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Sonia Crane hears the front gate open and looks up from the sink full of dirty dishes. Her husband, Louis, left for the office only an hour ago. He wouldn't be back so soon. Out the kitchen window, she sees someone else and feels a chill.
Striding up the front walk is a teenage boy in a dark gray Western Union uniform. It's December 29th, 1943, and Sonia has three sons fighting in the war. For military families, Western Union telegrams almost always mean bad news. ♪
Sonia opens the door to find the courier standing at attention, like a little soldier, his posture straight, his arms held tightly to his sides. For some reason, her eyes go to his shoes, which are black and shiny, even in the snow. Telegram for Mr. and Mrs. Lewis Crane? I'm Mrs. Crane. For you, ma'am. He hands Sonia the telegram, then waits.
Sonia's heart gallops as she opens the envelope. But she's not a woman who falls to pieces in a crisis. 30 years ago, she and Louis came to America from Hamburg, Germany on a steamship packed with thousands of immigrants. They were fleeing anti-Semitism and starting from nothing. They built a life here in West Philadelphia. They weathered the Great Depression and raised three sons. Her boys are now in the service. Morris in Europe, Nathan in the Pacific,
and young Leon at an airbase in Alaska. Sonia opens the telegram and reads. Her hands tremble as she takes in the words. Your son, First Lieutenant Leon Crane, has been reported missing since December 21st in Alaska.
Sonia feels dizzy. The telegram offers no more details. It doesn't say exactly where Leon went missing or what happened to him. Was he in a plane crash? Are they still looking for him? She looks up to see that the Western Union boy is still there. Maybe he's been trained to wait to see if she's in distress and needs comforting. But she's too reserved for that. Thank you. Have a good day.
The boy turns and marches away, leaving Sonia alone on her porch, her mind reeling. She reads the telegram again, thinking about what to do now. She'll have to call Louis at the office and tell him, but tell him what? She doesn't even know if Leon is alive or dead. Sonia steps back inside, out of the cold, wondering if she'll ever see her youngest son again.
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From Wondery, I'm Mike Corey, and this is Against the Odds. On December 21, 1943, during World War II, a B-24 bomber lifted off from Alaska's Ladd Army airfield on a routine test flight. On board was Lieutenant Leon Crane, a 24-year-old airman from Philadelphia. When the plane suffered sudden equipment failure, he bailed out mere moments before it crashed.
But then he found himself stranded and alone in a remote stretch of Alaska backcountry. As far as he could tell, he was the sole survivor of the crash. Determined to make it home alive, Crane set off into the wilderness, braving brutal winds and temperatures as low as minus 40 degrees. His only hope was to find civilization before he froze to death. This is Episode 2, Cabin Fever.
Leon Crane takes another step into deep snow. A half-step first, to test the terrain underneath. It's solid, no jagged rocks for him to slip on. He puts his full weight down and hoists himself a few more feet up the ridge. It's December 29th, 1943. In the eight days since his plane crashed, Crane had stayed close to a frozen river, a
a valuable source of drinking water. He managed to get a fire going, which kept him warm, and served as a beacon to passing rescue planes. But now, Cray knows he has no choice but to move. It's standard army procedure to call off any search for crash survivors after a week. So, if he's going to give back to civilization, he's going to have to do it on his own.
He's decided to hike west, towards an area called Big Delta. He knows there's an airbase there, and where there's a base, there should be a few towns and other settlements as well. At least, that's his hope. As he trudges through the snow, he feels a constant gnawing in his stomach. He's eaten nothing since the morning of the crash, over a week without food. He's not sure how much longer he can keep going without sustenance.
Crane stops to catch his breath. Sweat trickles down his back under his downed flight suit. It's 20 degrees below zero, and he's sweating. He'd laugh.
but he knows this is bad news. Nothing wicks heat away from the body faster than water, and he's already in danger of frostbite. He tries to walk with his hands jammed into his armpits for warmth. In the chaos of parachuting from the plane just before it crashed, he forgot to put his mittens back on. Now his fingers are numb, and
and so stiff he can barely make a fist. If he trips over a snow-covered rock, he knows that instinct will take over, and he'll stick his hands out into the snow to break his fall, numbing them even further. ♪
Crane stops and looks around at the steep hills of white, the pine trees dusted with snow. He's been hiking for hours, and it looks exactly the same as when he left camp this morning. Then he looks behind him and realizes he's only gone a few hundred feet. At this rate, over this rugged terrain, he might manage a half mile a day.
He turns his gaze to the sky. The grey winter sun is already sinking lower on the horizon. There are only a few hours of daylight at this time of year, and he's used up most of them. Crane knows he has a decision to make.
It's time to tap into the kind of rational thinking he honed at MIT in their engineering program. His choice to hike towards Big Delta had seemed like a sensible one. He calculated that it was better to move toward a known location, even if he didn't know the exact route. Surely that was a better gambit than walking downriver. The river runs northeast, and he has no idea what lies in that direction. But now he thinks he may have tossed aside the river plan too quickly.
After all, don't people live along rivers? Even at this time of year, maybe he would find fur trappers or ice fishers or even a town. All he has to do is follow the river and rivers flow downhill, so at least he knows it'll be an easier hike. And really, how far away is the big delta airbase? 5 miles? 50 miles? He realizes that he has no idea.
That settles it. Crane is a good poker player, and he knows when to fold on a losing hand. He has to turn back and set out along the river tomorrow. Crane tugs the hood of his parka tighter against the cold. He's lost a full day of his body consuming calories it doesn't have. But sometimes you have to fold, or else you lose everything. Slowly, he turns around and starts back the way he came.
Crane stumbles his way through knee-deep powder. Even wearing army-issue mukluks and three layers of wool socks, he can feel his feet going numb from a full day of slogging through snow.
It's just a couple hours since he turned around to head back toward the river. Now, as he hikes around a stand of pine trees, he finally sees his campsite, maybe a hundred feet away. It's a little patch of dirt amid all the snow. Cleared by the fire he's kept going for the past eight days. But where is the fire?
With a jolt of alarm, he realizes that he can't see any smoke or a glow of embers. That fire was nearly impossible to ignite in the snow. He had to burn a letter from his father to get it going. If the fire has gone out, he doesn't know if he'll be able to start a new one.
Crane picks up his pace. Behind the gray clouds, the sun is dropping. There's no way he'll survive a night out here without a fire. He runs forward and drops to his knees at the charred remains. All he sees is a single tendril of white smoke rising from the embers. He's too late.
But maybe there's a chance he's wrong. After all, doesn't the saying go, "Where there's smoke, there's fire"? He looks closer. There, under the blackened branches, he spots an orange glow. A couple of embers are still hot. Frantically, he searches around the base of a nearby tree, gathering dry pine needles into his numb, bare hands. He places them against the embers and blows. The orange glow gets brighter and hotter.
The pine needles ignite. Success! He grabs a log and piles it on. Then another. The flames flicker, catching on the dry wood as the fire comes back to life. Crane breathes a sigh of relief. At least he won't freeze to death. Not tonight. Leon Crane feels his stomach clench tighter, and he grumbles. "Oh, come on. Why are you growling at me? You know there's nothing I can do."
It's the next day, and he's on the move. This morning, he said goodbye to his campsite and set out down the river.
Now, after just a couple of hours, he's made good progress. The river's frozen surface is mostly flat and smooth and covered with enough snow to provide decent traction. It's much easier going than yesterday's scramble over all those loose, snow-covered rocks. He looks up ahead, where the river curves around a bend. Crane's been playing a game with himself to keep his spirits up.
Every time he sees a bend in the river, he imagines there's something good waiting for him just out of sight. He speaks aloud, as though he's encouraging a friend. "There's a cabin just around that bend, just around that bend, with a fireplace, big warm fireplace, blankets, steaks, big pile of juicy steaks."
He knows wishful thinking can't change reality, but he also knows if he doesn't keep his spirits up, he'll be sunk.
He can tell he's getting weaker. With every hour that passes, his steps are getting slower, his breathing more labored. But he has to keep going or he'll die in the middle of nowhere. He'll be considered missing in action forever. No one will ever find his body. His parents will never know what became of him. He can't let that happen. Crane rounds the bend and his view opens up. There's a cabin...
Just around this. Crane looks. There is no cabin. There's nothing but snow, trees, and more frozen river stretching out before him. He grits his teeth, puts one foot in front of the other, and trudges onward, repeating to himself, there's a cabin just around the next bend.
Crane pushes himself to take another step through the snow. He's been walking six hours since he left camp at first light. That's a full day during the scant hours of sunlight this far north. But there's still no sign that he's any closer to finding help. Another day of starvation, with his metabolism burning fat and muscle because he has no food.
As the pale sun begins to sink behind the trees, Crane thinks it may be time to find a place to camp and try to build a fire. He hopes he can get one started without paper for kindling, or he could burn through his matches fast. He only has about 30 left.
Then Crane sees something up ahead, a triangular shape in the fading winter light. It doesn't look like any shape he's ever seen in nature. It looks like a tent.
Crane runs toward the shape, nearly stumbling on the ice. He gets closer and sees... Yes, it's a canvas tent. And it's on some kind of raised platform, set back a hundred feet or so from the riverbank. And next to it, set further back in the trees. Something so incredible that for a moment, Crane wonders if the hunger is making him hallucinate. But no, it's real. A cabin.
A real cabin made of logs, with a roof, and a door, and everything. Crane runs up the riverbank towards it, shouting, "Hello? Hello? Hello?" He reaches the cabin and pounds on the small wooden door, ignoring the pain in his frostbitten hands. "Hello? Hello? Is anyone there?" There could be food inside, or a bed. Just a little shelter from the wind would be a godsend.
Crane tries the door, but it's either jammed or locked. Is there someone in there? Have they locked the door against strangers? Will they be friendly or hostile? He shoves the door with all of his strength, and finally it opens. Crane stumbles into the darkness, unsure of what or who he will find.
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Head over to Symbiotica.com and use code ODDS for 20% off and free shipping on your subscription order. Leon Crane lets his eyes adjust to the darkness inside the cabin. There are no windows, but a dim shaft of amber light streams in from a small, dirty skylight. Slowly, the details start to emerge. The interior of the cabin is cramped, no more than 10 feet on a side.
Along one wall is a platform, like some kind of sleeping bunk. The floor is pounded earth, but frozen as solid as concrete in the cold. It's deserted, but familiar smells still linger in the air. Candle wax, cut logs, old fur. The scent of many meals cooked and eaten.
Crane feels his empty stomach rumble. There must be food in here somewhere. Along one wall, there's a table piled high with burlap sacks tied neatly with twine. He pulls out his Boy Scout knife and cuts one open. A white powder spills out from inside. He puts a finger in it and tastes its sugar.
He can't believe his luck. He cuts open another sack, and then another, like a kid opening presents on Christmas morning. Inside them, he finds treasure after treasure. A tin of cocoa, dried milk, half a dozen cans of baking powder, a box of raisins. Immediately, he stuffs the raisins in his mouth.
The cold has frozen them into dried pebbles. Crane has to let them soften on his tongue before he can chew, releasing their sweet flavor. He grabs another fistful of raisins and gobbles them down, but suddenly he feels painfully full. After so many days of being empty, his stomach has clenched up like a fist. Crane stops stuffing his mouth. He'll have to go slowly to get his insides used to actual food again.
Tomorrow, he will eat more. Tomorrow, he thinks, he'll probably be in a village. After all, who builds a cabin and stocks it with food in the middle of nowhere? He must be near civilization. First thing in the morning, he'll strike out. He'll be radioing his bosses back at Ladd Field before sundown.
In the fading rays of sunlight, he checks his hands. The skin is bone white from exposure. His sense of touch has felt muffled lately, like he's wearing boxing gloves. Thank God he'll be able to spend the night indoors.
A glint of metal under the bunk catches his eye. He bends and discovers a small wood-burning stove. Attached to it is a ventilation pipe. Crane searches the ceiling and finds a hole covered by a tin hatch. The pipe fits into it perfectly.
There's also a small pile of logs and wood shavings. Within minutes, he has a fire roaring in the corner of his refuge. Crane melts some snow in a frying pan, adds the sugar, powdered milk, and cocoa, and soon is sipping a mug of hot chocolate. It tastes even more delicious than the raisins.
Crane curls up on the wooden bunk, watching the fire flicker in the stove. He wonders who he has to thank for this incredible comfort, and when they'll be back. He hopes they won't be too angry that he's helped himself to all their supplies. But he'll worry about that later. Right now, he's indoors, safe from the bitter cold and biting wind for the first time in nine days. And tomorrow, he'll walk to whatever village is nearby...
He thanks his lucky stars for such a luxury. And he drifts off to sleep. Crane walks downriver. The going is easy. The sun shines from a cloudless sky and he figures the temperature must be just 25 below zero today. Positively balmy for this part of Alaska.
After spending a luxurious night in the warmth of the cabin, Crane got up this morning, stuffed his pockets full of raisins, and set off. He's sure there must be a town nearby, and he's eager to find it. As he walks, he counts all the days since the crash, and realizes that today must be December 31st, New Year's Eve. Maybe he'll meet some new friends he can toast with at midnight.
The river bends west, and Crane follows. The slopes along the bank grow steeper, the valley narrows. He marches forward, munching raisins, feeling weak but optimistic. He's sure that any minute now, he'll spot the familiar shape of houses in the distance, or catch a whiff of a cooking fire. But hours pass, and he finds nothing. No village, no settlement, not even a single cabin.
Crane is baffled. How could there be one lone cabin and nothing else? Who would build something in such a remote location and keep it so well stocked? It doesn't make sense. Mid-afternoon comes, and the sun starts to set. Still, Crane hikes on. A half-moon rises in the cloudless sky. Some good luck, Crane thinks. Tonight, there will be moonlight to guide his way. He can see the stars twinkling above him.
Then the northern lights appear, ethereal green ribbons of light dancing across the sky. It's an amazing sight, but he can't enjoy it for long. With darkness, the temperature has started to plummet, faster than anything Crane has experienced so far. Soon he can't feel the tip of his nose, and the air pricks his cheeks like tiny needles of ice.
Crane's boots crunch to a stop on the frozen riverbed. Maybe he was wrong about how close the cabin was to civilization. Or maybe he's right and there's a settlement just around the next bend. Crane realizes that if he wants to survive until dawn, he needs to stop and make a camp.
But could he even build a fire in these conditions? He tries to bend his fingers and discovers that his hands are so stiff he can barely make a fist. What if he drops the matches in the snow?
Crane tries to weigh his chances rationally. He could keep going. In poker terms, keep playing his meager hand, hoping he'll luck out and win the pot. But the odds of that are remote. And he's gambling with his life. The smartest move is also the most painful. It means dashing the hope he had when he left the cabin this morning. The hope that kept him going all this way forever.
Above him, the vast night sky reminds him of how small and fragile he is. Crane makes his decision. He has to turn back. It's his only chance. His heart sinking, Crane turns around and follows his tracks back the way he came. Leon Crane yanks away a canvas tarp to reveal two large wooden crates.
He's standing inside the canvas tent next to the cabin. During his first brief stay at the cabin, Crane only gave the tent a quick once-over. He was so eager to get going, so sure that civilization must be nearby, that he didn't think to do a more thorough search.
But now he's scouring every inch of the tent because it's looking like he might be here for a while. Crane almost didn't make it back to the cabin at all. After backtracking all night, he arrived near dawn, exhausted and chilled to his core. He had just enough strength to light a fire before he collapsed on the bunk. Where he slept for so long, he's no longer sure what day it is. January 2nd? January 3rd?
Whatever day it is, he knows he needs to find more food. Fast. His body can't subsist on raisins and hot cocoa much longer. He's hoping that whoever stocked the cabin with supplies left more in these crates. Using a hammer, Crane pries the lid off the first crate.
and gasps. Inside is a treasure trove. Huge bags of rice, flour, beef jerky, and dried beans. It's enough to feed him for weeks, maybe even months. He opens the second crate, his hands trembling with excitement.
More lifesavers. A wool blanket, a bear skin, overalls, long underwear, snowshoes, candles, flints for making a fire, a .22 caliber rifle with ammunition, dried eggs, and powdered soup mix. And at the bottom... Oh my god, hallelujah! A pair of moose hide mittens. At last, protection for his poor hands.
As Crane takes inventory, he notices something stenciled on the boxes. He squints in the dim light inside the tent and reads aloud: "Phil Burrell, Woodchopper, Alaska." Huh. Phil Burrell must be the owner of this cabin. But what does "Woodchopper, Alaska" mean? Is that the name of a town? Or Burrell's occupation? Crane decides to worry about it later.
For now, he makes a mental note to thank Phil Burrell if he ever meets him, then begins hauling his new treasures back to the cabin. He piles the bearskin and blanket on the bunk, and stacks the food by the stove. Then he cooks the biggest meal he's had since the plane crash: pancakes and rice, mixed with a little dried soup mix for flavor. It's not much, but Crane decides it's the best meal he's ever tasted.
Crane peers through the limbs of a pine tree at a plump white bird about 50 yards away. He's not sure what kind of bird it is, but it's about the size and shape of a partridge. It's perched on a little evergreen shrub, pecking at its leaves in short, quick movements. Slowly, Crane raises the .22-caliber rifle, takes aim, and pulls the trigger.
Yeah. The bird falls to the ground. It's been two weeks since Crane returned to the cabin, and in that time, he's become a pretty good shot with the rifle. He's also learned that you have to skin your kill before it freezes solid in the cold. So he runs quickly to the fallen bird, whips out his scout knife, and begins cleaning the carcass. He's gotten better at that for the past two weeks, too.
As Crane carries his dinner back to the cabin, he reflects on how much he's accomplished in such a short time. He's nursed himself back to health, sleeping up to 18 hours a day and filling his waking hours with meals of rice, beans, beef jerky, and pancakes cooked in beef tallow. He's learned how to field dress arctic birds. He's even managed to heal his scraped up and partially frostbitten hands.
The hands were his biggest challenge. At first, he tried rubbing tallow on them, but that only made his cuts sting terribly. He eventually stumbled upon a solution. Every day, he would rub candle wax all over his hands like lotion, then slip his hands inside Burrell's moose hide mittens to protect them. Over the next six days, his hands slowly returned to life.
To pass the time, he's been reading Burrell's stash of old issues of the Saturday Evening Post. It makes him feel just a little bit more connected to civilization. There are even a few articles on wilderness survival, which Crane wishes he could have read before the crash. At the end of each day, he marks the passage of time by poking a nail into the date on an old wall calendar. He might be off by a day or two, but he's pretty sure it's January 14th.
One day, the calendar fell off the wall, and Crane discovered a map printed on the back. On it, he found Woodchopper. It was a town after all, and not the occupation of the cabin's owner. According to the map, Woodchopper lay just south of the Yukon River, along a smaller waterway called Woodchopper Creek. Is his river the Yukon or Woodchopper Creek?
He can't tell for sure, but either way, the map seems to confirm that his strategy of following the river downstream is the right one. Back in the cabin, Crane brings melted snow to a boil in a cast iron pot, then adds butchered pieces of the bird. It's warm and cozy inside, but he knows he can't stay here forever.
Eventually, he has to get back to Lad Field and then home to his family. But every day he rests and gets stronger, he increases his odds of survival. Soon, he'll venture out again and be better prepared. He'll pack up all the supplies he can carry. His hands will have the protection of the heavy moose hide mittens. This time, he'll be ready. And this time, the wilderness will not beat him.
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Leon Crane squints and tries to see through the fast-blowing snow. The wind howls in his ears and stings his face. Ice has formed over his beard. He feels like he's breathing through a mask.
It's January 22nd, 1944. Two days ago, he set out from Burrell's cabin on a mission to find Woodchopper. A storm had been in full effect when he departed. High winds and bitterly cold temperatures. Crane guessed it must be at least 40 degrees below zero. But against his better judgment, he decided to brave bad weather rather than lose more time.
Now he's two days into his journey, following the frozen river towards Woodshopper, or so he hopes. Despite the harsh conditions, he's far better prepared for his trek this time. He used some rope and one of Burrell's tents to fashion a makeshift backpack, which he's filled with rice, beans, and other provisions. He has the .22 rifle and plenty of ammo. He
He has his matches and some tips from the Saturday evening post that have improved his fire building skills. He couldn't figure out the straps for the snowshoes, so he had to leave those. But he found some fresh wool socks in the cabin, so his feet are nice and warm inside his mucklucks. And over his parka and other layers, he's wearing a burlap sack like a tunic. The burlap makes a surprisingly good windbreaker.
He also has a valuable new piece of survival gear, an old sleeping bag. Crane found it yesterday in another old hunter's cabin along the river. This cabin was partially collapsed and obviously abandoned. There was no food inside, but discovering the sleeping bag had been an incredible stroke of luck. But still, two days and no sign of Woodchopper or any other town.
Nothing except the abandoned cabin. He realizes he's deeper in the middle of nowhere than he imagined. The wind blows louder, and Crane pulls his hood tighter around his ears. He squints and stares ahead. He sees something through the howling whiteness. It looks rectangular, and it's just off the riverbank up ahead. It's another cabin.
Crane runs toward it. Wind is blowing the snow almost sideways, making it difficult to see any details of the structure. Finally, he reaches the door and tumbles inside, and discovers more snow. The back of the roof has collapsed. God only knows how long ago. It will provide no shelter. And after some digging through the snow, Crane realizes it will provide no food either.
Reluctantly, he forces himself to face the reality of his situation. His supplies are already half gone, and he hasn't seen a trace of game to hunt. Yet again, he'll have to turn back. But as he leaves the ruined cabin and trudges back upriver, he tries to look on the bright side. But Rael's cabin is still full of food.
His survival skills have improved tremendously, and he now has a sleeping bag. One more tool to help him stave off the cold. And spring is coming. The days will be getting longer and warmer. When the weather improves in a few months, he'll set out again. All in all, it could be a lot worse.
But then his thoughts turn to his parents. By now, they probably think he's dead. The idea of leaving them in their grief for months is more than Crane can bear. So he decides. When he gets back to Burrell's cabin, he'll come up with a new plan for getting out of this god-forsaken wilderness. He just isn't sure what that plan is yet.
Crane pries at the wooden frame of a plexiglass skylight with the claw end of a hammer. He's back in Phil Burrell's cabin, and as the wood starts to come loose, he wonders if he's making the right decision. Without the frame to hold it in place, the skylight might collapse, exposing him to the elements. But he needs that wooden frame. He gives one more hard tug, and finally...
The frame comes loose, nearly falling onto his head with a shower of splinters and dust. Lucky for him, it's still intact, and the skylight stayed in place too. Crane places the frame on top of two boards he's scrounged from the cabin. They're laid parallel on the floor, and the frame fits on top of them almost perfectly.
It's about a week since Crane returned from his ill-fated excursion. For a few days, he wrestled with what to do next. How could he carry enough supplies to get farther downriver than the second ruined cabin? Then it hit him.
he could build a sledge. A small sled that he could drag behind him. So, Crane got to work. He didn't know the first thing about building a sledge, but he figured it couldn't be that hard. After all, he has an engineering degree. But it turns out, it's really hard. Especially when all you can find for raw materials are a few boards, some rope, and an old wash basin. But Crane isn't about to let that stop him.
After several hours of hammering, adjusting, tying off rope, and hammering some more, Crane steps back to take stock of his creation. It's perfect. Sort of. Before him stands his less-than-majestic supply sledge. Two boards on the bottom serve as sled runners. On top of them, the wooden frame from the skylight supports a wash basin, which will hold as many supplies as he can load.
Completing the design is a rope harness to tie around his chest so he can pull it through the snow. It's not exactly precision engineering, but it'll do. He lashes the rope around his chest and takes a few steps across the floor.
He likes how it feels. The sledge seems sturdy and the runners will keep its course straight when he pulls it along the frozen river. Crane congratulates himself. Now he'll be able to walk for days and days. He just has to decide what time is the right time to leave the safety of the cabin and venture out once again into the wilderness. And this time, he resolves that there will be no turning back.
Leon Crane is jolted awake in his bunk by a sound coming from somewhere outside the cabin. It's the sound of something breaking.
It's February 10th, a week and a half after he built the sledge. Since then, he's spent each day wrestling with the most important decision of his life. When to leave. He knows he can't stay in the cabin indefinitely. Eventually, spring thaw will arrive and the ice covering the river will melt, making his sledge useless. But
But then he settled into a routine. For over a week, it had simply been easier to go with the daily rhythms of sleeping, hunting, cooking, punching another hole in the calendar.
Now, listening to that awful cracking sound, he realizes he might have made a terrible mistake. He's waited too long. In the past few days, it's gotten warmer, and now the river ice is breaking apart. And if the ice goes, so do his chances of getting out of here with his sledge. Crane pulls himself from the warmth of his bearskin-lined bed and opens the cabin door. He can't see much in the darkness, but he can hear.
It's the ice, all right. But as his eyes adjust to the moonlight, Crane sees that most of the river ice still looks intact. So maybe he's not too late. Maybe his sledge could still work. Crane makes the decision. Tomorrow, he will pack the sledge with everything it can carry, and he'll head down the river toward Woodchopper, hoping he'll have enough supplies to reach civilization. Ugh!
Crane yanks hard and takes another step forward. Behind him, the heavy sledge lurches forward, grinding through a pile of snow. It's weighed down with more food and survival gear than he probably needs, but once he started packing, it was hard to leave anything behind. Even those useless snowshoes with the weird straps are shoved in there somewhere.
It's February 13th, two days since he left the cabin. He thought the sledge would make traveling along the river easier, but instead, it's been a burden. The wooden runners keep the sledge moving in a straight path, but they also bear the full weight on two narrow rails, causing the sledge to sink deeper into the snow.
As a result, snow piles up in front of the sledge, slowing it down even further. More than once, he's had to stop his progress to dig it out. Crane takes another step forward and wishes his engineering classes had covered sledge construction. He calculates he's moving no more than a mile per hour.
Adding to his problems, the once thick ice has become treacherous. Crane has to keep his eyes open to spot thin patches in the surface, and he has to be careful of deep snow. If it covers a weak spot, he might not know it until it gives way beneath him.
Crane pulls his parka tight against the cold. Even though the temperature has risen, the wind somehow feels more bitter than ever. The cold sneaks through the thinnest gaps in his clothing, and the wind whips against him with every step, sometimes slowing progress to a crawl.
But he is moving. That's the important thing. He has enough supplies for days or even weeks and enough ammo to hunt if he needs to. No matter how bad things are, this is still his best chance of finally making it out of this barren wilderness.
He takes another step and sees a small snowdrift in front of him, just the sort that will slow the sledge down. He leans forward to build up momentum and pull the sledge through. He puts a foot down into the snow. "Ah, no!"
His foot keeps going. He hears the ice cracking, then feels the icy chill of the river water. He yanks his foot up, but not before a layer of ice starts forming on the canvas of his mukluk. Frantically, he digs a small pickaxe out of the sledge and chips off the ice before his foot freezes solid.
Once the ice is off, he waits for any sensation of dampness. Did the water seep through the mukluk and into his wool socks? But no, his foot feels dry. Unbelievably, he dodged a bullet. This time, Crane hoists the rope harness onto his shoulders and cautiously pulls the sledge forward.
He knows he has to be more careful. He can't move too fast. He got lucky this time, but he knows that the next time he falls through the river ice into the freezing cold water below, it could be his last. This is episode two of our three-part series, Alone in the Alaska Wilderness.
A quick note about our scenes. In most cases, we can't exactly know what was said, but everything is based on historical research. If you'd like to learn more about this event, we highly recommend the book 81 Days Below Zero by Brian Murphy. I'm your host, Mike Corey. Eric Trueheart wrote this episode. Our editor is Steve Fennessy. Script consulting by Brian Murphy. Sound design and Dolby Atmos mix by Outhouse Audio. Audio engineer is Sergio Enriquez.
Coordinating producer is Desi Blaylock. Produced by Emily Frost and Alita Rosansky. Managing producer is Matt Gant. Senior managing producer is Ryan Lohr. Senior producer is Andy Herman. Executive producers are Jenny Lauer-Beckman, Stephanie Jens, and Marshall Louis for Wondery. Welcome to the Offensive Line. You guys, on this podcast, we're going to make some picks, talk some s**t, and hopefully make you some money in the process. I'm your host, Annie Agar.
So here's how this show is going to work, okay? We're going to run through the weekly slate of NFL and college football matchups, breaking them down into very serious categories like No offense. No offense, Travis Kelsey, but you got to step up your game if Pat Mahomes is saying the Chiefs need to have more fun this year. We're also handing out a series of awards and making picks for the top storylines surrounding the world of football. Awards like the He May Have a Point Award for the wide receiver that's most justifiably bitter.
Is it Brandon Ayuk, Tee Higgins, or Devontae Adams? Plus, on Thursdays, we're doing an exclusive bonus episode on Wondery+, where I share my fantasy football picks ahead of Thursday night football and the weekend's matchups. Your fantasy league is as good as locked in. Follow the offensive line on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. You can access bonus episodes and listen ad-free right now by joining Wondery+.