Guy Grieve - Call of the American Wild: A Tenderfoots Escape to Alaska

To the two families: one who let me go,
and the other, who ensured I came back alive.

Copyright 2012 by Guy Grieve

First published in Great Britain in 2006 by Hodder & Stoughton, a division of Hodder Headline

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

Cover photo Callum Moffat

Print ISBN: 978-1-63450-293-1

Ebook ISBN: 978-1-5107-0193-9

Printed in the United States of America

It matters not how strait the gate
How charged with punishments the scroll
I am the master of my fate:

I am the captain of my soul.

W.E. HENLEY, INVICTUS

A Tribute to Jack London

My desire to experience the wilderness goes back to childhood, and my early reading of Jack London. His stories encapsulated the cruel beauty and mystery of the far north, none more so than The Call of the Wild , from which this book takes its name. In the hundred years that have passed since London was writing, our world has been transformed; yet the lands of which he wrote have barely changed at all. Neither has that part of human nature that is restless, that cannot be satisfied by the trappings of modern life. No other words better describe this than the call of the wild.

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

This is the Law of the Yukon, that only the Strong shall thrive; That surely the Weak shall perish, and only the Fit survive. Dissolute, damned and despairful, crippled and palsied and slain,

This is the Will of the Yukon,Lo, how she makes it plain!

ROBERT W. SERVICE, SONGS OF A SOURDOUGH , THE LAW OF THE YUKON (1907)

As I bend to hoist my overstuffed hiking bag on to my back, I see the deep impression of a large paw print in the cool mud. My heart squeezes a beat that almost hurts, and I need no guidebook to tell me that, shortly before I landed on this beach, a grizzly bear stood on this spot. As I stare at the print, my tired brain adjusts to the reality of my situation: I am in the sub-arctic wilderness, a place where I could be overpowered and eaten by an animal weighing over one thousand pounds. I touch the deep holes where five claws have left their mark. Looking along the line of prints, I realise the bear has disappeared into the same woods that I now plan to make my home. Unlike him, I am a complete beginner

Using a flood-bleached tree for support, I pull myself up the bank towards the trees. I am dripping with sweat, and surrounded by a halo of buzzing black flies. The bag is too heavy to climb with, so I heave it over the lip of the bank and into a clump of thorny bushes before raising one leg over the edge to lever myself into the greenery. I trample down some of the vegetation and stand on the edge looking down at my clown-like trail, slipping and smearing its way up from the river.

I stand there for a few minutes, reluctant to take the first step away from the safety of my boat and into the darkness of the woods. Night is coming and I know that I have over a mile of difficult passage through dense trees and undergrowth before I reach the lake where I will make camp. At this moment, I would joyfully undo everything, turn the clock back to a time when life was safe and predictable. Taking a deep breath, I turn away from the beach and walk towards the woods.

PART 1

Reality can destroy the dream,
why shouldnt the dream destroy reality?
GEORGE MOORE

UNDERCOVER DREAMER

A laconic, world-weary but nevertheless warm voice answers the phone. Scotsman editors office, Sonja speaking. Can I help you?

I stutter into action like a rusty outboard on a wet day. Ah yes, um... could I possibly speak to Iain? This is Guy from downstairs. I hope that my cunning tactic of referring to the editor by his first name will get me past the gate-keeper, but shes an old hand.

A slight pause. Can I ask what you need from Iain? She must be wondering what some hapless sod from the sales floor could possibly want with the editor of Scotlands oldest and most august newspaper.

Well... Im just wondering if I could meet with him at some point?

Hes really busy at the moment Guy. Can I ask what its about?

I feel like telling her that it is about the fact that I am going stircrazy and have finally reached the point of no return. That the only way I can see of freeing myself from the trap of office life is to head for one of the loneliest and wildest places on earth, where I will be alone and far from my family with a not inconsiderable chance of dying. Instead I say, Well Sonja, I know this sounds odd, but can you just tell him Im sure he will not find a meeting with me a complete waste of his time?

She laughs. Guywhat are you up to?

Not really sure to be honest. I just have a feeling that he might be able to help me.

Hold on. There is a long pause as she checks his diary. I hear phones ringing in the background and imagine what the days must look like to a hassled and hardworking man dealing with deadline after deadline, meeting after meeting. I hear rustling and Sonja is back on the phone. Rightcome up tonight after five-thirty and wait. No guarantees, but Im pretty sure you will be able to get a bit of time with Iain.

I hold the phone with two hands and experience a surge of something quite foreign: hope. Thank you SonjaIll be there.

I replace the handset and look up. My line manager is looming over my desk, fixing me with a strange look.

Guy, hows it going with that spreadsheet you promised us?

I furrow my eyebrows into what I hope is an efficient look, tapping a brisk staccato on my keyboard. Im onto it Kris. Can I get it to you tomorrow?

End of play tomorrow Guy, okay? He hovers, not convinced.

I produce a warm salute, hoping to convey positivity and a go-ahead attitude. Yessir!

He walks back to his office, frowning slightly.

At the time that this conversation took place, I had been working in the commercial department of The Scotsman newspaper in Edinburgh for over five years. I had held a range of jobs at the newspaper, and had some success at coming up with new ways to get money into the company. In 2002, midway through my time at the paper, an indulgent managing director, who seemed as confused about my prospects as I was, decided to see if I might be capable of holding a senior position within the company. I was duly promoted from my position as a lowly sales executive to the grand title of Head of Strategic Marketing, and given my own neat little office on the top floor of the building where all the senior executives lurked. For a short period I found myself quite excited about the whole thing, and began to feel that maybe this was the start of something. For weeks I plotted and planned and felt very professional and senior in my new position at the top of the building. I would swivel about in my chair, tap away ostentatiously at my computer and spend inordinate amounts of time drawing complex diagrams in order to illustrate my groundbreaking new approaches. Sadly no-one was able to understand any of these diagrams, as my writing was and remains appalling. Nevertheless there were regular meetings held in my office, and I felt proud to offer people coffee and biscuits as they settled themselves around the faux mahogany meeting table.