Tag Archives: Murder

In the tempest

Lightening over the Siskiyou

I watched a thunderhead build momentum over the Siskiyou mountains all day on Thursday. Up and up it went, 20,000, 30,000 feet into the sky, white, billowy protrusions folding and unfolding from its anvil base along a column that seemed to stretch from the earth to the high heavens.

The gleaming-white column softened and turned pink and then peach and then salmon in the glow of the setting sun. I drove along the upper Rogue River trying to think about fish and fat salmonflies, but my mind was on that cloud and its ominous intentions.

Continue reading In the tempest

Iditarod, Murder in McGrath and the Gem of the Yukon

The Yukon at sunset

I awoke this morning to something unfamiliar. My back felt good and strong again. I’ve been in pain since I slept in a soft bed in Nome a couple of weeks ago.

I made for Susie’s Iditarod Trail Cafe and a breakfast of two eggs over easy, sausage and hash browns. I spent an hour waiting for Gmail to load.

Then I heard that the Alaska State Troopers criminal investigation team showed up in town to look into a suspicious death that had occurred the night before.

I spent three hours looking around town for the house where the alleged murder occurred. I found it and shot it for news.

By the time I walked back and forth from the checkpoint to murder house to Susie’s to the McGrath Hotel, my legs felt like rubber, and my soul felt a bit despondent.

Then the weather did what it does in Alaska. It happened. It moved in. It overrode us like a thick blanket. And we hurried up to wait, which is a favorite saying among Iditarod volunteers.

When it lifted, the sun came out and lit up McGrath as we taxied out to the runway.

The Cessna lifted us into the clear skies, and we made a straight run toward Cripple, a nowhere stop along the Iditarod Trail. It’s a place where they set up some tents, and the runway is so deep with snow that a bad landing may result in a long-term stay in a cold tent in Cripple.

It took me forever to post-hole my way from the plane to the checkpoint. When I got there, I interviewed Mitch Seavey, one of my favorite mushers.

We spent an hour and twenty in Cripple. The sun blazed and dogs napped in the midday heat, as one volunteer called it.

When we extricated the plane from the deep snow, we took off and headed north toward the Gem of the Yukon, a small-ish village called Ruby.

Straight out of the plane, the air turned Arctic instantly. We walked into Ruby, and about the time I thought the cold was penetrating my bloodstream, someone in a blessed pickup stopped by and offered us a ride.

If I thought walking was cold, riding in the back of a truck was worse. I was buttoned up as far as I could zip, and nothing would keep the cold out. I felt like my blood was freezing.

We drove down into Ruby and back up to the airport.

By the time we arrived at the Wild Iris B&B, I was ready for anything. A floor, a couch, anything.

What we found was a feast fit for a king. Turkey and stuffing, potatoes and gravy, apple and cherry pie.

A show of the northern lights after dinner was the perfect nightcap.

I don’t know Ruby yet. We’ll meet again in the morning when the mushers arrive.

T