Specially dedicated to my loving son, of whom I'm so very proud:

'Sean Mikal Shepherd'

"Rescue Near the Totatlanika is a true hunting story filled with harrowing
experiences and life saving heroics. Lives jeopardized, friendships strengthened - it's
a story about a hunting trip gone wrong that will keep your attention to the very end!"
 
 

   'Twas an overcast day in late August, but the skies promised to show through
   sometime later in the afternoon.

   The robins were gone by now, having a long flight south before showing their newborn
   the grasses of winter in Washington, Oregon, Idaho, and California.

   The Sandhill Cranes were just beginning their migrations, and the bears were now
   feeding heavily on the crimson-blue tundra blanketed with an abundance of wild
   blueberries and low-bush cranberries.

   The last of the silver salmon were heading up the Big Susitna, and all but a handful of
   tourists were left at Deep Creek and other popular camping sites on the Kenai
   Peninsula.

   The last wave of naturalists were swarming Denali National Park in hopes of catching
   one last glimpse of nature's beasts before the rut begins and taking most of the
   animals far out-of-sight from humans and the noises they make.

   The rainy season was now in full swing, but the rivers were still only moderately high.
   The lush green mountains saw a gradual melt-off following break-up, but were once
   again glistening white with the previous night's dusting - 'termination dust' as we
   sourdoughs refer to it - a sure sign winter would be upon us in just a few short weeks.

   The stellar jays have raised their young and are back squawking on the deck's rails for
   more peanuts. Some will stay the entire winter, a site becoming more and more
   common as the decades pass me by.

   The bohemian waxwings haven't made it my way just yet, the mountain ash berries
   are just beginning to ripen, and the dogwood leaves, with their lush deep
   reddish-purple, almost plumb coloring, are still three weeks away from the full splendor
   of their fall foliage.

   The lawn is deep green, and the fresh cuttings combine with the sweet scent of the
   many spruce in my yard to put me on another natural high - the kind that let's the mind
   wander, freeing your spirit and creating dreams of yesteryear and hopes for tomorrow.

   Across the way, the roar of engines interrupt my tranquility - it's our friends the
   Cleveland's: Doug, Mary, Josh, and Matt, loading four-wheelers onto their big trailer
   that they hauled with them all the way from Montana a year or so earlier.

   I had often wondered how Mary, at about 5' tall, could've managed to produce Doug's
   sons, both of whom now tower above six feet. Doug himself is a hulk of a man, as big
   as Refrigerator Perry, but much more solid, and I can assure you a far better
   personality. One of his favorite expressions is, "that dog will hunt," whenever agreeing
   to a particular course of action or plan-of-the-day. He is easy to please, and his
   demeanor is the perfect compliment to Mary's sweet, caring, and genuinely loving
   manner. But I often wondered she ever managed to survive the pain that must've surely
   accompanied the delivery of not one, but two hulking boys, both football standouts at
   Chugiak High School, and later Juneau.

   State Farm transferred Doug just a few short years after their arrival here to head up
   their offices down in Southeast Alaska. That was a sad day indeed for me, and the rest
   of my family too. My wife, Sharon, and daughter, Melissa, had become fond of Mary,
   and I liked her too.

   We shared something more than that which neighbors shared - it was the start of a
   friendship for sure, one we looked forward to. There was great promise that a lasting
   relationship would be established with them, and today would serve to strengthen that
   possibility and make it even more so.

   It was our first hunting expedition together, this one for caribou in the mountains near
   Healy, Alaska.

   I shared the stories with Doug and the boys about the big caribou that roamed the high
   tundra north of the Totatlanika River near the Yanert River Controlled Use Area, in unit
   20A. I explained how, that in order to get there, we needed to cross many streams and
   creeks, and then follow the river bed of the 'Totat', weaving our way from one bank to
   the other, carefully picking and choosing our route until we reached the killing fields just
   past Coal Creek. We were all excited about the trip.

   Another friend, Mark Marcott, accompanied us, my son, Sean, and me that is. Josh,
   the Cleveland's eldest son, didn't make the trip north with us - instead, he had a big
   game to play up in Fairbanks and had ridden the bus north with his teammates, the
   Chugiak Mustangs.

   But Matt and Mary joined the gang, and Mary silently vowed to protect us all, and
   provide shelter as necessary in the comfort of their motor home. Old, but water tight,
   the RV would serve as our base camp in Ferry, an abandoned train depot halfway
   between Wasilla and Fairbanks, located on the banks of the fast rushing Nenana
   River.

   The head of the Ferry Trail System actually begins once you cautiously maneuvered
   your ATV over the railroad bridge's maintenance foot bridge - a tight squeeze to be
   sure.

   On the other side was the old depot house, now home to a mixed race family with
   several mulatto children playing with makeshift toys in their front yard. They were
   dressed in rags depicting the poverty-stricken life they obviously led, but seemed
   happy in their play with one another. Another thing about them was equally obvious:
   they never went hungry - not if their mother or father knew how to shoot and from the
   looks of them they were well fed.

   Wildlife in the area was far too abundant for an even below-average hunter to go
   hungry. With just a little patience, even the cheechako's would meet with success
   when it came to the Delta caribou herd.

   I doubt that many newcomers to Alaska ever heard of Ferry, let alone be adventurous
   enough to strike out on their own exploring the rugged mountains greeting them on the
   other side of the Nenana.

   And if they did make it to the other side, surely one of the streams, creeks, or the
   'Totat' itself would intimidate them from going further thereby preventing them from
   ever reaching the herd's primary grazing lands.

   Elsie Creek, and the California were being mined pretty heavily, as was the Totatlanika,
   and Gold Creek. Ester and Coal Creeks were long abandoned by the fortune seekers,
   yet their banks continued to bear the scars left by miner's of old.

   Gold, sacred to Kings and Pharaohs alike, was still no doubt plentiful along the Ferry
   Trail system, but the men willing to labor for it has diminished greatly over the years.

   Ditch diggers, and coal miners are breeds of the past. A modern man, a modern
   American man, is no longer willing to put forth that kind of backbreaking effort to make
   a few bucks, not if the work is too tough and when there's no 'Davis-Bacon' wage
   guarantee.

   W-O-R-K, real work, the kind that leaves a man barely able to pull his own boots off at
   the end of a day because his back aches so much that he finds it nearly impossible to
   bend over far enough to complete the task, even when he's sitting down trying to do it.
   The kind of work that saps a man of all of his inner strength, that wears him down, day
   after monotonous day, leaving him barely enough energy with which to eat his dinner,
   and crawl into bed after a quick bath in the icy cold streams that he toils in 18 hours a
   day, seven days a week. That kind of man is a rarity, and because of that, the hills and
   streams of the Ferry Trail system are still full of gold - a king's ransom worth for sure
   and probably much, much more.

   It was a long drive north, but I was in good company and kept imagining the caribou
   roaming the hills that lay far behind the Healy coal mines. My last outing there resulted
   in a caribou each for Mark and me, and the hide of that animal still hangs on my
   staircase wall to this day.

   And the fact that Sean was with me helped too - I so much wanted this to be one of
   those stories where father and son went hunting and had plenty of good fun
   reminiscing around a night's hot fire about the luck they'd had earlier in the day and
   who had shot the bigger animal. It was truly an exciting prospect I had longed for.

   The rain started falling more steadily as we neared the turnoff to Ferry, and once at our
   destination it turned to a steady drizzle. The accompanying cool breeze made for a
   miserable time unloading the four-wheelers. And loading our gear into the tag-a-long
   trailer without getting it soaked proved to be an even bigger challenge.

   Mary approached with good news that I missed the first time she passed it along prior
   to our departure from Eagle River. She commented that Doug would stay behind with
   her at the motor home because Josh would be joining us on his return trip from
   Fairbanks. I never questioned the logistics of just how that was going to work, but the
   prospect of Josh joining us was an exciting one.

   The plan was for Doug and him to join up with us, Sean, Matt, Mark and me that is,
the following day. I remember thinking, "that dog will hunt," so, with that thought in mind,
the four of us gave Mary and Doug a wave goodbye and headed out across the Nenana
railroad bridge.

   Our journey to our spike camp, located near the headwaters of the 'Totat', was
   officially underway.

   I was the first to discover the area a few years earlier when I ventured north on my own
   in search of a new place to hunt. If one was to be successful finding a place where few
   other hunters ever ventured, you needed to do a lot of scouting during the off-season.
   I'd put several miles on my Honda ATV the previous two years searching for that
   perfect spot, and in the spike camp at Gold Creek I thought I had found it.

   The rain had eased up significantly making for a more pleasant ride up to boot hill and
   down the other side toward Elsie Creek.

   It was late afternoon when we headed out, almost evening, but plenty early to make it
   to Gold Creek if all went well. And that's when it began. We crossed Elsie Creek
   without much trouble, and even Ester Creek, but when we got to the next crossing at
   the edge of the California we paused to survey the rising waters a little closer. The river
   was higher than Elsie Creek had been but crossable.

   On the other side we ran into two soldiers from Fort Greely. They were on their way to
   the Totatlanika as well. Problem is, they had just taken a bath in the river during their
   first crossing attempt when suddenly the front wheels of the Polaris they were riding
   rammed some big boulders that were obscured from their view by the torrent rapids of
   the rising river above. Now, none the worse for the incident, and with the water drained
   from the fuel system of their ATV, and a new oil change, they felt they were ready to try
   it again. We thought wiser of the situation and maneuvered downstream a ways to see
   if it would be easier to cross there.

   It was evident that the recent rains made navigating the usually low streams a bit more
   difficult. As we searched for a wider stretch of the river where to cross we heard faint
   noises that grew louder with each passing moment. It was the army guys back on their
   four-wheeler giving the crossing another go. Soon we heard loud cries for help, and we
   scrambled throught the brush to the creek's edge to get a better look.

   It was getting much darker out now and it was hard to see the river through the alders
   that lined the banks on either side. Then, through the blowing leaves and branches we
   caught a glimpse of one of the soldiers. He was rolling down the river, bobbing up and
   down like a ship-in-a-bottle that had been set free in an angry sea. We knew instantly
   that this guy was in trouble - his life was on the line and we were the only ones who
could save him. His cries of terror, "please help me, please help, somebody help me,"
resonated more clearly as he approached our position. And the pleas for help from his
partner more than 100 yards back upstream sounded like faint echoes from far away,
almost unintelligible. But there the soldier was, being hurdled through the rocks and
rapids - it was time to act.

   I quickly gave the command to form a human chain, linking arms with Mark, Matt,
me, and then Sean, who was furthest out into the water. The soldier was passing us
by. I urged Sean to give one last reach, and simultaneously Mark and Matt gave us
more length by treading a little deeper themselves. And Sean, miraculously, managed
to grasp a few fingers of the soldier's outstretched hand, just enough of a hold for us
to pull him to safety.

   We all wondered where the second soldier was and we looked upstream expecting the
   worst. We listened closely and then heard his trailing screams. We scrambled back
   upstream and found him clinging to the overturned four-wheeler in the middle of the
rushing rapids. Once again we quickly formed a human-chain, this time with Mark
in the lead, and managed to pull the second soldier to safety as well. That was sign
enough for us all to realize that we were smack dab in the middle of some flash
flooding and that we'd better not attempt to go it any further that night.

   Knowing that more rivers and streams lay ahead, Mark and I decided it would be best
   to turn back, even at this late hour, rather than get caught up in the torrid unknowns
   ahead of us. Afterall, we were at a middle fork, an easily flooded area should the rivers
   rise any further than they already had. Oh, we could get to safety, but not with our
   machines and equipment. And two humans had already nearly lost their lives that night,
and that was two more than we had bargained for - even if they weren't members of
our hunting party. So, an instant later we began our trip back to base camp.

   However, it wasn't but minutes after that that we found ourselves facing a dilemma
   once again. One that would stay sharp in our minds forever.

   I had decided it was still safe enough to cross back over the south fork of the
   California, and to prove that it was, I took the lead. I made it to the other bank, but it
   wasn't as easy as I thought it would be. Mark followed, but he was pulling the
   tag-a-long trailer. The river's mighty force was opposing more mass, and with his
   angle of crossing drastically changed, the river swamped the engine of his machine.
   He was dead in the water, barely astride his four-wheeler, not quite half way across.

   I quickly popped the seat to my Honda looking for a rope long enough but I had none.
   With terror blanketing his face, Mark still had enough presence to quickly turn behind him
and search the front of the trailer where he knew he had a stored a rope.

   Presence in a bad situation is an admirable trait and I remember thinking just how
   lucky I was to have him as a friend and a hunting partner. He had discovered the same
   about me on an earlier hunt and there was no doubt we formed a perfect partnership in
   the outdoors.

   Mark tossed me one end of the rope and I immediately secured it to the back of my
   machine. He tied the other end off to the front of his machine. The seconds
   immediately following were mostly a blur. The powerful river ravaged on, and with all its
   might, in the blink of an eye, it tore the trailer from its hitch and swept it and all of our
   gear down river and out of sight. Mark was now barely clinging to his stranded four-
wheeler which was now giving way to the river's force.

   Sean and Matt were pretty nervous over what they had just witnessed and I found my
   mind racing for answers and a way out. Finally, Mark let go of the four-wheeler and
made his way back to the far bank where Sean and Matt remained. Amazingly, the
four-wheeler's tires seemed to have lodged between rocks on the river's bottom and
appeared fairly steady at that moment. As I recall, with the rope tied-off to his
Honda, and with me in control of the other end, which was by then securely
tied to my machine, we decided that Mark would escort the boys, one by one,
   out to the his machine. There, I would meet them, and then use the rope tied off
onto my machine on the other bank as a safety line back to higher ground.

   We decided that Sean would make the crossing first. Mark and I had agreed that while
   we were both at the machine, holding it steadily in place, as steady as two stout men
   could hold an ATV in place under those conditions, that we'd have Sean attempt to
   restart it, but the effort proved futile, not to anyone's surprise. The water was at its
   worst just past the ATV nearer the middle of the river, and once Sean and I reached
   that point I felt Sean losing his grip on me. It was all I could do, my heart racing, and my
   strength being sapped with each passing moment to hold onto him. I could feel him
   slipping away from my grip and I knew my body and mind were working overtime just
   to keep him in my grasp.

   Memories of me rolling a huge five foot high cement culvert drain off of my foot when I
   was a boy in South Bend, Indiana flashed through my mind. How was I, a boy of 12,
   able to roll a two-ton piece of concrete off my foot - adrenaline that's how. I heard the
   doctor explaining it to my mom while he was putting my foot in a cast at the Catholic
   Hospital later that afternoon. As an adult I had heard many such miracle stories and all
   because of adrenaline. I had used all the mental and physical powers at my disposal,
   or so I had thought.

   I could feel Sean slipping away, now I only had a hold on a thread or two of his
   raincoat, and a huge lump filled my throat and my chest tightened, nearly suffocating
   me as it did. The pain was excruciating and my muscles agonized from the exertion.
   And just when I thought I could keep him in my grasp no longer, my adrenaline kicked
   in and I tightened my hold and quickly made it past the middle of the river and
   subsequently safely to the other side.

   I don't know where I got the reserves to do so, but I was ready for Matt next. I knew he
   was stronger than Sean, and that it should be an easier task, but dangerous
   nevertheless. Matt had just finished witnessing Mark's trailer and all of our equipment
   roll down the California, not to mention the struggle I had getting Sean to the other side.

   Mark and his machine still remained near the middle of the river. The ATV had drowned
   out and there was no hope of getting it started again, at least not while it remained in
   the river. The water continued to rise quickly and flash flooding conditions were
   worsening with each passing howl of the night's cold wind. The rain was beating down
   on us, a bone-chilling wetness that cut through the thick layers of my skin. Shivers
   shot up and down my entire body, accompanied by golf ball sized goose bumps
   covering me from head to toe. They gave it their all to keep what little warmth remained
   inside of me there for as long as they could, but the cold was too great now and the
   goose bumps were nothing more than an additional annoyance at this point.

   The stranded four-wheeler was our best hope of getting both Matt and Mark across to
   where Sean and I now stood. Matt was reluctant to give it a try. Mark and I tried to
   encourage him and assured him that all would be okay, but his parent's teachings had
   served him well. He sensed the risk involved, and I had previously shared with Sean,
   Mark, and him a plan for them to stay on their side while I went for help. With that in
   mind, he felt more secure to stay put until we could get reinforcements.

   Until we could get his Dad, at 6'4" + and 280lbs, a man surely capable of helping him
   cross the river safely. His parent's knew what had been best for him over the years
   and his Dad would come to his rescue once again. If he could just gut it out in the
   freezing rain for the rest of the night everything would be okay.

   In seven more hours it would begin getting light again and the situation might not seem
   so extreme. The water level of the river could go down, but it could keep going up too.
   Matt opted to stay on his side of the river until we could bring in the Calvary - his Dad. It
   took more courage than fear for Matt to make that decision as I assured him before
   accepting his final word that we had little choice but for Mark to come across too. That
   was the only way we could be certain of saving his four-wheeler.

   Matt understood and was willing to take the gamble. He didn't know all that was in store
   for him, but he trusted our ability to make it out for help, and his Dad's ability to finish
   the rescue once we had a chance to explain the scenario to him.

   The decision was made. Mark made his way back out to the ATV, and with the rope
   securely tied to it, and the other end tied to my machine, we coordinated our count:
   one, two, three and I began to pull at a slow but steady and powerful pace.
   Relief abounded when we saw that he was going to make it atop his machine to the
   other side. It wouldn't start - the engine had taken on lots of water and the oil pan was
   full of it too.

   Eventually however, with the plugs pulled and new oil in the crankcase, the water was
   flushed from the machine and Mark had it up and running. Sean rode on the back of
   the ATV Mark was driving, and I followed in the dead dark of night. We left Matt and the
   raging California at our backs.

   We hadn't been on the trail 20 minutes when a new fear, one like I had never
   experienced before passed through me. My headlight showed what Mark and Sean
   had not seen two seconds earlier. They had just passed a large grizzly bear at the
   trail's edge, upright, angry, unafraid, ready to snatch my son from his seat and he
   would have never known what had hit him. But he made it by golly and now it was my
   turn to get by the critter.

   I was only 20 feet shy of where the bear stood and there was no time to stop, turn
   around, or call for help. What could anyone have done anyhow. No one would have
   heard me. Adrenaline once again kicked in and I gunned the machine, veering as far
   left as I could to avoid the bruin. I didn't dare glance to see what its reaction was, or
   how close a call it had been to ending my own life. All I knew I was past the point where
   I had originally sighted the bear, a good 50 yards past, but my heart still beat loudly. I
   couldn't hear the engine of my ATV for the loud pounding in my chest. I felt relief after
   traveling another 100 yards or so, and remember stopping atop a hill 20 minutes later.

   I explained the peril that we had just escaped, but I couldn't help noticing the doubt in
   Mark's eyes as he passed in front of the headlight on my Honda. Besides, on a
   previous hunt I thought I had spotted a bear in my sights only for it to turn out to be a
   ground squirrel. The power of my binocular lenses made me look foolish when I
   shared that with Mark, but that was another situation that fireside stories originate from
   and there's no denying it happened.

   We were all too cold to question this event however and it was now far more important
   to get back on our rigs and back to Doug and Mary.

   Our goal: round up the Calvary and rescue Matt.

   It was well after midnight, nearer 2 a.m. I had suspected, when we finally made it back
   to base camp and the RV where Doug and Mary had been sleeping comfortably.

   The serene sound of raindrops falling on the roof of their motor home no doubt lulled
   them into dreamland. I sensed that this had been the first time in a long time that they
   had enjoyed intimate privacy like this and that they had been cuddling close for most of
   the night, enjoying the moment, dreaming, and not thinking about tomorrow.

   Perhaps I was wrong, they were secure in their marriage and maybe they were just
   looking forward to Josh's arrival and the next day's hunt. At any rate, I didn't relish the
   idea of what I had to do next. It was heart wrenching to tell them that Matt wasn't with
   us. I scrambled to find the right words that would allay Mary's worst fears, and then it
   came to me, "We had some trouble, we are all O.K.! Whatever you did raising that
   boy, you did it right. You can be proud of how your son handled himself in a really
   difficult situation."

   We were quick to collect our thoughts and agreed that we needed to contact the
   troopers in Fairbanks and seek their support.

   We ran to a nearby house, pounding on their door. The man came, partially dressed,
   dreary eyed, but polite all things considered. We quickly told him the situation and he
   invited us in to use the phone. He knew the land well and talked of how he frequently
   hunted in the area where Matt was stranded. It wasn't a surprise to him that the river
   rose rapidly. With rains like this we get a lot of flash flooding he said. Based on my
   description of the terrain, he thought he knew Matt's exact location. "I killed a big bull
   caribou there a few weeks ago," he exclaimed! Then his wife appeared. As I recall she
   was pregnant, but I don't remember them having any other kids.

   We told our plight to the troopers in Fairbanks who basically made a record of the
   situation and explained that nothing could be done until morning, and for us to call them
   back when we had had an opportunity to reassess the situation at daybreak. (It was I
   who actually suggested we do that.)

   In the meantime, the landowner and his wife had agreed that he should lead us back to
   Matt at first light. He gathered a huge rope and a few other items that could prove
   helpful should the situation be worse than expected.

   Sean in the meantime was being nursed by Mary back in the RV. His asthma was
   alarmingly out of control and he was shivering non-stop, much like a few years earlier
   during a hunt at Lake Louise, again for caribou. I remember thinking that he's being
   cared for, and how I now had to concentrate on leading everyone back to Matt. Afterall,
   I was really the only one who knew exactly where he was and how to get right to him.
   Mark may have been able to find the spot, but I had been there three or four times
   more then he had.

   Doug was steady and tall on his ATV as we navigated the Nenana railroad bridge and
   the hills that followed. It was over an hour later, following a steady pace that we finally
   came to the California, none of us knowing what we'd find.

   Our anxiety heightened just before we began our ascent to the river, and then, in the
   same moment, relief fell upon us when we saw Matt's smiling face on the other side. I
   thought that perhaps he was happier to see my face than I was to see his, but it would
   be a close call as to who was happier. Then I deducted that it was Doug who would be
   most relieved.

   I knew if Matt just stayed put, he'd be wet and cold, and tired, but that he would okay,
   otherwise I would have never left him behind.

   Matt knew that he was okay and that I would be back, or least that his Dad would find
   him.

   The soldiers had decided to stay put there for the night as well so Matt was not alone.
   He just wasn't spending the night with the two sharpest knives in the drawer. The
   soldiers would later try to heat themselves and the tent they were staying in with the
   engine of their ATV. Matt saw them scramble from the tent a short while later, gasping
   for fresh air, and almost totally overcome by the engine's exhaust.

   Matt had remained outside at the fire they had built. It wasn't surprising to find out later
   that Matt had kept his distance from the soldiers for most of the night.

   Only Doug was unsure of the situation - he wasn't there to witness it from the
   beginning, but it didn't take him long to get a line across to Matt, and once he instructed
   his son about securing it on the other side, he quickly made his way across the river.

   The water was down a good 6" from the night before and anyone who's hunted in
   Alaska, and has had to cross rivers to do it, knows that 6 inches can be a lot
   depending on the river and the crossing points.

   With dry clothes in hand for Matt, he quickly changed out of his wet ones and ate the
   food his Mom had sent along for him. It wasn't long after that that Doug said, "well, let's
   go locate the trailer," and sure enough, several hundred yards down river the trailer had
   hung up between two huge boulders and a tree snag where the river forked.

   Doug made his way out into the near freezing water and surveyed the situation. The
   trailer was lodged pretty tightly between the rocks, but with the help of the winch on the
   four-wheelers, which were now able to cross the river, he felt we should be able to free
   it and winch it back to shore.

   He was right, but only because his brute strength allowed it to be so. The winch alone
   didn't have the torque required to free the trailer from the boulders. Human intervention
   or a barge with a huge crane atop it were the only things that would help at this point
   and the latter was far from the realm of possibilities. Doug was our only hope. He
   wrestled with the tag-a-long for a few minutes longer and then, with a final mighty
   'squat-snatch-and jerk' he freed the fire engine red trailer from what could have been
   its final resting place.

   Mark took up the slack in the winch cable and began winching it toward the bank. Thirty
   minutes later, the trailer was onshore and we were readjusting the hitch settings and
   getting ready to pull it back to base camp.

   Another possible tragedy had been averted, and our day began to look just as
   promising as the new day's sun peeking through the broken clouds above.
   For some reason, I can't exactly remember why, Josh never came, so once we made
   it back to base camp it was decided that we'd have to postpone the hunt.

   Sean was sick, Matt was exhausted without having had a good night's sleep, and it
   would take him another day just to warm his insides back up to operating temperature,
   and a lot of our gear was soaked.

   We all had a good laugh over the few items that remained dry - my video camera, and
   a carton of cigarettes (back in the days when I smoked).

   It had been quite a night, one that I will never forget. One that keeps my spirits high
   whenever I think about it and I'm feeling down and out. It was one of those nights when
   good friends, and sound minds, and a will to survive kept us all going.

   Afterall, it had been a night of foolishness and heroics. Fear, trepidation, and courage.
   A night of mixed feelings and emotions.

   Lest we forget, Sean, Matt, Mark, and I saved a soldier from drowning, and Doug had
   saved his son and I had saved mine, at least I like to think that is how it was.

   Mark was tired like the rest of us, but I have no feel for the emotions he felt that night.
   We've never discussed them since.

   I remember thinking that Matt and Sean were dry now, as I spotted them resting
   beyond the wet clothes hanging throughout the RV. It looked like a Chinese laundry in
   there to be sure, but at least Matt was safe back in Mary and Doug's arms.
   And I wondered how they felt following their first Alaskan hunt, a hunt where they never
   got a chance to fire a shot.

   I wondered if they would ever forget that night? I know I won't, nor do I believe that my
   son, Sean, will.

   I wished they would have never moved to Juneau, but how selfish should one man be?
   I just thought it was the beginning of a friendship, built strong and true, and wondered
   whether it was going to end. But not all friendships are 24 hours a day; some come,
   and some go, and some stay even if your friends are far, far away - like the
   Cleveland's: Doug, Mary, Josh and Matt.

The End

   Our Friends the Cleveland's

   Well, they're just those sorts of friends, the kind that may be out-of-sight, but are never
   out-of-mind. I hope they're all doing well, especially the boys.

   And of course they must be, because I know their parents and it simply could be no
   other way. They were taught well, how to face each and every day, right from wrong,
   and left from right.

   They're all okay because it's meant to be that way - even if it's Montana where the
   Cleveland's have decided to stay!

   Big Sky country, that's what they call it there, but I know on a bright summer's night
   when we are all looking up at the Big Dipper, it's Alaska, with her mountains high, and
   the caribou, moose, bears, salmon, and so much more, that comes to their minds,
   and if we're lucky enough they'll be thinking of us too, and the times that we had up at
   the cabin or on New Year's Eve's past.

   But one thing is for sure, they'll never forget that night we headed out for their first
   Alaskan hunt on the Totatlanika - river's wild and bears lurking.

   Escaping the Rock Avalanche Near Denali

   During our return trip home, Volkswagen sized boulders pummeled the Parks highway
   just north of the entrance to Denali National Park. It was a miracle that no one was
   killed. One enormous boulder, the size of an outhouse to be sure, just missed the
   Cleveland's motor home by mere inches. Doug maintained his cool and maneuvered
   the big rig as though it was a daily experience. I can't say for sure, but I suspect Mary
   had a few extra pieces of tough-to-clean laundry that night.

   The incident reminded me of my mother Cleo's words years ago when she brought
   my three siblings, Deloris, Dennis, and Dianna, and me west to join my dad, Woody.
   We were moving from South Bend, Indiana to San Bernardino, California.

   "One never really knows what lies ahead!" She made that statement just after having
   seen a warning sign while in Indian Country somewhere near Flagstaff, Arizona that
   read, "Watch For Falling Rock!"

   I never saw a pinto horse, much less Falling Rock, but what I witnessed that day near
Denali, I'm here to tell you - always 'heed what you read', at least when it comes to
road signs!

   Well, we all made it home safely, and none the worse for wear. And one thing is for
   sure, there'll be more caribou up near the Totatlanika the next year, and maybe, just
   maybe, if we're lucky enough, we'll be the one's telling stories around a roaring
   campfire at night.

   Another thing is for certain, Alaska is a land of extremes, and while preparation for
   every outcome is a near impossibility, prepare you must - that's the only guarantee
   you'll have that you'll live again another day to say, "that dog will hunt!"

   ****

This Story is Specially Dedicated to My Son,

'Sean Mikal Shepherd'

With Many Thanks to My Friends,

'Mark K Marcott'

'Doug & Mary Cleveland'

'Matt Cleveland'
 

****

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