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God of the Brooks von Hamilton, Bruce (eBook)

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God of the Brooks

Alaska is beautiful and full of wonder, but for those unaccustomed to surviving in the frozen tundra, the Land of the Midnight Sun is an early grave. Follow Bruce through adventures across the Alaskan wilderness. Many dangers must be faced and overcome - plane crashes, grizzlies, frostbite - all before a hopeful homecoming can even be prayed for. Along the way, Bruce will rely on his faith and see divine miracles proving that God is in control even in the magnificent landscapes and mountains of Alaska. God of the Brooks is a fictional narrative based on real-life events from the author's life.

Produktinformationen

    Format: ePUB
    Kopierschutz: none
    Seitenzahl: 184
    Sprache: Englisch
    ISBN: 9781543925876
    Verlag: BookBaby
    Größe: 664kBytes
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God of the Brooks

- 1 - THE CRASH I knew the griz was gonna charge. I'd been bluff-charged by enough bears to know this beast wasn't bluffing. The breeze, once friendly, had betrayed my presence. As soon as he caught my scent, he emerged from the brush popping his teeth, slobbering profusely and pouncing up and down on his freshly killed moose. As impressive as this display was, I knew that once he pinpointed my location, the real show would begin. Strangely, I was unafraid. Instead, a mixture of anger and guilt swept over me: anger, because just a few weeks ago, my best huntin' buddy had died on the mountain; and guilt, because I too should've died. But I didn't. And in this moment, it seemed as though the only thing between me and home was this insane animal. Refusing to become bear scat, I lifted my .454 Casull hand cannon. The movement, though slight, gave me away. He spotted the motion, leapt over the moose carcass and came at me full tilt. Even though this animal probably weighed close to a thousand pounds, he came with haste. Grizzlies can outrun the fastest racehorse the first one hundred yards. Every time his front paws hit the tundra he blew-"Shoo!" "Shoo!" "Shoo!" "Shoo!" He sounded like a steam engine locomotive and looked as big. Every jump brought him twenty feet closer, so I had just seconds to aim, exhale, and pull that trigger. If my first shot didn't count, the moose would be his entrée. I'd be his dessert. I've heard it said that when someone's about to die, his entire life flashes before him. Well, I got cheated because all I saw was the last three weeks. The adventure began on a September Monday morning in my hometown of Fairbanks, Alaska. We loaded our food and gear into Les's Cessna 185, and while taxiing the plane to the south end of the runway, Les called FAA weather. The report crackled in our headphones: "Brooks Range: scattered clouds, ceiling-8,000 feet, visibility-2 miles, winds-west/northwest at 10 knots, possible showers mixed with snow, possible IFR conditions by tomorrow." "Let's get while the gettin's good," Les said with his usual chuckle. Then he pushed the throttle, and we were airborne. We headed north, looking down on the campus of the University of Alaska-Fairbanks. Turning slightly west, we were soon flying over Minto Flats. Seeing the many sloughs and lakes below brought to mind my first fishing adventure in Alaska. I was just a boy, nine years old. My dad had hired a floatplane operator to put us on one of the hottest fishing lakes in the interior. A day later we had so many giant northern pike that the pilot complained about possibly exceeding the maximum weight limits of his plane. As a boy, I had no clue what he was talking about, nor did I care. I was wide-eyed all the way home. I'd never seen so many huge fish. "That's a great memory," I whispered, smiling. About thirty minutes later, the mighty Yukon River came into view. More hunting and fishing memories came to mind. I had hunted this famous drainage so often that it felt as if I was surveying my own backyard. The Yukon River divides Alaska completely in half, flowing northwest out of Canada and then west across Alaska. It looked big, even from four thousand feet. The fall colors were astounding. The golden leaves of the paper birch contrasted with the dark green spruce. The tiny but countless blueberry bushes added a breathtaking splash of red for miles around. Occasionally, the landscape was punctuated by on old mining cabin, a homestead, or a native village. This was familiar territory. These were the things I was used to. This was my comfort zone. I felt blessed to have lived in this great state for over forty years. Les and I had anticipated good flying weather all the way through the Brooks Range. As was our habit, we checked in with the weatherman again upon landing at Cold Foot. Cold Foot

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