The Yellowstone Affair Chapter 13
Author’s notes:
The first picture comes from the archives of Dartmouth Medical. The photo is part of an interesting and sad article regarding a plane crash in 1959. The original photo and story can be found here:
http://dartmed.dartmouth.edu/winter00/pdf/Plane_Crash.pdf
I did a slight photo manipulation to give the impression that the man with the snowshoes was Illya Kuryakin.
The second photograph was taken in 2006 during a Yellowstone Assc. photography class. The snow had been falling for three days with temperatures in the 0 degree Fahrenheit range. The coyote was traveling along the road within 10 yards of our group and decided that she needed a nap and curled up under under a tree on a ledge by the road. She kept a wary eye on us as we snapped photos from across the road.
Chapter 13
Within the hour Illya, Bob Murray, and two others were on their way by car to the northeast entrance to the park. Most of the roads throughout the park were unplowed, however the road from Gardiner, Montana, to Cooke City was always kept plowed as it was the only way the residents of the small town could travel for shopping during the winter. The car stopped at a pull out on the side of the road where it intersected with Silver Creek. The four men exited the car and began unloading Illya’s pulk and the supplies that were on the sled. Illya grabbed his ski poles and bear paw style snowshoes and joined the other three men. They huddled over a map and reviewed the route.
Bob Murray checked his watch. It was 10:00. “Okay, Illya. I wish we could get you closer to the site but this is the best we can do. You’ll head south up Silver Crick. It’s only about four miles or so, but the area is heavily forested and you’ll climb about 1000 feet in elevation. I know that you are experienced with winter conditions but be careful. Any small misstep or mistake could be fatal. Are you sure you can’t wait until the weather breaks?”
“Thank you, Bob. Yes, I’m sure. There is one thing I want to make clear with you gentleman, if I should not return within the prescribed time and the weather is still bad do not, I repeat, do not endanger yourselves to come after me. Instead, I would appreciate it that you contact my office in New York. They will proceed with the mission.” Illya looked each man in the eye to drive home how sincere he was regarding those instructions.
Each man reluctantly agreed and shook hands with the UNCLE agent. Bob shook hands last. “Good luck, Illya. Use the walkie talkie to contact us if you have any information, or need us to pick you up when the weather breaks. We’ll be waiting for your call.”
Illya nodded. Pulling his knit watch cap down over his ears, he stepped into his snowshoes, placed the rope harness over his shoulder and began to pick his way up stream. Bob and the others watched for a couple of minutes before the blowing snow completely shrouded the solitary figure making it impossible to see him.
I’m. So. Cold! Napoleon woke to find himself shivering uncontrollably. His teeth chattering so hard it was a wonder he didn’t break a few of them. Whatever warmth he had gained earlier in the day was lost now. The wind had shifted slightly and now blew directly into his shelter. Snow had drifted in around his head and shoulders. Wearily, he shoved the snow out. Got… to start… a fire! His wooden fingers groped for the cigarette lighter he had stuffed into his pocket. Retrieving it,he knelt in front of the firewood and brushed the snow away from the tinder and kindling. He attempted to thumb the flint wheel, yet again he could not manage it. His hands were shaking uncontrollably and had no feeling. The fingers refused all attempts the brain made to command them.
He could feel his body and mind deteriorating. He was dehydrated and hungry and found it hard to put words together to complete a coherent thought. Discouraged and distressed, he crawled back into the shelter. He was sleepy and so very cold. Maybe…THRUSH will find… me and take me someplace…warm. Illya… His eyes closed and Napoleon Solo’s mind wouldn’t let him finish the thought regarding his partner.
Snowshoeing through five feet of unbroken snow was exhausting. Some of the windblown drifts were over ten feet deep. The snow shoes kept him close to the surface, but Illya still sank over a foot in the powdery snow. When he was moving he only thought about taking one step at a time, not falling over, and keeping his bearings - no easy task with less than fifty feet of visibility at times. However, when Illya stopped every quarter mile or so to catch his breath and rest his legs he let his mind dwell on what he would find once he arrived at the crash site. His heart ached over the loss of Napoleon. They often discussed over the years how dangerous their jobs were and that there were no guarantees that they would live long enough to retire from the field, but to actually face the fact that Napoleon was gone was difficult. He had always thought that his sixth sense would let him know if Napoleon had died and frankly was surprised that he had not yet felt that sixth sense.
With a sigh, Illya started forward. He would have to make better time if he was going to find the crash site by dark. He guessed that he had at least two more miles to go. He had already been traveling for two hours and it would be dark in another three. To complicate matters, the strenuous climb of 1000 feet was still ahead.
The forest was quiet. The snowfall muted most sounds. Most of the animals had hunkered down to wait out the storm. At one point, Illya saw movement off to his left. Worried that THRUSH may be near, he stopped to observe. A lone coyote had been walking on a ledge parallel to him. As he watched, Illya admired the rich thick tawny coat that enabled the creature to survive the harsh winter. She, too, must have been weary of the weather as she stopped not more than thirty feet from him and lay down, curling herself into a tight ball with her nose covered by her tail. She knew of the human’s presence but merely watched him with one eye as he moved on.
Illya climbed another 500 feet over the next mile. The pulk’s rope tugged at his shoulders as it resisted being towed over and around dead falls and boulders. He considered leaving it at the base of a large spruce tree. It would certainly lighten his load and he would be able to cover the last bit of distance more easily. However, he needed those supplies, and if he found Napoleon he would use the sled to bring his friend back down to the road before taking him home.
About 500 yards farther, Illya stopped to catch his breath and check his bearings. As he looked up a slight incline he saw an unnatural line against the trees. He moved closer, straining his eyes against the falling darkness and the curtain of snow. Yes! There, ahead, was the burned out skeleton of a small jet resting on its back. He let go of the pulk and with trepidation forced himself to approach the area. All that he saw were mounds of snow against trees and boulders. Not a soul was in sight. Just the burned out hull of the plane.