COASTING UP HILL
At very nearly that same hour a blue and gray airplane rose from the
frozen sea near Anchorage. Its passengers were only two, a dark-eyed,
animated girl, and a stolid little Eskimo man. At the controls was Speed
Samson. You will not need a second guess as to who the passengers were,
nor the nature of the cargo they carried. Little Miss Santa Claus, who in
real life was Mary Hughes, had her pack securely stowed away in the
baggage compartment of the plane. She was on her way.
Two hours later she found herself drawing her mackinaw closely about her.
It was cold in the small cabin of their airplane, stinging cold. How high
were they in air? She did not know. How far north were they? She did not
know. She was not thinking of that so much, but of the whole strange
adventure.
It had taken courage to say “yes” at last. The postmaster in Anchorage
had listened to their story with interest, but he hesitated to give his
consent to their airplane delivery of the packages of Christmas presents
to Cape Prince of Wales. “It is quite irregular,” he had said, “and you
might never get there. It’s a great white world you are going into. There
are few landing fields.”
“That is true,” Speed had agreed. “However, I’ve never yet taken off for
any destination and failed to arrive.”
“And besides,” Mary had put in, “if we don’t take their presents, they
won’t arrive until Fourth of July, when the boats come. And what’s the
good of Christmas presents on the Fourth of July?”
“What indeed?” the gray-haired postmaster had smiled. Finally he
surrendered and gave his consent.
“And now—” Mary’s brow wrinkled as her eyes took in the gathering gray
around them. “Now it is going to snow and we—” She did not finish.
Yes, they must land. But how? Where? Suddenly, seeming close enough to be
touched, a mountain loomed before them.
With a wild whirl that took her breath, the airplane swung about to go
speeding along the side of that jagged ridge.
“It—it’s beautiful—and terrible!” she whispered as she sat up to stare
out of the window.
Ah, yes, it was all of that. Here was a wall towering and smooth like the
side of a sky-scraper, and there a black shaft of rock rising like a
church spire, and here a shining river that, as their eyes became
accustomed to it, turned into a broad glacier.
“The snow is falling faster. Where can we land? And if we can’t land?”
Terror gripped the girl’s heart.
Of a sudden the plane once again swooped downward. She caught her breath.
What had happened? Was their supply of gas running low? Were they to make
a forced landing? Or had Speed’s keen eye discovered some hidden valley
offering a safe landing? She was soon enough to know.
Directly beneath them there appeared a broad stretch of white.
“A valley!” The girl heaved a sigh of relief.
The plane circled. She was glad they were to land now, for in the last
two hours they had made good progress. She was hungry. Soon they would be
brewing hot cocoa on the little gas stove, heating canned meat and
searching out big round crackers. They—
Once again her thoughts broke off. The plane had bumped. There was
something strange about that bump, too solid or something.
Bump-bump-bump, each bump was stranger than the last.
But now she sighed with relief, for the plane was coming to a standstill.
Slow—slow, slower, stop.
She was preparing to open the door, when with a little cry of dismay she
fell back among the blankets. A terrible thing was happening, the plane
was gliding backward!
“What—what is it?” cried Mr. Il-ay-ok.
“We—we’re on a sloping ledge. We’re gliding down—down! We—” Mary’s voice
ended in a gasp. Her heart stood still, then went racing on. The plane
was gliding faster, faster, ever faster, and back of them, not thirty
seconds’ glide, was a deep, dark abyss! They had landed half way up the
sloping mountainside.
“Dear God—”
Her prayer was answered before it was said. The motor thundered. Their
backward gliding slowed. Slow, slower, stop. Then the reverse, the motor
picked up speed, and they glided forward faster, faster, faster. Then,
with a startling lurch the plane swung to the right. Next instant they
were once more floating on God’s good free air.
Then, perhaps because they had seen perils enough, the sun quite suddenly
broke from behind the clouds, the snowfall ceased, and they found
themselves sailing high over a long, winding valley.
Two hours later, having sailed on through a clear sky for many miles, and
feeling the need for rest and food, they circled low over the frozen
surface of a broad stream.
“Good!” said the Eskimo. “Now we eat.”
“See!” Mary exclaimed, pointing off to the left, “there are three columns
of smoke rising up from the edge of the forest. People living around
here. Wonder what they are? White men, Eskimo, or Indians?”
“No Eskimo,” said Mr. Il-ay-ok, “Too far, this place.”
So they came down. Three times, like some lone wild duck searching a
water hole, the plane circled low. The third time it dropped a little
lower. Bump-bump-bump, glide-glide-glide on their broad skis, and—a
perfect landing? Almost. But what was this? The ship tilted sharply to
one side. Mary, whose hand was on the door, was thrown out to fall flat
on the snow-encrusted ice. For ten long seconds it seemed the airplane
would roll on over and crush her. But no, still tilted to a rakish angle,
it came at last to rest.
What had happened? They were not long in finding the answer. Early in the
winter the river had frozen over, perhaps two feet thick. This ice had
cracked. Water had flowed through and flooded the ice. Once again it
froze over, but not thick enough. One ski of the plane had broken through
to settle down on the solid ice a foot below.
“Here we are, and here we stay.” Speed’s tone had a sad finality about
it.
“But, Speed, can’t we pry it out?” Mary asked hopefully.
“Impossible,” the pilot shook his head. “Ten or twenty men might do it,
but not you and I.”
“Then it shall be ten or twenty men!” Mary exclaimed. “Christmas bells
must ring.”
“Wha—what do you mean?” the pilot stared at her.
“We saw smoke, didn’t we?” she turned to the Eskimo.
“Yes,” he nodded. “Three columns smoke.”
“Whites or Indians?”
“Who knows?” said Mary. “And who cares? We must find them. They must help
us.” She was ready for the trail.
And indeed there was need for haste, the airplane was freezing in. So,
forgetting their hunger and their need for rest, they hurried away in the
direction of the three columns of smoke.
Soon they came upon a trail leading into the forest. In silence they
followed that trail. How still it was there in the forest! As a
snow-bunting flew from twig to twig, Mary caught the flutter of his tiny
wings. A snowshoe rabbit, leaping from the trail, brought an unuttered
cry to her lips. Then of a sudden a deep voice shattered that silence. It
said:
“How!”
Seeming to appear from nowhere, a six-foot Indian stood before them. He
was not dressed in skins and feathers, but his dark face, straight black
hair, and large hawk-like nose told the story.
“How!” said Speed.
“Airplane come?” the Indian said.
“Yes, and we are in trouble. You must help us.”
“Where you go?”
“Eskimo-land.”
“Eskimo bad.” The Indian’s voice dropped, his dark face formed itself
into a scowl. “Very bad, Eskimo. Long time ’go kill Indians—much
Indians.”
“Yes, a long time ago,” Speed agreed quietly. “Then came good white men.
They told the Eskimo no kill. Now all the Eskimos are good. Tomorrow
night is Christmas Eve. We are bringing them presents, these good
Eskimos. We are in trouble. You must help us.”
“Oh! Christmas?” The Indian’s face lighted.
“We have twenty pounds of candy for your children,” Mary encouraged.
“Oh, candy?” The Indian’s face grew radiant. “Indian like candy, like
much. I bring help, bring everyone. Come quick!” He trotted away.
Scarcely had they returned to the plane than the edge of the forest
swarmed with Indians, little Indians, big Indians, men, women, and
children, and all eager to help.
It was no time at all until that airplane ski was back on the top surface
of the ice. Then, after presenting the gifts of candy and receiving a
friendly farewell, the little party began taxiing down the river two
miles to a spot where there was a supply of gasoline, and where they
might pile into their cabin for a few winks of sleep.
Supper over, they tucked their blankets about them.
“In four hours,” said Speed, “if the moon is out, we shall sail away.
Tomorrow evening will be Christmas Eve, and we still have seven hundred
miles to go.”
“Seven—seven hundred!” Mary exclaimed. “Can we make it?”
“If the sun and moon smile on us,” Speed replied cheerfully.
Little wonder that Mary whispered a prayer for clear skies before she
fell asleep.
Meanwhile three cute children, Margaret, Nellie, and Tom, the only white
children at far-off Cape Prince of Wales, were doing their best to make
up for the loss of their presents. The Christmas tree of willow branches
and a driftwood log had been set up. Behind closely drawn blinds, they
had done their best to decorate it. Rustling willow leaves had been
brightened by many feet of colored popcorn strings. Here and there a red,
green or orange box hung. Safely shielded from dry leaves, twenty candles
shone. Common white candles they were, but who cared for that?
“It’s grand!” exclaimed Margaret.
“Not half bad,” Tom agreed.
“But just think what it might have been!” Nellie struggled to hold back a
tear.
Outside in the frosty night, little Kud-lucy and No-wad-luk, two little
Eskimo children, were peeking through a crack not quite covered by a
shade.
“Oh, good!” Kud-lucy danced up and down. “It’s the Christmas tree after
all! And it’s almost as bright as the sun!”
“But where are the little people who walk, talk, and go to sleep?” asked
No-wad-luk.
“Oh, they—” said Kud-lucy with a superior air, “they are walking. They
are coming a long, long way. They will be here tomorrow night. You’ll
see.”
Would they? Would the moon look down and smile?