Thanksgiving Memory

A daughter recounts a remarkable story from her father's point of view, with a miraculous conclusion.


I had taken a small plane with my husband out into the Alaskan bush to spend Thanksgiving with my parents, and my niece and nephew, who lived with them. Dad carved the bird while Mom passed the gravy and stuffing. Our plates full, we said the blessing. Then Dad told us to dig in and he’d tell us what he was most thankful for that year. Over the next few days he added to his story. I listened hard and committed it to memory. Before Dad died last year, I promised him his story would live on.
—Wendy Kleker, Trego, Montana


The peak of mount McKinley glowed pink as the late-morning sun struggled up behind it. Your typical Alaskan winter dawn didn’t break until well after 10:00 a.m. I’d been up and about for hours chopping wood and stoking the fire. But today I had to venture from the home front—we needed supplies from town. Twenty miles to the nearest paved road was too far to go in this bitter cold. I’d do some exploring and find a shortcut to the highway across Trappers Lake. The buzzing motor of my snowmobile propelled me over the frozen tundra and lake. Out here in the wilderness, cut off from telephones and close neighbors, a man gets used to going it alone. “God helps those who help themselves” had always been my motto. But what I meant was: “Take care of things yourself and you won’t need God’s help.”


Boy, did I get set straight.

I guided the snowmobile along the thick ice covering one of the smaller inlets that fed into Trappers Lake. Hey, there’s my shortcut. Before I had a chance to congratulate myself, the snowmobile jerked beneath me and the back end dipped down with a lurch. I grabbed the handlebars and turned just in time to see water slosh over the taillight. I’d hit a soft spot in the ice. A loud crack sounded on my left side. Then another on my right. I tried to get off the machine, but it was too late. The snowmobile dropped straight down, taking me with it. I wiggled off the seat into water so cold it hit me like a blow to the face. My lungs seemed to freeze up. I couldn’t breathe. Black water churned around me, rushing in my ears. I couldn’t see. I was underwater! I could no longer feel the snowmobile beneath me. It was probably already somewhere near the bottom, eight feet down. The current pulled at me. I couldn’t let it drag me away from the hole I’d fallen through. That was the only way out. Get to the surface! I kicked my legs hard, pumped my arms and gasped when my face hit the air. I dog-paddled for all I was worth. My gloved hands scrabbled at the jagged ice at the edge of the hole, but pieces snapped off under my weight. Down I went again, swallowed by the cold, icy water. My energy was waning.

leave comments
Did you like this? Share with your family and friends.
Vern Stanton
comments powered by Disqus