When it first came over the snow covered hill, I didn't know what it was. I had never seen an animal like that before. I heard it before I saw it, snarling and snapping in a tone that made me think it was cussing. The sound came from the other side of the hill that I was climbing to reach a trail in the frozen Alaskan forest.
A bush plane had just dropped me off at a snow covered airport that had no planes, no tower and no people.
"There's a trail up in those trees." The pilot had said, pointing at a wall of forest that contrasted black to it's stark white surroundings. "Just follow that for a few miles and you'll come to the village. Good luck." He said as an afterthought before closing the cockpit door, turning the plane around and flying off into the wilderness sky.
As the snarling, snapping sound came closer, I stopped and pulled my backpack off, but I had no weapon. I had left the 44-magnum back at the cabin just outside of Anchorage. Something told me not to bring it. I was going to a village looking for a man who had broke a contract with my company. Out here, in the Alaskan wilderness, everybody was armed. Carrying a gun, especially the cannon that I owned, offered a threatening aire to my arrival. I did not want to appear dangerous, or, even worse, to be law enforcement. People did not have much use for authority figures in the wilderness villages.
As the animal came over the ridge, it's eyes locked on me. It moved over the snow quickly and easily on its huge, clawed feet. It looked to weigh about 40 lbs., and displayed lethal looking fangs as it came directly at me with a look of pure aggression. It looked like a miniature bear on steroids, and had the attitude of a guy in a traffic jam who had overdosed on caffeine.
I quickly put my backpack in front of me to deflect the attack as the animal started to lunge. A crack of a rifle split through the quiet forest, and the animal flew to the side as a bullet dropped it near my feet. From the edge of the forest, about 100 feet away, a man emerged with a rifle in his hand. He had a long beard with grey streak and long hair that escaped from the battered cowboy hat that he wore with three feathers jutting from the band on its crown. He was clothed in animal furs, a large knife hung from his belt. On his back was a backpack with some furs tightly wrapped and tied to the bottom of the pack. Even though I was fairly new to Alaska, I recognized him as a Sourdough - men who live in the wilderness, existing off of their proceeds from pelts and gold mining. These men had been here for over a hundred years, and had not changed a bit in that time.
He silently walked down the hill from the forest and stopped in front of me. He looked at the animal and then looked me up and down like I was a foreign creature.
"Where's your gun, boy?" he asked gruffly.
"Don't have one with me." I responded, looking him up and down also. He looked like he had just escaped from a Jack London book.
"Pretty damned stupid to not have a gun out here. Where you from, boy - the city?"
"I'm from San Francisco, but I'm based in Anchorage." I said.
"Yep." He said nodding his head knowingly. "Anchorage - the big city. I suspected as such." Anchorage was anything but a big city. It was an oasis of civilization that ended abruptly where forest and wilderness began, but I thought it best to not point this out to the man.
"You know what that is?" He asked, pointing to the animal with his rifle. Assuming that I didn't, and not giving me a chance to say so, he said, "That's a wolverine. Pound for pound the meanest damned animal you'll every meet.
"You must have irritated him with all the racket from that damned plane that dropped you off."
"Yes sir, I guess I must have. I want to thank you for saving me. What's your name?" I asked, extending my hand.
"Montana John." He said proudly. "That's how I'm known in these parts."
"Oh." I said conversationally. "So, you're from Montana?"
He looked at me with mild irritation. "I didn't say where I was from, boy. I told you my name."
"Well - yes - I caught that, but I assume you're from Montana." I said.
"I don't know why you would assume that. I didn't tell you where I was from."
"Well - okay, Montana." I stuck my hand out again. "My name is John." I hesitated to ask, but couldn't help myself. "So - Montana - where are you from?"
"Oregon." He said with a straight face of seriousness. It took everything I had to not smile.
"What are doing out here, city boy?"
"I'm going to the village down that trail." I said, pointing to a slight opening in the woods.
"Yeah - a couple of miles." He said absently as he looked at the carcass laying in the snow.
"What are you going to do with this." he asked pointing at the dead wolverine with his barrel of the rifle.
"Do with it - -?" I didn't want anything to do with it. For one thing, it stunk like hell. If you know what a wolverine smells like, you should be able to get away before you ever see it. Not that I would even consider it, but carrying around a stinking, dead wolverine over my shoulder might be a distraction from the purpose of my trip into the ice age.
I looked at the pelts hanging from Montana John's pack, and realized what he was subtly suggesting.
"You know what, Montana?" I said with a smile. "Just to show my gratitude, I'm going to let you have that pelt."
A smile crossed his face as he slid the big knife from the sheath at his belt. "Well, you're alright in my book."
He said, and then turned his attention to the carcass. "Well, good luck, city boy." He said dismissively. "I best be attending to business here."
I figure someone you meet out in the middle of one of the most desolate areas of the States, would be someone you would never see again. But I was wrong. I would meet Montana John in, of all places, Anchorage - the big city.
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