35

Before they reached the portage, Kraus, Clark, Vandaele and Campbell ran into an ice bridge, a good 50 yards long, arched clear across the water, and they pulled into shore to think the situation through. They could see under the bridge to the other side, and there was enough clearance, but no one had the stomach to try floating through. The bridge could collapse suddenly. Or one of the rafts could snag on the side of the ice, lift up, block the flow and get pushed under.

“You try it, Harry.”

“I’m sure you’d be more successful than me, Milt.”

So they unloaded the rafts onto the riverbank, carried all the stuff around to the other side of the ice bridge and then decided to try kicking the rafts loose and snagging them at the other end with a long pole.

It worked. They reloaded and continued for another mile, only to find their way blocked by a small mountain of ice slabs, the river gushing around it, tearing at the bank and flowing on top of the ice.

“Damn it,” said Kraus. “We’re not getting anywhere now. I say we start walking.”

“I think the portage trail is just ahead,” said Vandaele.

It was a boring trek, pushing through endless birch and willow and wading the ice-cold streams that flowed into the Flat. But at dusk they had luck: Kraus saw a cow moose and yearling calf on the other side of the river. He knelt and plugged them both. Then he crossed the ice with Vandaele and Campbell, cleaned the moose and cut them up, packing the quarters back. Clark set up camp. They ate moose-meat steaks, medium rare, with the last of Dalziel’s prunes and some bannock. Then they hung the rest of the meat.

“Tomorrow,” said Kraus, “we’ll pack what we can down to Faille’s and come back for what’s left, depending on how needy Faille is.”