stage a bit before we begin our journey:
There was a certain excitement in the air. Times were good, the USA was in a time between major military conflicts overseas. The singer-songwriter John Denver was touring and his songs about Alaska fueled new dreams of going north in more than a few — Go north young man — Go north young lass. The singer-songwriter Country Joe McDonald was also touring the country and sharing his songs composed from the poems of Robert W. Service. Those poems had been published in the earliest years of the 20th century. Putting some of them into songs further fueled the growing awareness of the Yukon and beyond. Such were the times when this Valentine's Day story takes place. A time of good wages, the opening of a new frontier in Alaska's untouched far north ... also the opening of land for homesteading that made it possible to live the call of the wild for many modern day adventurers. It was a time of hope and excitement for many a pilgrim who joined in the rush north. It should go without saying, but I'll say it anyway; this story is one-hundred percent fiction ... but it would have been possible.
With the words of Robert W. Service below, I've dropped a very small snippet — eight lines of a total of fifty-six lines — of his rhyme for you to find. These words put into verse —the spell of the curse — that lures both the worst and the fine — to go, go North to the call of something old — yes, something old and free and untamed. Robert Service once lived just a bit to the east in the Yukon Territory of Canada from where this adventure takes place. The boom in his day was fueled by gold instead of oil. I think these eight lines below written by Service paint a good mental image to start this story with. If you enjoy poetry, I encourage you to read Service's works.
So, here's to hoping you like this yarn I've spun ... it's my Valentine gift to you all ~ yukonnights.
***
From the poem; 'The Spell Of The Yukon', by Robert W. Service (born Jan. 16, 1874 / died Sept. 11 1958)
...There's a land where the mountains are nameless;
And the rivers all run God knows where,
There are lives that are erring and aimless,
And deaths that just hang by a hair;
There are hardships that nobody reckons;
There are valleys unpeopled and still;
There's a land — oh, it beckons and beckons,
And I want to go back — and I will ...
*****
One Day Before Valentine's Day — Sunday February 13,1983. Taylor Highway between Jack Wade and Chicken Alaska
The storm is unfolding to be even more severe than they forecast. The snow alone is enough to make it hard to see — the wind blowing sideways across the road makes it difficult — the darkness makes it almost impossible. I turn up the volume on the cassette stereo, John Denver adds a soothing touch to the dreary weather. "Fucking weatherman — why do I even listen to them anymore?" At this rate, I'll be lucky if I make it to Chicken. Good chance I won't be making it all the way out to home tonight. If I can't make it to Chicken ... don't go there Ethan. Worst comes to worst, I can always hike through and break in one of the cabins and apologize later ... if I can get close enough. Carter will understand it was life or death. Maybe best to just sit it out in the truck and start it up every once in a while to keep it and me warm enough. I think I'll make it though — if it weren't for the damn drifts in the lea of the road cuts that flatten out the many little ups and downs. Been better to just leave the hills to be hills, at least the snow would have somewhere else to blow to.
I grab a piece of candy from the heart shaped box I bought in town. Should of bought two at the price — last day before Valentines, they looked kinda sad sit'n there all alone ... sorta like me. I should probably be talking to old man cupid today about maybe cut'n me a break — who am I kidding? No woman in her right mind would want to be out here living like I do — right now, I sorta wish I wasn't out here myself. Just hope I can make it all the way back home and take care of the dogs — and sit this one out by the stove — "What the fuck!"
The truck slides at my abrupt swerve, skidding to the left as I try to get clear of the dark blur in the middle of the road. Missing it by just enough, I punch the gas and the four-wheel drive helps the tires dig in and pull me back up onto the roadbed and into control — but now I have to stop and see who this idiot is and what in the world he's doing out here walking in this weather. I'm pretty sure it was a person. As I sit a moment to gather my wits and let my nerves settle, I rummage in the survival bag and grab the flashlight, put my pistol closer to hand, take a moment to glance at the thermometer screwed onto the rim of the inside of the truck's bed just behind the cab — eight above zero. This wind easily takes that down past zero with the windchill. I back up a ways and stop. Grabbing my heavy parka, I pull on my gloves, put the gun in my coat pocket and step out into the wind blown snow. It's just fuck'n creepy out here — can't hardly see shit. Shining my light back down the road, I can't see anyone. "Hello! ... Hey, where are you?" I know I didn't hit him — or it. I slow trot back down the road looking for anything unusual in the dark.
