The sun was visible only as a dull orange streak on the Western edge of the tundra, as Sailor coaxed the Beaver over the dark line of evergreens. The small lake beyond was to be his resting place for the evening before he continued on to the Serigney River and his caribou hunt. This solitary sojourn was the only chance that he had to escape the hectic job back in Penobscot. He had been supervising his brother-in-law Carl’s lumbering operation for the past year or so, while Sailors sister, Carol and Carl were in Korea on business. This last week of August was the first chance for him to take the plane and head north; no phones, no radio and best of all, no complaining from anyone.
As Sailor throttled down and dropped below the

trees something in his peripheral vision caught his attention. Too late! A raft of mallards had lifted from the calm surface as the sound of the big engine echoed off of the far shore, with startling results. The near darkness had hidden them from his view until they were on top of him and he was committed to the landing. He struck the birds and the windscreen was immediately covered. The engine hadn’t even sputtered. It just stopped. The plane swung violently to the right and Sailor smashed his head against the upright on the window. The sound of the panicked ducks and the wind carving past the wings seemed to come from a far away place all merging into a dull drone. Sailor lost consciousness. To be continued in our next newsletter.