The Icelandic Canadian - 01.03.1955, Page 36

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THE ICELANDIC CANADIAN
Spring 1955
THE GAME OF CHANCE
by BERTHA DANIELSON JOHNSON
First Prize in Literary Contest sponsored by The Icelandic Canadian
With canoe and kicker, Bill Hilton
headed up the Turbulent River, mak-
ing slow progress against a current,
swift from the impetus of a steep
downgrade, for the river had its source
in higher elevations to the south,
coursing through rugged terrain where
the hummocky ridges rose and fell,
separated by drift-covered plains,
muskegs, and small lakes.
For ten years Bill’s crude, unhewn
cabin had stood in the timber-shelter,
with the Turbulent River rushing past,
northward through the Pre-Cambrian
region. This was Bill’s winter home.
Here he was snug with his radio, his
maps, and his prospector guides, when
the storms blew in from the Arctic and
the temperatures dropped to forty or
fifty below. The wilderness spoke to
him a language that he understood.
Each bore its own significance: the
hooting owl; the veering gale; and the
fur signs that were as plain to Bill as
the letters on a printed page. He had
known no loneliness until he met Lila
Woods, and the memory of her mingled
with his prospector dreams of a fab-
ulous Hilton Mine.
Bill had wrested his livelihood from
the wilderness, trapping the fur-bearers
and living off the land. There had
been years of plenty; and lean years,
too, when the cycle of furred creatures
was at a low ebb, moose was south in
the hills, and the caribou had migrated
to other haunts. There was a year when
caribou did not come. Then hunger
stalked in the huts of his Indian neigh-
bors, and he hunted wearily and in
vain.
This last had been a good winter,
with a big fur-catch, and high prices.
He had made the stake he sought; and
Bill had special use for it.
Impatiently, he waited through the
swift miracle of May and June that
transformed the Northland, with
lengthening days and opened water-
ways, while the Canada geese honked
to the Arctic, and all nature pulsed
into life.
In those idle days of waiting, the
vision of the girl haunted him. He re-
called her eyes, blue as a lake on a
calm summer’s day; her hair, gold as
October birches; and her smile: the
thought of it set his heart racing,
momentarily pushing aside his dream
of his fabulous mine.
For two days, Bill snaked his way
over the twisting, winding course. At
the height of land, where the river
cascaded down in the froth of canoe-
ciefying rapids, he turned up the por-
tage to Prospector Lake.
Up its sheer incline, Bill toiled with
his canoe. Panting and sweating, he
retraced his steps over the three, rough
ungraded miles, struggling through
the tangle of vines and obstructing
wind-falls. Again, and yet again, he
bent his back under his pelts, and
grub, and bedroll, and outboard.
Bill relaxed his portage-weary limbs
while he waited for the kettle to boil.
Across the lake, the girl’s face beckon-
ed to him, then vanished before his
tangible landmark, a solitary lobstick
on Rocky Island.
Bill crossed the lake, passing close
by Rocky Island as he had always done.
Across the channel, the far shore lay
fringed in last year’s rushes, dried and