Alone in the Alaska Wilderness | The Long Walk | 3
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Leon Crane leans forward into the wind, straining to drag his 120-pound sledge along the frozen river. His legs burn, and with every step, the harness cuts deeper into his shoulders. He can't catch his breath either. The morning air here in central Alaska is so cold, it sears his lungs.

Worst of all, the ice beneath his feet keeps creaking and groaning. He remembers the panic that overtook him when his boot broke through a few days ago. He can't afford to make that mistake again. He'd be moving faster if not for his jury-rigged sledge. Its runners keep getting jammed in the snow. Even on the flat river, the snowdrifts reach up to his waist sometimes.

and the heavy sledge keeps sinking into them. But there's nothing he can do except put his head down, ignore his burning legs and lungs, and march on. The

The sledge has all his food and other supplies. There's no way he can survive without it. According to his mental calendar, it's now February 16th, 57 days since the crash. Tracking the date keeps him connected to the greater world, even if his own world has been reduced to a white void of wilderness. After another quarter mile, he hears more cracking, only much louder this time.

Suddenly, the ice gives way beneath his feet, and he plummets straight down. The cold water slaps him with an icy blast. He wonders, briefly, how long it will take to die. But before he goes under, something strange happens. He snaps to a stop when he's only chest deep in the river, and just hangs there by his harness. He looks behind him and sees that the sledge is stuck in a snowbank.

That's what stopped his fall. Crane would laugh if the cold water hadn't knocked the breath out of him. He's been dragging that damn sledge for miles now, cursing it with every step. Now, it saved his life. Well, at least for the moment. Because if he doesn't get out of this water fast, he's going to freeze to death.

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In the winter of 1943, a U.S. Army Air Forces pilot named Leon Crane crashed in the Alaskan wilderness. Alone, with no survival gear, he began heading along a river, hoping to find civilization. In a stroke of luck, Crane discovered an empty cabin filled with supplies. But

He was not content to sit tight in the cabin and wait for spring. He knew his family would agonize over his fate, so he set out in the dead of winter, determined to reach help or die trying. This is Episode 3: The Long Walk.

Leon Crane presses his mitten-covered hands into the ice and kicks his legs, trying to pull himself out of the freezing river. But the ice is wet and slippery, and he can't get a good grip. He keeps sliding backwards. Desperate, he grabs onto the rope connecting him to the sledge. He doesn't know if it'll hold his weight, but he has no other option. He grips it tight and pulls. Ugh!

Crane manages to hoist his elbows, then his torso, onto the ice. He hears an ominous creaking as the ice strains under his weight. He can also feel the sledge starting to work itself loose from the snowbank where it got stuck. With one final effort, he hauls himself up by the rope and out of the river. The ice under him holds. He made it.

But he's not out of danger. He knows he has five minutes, ten at most, before hypothermia sets in. He's already shivering badly. He's still harnessed to the sledge, so he scrambles over to unjam it, kicking at the snow with his numb feet. Then he drags it toward the rocky shore.

He stumbles up the bank, yanking the sledge behind him. His hands are clumsy as he struggles to undo the knots on the pack. He can already feel a layer of ice forming on his pants and parka like an insect shell. He finally gets the pack open and grabs the matches. Luckily, there are dried pine needles on the ground nearby for kindling, as well as twigs and branches. Dropping to his knees, he scrapes everything into a pile.

He tries to strike a match, and it breaks. So does a second. He curses and reminds himself to concentrate. Thankfully, the third match flares up. He's started dozens of fires by now, so he's gotten better at it. The pine needles are nice and dry, too. And with a few sharp huffs of breath, the fire begins to crackle.

Satisfied that the blaze has caught, he returns to the sledge and digs out some rope and a tarp. He strings the rope between two trees and throws the tarp over it to make a crude shelter. It's right near the fire, to catch as much heat as possible. Then he starts stripping off his ice-covered clothes. It's not easy. He has to chip ice off his boots and pants, and his socks are frozen to his feet.

The negative 30 degree air bites into his exposed skin. At last, he's naked. He lays his clothes near the fire, then ducks under the tarp and concentrates on getting warm. He's shivering uncontrollably, and hovers as close to the flames as he can without burning himself. He starts coughing from the smoke. It stings his eyes too, and he can feel tears freezing to his cheeks.

But gradually, the fire warms him. Feeling returns to his hands and his body stops shivering. He can also see steam coming off his clothes as they start to dry. For the time being at least, he's going to live.

Crane staggers forward into the wind. He's trudging along the frozen river again, dragging his sledge behind him, but a fierce howling gale pushes against him with every step. With the wind chill, it must be 50 below, the coldest temperature he's experienced so far. Crane is pretty sure it's February 28th.

about two weeks since he fell through the ice. After his clothes dried, he spent a long night huddled by the fire, then resumed his march along the river. Based on a map he found in Phil Burrell's cabin, he thinks there's a town just north of here called Woodchopper. But his progress has been even slower than before, and not just because of the wind. He's paranoid about the ice breaking now. He checks every single step with a toe of his muckluck.

As a result, he's barely making four miles a day and can't walk more than an hour without resting. He knows the sledge must be getting lighter each day as he eats his food, but it doesn't feel any lighter. He fears what this means, that his body is growing weaker.

To distract himself, he starts speculating about what's going on with the war. The last he heard, the Allies were bombing the Rhineland. But that was two months ago. Who knows what's happening now? The war was once so all-consuming. He and his fellow soldiers spent endless hours arguing over what Hitler was plotting and how President Roosevelt should react to each twist and turn in the chess match. But it all seems so distant.

Now he's consumed by the harsh landscape around him. The endless white snow, the miles of indistinguishable trees. It's starting to drive him mad.

Crane decides he'd better resume his game of speculating about what's around each bend in the river. He's been mostly disappointed so far, but he can't give up hope. And this time, his hope is rewarded. As he rounds the next bend, he sees another cabin. He unstraps himself from the sledge and rushes forward. Has he finally stumbled on another human being?

But his mood sinks as he realizes that this cabin, like the last two he's passed, is abandoned and dilapidated with a partially collapsed roof. When he kicks open the front door, he finds animal tracks and turds all over the inside. Still, all is not lost.

He opens a creaky cabinet and finds some canned goods inside. Vegetables and even Vienna sausages. He fishes out his boy scout knife and opens a can of sausages. Mmm.

He wolfs down the entire thing, then drinks the liquid inside. It's deliciously salty. Then he looks around the cabin. It's certainly not the Ritz, but its shelter. Four walls to hide from the wind and part of a roof to keep him dry. For a day or two, or at least until the weather improves, it will be his new home base.

Crane stands at the window of the tumble-down cabin with the collapsed roof, squinting into the storm raging outside. It's not quite white-out conditions, but it's not far off. He searches for a break in the clouds, a sign that the storm will let up, but he can hardly see the sky through the blowing snow. Frustrated, he turns away and falls onto a rusty cot in the corner, where he's spread his sleeping bag.

He watches snow drift in through the hole in the ceiling and tries to plan his next move. For three days now, he's been itching to start walking again and make progress. But the morning after he reached this cabin, a storm descended, and he's been stuck indoors ever since. Day and night, it's nothing but howling wind and blankets of white.

And the longer he's been stuck here, the more worried he gets. Over the past few days, he's seen wolf tracks along the river. What if they sniff him out and surround the cabin? Maybe he could shoot one or two with his rifle, but he couldn't fight off a whole pack at once. Plus, the days are getting longer.

As soon as the storm lifts, the sun will start warming the ice for more hours each day. He's already fallen into the river twice, and the risk of it happening again is growing. There are also floods to worry about. Rivers usually swell each spring as the snow melts. If he's still wandering around when spring hits, his path could be cut off by floodwaters.

Finally, there's his parents back in Philadelphia. He thinks of their anguish at not knowing his fate. He can't stand the thought of them suffering. The sooner he gets back to civilization, the sooner he can stop that suffering. He rises from the cot to check his food and ammo.

He's on the verge of making a decision, a calculated risk, but he wants to gather as much data as possible before committing himself. First, he checks his bullet supply. Next, he makes an inventory of his remaining food, dividing it into daily rations. Then he starts counting the piles. It's sobering news. He only has two dozen bullets left,

so he won't be able to hunt for much longer, especially if he wants to save some bullets for defense against wolves. As for the rest of his food, he only has enough to last a few more weeks, maybe a month if he rations himself strictly. The inventory finally pushes him to a decision. He can no longer afford to linger. Come morning, he's headed out again, storm or no storm.

The blizzard slaps Crane's face and the wind slices through his parka, cutting him to the bone. He can only see a few yards ahead of him in the near whiteout. He staggers side to side with each step as the wind pushes him around like a ragdoll. He fears he's made a terrible mistake setting out today. He's going slower than ever, fighting the sledge with every step. It's not even noon and he's already exhausted.

Suddenly, he's jerked to a stop. The sledge must be stuck yet again. But when he tugs the harness, he hears an ominous sound.

The ice is breaking. He looks around frantically. Where is the weak spot? Another tug on the harness reveals what's going on. He turns and sees the front runners of the sledge pointing into the air. It's not Crane breaking through the ice. It's his sledge, and it's dragging him down with it. He stumbles backwards.

losing his balance. He considers wriggling out of the harness to save himself, but he can't do that. If the sledge disappears into the water, he'll have no food, no rifle, no hope of surviving. He's got to pull it free. He drops down onto his back and digs his heels into the ice for traction. It helps some, but the sledge is still dragging him toward the hole.

Before long, his boots are dangling over the edge of the broken ice. Then the sled sinks another few inches, and his feet plunge into the cold. A horrible, familiar feeling returns as the ice water seeps through his boots, into his socks. He spins onto his side and pulls as hard as he can. He feels like a beast stuck in a trap. But he gets one foot out, then the other. He's free of the water.

Now for the sledge. He starts to army crawl forward, using his elbows and knees. He keeps slipping and sliding, but after a long struggle, he gets most of the sledge up onto the ice. He doesn't have much strength left, but he digs deep inside himself for one last pull. Finally, the sledge pops out of the hole and settles onto the ice. He saved it.

Crane immediately begins fumbling for his matches in his coat pocket. He's got to start another fire to dry his boots and warm his feet. As he drags the sledge toward the shore, he looks it over. Thankfully, only the back end got wet. The rifle and ammunition on top are still dry. But it's small consolation. He can't drag the sledge with his supplies anywhere except along the river.

The snow is too deep on land to make any headway, but the ice on the river is getting too dangerous. Crane has no choice. He has to abandon the sledge, but without it, he has no idea how he's going to be able to carry enough food and supplies to survive.

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Inside the tumble-down cabin, Crane digs through his sledge pack and puts every item into one of three piles. One for necessities, one for things to abandon, and one for things that will require some difficult choices. After his sledge fell into the water yesterday, he made two decisions. First, to retreat to this cabin and wait out this storm, even if it takes a week.

A little bit of progress simply isn't worth the increased risk of death. Second, after dragging the sledge for what he guesses is 50 miles, he's abandoning it. He can't risk it falling through the ice again and dragging him with it. Also, it's simply too inefficient and too heavy. He'll just have to carry what he can in his rucksack, but that means he has to triage his supplies. Some things he obviously needs to keep: his rifle, his food.

He sets those things in a pile to his right. Similarly, some things aren't easy to ditch. Like those damn snowshoes that he found in Phil Burrell's cabin. He thought they'd be handy and tried to put them on a few times, but he couldn't figure out how to bind his feet inside them. They've been nothing but dead weight since.

He tosses them into the abandoned pile. Then there's the trouble pile. Stuff he's not sure about. Once he's emptied the sledge pack, he starts to go through these things one by one. Like his flints for making fires. They're dense stone, and every ounce of weight he can save is precious. But if his matches get wet, he's in trouble. He decides to keep the flints.

Then there's the pots and pans from Burrell's cabin. It's nice having a few sizes for different cooking portions. That hardly seems a necessity, though, especially with how heavy they are. He whittles them down to two, and he's about to cut that down to one when he notices something.

The pans have holes in the handles to hang them on the wall. He realizes he can thread a leather strap through the holes and then carry them around his neck. That will save room in the rucksack.

When he's made all his decisions, Crane repacks everything and hoists the rucksack onto his shoulders. It's achingly heavy, 50 pounds at least, but he'll just have to endure it. He looks out the window, once again trying to find a patch of clear sky. The minute this storm lets up, he's marching on. Crane stills the pants jangling around his neck and jabs a pole into the snow, probing the ice in front of him. It seems solid,

So he takes a step forward, then jabs the pole down again. Another solid patch. So he moves a little farther. He grabbed the wooden pole at the last second before leaving the tumbledown cabin a few days ago. It's been a godsend. He's risking walking on the ice because he can make much better time on the river, where the snow's not as deep.

and the pole has already saved him from walking over weak ice a half dozen times. He's also making much better time without the sledge. Not that things have been easy. The straps of the heavy rucksack are cutting into his shoulders, but he can move so much faster without having to dig out the sledge every hundred yards.

Plus, he's getting 11 hours of daylight every day now, so he can cover more ground before darkness forces him to stop. It's now March 9th, almost spring, which means he's been in the wilderness for roughly 80 days.

The number triggers a memory. He read a book as a kid. "Around the World in 80 Days." He chuckles. He hasn't quite gone that far, but he is finally making real progress. But just when he starts to relax, he hears a groaning sound up in the hills. His head snaps up, and his throat clenches in fear.

He sees a line of trees in the distance. Big, mature ones. 30 feet tall. And they're bent nearly double in the wind. Their tops touching the ground. One of them suddenly snaps in half. Then another goes, breaking like a matchstick. Crane knows what this means. He learned about it in survival training at Ladd Airfield. Native Alaskans call them willy-whas. No one knows why they happen.

But sometimes normal winds suddenly turn violent, jumping from gentle breezes to 80 mile an hour gales. Wiliwas can topple trees onto people, pummel them with rocks and debris, or knock them off their feet. Crane sees this Wiliwa rippling down the hill, coming right for him. He looks around wildly for shelter. There's a boulder on the riverbank. He sprints for it, lunges, and buries his face in his mittens.

It's the fiercest wind he's ever felt in his life. He feels his whole body almost lifted into the air. He's barely holding on to the boulder. Worse, the wind begins whipping debris at him. Stones, dirt, branches. He wishes he'd thought to cover his rifle. If a stray piece of soil or rock gets lodged in the barrel or jammed in the trigger mechanism, the rifle could be rendered useless. He doesn't have the right tools to repair it.

Finally, after a long five minutes, the willy-wally dies. Crane uncovers his face and blinks in the sunlight. He checks his rifle. To his relief, it looks undamaged. Then he checks his parka pockets. Before setting out, he made several large cornmeal pancakes. He eats one per day after dinner as a treat. But in throwing himself onto the ground, he smashed them into crumbs.

It's a small thing, but it deflates him. And it looks like there's worse to come. He scans the hills and sees more Wiliwas stirring. It's probably only a matter of time before another one comes barreling his way. He'd better find a safe place to camp for the night. And soon.

Crane tosses his canvas tarp over a rope strung between two trees, making a shelter for the night. He's still nervous about the willy-wa that hit an hour ago, and stopped here at the first suitable campsite he found, a flat spot protected by some boulders near the river. As he finishes, he hears a bird twittering, and his mouth begins to water.

He recognizes the call as belonging to a kind of arctic bird that's plump and easy to hunt. He turns and scans the field to his right and spots the white bird pecking on the ground. Quietly, he grabs his rifle and creeps forward. He soon has the bird in range, just like they taught him in basic training. He takes aim, exhales slowly to steady himself, and squeezes the trigger.

The bird flaps its wings and tries to take flight, but it only gets a yard into the air before falling dead onto the ground. Crane pumps his fist in excitement. The prospect of fresh meat cheers him. He tramps over to pick up the bird. As he does so, he scans the hills. The willy-waws have died down, and he still has an hour of daylight left. So he decides to risk a little exploration.

Maybe there are more birds nearby. If nothing else, he can see what lies ahead. He grabs his kill and starts walking.

Back on the river, he resumes probing the ice with the pole. He also goes back to his favorite game, trying to guess what's around the bend. He rounds three of them with no luck. Just more empty terrain. He decides to try one more bend. Hey, you never know. As he rounds it, he stops dead in his tracks. There are two lines of pine branches laid out on the ice. The first is a tree.

From his training, Crane instantly recognizes it's a makeshift landing strip, the kind bush pilots use. His eyes dart over to the riverbank. Sure enough, there are tracks there, toboggan marks, maybe. Someone has been here recently. His heart starts pounding in his chest.

But as he's about to run forward, some instinct stops him. He glances up at the sky and sees the sun sinking toward the horizon. In the dark, the winds could easily kick up, leaving him stranded. So, as tough as it is to do, he tears himself away from these discoveries to head back to his camp and eat his dinner of fresh bird meat. But first thing in the morning, he's coming straight back.

Crane hurries forward along the frozen river, trying to remember to probe the ice with his pole. He barely slept last night. He was so excited about the airstrip and toboggan tracks. But he doesn't feel tired right now. Far from it. He's brimming with excitement.

He finally reaches the site again and explores the tracks. They lead off into the distance along the river, so he follows them. 15 minutes turns into 30, and 30 into an hour. He notices there are no footprints around the toboggan tracks, which seems odd. He puzzles over this for a while, then finally realizes that this must be a dog sled trail. The dogs would have made prints initially, of course.

but the sled dragging behind them would have wiped the prince out. But another hour passes, and his excitement starts to fade. How long will these tracks go on? He can feel last night's lack of sleep dragging on him. Suddenly, the toboggan trail veers off to the right. He follows it with his eyes and sees that it slips between two boulders. He walks up to them and peeks around. There's a cabin here, and...

And for the first time in 81 days, he sees signs of life. There's smoke curling up from the chimney and laundry flapping in the wind. He creeps forward, but despite his excitement, something tells Crane to be cautious. These Alaskan bush types aren't the friendliest people, and they're often heavily armed, the types who shoot first and ask questions later.

But he can't help himself. He clears his throat and calls out, Hello? Hello? Is anyone there? After the longest minute of his life, his heart starts pounding again. The door of the cabin is opening.

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He feels like the luckiest guy on earth. Ames has graying hair and is wearing a dark wool shirt and riding breeches. He's a trapper, a rugged wilderness man. He's happiest when he's on his own, a hundred miles from civilization, sledding with his dogs through the woods. Or at least that's what he used to think. Then, a few years ago, he fell in love with a beautiful native woman named Nina. They soon had three children,

and Ames found himself transformed into a family man. He still lives in the backcountry, in a cabin 50 miles from the nearest village. But he's not on his own anymore. He watches the kids scamper around the cabin, while Nina cooks some moose steaks on the stove. He never thought he'd say it, but the domesticated life suits him just fine. Hello? Hello?

Ames freezes, stunned to hear another human voice. Why would someone be lurking near his cabin? Nina freezes too. Ames motions for her to grab the kids and move to the corner. Then he creeps over to the door to investigate. He lifts the latch and peeks outside. There's a bedraggled man with a huge unkempt beard. He's wearing a tattered green parka and matching pants and a

And he's holding a rifle, which makes Ames' throat tighten up. But he also looks scared and weak. Nothing like a threat. Ames takes one long glance back at Nina and his children and decides to open the door. Ames gazes out silently. When the man finally speaks, his voice sounds creaky. "Excuse me, I'm Lieutenant Leon Crane of the US Army Air Forces. I've… I've had a little trouble."

Okay. Alright, you crash near here? I didn't hear anything. It was a while ago. December 21st. Ames nearly drops his cigarette. But it's March 10th! What the hell have you been doing since then?

walking, mostly. This crane fellow looks like he's ready to keel over at any moment. So Ames pulls on some boots and steps outside to help him. He'll have to tell Nina to toss an extra moose steak on the stove. They've got a guest to entertain.

Leon Crane knocks at the door of a cabin in the tiny village of Woodchopper, Alaska. He and Albert Ames are standing outside the home of Phil Burrell, who owns the hut with the supplies that saved Crane's life. Crane came here to thank him.

While they wait, Crane takes a look around. Two dozen people live here in Woodchopper, in scattered cabins with frozen mud paths running between them. Crane and Ames arrived here after a two-day trek from Ames' cabin.

Ames wanted Crane to stay there longer and rest, but Crane refused. He wants to get back to civilization and let his parents know he's alive. So, after just one day at Ames' place, they set off. Ames mushed on his dog sled, and Crane tramped behind him in snowshoes, which he found to be remarkably effective once Ames showed him how to bind them properly to his feet.

But the closer they got to Woodchopper, the tighter the knot in Crane's stomach grew. That's because Crane learned that Burrell has a reputation as the most ornery man in Alaska. Fiercely independent and tough as nails. Ames told him a story about Burrell accidentally chopping off a finger once and then refusing to radio a plane for medical attention. He just asked for a clean rag to bind up the stump, then went back to work.

Now, standing outside Burail's home, Crane swallows hard. He fears how Burail will react to the news that Crane took his rifle and mittens and ate his food. The door opens and Crane looks up at a bear of a man with shaggy black hair and hard eyes. He eyes Crane suspiciously. Who are you?

I'm Lieutenant Leon Crane, U.S. Army Air Forces. I have some things of yours. Crane extends the rifle and mittens to Burrell. Burrell frowns. You better start talking. Crane does, and the whole story spills out. About the crash, about falling through the ice, and about how Burrell's supplies saved his life. All I can say is thank you.

Burail is still frowning, but once Crane finishes, his face softens. How is the old place? I haven't been out there in years. Honestly, it was a little beat up, but it looked like Shangri-La to me. You really walked all that way at this time of year? Hell, people think I'm tough. The compliment leaves Crane beaming.

So you're not mad? Burrell waves his hand dismissively, and Crane notices the missing finger. To Crane's relief, he's not mad at all. In fact, he invites Crane and aims in for a drink to celebrate. Come on, I've got some 180 proof rum. There's only two glasses, but I think we'll make two.

Crane tries to smile. The truth is, though, his stomach has been churning ever since arriving at Ames' cabin and eating real food again. Rum won't help things. But Phil Burrell is not a man you say no to. So Crane mounts the step and heads inside the cabin. Leon Crane peers out the window as his plane descends toward Ladd Airfield.

He sees the runway, the barracks, the hangar where he inspected Iceberg Inez. It's 7:00 PM on March 14th, 84 days and 9 hours since he last saw the place. Crane feels like a completely different man since then, but somehow Ladd looks exactly the same. Crane is still wearing his ragged flight suit.

He's fairly clean-shaven now after his stop in Woodchopper, but he kept his mustache from the wilderness. He thought it looked dashing. As the plane approaches, the pilot grins at Crane and gets on the radio. Lad, this is Delta Foxtrot 15 approaching for landing. Just a heads up, we've got a guest on board you might all be interested to see. Let's call it a long-lost friend.

The plane lands a few minutes later, and word apparently traveled fast, because even before it rolls to a stop, servicemen begin rushing forward and crowd around. Crane can barely open the door with all the people shouting his name. He finally gets his head out. "Hey guys, miss me?"

Crane sees dozens of familiar faces, including the officers he played poker with the night before the crash. He hops down and hugs several, but the crowd soon parts to let the man through who led the search for him, Major R.C. Ragle. Crane straightens up and salutes. Ragle salutes back, At ease, Crane. It's good to see you.

Thank you, sir. Hey, have you heard from anyone else on board Inez? Pompeo? Hoskin? Wenz? Seibert? Regal pauses. No, I'm afraid not. Just you. Crane nods, feeling his heart sink. He suspected as much. Regal clears his throat. Regardless, I can speak for everyone on base in saying...

Ragle chokes up and has to mouth the last two words. "Well done." Hearing this, Crane gets a little teary himself. Then he makes the request that's been foremost in his mind since the moment he returned to Lad Field. "Sir, I'd like to call my parents in Philadelphia. I want to let them know I'm okay." The Major nods and leads Crane towards his office.

As they walk, more and more servicemen pop out of doors and Kwan set huts to gawk at him. It's like they can't accept that he's alive until they see it for themselves. It feels awkward, but Crane understands how they feel. He can hardly believe he's back himself.

Sonia Crane jerks awake and sits up in bed. It's 1.30 a.m. in Philadelphia. She turns to her husband, Louis, who looks back at her, bleary-eyed. Who could be calling at this hour? Then it hits her sleep-addled brain. Leon! It must be news about Leon! Louis' eyes widen. In an instant, he's out of bed and down the stairs to the couple's only phone.

which sits on a little table in the front hallway. Sonja trails after him, marveling at how fast he's moving, despite his bad knee. It's been nearly a month since Sonja and Lewis received any news about their youngest son Leon. After the initial telegram that reported him missing, they got a second telegram in February. It added a few details that Leon was on a plane that left his base in Alaska and never returned.

But that was all. Now, as Louis picks up the phone, Sonia feels her jaw tighten. She's been praying for this moment, but also dreading it. Louis beckons for her to lean closer, then tilts the receiver away from his ear, so they can both hear. "I have some good news for you. Hold the line, please. Mom? Dad? It's Leon."

At the sound of her son's voice, Sonia bursts into tears. But she also starts laughing. Her husband holds her tight, laughing too. They look at each other in disbelief. It's like their boy has come back from the dead.

Despite several investigations, military officials never determined exactly why Leon Crane's plane, the iceberg Enos, crashed. But there were a few potential culprits. For one thing, the plane carried far more testing instruments than other planes, which may have overtaxed its electrical systems and caused them to fail just before the crash. Other problems may have compounded this failure. An engine died.

and the tight corkscrew motion of the plane during its testing runs probably caused the other engines to stall. Finally, the pilot's efforts to stabilize the plane led to severe mechanical stress that caused parts near the tail to shear off.

Except for Crane, no other members of the Iceberg Inez crew survived. In 2006 and 2007, a military forensics team analyzed DNA taken from the crash site and determined that Harold Hoskin, Ralph Wenz, and James Seibert all went down with the plane.

No trace of Richard Pompeo's remains have been found. Remarkably, Leon Crane suffered only minimal health damage from his three months in the wilderness. A little frostbite and some scrapes on his shoulders from the sledge harness. In fact, after just a few weeks of leave to visit his parents, he returned to Latte Airfield and resumed his duties as a test pilot.

He kept flying until he retired from the army in July 1945. By that point, Crane was married to a nurse named Wilma that he met at Ladd.

After leaving the army, Crane built houses for a living and worked as an aeronautical engineer at a Boeing division near Philadelphia. He died in March 2002. Crane never talked much about his ordeal in the wilderness. Whenever someone asked, he insisted others had it much harder. Prisoners of war, Holocaust survivors. Then he'd shrug and say, "'What have I done compared to them? All I did was walk.'"

On our next episode, I speak with Washington Post journalist Brian Murphy about how Leon Crane made it out alive. His book about Crane's experience is 81 Days Below Zero, the incredible survival story of a World War II pilot in Alaska's frozen wilderness.

This is episode three of our three-part series, Alone in the Alaska Wilderness. And 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. Sam Keen wrote this episode. Our editor is Steve Fennessy. Story by Eric Trueheart. Script consulting by Brian Murphy. Sound design and Dolby Atmos mix by Othouse 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.

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