God of the Gold (eBook)

Bruce Hamilton (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2022 | 1. Auflage
294 Seiten
Bookbaby (Verlag)
978-1-6678-2151-1 (ISBN)

In his second book, the author paints another vivid picture of raw, rugged, remote Alaska. This time, the drama unfolds in the interior as Bruce and his friends search for a million dollars in gold located somewhere on the Tolovana River. As in his first book, there is a devotional and gospel theme throughout the story that convicts, challenges and blesses the soul. This book will thrill any and every reader who is enthralled by the Alaskan wild.

"e;Those words had no sooner left my lips than we heard the crunching of sticks and leaves under heavy feet. Within seconds, the brush parted like a curtain and on the stage of the wild, wild north, our opponent, the star of the movie, appeared, right on time.His name, his Latin name-Ursus Horribilis. His stage name-Grizzly. I'm sure he couldn't care less what we called him. He was magnificent in every way and, no doubt, was the most confident and proud creature ever to walk this drainage...He was at least eight feet, maybe nine. His eyes were ridiculously small but piercing, and his mood, sour, very sour. The bear was frustrated, hungry and as impatient as an abusive husband at the end of a bad day...none of us dared to move or speak."e;In his second book, the author paints another vivid picture of raw, rugged, remote Alaska. This time, the drama unfolds in the interior as Bruce and his friends search for a million dollars in gold located somewhere on the Clearwater River. As in his first book, there is a devotional and gospel theme throughout the story that convicts, challenges and blesses the soul. This book will thrill any and every reader who is enthralled by the Alaskan wild.

Chapter Two

I decided to begin the search by looking in the most obvious places: the cabinet, under the bed, inside the log walls and ceiling, under the floor. After searching for two hours, I came up with a big fat nothing. Then I wandered outside and scoured the tree roots, tree stumps, and spruce cone squirrel mounds. I even climbed on top of the cabin and searched under the spongy tundra of the sod roof. Again, nothing. I found no hidden treasure inside, none outside, and nothing on top of the shack. “That’s three strikes,” I said to the raven nearby. He squawked an unsympathetic reply.

However, things got a little exciting when I poked around in back of the cabin and found an underground cold-storage bin. The lid was a four-by-four piece of treated plywood wrapped in a blue tarp and covered with about five inches of dirt and moss. Upon removing it, I descended into the storage area using a rather flimsy ladder that Henry had fashioned out of spruce limbs and paracord. The dugout was eight feet underground, so it didn’t take long to find solid footing. Very soon, my flashlight illuminated some shriveled potatoes, next, a few empty burlap bags, and then … a coffee can! I became so excited, I dropped my light, grabbed the can and immediately realized it wasn’t heavy enough to contain gold.

“That’s it!” I exclaimed angrily. For the first time in my life, I was disappointed that a coffee can actually contained coffee. I was hoping for something much heavier.

Back inside the cabin, I crawled into my sleeping bag to escape the mosquitos, but the rigors and frustrations of the past couple of days soon caught up with me. After a very long sleep, I boiled some water for java and grits, enjoyed both, and then turned my face toward home. As disappointed as I was at not having found Henry’s treasure, much had been accomplished, considering this was my first attempt. I returned to Fairbanks, and for the next few weeks pondered what I had seen, processed the information gathered, and planned the next foray to search for the gold.

My earliest opportunity would be September. The trip would require at least six days: two days to hike in, two days to search, and two days to hike out, hopefully weighted down with at least seventy pounds of the precious metal.

The temptation to beg or borrow a four-wheeler was strong. Even though the lay of the land and the configuration of the trail would make the use of an ATV difficult, it would be much easier than hiking all those miles, especially if I found the heavy gold. However, after much deliberation, I determined not to do anything that would draw attention to my efforts or to the area, and an off-road machine would do exactly that. So, I resigned myself to the less conspicuous but more arduous method of walking into the claim and crossed the days off the calendar with great anticipation.

The time for the second trek finally arrived. I pointed the truck north and set sail for Livengood. It was the seventh of September. The weather was sunny and dry. The road surface alternated between pavement and gravel. Frost heaves were abundant, as was the dust, but I was too distracted by the scenery to care.

The golden leaves of the birch contrasted against the dark green needles of the spruce. The sea of gold and green was punctuated by the occasional orange splash of aspen trees. The rolling tundra was covered with the red carpet of blueberry bushes. Framed by the deep blue arctic sky, the landscape was a symphony of colors.

The truck was running smoothly. With my elbow hanging out of the window and the cool breeze messing up my hair, I mentally reviewed my supplies: I had packed a few MREs, coffee grounds, a tin coffee mug, some dry pancake mix, butter, maple syrup, three pounds of bacon, a block of sharp cheddar cheese, an army poncho liner, long johns, and a warm hat. I had purposefully, on the first trip in, left my sleeping bag and air mat in Henry’s shack. I had also decided to not lug the extra weight of my hand cannon, the .454 Casull. Instead, I had the backpacker’s version of a small game rifle: a collapsible .22 Marlin with a nine-round clip. It was light, compact and would provide some delicious meals during the journey.

In anticipation of seeing some grayling, I also brought along a few Mepps spinners and some two-pound test fishing line; a small frying pan; a resealable plastic bag that contained a mixture of cornmeal, flour, salt and pepper and a few ounces of cooking oil in a small plastic bottle. I had chosen not to be encumbered with a fishing pole since there were plenty of willow sticks.

This time of year, grayling, a very tasty white-meat fish about the size of small rainbow trout, would be migrating downstream into the deeper river channels and lakes. The below-zero temperatures common to this region were just weeks away and the grayling, northern pike, whitefish, burbot, and sheefish were well aware of it.

To be able to catch and cook wild fish from these clear, cold Alaskan waters was one of the privileges of living in “the great land.” I had experienced it many times with my dad during my childhood. During the short summer months, if we weren’t catching big northern pike in Minto Flats, we were catching grayling along the Chena, Salcha, or Chatanika rivers.

And when we tired of the fresh water species, we would make the eight-hour drive to Valdez and catch salmon and halibut in the salt waters of Prince William Sound. Whether we were on the river bank or the ocean shore, once we had “a mess of fish,” as my daddy would say, he would set up the deep-fryer, clean the fish, and in minutes we would be savoring our catch. Dad never did anything in a small way.

Even with the cooking supplies, everything needed for this second foray to Henry’s claim had fit easily into my framed pack. The load was light, but I knew if I discovered the treasure, the weight on my back would increase dramatically. However, to haul a load of gold out of the woods would be an absolute thrill and not burdensome in the least.

Sixteen miles out of Fairbanks, the Hilltop Truck Stop came into view. This place is famous for its hearty, homestyle meals and giant desserts. One such offering is actually labeled “Fat Man’s Pie.” The decadent dessert is appropriately named since most of the men I have seen shoveling it in looked as though it was named after them. But this was morning, and mornings are for breakfast, not chocolate pie.

After inhaling a cheese omelet, crispy bacon, hash browns, and four cups of coffee, I hit the road once again. Seventy miles further, I arrived at the Alyeska pipeline crossing. This spot provided the best place to park my truck because, with very little effort, I could hide it from view of the highway traffic. After doing so, I cinched on my pack and walked the pipeline corridor to the west fork of the river; then I headed downstream alongside the drainage. By taking this route, I avoided the thick willow patches, dodged the thorny rosehip bushes, cheated the miserable tundra, and instead entered the happy zone—a forest of white spruce trees.

White spruce trees typically grow close to the rivers. Their cousins, the scrawny black spruce, favor the tundra and usually denote the presence of permafrost, or permanently frozen ground. The spongy terrain, punctuated with tussocks, is very difficult to navigate. I much preferred staying close to the drainage because of the openness provided by the bigger trees, the firmer soil, and the clearly visible game trail.

Along the way, various animal droppings awaited my arrival: fox, martin, wolf and, unfortunately, bear. There, in front of me lay a mound of freshly recycled blueberries, recently dumped by a large carnivore. I silently thought, “If the size of a bear can be determined by the size of his calling card, this dude is a dinosaur.” I began missing my Casull.

About that time, a large male grouse that had been hidden from view jumped and flew away. The ruckus it made almost sent me into cardiac arrest! His thunderous wings were so loud that it may as well have been a helicopter, and since giant bears were already on my mind, I was convinced for a second that I had been ambushed by a huge grizzly. It shook me up so bad I had to sit down. Eventually, my brain informed my adrenal glands that my limbs and head were still attached to my torso and that all was well. Finally, I recovered, and with a freshly cut walking stick, the trail, once again, became mine.

Several hours later, I spotted a crystal-clear pool, or back eddy, just over the high cut riverbank. “That really looks like a grayling Motel 6,” I whispered excitedly, as I slowly knelt on the ground beneath me. After removing my pack, I crawled up to the river’s edge and cautiously leaned over to get a better look. Grayling, like rainbow trout, have great vision and can see anything that approaches their lair. They spook very easily. In slow motion, I shaded my eyes with both hands and peered into the natural aquarium.

“One, two, three, four—five fat fish!” They were gracefully fanning their fins, oscillating back and forth, waiting for a juicy bug to fall from a tree or float by on top of the water. Mentally, I had already fought and caught the fish. I had them “in the bag,” as they say. The smile of victory was prematurely plastered on my face when, suddenly, the sandy overhang gave way underneath me. I spun around, tried to grab a branch, missed, and fell backwards, right into the deep pool! In a split...

Erscheint lt. Verlag	7.1.2022
Sprache	englisch
Themenwelt	Literatur ► Krimi / Thriller / Horror
ISBN-10	1-6678-2151-2 / 1667821512
ISBN-13	978-1-6678-2151-1 / 9781667821511

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