Toehold

Something new had been set loose across the land. The locals called it break-up. True, the river remained three feet thick with ice, in some places four, but in other spots the ice had definitely begun to move. The underwater currents now flowed swiftly, responding to the warmth of a Spring sun that appeared, finally, in the northern sky after months of arctic night. Only a week ago the temperature had been fifty below, but Toehold, Alaska, knew that break-up was only days away. If you lived in Toehold and didn't have a calendar tacked to the wall of your cabin you wouldn't be able to tell the difference between the last long week of a grinding Winter and the first sneak peek of Spring. Most of the folks accepted the Winter months with grace and pride -- if you didn't want the weather, what the hell were you doing here? -- but people got grumpy when the sun didn't appear as expected. When it finally did come out even the geezers had smiles on their faces. Suddenly the snow glittered like a mirror ball on prom night. It made you want to dance. Arctic Spring also brought an end to the uncommon silence of that deeply frozen other world that called itself a river. Spring brought the screams, groans, and great cracking shots of ice as glomerations the size of industrial-strength refrigerators fractured, heaved up out of the river, and ground against each other with a sound like locomotives slamming on the brakes. Each year the forest service hired people to walk the rivers and report back on the progress of the break-up. It was a cold and lonely way to spend the time, but there was an upside: it paid real cash money in a place where a wolverine's hide was considered a good week's work. This year the job went to Mary Ellen Madden, called Mel, and she didn't even have to apply for it. Old Fritz McFadden, a sourdough who had prospected, hunted, trapped, and connived for the better part of seventy years in the country, had monitored the river for the past ten, but Fritz had a boil on his ass the size of a jawbreaker and was also incommoded by a major dose of influenza. He couldn't walk three steps without the world starting to swirl, and the prospect of bouncing around on a snowmobile with a fester that size was inconceivable. So, when Mel stopped by to see if he needed anything, Fritz said he'd cut her a deal. He knew she could use the money. That was no big secret. Everybody in town knew she could use the money. This was the deal: "You walk the river for me," Fritz said. "Tell me how it is, I'll radio the report to Fairbanks, and you can have the money." "All of it?" she wanted to know. "Half," he said. "I do the work, you get the money?" she said. "You do the work, we get the money," he answered. "Most people would jump at this opportunity, but I thought of you first." "You're a first-rate human being," she said. "Don't piss me off, or I will give it to someone else," Fritz said, emphasizing the word will as if he were a drill sergeant. He was right. She did need the money, always needed the money. Mel and money were not normally on a first-name basis, which is how she found herself out on the ice in a blizzard that caught her completely off guard. It followed three days of above-freezing temperatures, baby-blanket-blue skies, and cloud cover like an eiderdown comforter. Icicles were dripping like Jack Frost's nose. The river ice was groaning nonstop. Time to check it out, Mel thought.Strap on the snowshoes. This was a good day to be alive. Her parka was unzipped. She didn't need the heavy hood around her face. Lovely. Lovely. A flock of white-cheeked geese veered down below the clouds and followed the river loudly looking for open water. She climbed a rise overlooking the river to take in a great length of it before she went down and walked the shore. To look out over this country from on high was a gift. You could see forever. The limits of self-consciousnessForeman, Stephen H. is the author of 'Toehold ', published 2007 under ISBN 9781416543312 and ISBN 1416543317.