Cold Spell
Chapter 3
Eighteen-year-old Frank Hardy went to work as soon as Joe left. He needed something to keep his mind and body occupied and figured surviving just might be it.
Taking his cue from Joe's 'bowl,' Frank realized that the piece of aluminum that his brother shaped had come from the back of one of the seats. So hastily clambering back into the wreck, he pulled an identical looking piece out of the back of the seat he'd been sitting in.
He repressed a shudder as memories of the last few moments of the crash overwhelmed him. Swallowing hard, the older boy quickly left the plane.
He'd never felt so sure that they were going to die before in his life. The last thing he had remembered before passing out was hearing his brother cry out, and his last thought was…Ohmygod, I've killed us! No, the engine failure wasn't his fault, but he was the pilot so he held himself responsible! And that was another reason why he had wanted to be the one who faced the trek.
Frank had been shocked to open his eyes and realize that not only was he still alive, but so was Joe; bloodied, and frantic, but still very much alive!
Even through his blurry vision and almost blinding headache, it didn't escape Frank's notice, the intense look of relief that flooded Joe's face when he opened his eyes. And that was why he hid just how miserable he'd been feeling from his younger brother.
Even today, he still had the remnants of his killer headache, but it was getting better, and he'd had enough concussions in his life to know that while he'd had a bad smack, he wasn't concussed.
He didn't want Joe worrying about him, so he told his brother that he was fine, although he knew the younger boy didn't buy it. But that at least let them focus on their situation – and a dire one it was.
Gaining a new respect for Joe's handicraft as Frank realized how much work was involved with shaping this metal, he finally gave an approving nod at his own 'bowl.' This one he'd use for berries.
Although he was really hoping he'd find some other varieties then the ones Joe had picked. They weren't poisonous, but boy, were they sour. Frank's mouth twitched just thinking about them.
"And he had the nerve to complain about my willow," he groused aloud for nothing more than something to break the silence. He found the tundra to be a quiet place, all things considered.
Sure, he heard the soft, melodious voice of the white swans and the whistling of their powerful wings as they beat in flight above him; chirping nearby could be anything from lemmings to weasels…Frank wasn't that well versed in rodent noises to know; and the ground beneath his feet squished or crunched depending on where he stepped. However, it still seemed eerily quiet to the young sleuth.
"Man," he grumbled, "Joe's only been gone an hour and I'm already talking to myself." He paused and mused, "I really hope he doesn't have to go far to find that kit." Sighing, he turned back to the task at hand, picking berries and gathering more moss.
Putting his berry cache just inside the burrow and lowering the door flap, to keep any freeloaders from helping themselves, Frank spread the moss out on the rocks to try and dry it out a bit. He knew dry moss would burn better than damp.
He'd already decided to take a little trip to a fair sized pond to the south of them, in the hopes of finding a better fuel supply from the longer grasses that should be growing around it.
Frank knew that if he bundled or twisted the vegetation into a large, solid mass then he'd get a slower burning, better fire. Moss was good for smoke and starting it, but he'd really prefer to use some longer grass or other scrub vegetation.
Moss just didn't twist that well!
So making sure his whistle was safely in his pocket and pulling his collar up against the incessant wind, Frank headed away from camp. He wasn't in a particular hurry, figuring it'd be late before Joe got back. And it wasn't like it was going to be getting dark for a while…weeks anyway, and Frank had no intention of being here when it did!
As he walked, his keen eyes kept a look out for anything else they could use as a food source. They really needed some sort of fish or meat, or else they'd quickly weaken, even on a diet of vegetation.
Although he was keeping his hopes up for a quick rescue, Frank refused to risk their survival on that – no, they needed to hope for the best but prepare for the worst.
Last year in geography they had spent some time talking about the arctic tundra; however, nothing he could remember helped them now! Especially about living food choices!
While he and Joe had numerable skills, neither of them were hunters, so the chance of taking down a caribou or musk ox – particularly without any weapon of any sorts – was nil.
He supposed if they came across a carcass, they might be able to scare off scavengers enough to take some meat, but that thought was even more unappetizing than Joe's berries. Things had not gotten that bad, yet!
Lemmings were reputed to be in abundance, but so far Frank had seen nothing to substantiate that. And even if it was true, again he had nothing catch them with.
Lemmings, hares and birds…supposedly plentiful in the land of the midnight sun, but Frank would need a snare of some sort if he had any hopes of adding them to the menu.
"Something to think about later," he decided as he stooped down to pick a handful of small, raspberry-like salmon-colored berries; he did remember them from the geography class because Callie Shaw, his long time girlfriend and fellow student in that class, kept commenting on how cute they were – for a berry!
"Hmmm..." he mused after eating the salmonberries, "Not bad."
Continuing on his way, he speculated about the pond. Although the landscape was speckled with many smaller ones, this one was the largest by far, and held out the most hope for the teen.
"There's got to be trout in that pond," Frank muttered as he walked. "I mean, this is this arctic; legend has it that this is the place where men are men, and fish are everywhere!"
He rubbed his hands together. "The problem is how to get the fish out of the pond and onto my dinner plate. Okay I don't exactly have a dinner plate, yet, but you know what I mean.
"I could try spear fishing, I guess, but I need to find something sharp enough to use as a spear first. I don't want to risk losing my knife. But if…I mean when…Joe gets back with the survival kit, it should have some sort of fishing twine and at least one hook in it—"
And then he stopped and shook his head. "Frank my friend, you are losing it. Exactly who are you talking to?"
And then he started to laugh as he thought about his brother.
"If Joe hears me, he's bound to be buying me my own soccer ball!" he quipped as he thought about the movie Castaway.
He was still chuckling at that thought five minutes later when he got near enough to the pond to see that it was lined with thick, tall cotton grass, and more willow.
Making his way to the pond's edge, he peered into the crystal cold waters and shivered at the distorted reflection peering back. The wind chopped the water too much to tell if there was an abundance of fish or not.
"I've only been here for twenty-four hours," he commented, running a hand across his face, "and I'm already beginning to look like the madman of the north!"
Grinning, he became serious as he looked around at the vegetation and sighed. The cotton grass wouldn't be much better to burn than the moss, but at least they had a good supply of arctic willow.
And then he started to laugh, a chuckle at first, but then he was doubled over, howling. "I can't believe it…" he roared as the tears rolled down his mirthful face, "willow is wood! Oh my God, Joe was right….I'm not thinking right at all!"
The arctic willow was a tree…a small one, but a tree nevertheless!
Frank shook his head in disbelief! Joe had even tossed the bark he'd peeled from their 'breakfast' into the fire, and it hadn't dawned on him!
"Oh brother," he said, wiping his eyes and gaining control of himself, "wait until I tell Joe. He's never going to let me live this down….I'm the one who's supposed to think up this kind of stuff!"
Thinking of his brother made him look back down at his watch and sigh. Joe had been gone almost four hours now, and he wondered how he was making out.
The wind was starting to pick up again, and Frank hoped his brother was back before it got much worse.
Taking out his pocket knife, he began hacking off longer pieces of willow to take back with him. He figured the cotton grass might be useful to help bundle it if he didn't make the bundles too big.
An hour later, he was satisfied with his cache and decided to head back to camp.
Unbeknownst to him, he was being watched….