“You Look Like Hell”
Late Saturday evening, soaked and tired from swimming across a channel, Blake reached the Tinayguk. The map had deceived him —— it was no thin blue line. It was about as wide as the Koyukuk, too big and cold to swim. And he was too weak. Hypothermia would kill him.
Filled with regret for the peril he felt he had put them in, Blake decided to go back to his dad. He was so far from the accident site that no one would look for him here. Wet and miserable, he found a place to build a fire, huddle next to it and sleep.
At noon on Sunday, he finally approached the junction of the Tinayguk and Koyukuk and a wide, open gravel bar. Pilots sometimes flew over this spot. If they did, they might see him.
Blake was freezing. Neil was baking. He curled up under his small shelter to stay out of the sun. But a spark from the fire landed on the roof, and the dry tinder burst into flame. Neil had no way to carry water. Helplessly, he watched his shelter burn to ash. Then, without a knife, his hands chewed up from the ice, he began to build another.
By Monday, the third day without food, both men were growing weaker. Blake was right about the planes —— he'd seen several flying at 10,000 feet, but they couldn't see him. He decided to build a signal fire. The river had washed 30-foot spruce trees into a logjam nearby. Even small ones weighed 100 pounds. Blake struggled to carry them to his fire and quickly became exhausted.
On Tuesday evening, Dirk Nickisch, a pilot out of Coldfoot, Alaska, took several people up on a sightseeing flight. Midway through the tour, he spotted a raft on the river. Flying downstream about five minutes later, he thought he saw something moving on a gravel bar. He flew down for a closer look.
Hearing a plane, Blake bolted upright. He grabbed his life jacket and ran out onto the bar, waving his arms wildly as the plane roared above the treetops and passed over him. Then he dropped to his knees. Please let them see me and know I'm in trouble.
It's a man, Dirk realized. Looks like he's praying. He rocked his wings to acknowledge he'd spotted the guy and flew on, circling back to the raft.
Were other people involved, he wondered？ The raft was overturned, but he couldn't see a campsite. There was no room to land, and he was burning fuel, so he had to return to base.
Back at Coldfoot, Dirk's wife called for an army rescue copter while Dirk loaded emergency supplies —— sleeping bags, packaged meals, fruit chews and an aircraft radio wrapped in foam and duct tape to toss down to the man on the gravel bar.
Blake kept scanning the sky. It was two hours since the plane had passed, dipping its wing. Had he dreamed it？
Then it was back. And dropped something. Blake tore into the bundle and found a radio. “I'm okay,” he told Dirk, “but my father was with me. Have you seen him？”
Dirk had not. He flew back toward the raft. Twenty minutes later he called, “Can you confirm where your father is？ I'm having a hard time finding him.”
Blake's heart froze. Had something happened to his dad？ He's by a strange orange creek, Blake told the pilot. Dirk made another pass —— two more. Then he spotted something yellow. A life jacket？ It wasn't safe for him to land where either Blake or Neil was, but he relayed coordinates to an army rescue team out of Fairbanks.
The chopper picked up Blake first. Seated away from a window, he could see nothing as they neared his father's campsite —— until they landed and his dad climbed through the hatch.
“You look like hell,” Blake said, choking back laughter and tears.
“You don't look so hot yourself,” Neil told his son.
Their faces were gaunt, their bodies covered with dirt and soot. But both had endured. Neil survived his birthday surprise, and Blake lived to see the birth of his second child, Jes.
The next trip, they promised each other, might involve boating —— but definitely no swimming under ice.
Late Saturday evening, soaked and tired from swimming across a channel, Blake reached the Tinayguk. The map had deceived him —— it was no thin blue line. It was about as wide as the Koyukuk, too big and cold to swim. And he was too weak. Hypothermia would kill him.
Filled with regret for the peril he felt he had put them in, Blake decided to go back to his dad. He was so far from the accident site that no one would look for him here. Wet and miserable, he found a place to build a fire, huddle next to it and sleep.
At noon on Sunday, he finally approached the junction of the Tinayguk and Koyukuk and a wide, open gravel bar. Pilots sometimes flew over this spot. If they did, they might see him.
Blake was freezing. Neil was baking. He curled up under his small shelter to stay out of the sun. But a spark from the fire landed on the roof, and the dry tinder burst into flame. Neil had no way to carry water. Helplessly, he watched his shelter burn to ash. Then, without a knife, his hands chewed up from the ice, he began to build another.
By Monday, the third day without food, both men were growing weaker. Blake was right about the planes —— he'd seen several flying at 10,000 feet, but they couldn't see him. He decided to build a signal fire. The river had washed 30-foot spruce trees into a logjam nearby. Even small ones weighed 100 pounds. Blake struggled to carry them to his fire and quickly became exhausted.
On Tuesday evening, Dirk Nickisch, a pilot out of Coldfoot, Alaska, took several people up on a sightseeing flight. Midway through the tour, he spotted a raft on the river. Flying downstream about five minutes later, he thought he saw something moving on a gravel bar. He flew down for a closer look.
Hearing a plane, Blake bolted upright. He grabbed his life jacket and ran out onto the bar, waving his arms wildly as the plane roared above the treetops and passed over him. Then he dropped to his knees. Please let them see me and know I'm in trouble.
It's a man, Dirk realized. Looks like he's praying. He rocked his wings to acknowledge he'd spotted the guy and flew on, circling back to the raft.
Were other people involved, he wondered？ The raft was overturned, but he couldn't see a campsite. There was no room to land, and he was burning fuel, so he had to return to base.
Back at Coldfoot, Dirk's wife called for an army rescue copter while Dirk loaded emergency supplies —— sleeping bags, packaged meals, fruit chews and an aircraft radio wrapped in foam and duct tape to toss down to the man on the gravel bar.
Blake kept scanning the sky. It was two hours since the plane had passed, dipping its wing. Had he dreamed it？
Then it was back. And dropped something. Blake tore into the bundle and found a radio. “I'm okay,” he told Dirk, “but my father was with me. Have you seen him？”
Dirk had not. He flew back toward the raft. Twenty minutes later he called, “Can you confirm where your father is？ I'm having a hard time finding him.”
Blake's heart froze. Had something happened to his dad？ He's by a strange orange creek, Blake told the pilot. Dirk made another pass —— two more. Then he spotted something yellow. A life jacket？ It wasn't safe for him to land where either Blake or Neil was, but he relayed coordinates to an army rescue team out of Fairbanks.
The chopper picked up Blake first. Seated away from a window, he could see nothing as they neared his father's campsite —— until they landed and his dad climbed through the hatch.
“You look like hell,” Blake said, choking back laughter and tears.
“You don't look so hot yourself,” Neil told his son.
Their faces were gaunt, their bodies covered with dirt and soot. But both had endured. Neil survived his birthday surprise, and Blake lived to see the birth of his second child, Jes.
The next trip, they promised each other, might involve boating —— but definitely no swimming under ice.