Trekking the Tundra

Sitting on the love seat with Darius, each of us cradling our own ceramic mug of searing hot chocolate, attempting to stay warm under a yak blanket, I was preoccupied pondering when would I be faced with the delight of another adventure. Little did I know, the adventure lay just outside. I nearly dropped my mug at the sound of three heavy knocks from the other side of the room. I wondered who had braved the icy, hostile slopes that laced this arbitrary Alaskan mountain to beat upon the thick door of my chalet. I surmised that whoever it was on the other side must be half frozen to death and that I should make haste in answering their pleas.

I immediately recognized the two figures silhouetted against the bleached blanket outside. They were none other than my old colleagues, Margaret Holt, and Elizabeth O’Neil. I hadn’t seen them in ages, but even their faces, stippled with snowflakes were pleasant. I ushered them inside, offered them hot beverages and seats near the fire. After their lips and appendages had thawed a bit, I felt it necessary to inquire as to what I owed this unannounced visit. They informed me that it had been rumored that there was a most priceless artifact hidden beneath the ice very near to my home. I knew nothing of such a relic, but insisted that they join me in my study to examine some maps and projections. In no time we knew exactly where we were to be looking and had our heading.

I dressed myself in my warmest parka and boots and after a short farewell and kiss to my beloved, we were off. Once outside, I looked around for some sort of transportation, but to my dismay, there was only a small and rather flimsy-looking toboggan. I wasn’t sure that it could capacitate the three of us, but sure enough, we all boarded. Margaret in front, holding the reins, leaned forward and indicated that Elizabeth and I should follow suit. Before I knew it, we were flying down the mountain, leaving behind the warmth and safety of the lodge. Faster and faster we went. Clinging to Margaret for dear life, I could no longer feel my face. I soon realized that I’d failed to mention the forest I was sure we would soon encounter. Margaret gracefully steered us around one enormous pine after another. The forest grew thicker and thicker. I was sure that Margaret would be unable to avoid all of the trees and we’d smack into one of them and reach an ill-timed death. But then all was still. I opened my eyes and saw that we had reached level ground.

 Margaret pulled a compass from her pocket and pointed to her right. I knew not where I was, so I felt it best to trust her judgment. We began our downhill trek. We walked through what I (due to the systematic placements of hundreds of upright sticks) imagine must have been an old inuit burial ground, but we had no time to pay our respects. A few more minutes out there would have been three new additions to the cemetery. After fifty more yards, Margaret stopped and referred to the coordinates scribbled on what appeared to be a ripped out piece of notebook paper. That which we hunting was supposed to be right where we were standing, but I saw nothing but white. I understood Margaret’s downward gestures to mean that we were to dig. After digging for a short while, and having produced nothing, we re-checked our coordinates. Just when Margaret and I were off to check a different spot, Elizabeth found it.

It was the smallest thing. A black, cylindrical canister, with no outstanding markings. We fumbled with it and one end of it popped open. A small scroll of paper fell into our hands. We were obviously not the first to have discovered it as there was a list of names and dates logged on the scroll. Margaret gave me the honor of putting our group mark upon it. After putting back the scroll, fastening the cap and replacing the canister in its resting spot in the earth, we prepared ourselves for the haul back up the mountain.