“There’s water out there sure enough. Lieutenant. It’s less than an eighth of a kilometer ahead, and seems to stretch for a good distance.”
“So your dogs were right.” Redmond turned to his sergeant-major.
“But my uncle was wrong,” retorted Cliff Ano. “He seemed to think the inlet would remain solidly frozen until the spring thaw.”
“Go easy on him, Sergeant-Major,” advised Redmond. “After all, it was his team that saved our necks. Besides, it’s common knowledge any frozen body of water up here is subject to open leads, no matter how cold the temperature might get.”
“Where do we go from here?” questioned the corporal.
Redmond answered firmly.
“We go north, and skirt the open water until we come across some solid footing.”
As it turned out, they were forced to travel for two more hours in this direction before finding the type of flat, icy terrain that allowed them to continue on their original course. Here their pace once again quickened, though the dogs took it upon themselves to institute yet another abrupt change in direction as they approached the western shore of the inlet.
Steering hard to the left to follow the sled, Redmond soon saw for himself why the dogs had turned this way. For a ridge had formed in this portion of the ice, and if they had remained on their original course, they would have smacked right into it.
Ever thankful to have such a reliable, intuitive team leading the way, Redmond and his men completed their transit of the inlet when they came to an icy, boulder-strewn shoreline. In the shelter of these rocks they broke for lunch.
Over a hot thermos of tea, Redmond conferred with his second in command.
“Well, we’re almost halfway there, Sergeant-Major.”
“But this is where the going gets tough,” returned the Inuit. “Once we pick our way over these rocks, there’s a valley on the other side that practically splits the peninsula in half. Uncle says we’ll do best by following this ravine all the way to Lancaster Sound. He warned us to be on the lookout for open crevasses here. And it’s also wise to remember that this area is known for its high concentration of polar bears and wolves.”
“It’s not the wildlife that scares me,” observed Redmond. “Is it my imagination, or has this storm further intensified since we stopped here?”
Dreamily gazing out at the frozen expanse of water they had just crossed. Cliff Ano thoughtfully replied, “This is the type of weather my ancestors greeted with open arms. Because such extreme conditions made hunting impossible, they passed the time snuggled warmly in their snow houses telling stories, chewing away on frozen meat, and waiting for the clouds to vent themselves.”
“Sounds enticing,” said Redmond. “But duty calls. Shall we get on with it, Sergeant-Major?”
Hurriedly finishing off their tea, the two commandoes ordered their men to break camp. With little level ground to follow, they were forced to pick up their snowmobiles and carry them over the rocky terrain. Cliff Ano was able to manage his lightweight sled all on his own, while his harnessed dogs noisily followed at his heels.
Because of the slippery footing, their progress was slow. Frequent rest stops were needed because of the great weight of their equipment. And none of the twenty-four commandoes was disappointed when they finally reached the valley they had been searching for.
With the dogsled once again taking the lead, the Arctic Rangers began their way northward. Though the snow was deep here, visibility was somewhat better.
Redmond attributed this welcome fact to the mountainous spine that lay to their left and acted as a partial windbreak.
Able to safely increase the distance between the vehicles at this point, the column twisted its way down the valley’s snow-covered floor. They had accomplished over an hour’s worth of uninterrupted travel when Cliff Ano held up his right hand and pulled his sled to a halt. Quick to go to his side was Jack Redmond.
“What’s the matter, Sergeant-Major?”
The Inuit answered while carefully scanning the surrounding foothills.
“The dogs are acting up again, Lieutenant.”
“Could it be a crevasse?” quizzed Redmond.
“I doubt it,” returned the Inuit. “The footing here is fairly firm and this section of the valley appears to be geologically stable.”
It was at that moment that a high-pitched, mournful cry sounded in the distance. This brought an immediate response from the dogs in the sled team.
They began barking and yelping.
“Wolves!” exclaimed Cliff Ano. “And they’re close.”
Jack Redmond surveyed the nearby hills.
“Should we break out the rifles?”
“They wouldn’t dare bother us while we’re still moving,” the Inuit answered. “Although when we bed down for the night, it’s another story.”
Several additional banshee-like cries resonated through the frigid air and Redmond commented.
“Let’s get the hell out of here, Sergeant-Major. This place gives me the creeps.”
With a single crack of his whip, the Inuit got his team moving. Following in a straight line behind him were the six snow cats their engines constantly sputtering and whining.
Minutes later, as they rounded a broad bend. Cliff Ano once more held up his hand and halted the caravan. Yet this time as Redmond joined his subordinate, one look at the conglomeration of beasts that had gathered on the floor of the valley before them told him the reason for this abrupt stop.
Approximately one-quarter of a kilometer away, was a large herd of musk oxen. Jack Redmond had once seen such beasts in a zoo, but this was his first sighting of them in the wild. Their long, glossy fur blowing in the still breeze, and their characteristic curved horns appearing much like those of a cape buffalo, they seemed to be standing in a straight line, shoulder to shoulder and flank to flank. A single large bull was slightly forward of the bunch, his attention locked on some sort of disturbance taking place along the ridge of broken rock on the west side of the valley. It proved to be Cliff Ano who pointed to this ridge and explained precisely what was occurring.
“There are wolves over there. The musk oxen have formed a defensive formation and are awaiting an attack.”
“Those brutes must weigh well over six hundred pounds each, and the points of their horns look razor sharp. Do the wolves even stand a chance?” questioned Redmond.
The Inuit’s eyes glistened.
“The wolves might be smaller physically, but they’re patient and opportunistic. What they’ll attempt to do is get behind one of the charging musk oxen and cut it off from the herd. Another favorite tactic is to sprint into a momentary opening and snatch a calf.”
The sled dogs began yelping madly when a pack of over a dozen gray wolves trotted out from behind the rock-strewn ravine where they had been gathered. Ignoring this racket, the shaggy predators began slowly closing in on the herd. The lead bull bellowed in response to this movement, and the musk oxen shifted their positions, gathering in a roughly symmetrical formation, the calves and yearlings wedged in between the adults.
The wall of outward-pointed horns looked formidable, yet this didn’t appear to intimidate the wolves, who continued creeping forward with short, furtive steps. When they finally attacked, it was with such swiftness that Jack Redmond nearly missed it. It all started with a feint by several of the largest wolves.
When the dominant bull charged forward to repulse them, the rest of the wolf pack darted into the herd with a snarling, lightning like ferocity. To a chorus of growls and bellows, the valley floor erupted in a primal struggle for survival. And when the blowing snow cleared, the wolves could be seen trotting off triumphantly, dragging a young yearling in their viselike jaws.