Frozen Stiff (16 page)

In a shroud of confusion she wondered where they were taking Derek and why she wasn’t going. She must have thought aloud, since bits and pieces filtered in. “Not enough room in the helicopter … Don’t worry, he’s going to be okay … landing pad on the
hospital roof … another chopper on the way …” More than anything she wanted to be with her cousin.

Then an unmistakable cry: “Cody!”

She wrapped herself tightly with the sleeping bag, spilling hot coffee all over the place, realizing she was seated on the bow of her kayak, having been pulled ashore only moments before by these strangers.

Cody scanned the muddy airstrip for the voice, searching the faces milling around. Then the faces blurred into the background as her mother, bundled against the icy cold, came into focus, slogging through the heavy mud near a small plane with its propellers still spinning. And Patterson, bent over to shelter Mom from the raw wind. All the way from California.

Mom and Patterson pushed quickly through the crowd and pulled Cody into a hug, crying and soothing her. “Are you okay?” And, over and over again, “We love you!”

She tried to talk, to answer, to say, “I love you too,” but they hushed her, told her to save her strength, and hugged her even tighter. She mumbled, “I lost my cap. No Fear.” Then she heard Patterson laugh. How she loved his laugh! She’d missed him so much. She clung to them both, never wanting to let go.

She closed her eyes and remembered all of it from the moment they’d sneaked off with the old pickup to battling the icebergs, but mostly the early morning by the fire when Mary Jane had told her the story about the expedition on Denali. Cody touched her shells, making sure the necklace was still intact. It was.

Suddenly she knew he was there too. When she looked over her mother’s shoulder she wasn’t surprised to see her father. Huddled in a parka, the hood framing his moist eyes. Looking lost and scared and sad all at once. Something inside her said,
Go to him. Tell him it’s okay
.

Comfort him, at least. That’s what a caring person would do
.

She wanted to, tried to move even, but couldn’t.

Without looking at him she knew he was coming toward her. She sensed him moving slowly, as if he were treading on black ice. She felt him touch her braid, stroke her hair the way he used to.
Turn to him. You can let him hug you. Give him a break, Cody! It’s been three years!

They hugged in silence as ice tumbled into the water and spray erupted hundreds of feet in the air. Gulls swooped down to feed on brine shrimp swirling on the surface. A cloud drifted from the sun’s path long enough to bring shadows to life, illuminating brilliant shades of blue.

Still no one spoke.

All too soon the familiar sound of rotary blades buzzed over the glacier, overpowering both the sound of cracking ice and her thoughts.

Dad released her from the hug.

Cody stepped off the bow with Patterson’s help. “No Fear?” he said. “You didn’t lose it, Cody.”

Mom held her close as she tried to stand; Dad gathered the sleeping bag so that it wouldn’t drag in the mud.

It didn’t seem right that Derek wasn’t here with her. Then with one last look at Hubbard she smiled a farewell, feeling sad in a way she didn’t fully understand. She embraced the icy wind stinging her cheeks and took her first step in the mud soup toward the waiting helicopter.

In the summer of 1994, I joined a kayaking expedition in Russell Fjord Wilderness Area, at the northern tip of Southeast Alaska. The goal of our journey was to paddle the length of the fjord, reaching the largest tidewater glacier in North America: Hubbard Glacier.

The long daylight hours of Alaska’s summer coaxed us mile after mile down the windswept saltwater passage, cloaked in a constant drizzle. Evenings I huddled in my tent under the spell of the fjord’s geological and social history, devouring every bit of printed matter carried by our guides.

In the spring of 1986 one of Hubbard’s tributary glaciers began surging as much as 130 feet a day. The action spurred Hubbard into a rapid state of advancement, pushing a plug of mud and rock against the opposite shore. The mouth of the fjord was closed off, creating the world’s largest glacier-formed lake.

The idea for
Frozen Stiff
came at two in the morning when I was awakened by water seeping into my tent. I jokingly remarked, “Maybe Hubbard has surged again and Disenchantment Bay is blocked off. Maybe the water in the fjord is rising the way it did in 1986.” Back then, an eighty-foot layer of fresh water, an accumulation of rain, glacial melt, and rivers, floated atop the salt water. Fish, seals, and porpoises were trapped inside the newly formed lake.

I was quickly assured by our guide that our rising
water was caused by the high tide. But my mind was already spinning with
what if’
s. What if two kids had been kayaking in the fjord when Hubbard surged? What if they’d lost most of their food and supplies on the swelling water? What if no one knew they were there?

The dilapidated fishing hut in
Frozen Stiff
can still be seen in Russell Fjord, surrounded by native wildflowers and stately conifers. But the ice dam blocking Disenchantment Bay burst four months after it formed, sending more than 3.5 million cubic feet of outflow per second gushing from the fjord. The force was thirty-five times the flow of Niagara Falls, pouring out at thirty-five miles an hour.

Unlike Cody and Derek in the story, our group managed to complete the journey without flipping our kayaks. And while we did suffer from soggy clothes and swarms of mosquitoes, we never ran out of food. Nor did we encounter any mysterious strangers.