Under the Northern Lights(6)

After every part of me was clear from the crash, I began the process of shifting over so I could grab the fluttering covers. Every inch was a battle, pain ebbing and flowing in a cycle that made me cry—I just wanted it to end. I didn’t give up, though, and eventually, I won. Grabbing the canvas, I yanked it over to me. Snow was still lightly burying the earth, and each short breath escaping me was a puff of steam. The cold made everything ten times as difficult. I could barely move my fingers. God, I hoped it wasn’t too late for them. I couldn’t remove them myself . . . I just couldn’t. Even thinking about it made my stomach rise and my throat tighten.

Ignoring that fear, I grabbed my knife and started sawing the straps off the cover. It felt sacrilegious to destroy them, but I wouldn’t need them for what they were intended for anymore. Several straps in hand now, I set to work on wrapping them around my thigh, creating a makeshift tourniquet. Just getting the strap underneath my leg was difficult, but cinching it tight was pure torture—like I was sticking my finger in the wound and wiggling it around. My stomach clenched more than once, and my eyesight narrowed to pinpricks. But somehow, I managed to pull through without throwing up or blacking out.

Leg firmly bound now, I tried to stand. Even with most of my weight on my good leg, it was almost impossible to get up. I managed only by using holes in the metal fuselage to pull myself up. Fighting back tears, fighting through the pain, I gingerly tested how much weight my injury could handle. Not much. Just shifting my weight over made me feel like I was going to topple to the ground. I couldn’t possibly do all of this on one leg. Banging the side of the plane in frustration, I felt the edge of my sanity slipping. I couldn’t do this. I just wanted to lie down . . . just for a minute. Rest . . .

But no . . . I couldn’t crack, couldn’t give in. I was still alive, and that was something. That was everything. I’d rest when I was done. When I was safe.

Praying for strength and luck, I looked over to the section of the plane where my rifle had been resting. Miraculously, it was still attached. Relief made a small, weary laugh escape me. Thank God, something was going my way. Dragging my bad leg, I shuffled over to the weapon. It was hard to remove the gun with numb fingers, but I finally managed to slide it free of its metal holster. I slipped the strap across my chest so I could hold it without my hands. Just having a way to defend myself renewed my spirits. I was getting there. I could finish this.

Finding my pack was my next priority. Hoping beyond hope that it would magically be at my feet, I searched the ground. Damn it, nothing. I looked around the crash site, scouring for clues and resisting the urge to scream in frustration. My injured leg was starting to throb, and all I wanted to do was sit down. I needed a fire. I needed to rest. I needed that damn pack!

While I couldn’t find my bag anywhere, I did find a tall, sturdy branch with a Y at the top that I could use as a makeshift crutch until I found something better. Jerking it free from the plane, I tucked it under my shoulder and prayed it was as solid as it looked. A rush of relief surged through me when it held. I could move. It was still agony, with each step sending a searing jolt through my body, but at least it was possible now.

With halting movements, I shuffled to the back of the plane to try and find some sign of my black survival bag. There was a trail of debris and damage from where my little plane had crashed through the woods. Dear God . . . it seemed to go on for miles. How the hell had I survived that? Speckled throughout the debris were bits and pieces of my gear and most of my food supply. The bins holding my things had burst apart during the crash, and everything was scattered now. Despair crashed over me as I stared at the wreckage. There was too much; I was too weak . . . I couldn’t possibly search the entire path of the crash. And if the bag had landed in a tree, been dragged off by an animal, or had broken apart like everything else . . .

That bag had been my plan B. There was no plan C.

Panic took a firm grasp on me. What do I do? How do I survive now? Exhaustion poured into me, sapping my spirit. Lying down in the snow suddenly sounded like the best idea in the world. Why not? Without that pack, I wouldn’t last long.

Some willful part of me was screaming to rebel against the idea growing larger and larger in my head, but I was rigid with cold and worn thin with exhaustion, and every inch of me was radiating with bursts of pain that siphoned my fading strength. I just wanted something to feel better, even if it was superficial, even if, in the end, it wouldn’t help me.

I was doing it in my mind, picking a spot to rest. Maybe under the tail of the plane so I wouldn’t get snowed on too much. And that was when I spotted something out of place to my left. I’d thought it was a rock at first glance, but it was too dark, too black. Black . . . like my bag. Renewed hope suddenly obliterated my momentary grief, and I shifted toward my survival bag. Toward life.

Getting there seemed to take an eternity, but seeing that the bag was resting near some tall intact trees—shelter—filled me with determination. Once I was there, it was the last place I’d have to go for a while. That knowledge gave me a burst of adrenaline. Just a little farther, and I can stop—I can rest.

Tears of relief and joy coursed down my cheeks as I pulled my bag free from the snow. The durable material was still in one piece. Inside the bag was an easy-to-set-up one-man tent, a below-zero blanket, emergency food, and a pot to boil water. There was also a first aid kit and pain relievers. I knew whatever I had with me wouldn’t be strong enough to take away all of the pain I had, but it would be better than nothing. The bag was hope, and I clung to it with everything left inside me.