Snowed In: Matt and Jens

Chapter 1: Forced Landing “Damn!” I blinked and squinted my eyes. I had no sunglasses and the glare of the sun was right in my eyes. The brilliant white of the snow didn’t help either, but I couldn’t close my eyes—I had to see. With no charts, and only the compass to guide me, the only map of my environment was the rather hazy one in my memory. I had headed south-west from the mine, toward Kugluktuk, at first. But now I was flying due south, straight into the rays of the sun. It being early February and my position being north of the Arctic Circle, the sun was close to the horizon, and would disappear below it in another two hours or so. I clenched my jaw. Memories of the sound of those shots hitting the side of the plane as I had roared past the buildings during my take-off, flooded back. They had been deafening. High-powered rifle for sure. Luckily, I hadn’t been hit. So, despite my not having full parka or suitable foot-gear—or sunglasses for this damned sun—I was alive and therefore, by definition, “lucky.” Not too lucky, though. It was cold in the cockpit with just my jacket, and only several minutes ago I had decided that yes, the indicator needle was indeed drifting—slowly but inexorably—toward the “E” on the fuel gauge. The fuel tank or feeder hose must have been hit, and now it was closer to “E” than I liked. So, I had abandoned my course, and turned due south, along the shoreline of Victoria Island where I knew there were several abandoned airports. I had had some bad moments over this, but after reminding myself that the landing gear on the plane included skis around the wheels, there was at least some hope of a successful landing. I could send no Mayday signal; the radio had been disengaged somehow. But the light was something fierce, and my eyes had become quite painful, squint as I would. I needed to watch carefully, to see what landmarks there might be, some structure, possibly boxes of storage, a radio aerial. Looking back at the fuel gauge, I saw that the needle was just at the edge of the “E,” and I found myself listening for the sound of engine coughing that would indicate low fuel flow, when I cried out and rose slightly in my seat. Was it? I stared, despite my burning eyes. A moment later I cried out again. Yes! Yes! And I fell back in my seat and began to ease the plane down. I had seen an aerial, a tattered flag—bits of half-buried tubular structures that must be the building, and even the vague outline of a landing strip. I took hold of myself. I didn’t actually have a pilot’s licence, but I had learned by watching the pilots who had taken me around the Arctic, even had several lessons with the pilot sitting next to me. I knew what I was doing. I could land this thing, if only the fuel held out. I glanced down at the gauge, but could hardly make it out. I leaned forward and stared at it…and saw that the needle was resting squarely over the “E.” “Damn!” But the drone of the plane’s engine continued as I made my final approach. I felt an affection for that sound. It had been a stroke of luck, I knew, finding the Cessna sitting, ready to go, when I had fled the site. It might well have been the big ATR transport, which required a crew of two. That would have cooked my goose for sure. I was lucky, I reminded myself. And there was no way I couldn’t land this little plane. Perversely, the lower I got the more my eyes hurt, but I gritted my teeth and held on until I felt the plane judder as the skis hit the snowy surface. I pulled back on the throttle. A moment later the plane lurched and I was thrown forward against my straps while the machine tilted forward dangerously. It seemed we would do a somersault, but then, after a moment’s poise, the plane righted itself and the cabin coming to rest with a thud that would have thrown me from my seat if I hadn’t been strapped in. I cut the engine and looked out of the windscreen. There was a cloud of whiteness, snow thrown up by my passage. But this gradually descended, some landing on the windscreen until everything was featureless and opaque. In the motionless stillness I became aware of two things: that I was cold, and that my eyes were killing me. I groaned softly as I gathered my nerve. Then, without opening my eyes, I reached for the door handle, turned it, and pushed open the door. A gust of cold air threw particles of snow onto my face. I unbuckled, and climbed out of the cabin, and down onto the snow. Now I had to look around, so I opened my eyes, and found that my sight was none too good, quite apart from the pain. Everything was blurry. I closed my eyes and recalled where the building had been relative to my landing, and headed off in that direction, moving like a blind man. I came to the edge of the landing strip. The packed snow was deeper here, and I began to climb a low rise of land, taking only glimpses to reassure myself when I felt it necessary. Finally, I got to the top of the rise, and looked around. Yes! There, perhaps a hundred feet away, was the aerial, the building, and—marvellously—a slight wisp of smoke rising from this. I stood there a moment, breathing slowly, my eyes closed, and then began to make my way toward the building. The going was slow, for my eyes seemed to hurt worse than ever, and I fell twice. At last I was standing in front of the semi-circular end of a station building, peering through squinting eyes at the door in the center of it. Beside the door was a sign with large letters that I could just make out: “Ross Point Airport.” Above this was another sign that said, in red letters: “Closed.” My heart was in my mouth as I walked forward. I thought of the smoke I had seen, and assured myself that I hadn’t imagined it. At last I came to the door, found the handle, and pulled it sideways and down. I heard it unlatch, but when I pushed, the door didn’t move. It was stuck. Or bolted. I couldn’t really see at all now, so I kept my eyes closed, and in my panic hammered desperately on the metal of the door with my gloved fists. It hurt, but I heard the dull booming sound echoing beyond the door, and imagined it passing through the station. I stopped when I was winded, and listened. Everything was silent, except for the vague wind. Panic gripped me again and I shouted hoarsely, “Help me! Please! For God’s sake!” I hammered again on the door until, exhausted, I leaned against it, the fur front of my hat pressing against the metal of the door. I was so cold now that I couldn’t feel my extremities. I knew what was to come: the gradual feeling of comforting warmth that would spread through my body as I froze to death. I was still steeling myself for more yelling and pounding when I heard a low scraping sound from the other side of the door. I felt the surface vibrate, and stepped away, almost falling in my fatigue. Then, incredibly, I heard more than saw the door open. Without speaking, I staggered forward into the dimness of the interior. Somehow, I kept on my feet while I groaned, “My eyes! My eyes!” The door behind me was closed with a bang, and then bolted. Then I heard a man’s voice, deep and raspy. “Where are your goggles, man? You can’t go around out there without goggles.” “I know,” I gasped. I tried to articulate more, but felt myself begin to collapse. Strong hands took me by the shoulders. “You should lie down. Keep your eyes closed.” He guided me along. Then, stopping me at last, helped me out of my parka. “Okay. Here. Lie down.” My lids flickered then, and I bit back another groan. With the man’s help I sat and then lay down on a cot. Then I felt something soft placed over my face. “Wait,” he said, and I heard his footsteps as he went away. The footsteps returned. I felt the cot sag on one side as the man sat down. “Here,” he said and, moving the cloth on my face, lifted my head slightly and slipped a strap behind it that was apparently attached to a piece of fabric that rested over my eyes. “This is a sleeping mask. You need to keep it on, probably for at least forty-eight hours. You got snow blindness.” I nodded. “Close your eyes,” he added, lifting the mask. “This is going to sting—drops for your eyes.” I felt fingers on first one lid, grunted at the sting caused by a drop landing on my eyeball. Then he did the other eye and replaced the mask. “Some water?” he asked. “Please.” He lifted my head and let me drink from a cup. When I had finished, he lowered me again and I let out a sigh of something like relief, despite the continuing pain in my eyes. “Thanks!” I said. There was silence for a bit. Then, “I can give you something for the pain, if you like. Demerol.” I nodded. “Okay.” He shifted on the cot. “Well, you’re gonna have to roll over then.” A bit puzzled, I nevertheless complied. The man’s manner, despite evident reserve, had been reassuring. His voice in particular. It was masculine but not rough, and had a gravelly quality that suggested a hidden sadness. It also suggested someone with a good heart, which meant a lot to me in my current state. They say the Arctic makes all men brothers, but my experience had suggested this was not always the case. “Undo your pants,” he said. After a slight hesitation, I complied. I pushed down my pants and shorts too, so that cool air caressed my ass. “Oops!” he muttered. I felt the icy cold of liquid land on my ass cheek, and run down it. It felt like alcohol. “Sorry!” A bit of cotton baton or something similar wiped where the liquid had flowed. The touch seemed unsure and it occurred to me that the guy was not comfortable doing this. It didn’t reassure me, but I tried not to tense in anticipation of the needle. “Ready?” “Mm-hm.” Then I gasped slightly as I felt the prick. It lasted several seconds, then was removed, and the spot rubbed. “That should take effect in a minute or two,” the man said. He sounded relieved. A second later I felt something light fall between my legs, and a slight prick on one of my testicles. I gave a small, constrained yelp of fear. “Sorry!” the man said, and then I felt nervous feelings reaching down. “Don’t move!” he muttered. I almost laughed. With a needle touching me in my most sensitive spot there was no way I was going to move. The man’s predicament, quite apart from my own, was amusing. As I felt he gingerly felt down into my private area, the brush and touch here and there, I found slightly arousing, but maybe that was partly due to the drug that was taking away my pain. “There!” he muttered, sounding relieved. There was a floating feeling that rose, and the pain in my eyes was ebbing at the same time. He pulled a blanket over me, without asking me to pull up my pants. I found this a bit naughty and amusing, lying there, my ass exposed under the blanket. I reached out to the side, and felt the guy’s leg. He gave a little questioning grunt. “Just want to see if you’re real,” I explained. He grunted, rising off the cot and turning away. During this my fingertips brushed against and slid down a fleshy curve that I decided could only be man’s ass. It struck me that it was a very fine ass, and I had to suppress a giggle. Not only was I starting to get a hard-on, but I was feeling very playful. I decided that I liked Demerol. The man took off my boots and then left me. Despite the mask I could tell when he turned out the light. As I listened to his footsteps I sank into a welcome sleep.