CHAPTER ELEVEN

Off to Hunt Kodiak Bears

At quarter after twelve the Norseman put down on the outskirts of Cordova, and the three geologists disembarked along with Tagish Charley.

“You’ll be in Kodiak before dark,” Dr. Steele told the boys before he left them. “The pilot will radio ahead so Professor Stern can be on hand to meet you when you land. Be sure and bring us back a bearskin.”

“We will,” Sandy promised. “And we’ll see you back here on the third of January.”

“Goodbye, Doctor,” Jerry said. “And Happy New Year.”

“Thank you, Jerry, and the same to you.” Dr. Steele winked. “Don’t eat too much _muk-tuk_.”

As soon as the plane was refueled, they took off again. When Jerry began to nod drowsily, Sandy went up front and sat down in the copilot’s seat.

Russell Parker, the pilot, was a chunky, gray-haired man in his late forties, a veteran of the World War II Air Corps. “I was stationed in the Aleutians for four years,” he told Sandy. “The place sort of grew on me. There was this girl in Anchorage, too. Well, as soon as the war was over we were married, and I decided to settle here permanently. I had no family ties back in the States, so the transition was easy.” He smiled. “You might say I found a home here.”

“And you’ve been a bush pilot ever since?” Sandy said. “Boy, that must be an exciting life.”

“Well, I wouldn’t call it exciting exactly. A little romantic maybe—everything about _Alashka_ is romantic.”

“_Alashka?_” Sandy looked puzzled. “I notice you always say it that way.”

“It’s an ancient Aleutian term. Means the ‘big land.’”

“It’s big all right,” Sandy said, glancing out of the cockpit window. Below the plane, twin mountain peaks reached up through the wispy clouds. Cupped in the valley between them lay a gigantic glacier whose front was a solid wall of ice ten miles across and as high as a fifteen-story building.

“That’s why there are plenty of jobs for bush pilots,” Parker explained. “We’re like taxi drivers back in the States. To get around in the big land you have to take giant steps. A quick trip to the city may mean a hop of a hundred miles or more. You should see Lake Hood on a Saturday morning in the summer—that’s in Anchorage, my home town. Hundreds of little planes.”

“It looks like a supermarket parking lot,” Sandy finished the thought for him. “Professor Crowell told us.”

“It’s worse. More like Times Square in New York.”

“But since so many people up here have their own planes, doesn’t it cut down on your jobs?” Sandy wanted to know.

“Not really. Most of the amateurs are pretty cautious, as they should be. They’ll only fly in perfect weather, and stick to the safe air routes. When there’s a tough job to be done in a hurry, they call on a bush pilot. I’ve carried everything from heavy machinery to medical supplies. I’ve been a flying ambulance, too; I don’t know how many lives I’ve helped to save in the back country.”

“Do you often get assignments like this one?” Sandy asked.

“I’ve flown my share of VIPs, but mostly it’s a job for military pilots.”

“You consider my dad and Professor Crowell VIPs?”

“I got that impression,” Parker said guardedly. He was about to add something else when a burst of static from the radio diverted his attention. “Tower at Anchorage calling us,” he told Sandy, adjusting his earphones. He listened, then flipped the switch over to transmit. “N-140 to Anchorage ... Read you clear ... Climbing to 12,000 feet ... Over and out.” He flipped the switch and reported to Sandy. “We’re climbing another 4,000 feet. We’re heading into a snow squall off Kodiak, moving northeast.”

Jerry awoke from his nap and came up front to join them. “You guys hungry? I’m going to break out the sandwiches.”

Sandy laughed. “Is eating all you ever think about?”

Jerry flicked Sandy’s cowlick with one finger. “Especially when I ride in airplanes. I have to keep my stomach weighted down so it won’t do flip-flops.”

“Okay, I’ll join you,” Sandy agreed. “How about you, Mr. Parker?”

“I’ll wait awhile,” the pilot declined. “Soon as we level off at 12,000, I’ll set her on automatic pilot.”

The boys walked back to their seats and opened the lunchbox the hotel had prepared for them that morning.

“I was just thinking,” Jerry said, chewing on a chicken leg, “we haven’t seen anything of those characters who took pot shots at us for a few days now. Think they’ve given up?”

Sandy’s brow furrowed in anxiety. “I don’t know, Jerry. From what we know of them, they don’t seem to be the kind who give up so easily. They’ve been after the professor for months now. Maybe we should have stayed with them back at Cordova.”

“Aw, what could happen to them in Cordova? Those birds wouldn’t try anything in the middle of a big town like that.”

Sandy nibbled at his sandwich without relish. “I suppose not. But Dad and the professor are going to be out poking around some old abandoned mine sites.”

The discussion ended when Parker called back, “I’m ready for that sandwich now. And a cup of coffee if you don’t mind. Black, no sugar.”

“I’ll take it up to him,” Jerry said.

It was still bright daylight in the air when they sighted Kodiak, but the island and the sea around it were shrouded in purple dusk. Lights began to twinkle on below as they circled the city of Kodiak, losing altitude. Towering prominently over the other low buildings were a pair of onion-shaped domes.

“What’s that?” Sandy asked Parker. “They look almost Turkish.”

“The Russian Orthodox church,” the pilot said. “Remember, the Russians founded Kodiak.”

“How did those Russians ever get way over here?” Jerry wanted to know.

“Boy, are you dumb!” Sandy said. “On the west side only a thin strip of water separates Alaska from Russia. The Bering Strait is only about forty miles wide.”

Parker nodded. “In the winter you can cross it on a sled.”

That thought seemed to sober Jerry.

Parker touched the Norseman down gently on its skis and reversed the propeller to brake their slide. As they climbed out of the plane, the figure of a man emerged out of the glare of the landing lights. Clad in fur trousers, fur hood and fur parka, he looked like an Eskimo. But as he approached, Sandy could make out a small clipped mustache and rimless eyeglasses.

“Welcome to Kodiak,” he greeted them. “You must be Dr. Steele’s son.” He held out his hand.

“Yes, sir.” Sandy smiled. “I’m Sandy.”

“I’m Kenneth Stern.”

Sandy performed introductions all around. It turned out that Parker and the young university teacher were friends. “My wife took some courses with Professor Stern,” the pilot explained.

Stern clapped his fur mittens together. “I have my jeep parked over at the edge of the field. Let’s get back to the lodge. Dora—that’s my wife—has a big bear roast in the oven. I imagine you fellows are pretty hungry.”

“You go ahead,” Parker said. “I want to make sure they put my baby safely to bed. I’ll hitch a ride to your camp.”

“All right, Russ,” Stern said. “We’ll hold supper for you.”

“What’s he got to do?” Jerry inquired as they walked through the crunchy snow to the jeep, which was almost hidden by the great cloud of smoke that was pouring out of the exhaust.

“He wants to make sure the crankcase gets drained,” Stern said. “You really do have to treat machinery as if it were a baby in cold like this. That’s why I left the jeep running. It could freeze up in a few minutes.”

As they drove through the town of Kodiak, the boys were fascinated by the atmosphere. The cultures of three centuries and varied races were blended startlingly but not offensively.

“It’s like being on a Hollywood sound stage where the sets are all mixed up,” Sandy said breathlessly.

“Mostly, it reminds me of the Old West,” Jerry said. “Dodge City. I almost expect to see Wyatt Earp come striding down the middle of the street with his hands on his six-guns.”

Professor Stern laughed. “That’s an apt description, Jerry. This is the twentieth-century American frontier in a sense. It’s only fitting that the characteristics of the frontier should predominate.”

The hunting lodge was a sprawling two-story log building about a mile outside of Kodiak, with a wide porch running around it on three sides. Lights blazed warmly from its windows as they pulled in the drive and bumped along to a big barn at the back of the house.

“Four other teachers and myself own it jointly,” Stern explained. “We bought it about ten years ago as a summer place. The fact is, we’ve been using it just as much in the winter as a hunting lodge.”

“Did I understand you to say we were having bear roast for supper, Professor?” Jerry inquired politely.

“Yes. You’re not squeamish about eating it, are you?”

“Uh, no!” Jerry assured him. “After some of the things I’ve been eating since I came to Alaska, bear sounds like steak to me.”

“It’s better,” Stern told him. “You wait and see.”

“Did you shoot the bear, sir?” Sandy asked.

“No, we haven’t been out yet. This is a piece of meat we’ve had in the freezer since last year.”

Jerry laughed. “You’re kidding. What do you need a freezer for up here?”

“That’s where you’re wrong, young fellow. It so happens that the old joke about selling ice-boxes to Eskimos isn’t such a joke any more. During the war, the Army discovered it was a lot more practical to keep food in freezers than it was to stow it in a shed outside. You see, the temperature drops to sixty and seventy below zero some nights in this country. That’s about forty to fifty degrees lower than the coldest deep freeze. At that temperature food takes hours to thaw out. In the freezer, it keeps just right.”

Jerry shook his head. “Can you beat that! Next thing you know, the Arabs on the Sahara desert will be turning to steam heat.”

They followed Stern along a path to the back door of the lodge. Mrs. Stern, a young woman in ski pants and sweater, was in the kitchen basting the roast when they came in. “Supper will be another hour yet,” she apologized. “I hope you boys can hold out.”

“That’s good,” Stern said. “Russ Parker will be along later.” He turned to the boys. “Come on inside and meet Chris Hanson and his wife. They’ll be spending a few days with us too.”

“Chris Hanson?” Sandy repeated it thoughtfully. “There used to be an All-American tackle by that name.”

Stern grinned. “That’s our boy. He’s an athletic coach at the university.”

“Say, that’s great!” Jerry exclaimed. “Chris was the best.” Self-importantly, he added, “As a matter of fact we have a lot in common. I expect to make All-American tackle myself some day.”

Sandy smirked and dug his fist playfully into Jerry’s midsection. “You get any fatter, you won’t be able to bend down to flip the ball.”

Chris Hanson was a brawny man who made even a six-footer like Sandy Steele feel like a little boy. He reminded Sandy of the paintings of fierce Vikings he had seen in grade-school history books, though his blond hair was a bit thin on top. His wife was a small, thin woman who sat as close to the fire as possible, despite the fact that she was bundled up in sweaters. The Hansons were just finishing a game of Scrabble when the boys arrived.

“I’m a Georgia girl, you know,” Mrs. Hanson said in a marked Southern accent. “And I don’t believe I’ll ever get used to this climate.”

“We have a friend who would sympathize with you,” Sandy told her. “Lou Mayer, my father’s assistant.”

Chris grinned devilishly. “Oh sure, we met Lou when your dad came up to Fairbanks. Took him skiing once. I don’t think he likes me very much.”

While they waited for supper to be served, the boys coaxed Chris to reminisce about some of his big gridiron games. Hungry as they were, it was an unwelcome interruption when Mrs. Stern announced: “Chow’s on the table.”

There were seven people at the table—including Russ Parker, who arrived just as they were sitting down—and among them they picked an eight-pound sirloin bear steak clean.

Jerry swabbed his plate clean with a crust of bread. “That was delicious, Mrs. Stern.”

“That’s an understatement,” Sandy said, “considering that you had three portions.”

“I know I made a hog of myself,” Jerry admitted. “But when I bag one of those big Kodiaks tomorrow, you can fill up your freezer with steaks.”

Mrs. Stern smiled. “That’s very thoughtful of you, Jerry.”

Chris Hanson looked amused. “You ever done any hunting before, Jerry?”

“No, but I’m on the high-school rifle team back home.”

Sandy winked at Chris. “He’s the guy they’re talking about when they say, ‘He couldn’t hit the side of a barn.’”

Jerry reddened as everyone laughed, and glared at Sandy. “I suppose you think you’re Davy Crockett?”

“Seriously, though,” Professor Stern interjected, “a bear hunt can be very dangerous. Some of these brutes on Kodiak are virtually indestructible. And when they’re wounded—well, just watch out. There’s an old saying among hunters that you’ve got to kill a Kodiak with your first shot, or you never will kill him. I’ve heard men who have stalked lions, tigers—all kinds of big game—concede that a Kodiak is the most fearsome of all beasts.”

“On second thought,” Jerry said gravely, “maybe I’ll just stay back here and play Scrabble with the ladies.”

After supper the boys cornered Chris Hanson again and discussed football and other sports. At ten o’clock, Professor Stern drove Russ Parker into town.

“Some of the boys invited me to a party at the airport,” Russ explained. “I hate to run away like this, but my brother-in-law is going to be there. I haven’t seen him in a while. He’s in the service, stationed in the Aleutians.”

“That’s perfectly all right,” Mrs. Stern said.

“You don’t fool us, Russ,” Chris Hanson kidded him. “You just want to sneak out of that bear hunt tomorrow.”

Parker snorted. “You aren’t going to drag me off after any bears. Not unless I can hunt them from the air.”

“When are we going back to Cordova, Mr. Parker?” Sandy asked him.

“I figure you can have a couple of days of hunting. The professor expects us back on the third of January.”

Professor Stern asked the boys whether they wanted to ride into town with him and see how the Kodiakans celebrated the New Year, but they declined.

“We heard they had some pretty wild times up here,” Jerry said. “But the way I feel, the only thing that would look good to me is a soft, warm bed.”

And by twelve o’clock they were in bed. “I wonder what the gang is doing back in Valley View,” Jerry sighed as they lay in the dark listening to the sound of foghorns in St. Paul’s harbor blending with church bells and firecrackers in distant Kodiak.

“You can bet they’re not planning to go bear hunting at six in the morning,” Sandy answered sleepily.