shore beyond the ice, both sides of the riverâno sign of him. âRy-an!â I called, shivering and shaking. âRyyyyy-an!â
In a full-on panic I broke into a run, or tried to. I tripped over my own feet, then got up and kept going. Ground squirrels standing by their burrows dived for cover. Where the ice ended, I made my way down to the riverâs edge. Scrambling along the rocky shore, I fell two, three times. I had next to no control over my shuddering limbs. Where was Ryan? Had he drowned, was he dead? Was I alone?
I staggered down the shore, falling and rising and shaking and falling. All the winters I had been through, even those times I had been on the windy sea ice at thirty below, I had never experienced cold like this. I had to warm up, and soon. My body core had gotten much too cold. âRyyy-an!â I screamed.
Donât give up, you have to find him . Maybe he blacked out and heâs still in the water. If so, you have to pull him out fast. I scanned and scanned and saw nothing.
From the corner of my eye I caught some movement downstream, on the far side of the river. Then nothing. I ran past a long clump of brush for a better look, and glimpsed a flash of orange, an orange life jacket. It was Ryan, out of the water and stumbling along the rocky shore. Just then he tripped and fell.
âRyan!â I yelled at the top of my lungs. He couldnât hear me over the sound of the river. âRyâan! Ryâan!â I yelled, then stumbled downriver until we were opposite each other. By this time he had seen me. âNick!â he screamed. âNick, youâre alive!â
My brother had been in the water longer than me, and had even less control over his body. He fell down, got up, fell down again.
I was thinking clearly enough to have this much figured out: I wasnât capable of swimming to his side and he wasnât capable of swimming to mine.
Ryan got to his knees. I cupped my hands to my mouth and hollered loud as I could: âSHOULD ⦠I ⦠TRY ⦠TO ⦠CROSS ⦠ON ⦠THE ⦠ICE?â
Ryan managed to regain his feet. âDONâT TRY! IT MIGHT BREAK! STAY THERE, MAKE FIRE!â
My hand went to my trousers pocket. The lighter heâd given me was still there. There wasnât a bit of driftwood on the shore. I looked around for the nearest trees.
On Ryanâs side of the Firth, spruce trees grew on the mountain slope that rose out of the river. My side was valley floor, open tundra, most of it grassy and dry. The low places held ponds and muskeg swamp. My eyes landed on a clump of spruce trees on a knoll a couple hundred feet downstream and a couple hundred feet back from the river. âOKAY,â I yelled.
I turned and began to climb the riverbank as best I could manage. âSORRY!â Ryan called after me.
Atop the bank, I steered for those trees. No time to lose , I kept telling myself.
The clouds had thickened since Red had taken off, and the temperature had dropped. How much I couldnât tell. The wind was beginning to rise. I wasnât shivering and shaking anymore, and that wasnât good. It was like I had turned to stone.
Pursued by the bugs, I climbed the knoll to the clump of spruce trees. An opening that faced the river led to a small clearing in the miniature grove.
First thing I did was to force my clawlike fingers into my pocket. Pulling the lighter out was anything but easy. It fell to the ground, small and red. I set it on a rock where the air might dry it out.
No taller than twenty feet, the trees huddled close to one another, their outer branches extending all the way to the ground. The inner branches were long dead from lack of sunlight. I crawled in on my hands and knees and went after the dead stuff. I was wearing those rafting gloves Ryan had given me. They helped as I broke off handfuls of brittle, dead branch tips skinny as soda straws.
By the time I collected some
In a full-on panic I broke into a run, or tried to. I tripped over my own feet, then got up and kept going. Ground squirrels standing by their burrows dived for cover. Where the ice ended, I made my way down to the riverâs edge. Scrambling along the rocky shore, I fell two, three times. I had next to no control over my shuddering limbs. Where was Ryan? Had he drowned, was he dead? Was I alone?
I staggered down the shore, falling and rising and shaking and falling. All the winters I had been through, even those times I had been on the windy sea ice at thirty below, I had never experienced cold like this. I had to warm up, and soon. My body core had gotten much too cold. âRyyy-an!â I screamed.
Donât give up, you have to find him . Maybe he blacked out and heâs still in the water. If so, you have to pull him out fast. I scanned and scanned and saw nothing.
From the corner of my eye I caught some movement downstream, on the far side of the river. Then nothing. I ran past a long clump of brush for a better look, and glimpsed a flash of orange, an orange life jacket. It was Ryan, out of the water and stumbling along the rocky shore. Just then he tripped and fell.
âRyan!â I yelled at the top of my lungs. He couldnât hear me over the sound of the river. âRyâan! Ryâan!â I yelled, then stumbled downriver until we were opposite each other. By this time he had seen me. âNick!â he screamed. âNick, youâre alive!â
My brother had been in the water longer than me, and had even less control over his body. He fell down, got up, fell down again.
I was thinking clearly enough to have this much figured out: I wasnât capable of swimming to his side and he wasnât capable of swimming to mine.
Ryan got to his knees. I cupped my hands to my mouth and hollered loud as I could: âSHOULD ⦠I ⦠TRY ⦠TO ⦠CROSS ⦠ON ⦠THE ⦠ICE?â
Ryan managed to regain his feet. âDONâT TRY! IT MIGHT BREAK! STAY THERE, MAKE FIRE!â
My hand went to my trousers pocket. The lighter heâd given me was still there. There wasnât a bit of driftwood on the shore. I looked around for the nearest trees.
On Ryanâs side of the Firth, spruce trees grew on the mountain slope that rose out of the river. My side was valley floor, open tundra, most of it grassy and dry. The low places held ponds and muskeg swamp. My eyes landed on a clump of spruce trees on a knoll a couple hundred feet downstream and a couple hundred feet back from the river. âOKAY,â I yelled.
I turned and began to climb the riverbank as best I could manage. âSORRY!â Ryan called after me.
Atop the bank, I steered for those trees. No time to lose , I kept telling myself.
The clouds had thickened since Red had taken off, and the temperature had dropped. How much I couldnât tell. The wind was beginning to rise. I wasnât shivering and shaking anymore, and that wasnât good. It was like I had turned to stone.
Pursued by the bugs, I climbed the knoll to the clump of spruce trees. An opening that faced the river led to a small clearing in the miniature grove.
First thing I did was to force my clawlike fingers into my pocket. Pulling the lighter out was anything but easy. It fell to the ground, small and red. I set it on a rock where the air might dry it out.
No taller than twenty feet, the trees huddled close to one another, their outer branches extending all the way to the ground. The inner branches were long dead from lack of sunlight. I crawled in on my hands and knees and went after the dead stuff. I was wearing those rafting gloves Ryan had given me. They helped as I broke off handfuls of brittle, dead branch tips skinny as soda straws.
By the time I collected some
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