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Back 3 a.m.
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  67. 3:46 a.m.

There is no haven, no tree, no bush, nowhere to hide from the torrential downpour. It makes fishing impossible. It makes foraging nearly as difficult and we go a full day without food.

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July 3rd

Sunrise 3:32 a.m.

The rains wreaked havoc on the trees and bushes, and most of the fruit Opik finds is either in pieces or smashed beyond recognition. And with the rivers running so high and murky from the downpour, Opik is unable to catch a single fish.

The lack of protein is taking its toll. I can count every one of my ribs. When I run my fingers over them, across the rivulets, it makes a sound. I can wrap my fingers around my forearm and nearly touch them. My sweatpants are tied as snugly as possible, yet they repeatedly fall down as I run. After eleven days in the Alaskan wilderness, I’ve lost more than fifteen pounds.

We’d passed where the Tanana empties into the Yukon as we’d trudged through the rain the previous day. It was easy to see how we missed it as the brush was considerably thick for a long stretch, shielding the “Y” in the river.

As for the Yukon, it was still running high from the rain, but it had receded by half, and we were able to return to the sanctity and speed the sandbar offered.

Lassie is tucked in my arm and Opik sprints just behind me. I keep my eyes locked ahead as we run, waiting for the three rocks and the canoe to climb over the horizon.

At 3:40 a.m., the first rays of sun peek over the mountains.

A mile later, I stop.

“There they are!” I yell, pointing with the paddle at the three black rocks around the bend.

But I soon realize it is only the rocks.

The canoe is gone.

::::

“The river swept it away,” I utter. “The river swept it away.”

The river laps fifteen feet below the rocks. At the peak of the torrential downpour it could have easily risen to where the canoe was leaned up against the rock. I suppose I should have foreseen it as a possibility, but I hadn’t. I was blindsided by unbridled optimism.

Opik is perched on the rock where I rested the canoe nearly two weeks earlier. I wonder what he is thinking. Is he thinking what I’m thinking, that we are back where we started? That we are a hundred miles from Fairbanks? That if we’d gone in the right direction from the start we would be nearly halfway home. Or is he thinking about the Indian settlement that is a hundred and forty miles downriver?

I take out the map and unfold it.

Downstream or upstream?

A minute later, I grab a stick and I etch a message in the sand.

Stranded. July 3rd. Headed downstream. Henry Bins, Lassie the Cat, and Opik the Eskimo.

When I finish, I say, “Let’s go.”

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