Never Say Die by Will Hobbs Read Free Book Online Page B

of big-racked caribou bulls. There were maybe a hundred of them, headed north on their way down a rocky slope. The sight of them had my hunter’s heart racing. Mature bulls make their own migration north weeks after the cow caribou head for the calving grounds. The bulls are both lazy and smart. They wait until the snow melts and the traveling gets easier. They catch up with the herd in their own good time.
    Minutes short of the Alaska border, we came in sight of a major river valley cutting north through the British Mountains, which seemed to run in rows from east to west. “There’s your Firth River, boys,” Red Wiley announced.
    Red circled around and zeroed in on the upper valley of the Firth River. At the last, it felt like the ground was flying up. We bounced hard on the dry tundra only a couple hundred feet from the river. A couple more bounces on the Otter’s balloon tires, and we were down on dry land.
    The day was hot, sunny, windless, and muggy—ideal conditions if you’re a mosquito. I was barely out of the airplane and they were on me, frantic for a blood meal. I hit the ground wearing my new bug shirt with the hood up and the mosquito netting zipped shut across my neck. My Carhartt jeans were bug-proof as well. All those mozzies could do was whine.
    Above me at the side door, Ryan began to hand the gear down. I shuttled the gear well clear of the airplane and returned for the next load fast as I could.
    Red got out of the airplane “to see a man about a horse,” as he put it. When he got back he told us that this exact spot was where all the Firth River trips launched, and today, June 15, was the traditional opening day. The Arctic River Company out of Whitehorse had always launched the first of their three trips on this date. They weren’t running the Firth at all this summer, on account of the bad economy. Only enough people to fill one trip had signed up. The company didn’t make any money unless they ran all three.
    â€œThere’s a chance you’ll be seeing a man and his wife from Montana,” Red told us. “I’m scheduled to fly them in here nine days from now. Whether they actually show up … a lot of times the private parties don’t.”
    It hit me how little I knew about what I was in for. There wasn’t going to be a single human being within two hundred miles of us. Being out on the land with Jonah was one thing. Being out on the land with Ryan for three weeks or more was totally a leap of faith.
    â€œI’ve never had a party stay out near as long as you’re talking about,” Red said to Ryan.
    â€œWildlife photography takes nothing but time.”
    â€œSure, but I’m not good with waiting to hear from you. Your sat phone might go on the fritz or get dropped in the river. Give me a date and time of day, weather permitting, for picking you up at Nunaluk Spit.”
    â€œOkay, sure,” Ryan said. “We’ll look for you at ten a.m. on July fifteenth on the Nunaluk Spit.”
    I fought the urge to climb back into that plane and fly home. A couple minutes later our pilot revved his engines and leaned out his cockpit window to give us a salute. Ryan took pictures as the bush plane rumbled down the tundra on those big balloon tires.
    The Otter took off effortlessly, almost jumping into the air. We watched until it disappeared over the mountain. Then we turned to hauling the gear to the shore of the crystal-clear river. I scanned the valley and eyed the mountains all around. Without my rifle, I had never felt so small.
    A short walk downstream from where Ryan was pumping up the raft, I came across huge tracks in the mud, unmistakably grizzly. “Hey, Ryan,” I called. “Come check this out.”
    Ryan thought they were the best grizzly tracks he had ever seen. He was all excited about taking pictures, but he read my thought balloon, and said, “We’ll keep our bear protection close at