him via a piece of cord he had salvaged from the wreckage.
If he fell through, he wanted as little as possible weighing him down and, God forbid, dragging him under the ice with the current.
Within moments of removing his gloves, his hands began to stiffen. He worked as fast as he could, stopping only to take short breaks to warm them.
When everything was ready and he had his gloves back on, he stepped carefully out onto the ice and stood there listening.
The wind still howled, the frigid water still rushed, and the ice still groaned, but no more so than before. Good sign.
He had strapped the pack to the lynx carcass and now set the bundle down on the ice next to him. He had about five feet of cord left over to use as a towline. He would have preferred more, but it was better than nothing.
The problem was whether to tie it around his waist with a quick-release knot or pull his gear along by hand.
He still had his makeshift poles and wanted to hold on to them. Most of the river was covered with snow, and he could use them to probe the ice as he moved forward. He decided to tie the cord around his waist.
Once it was in place and the knot secure, he began lightly placing one snowshoe in front of the other.
The farther he got out across the river, the harder his heart pounded. The ice felt as if it was flexing underneath him. His decision to make the crossing was going to be either really smart or really stupid. He’d know in less than fifty feet.
Like a dentist examining a mouth full of decaying teeth, he used his poles to cautiously pick his way toward the opposite bank.
With each step he took, he reminded himself to breathe. Everything was okay. He was almost there. He was going to make it.
That was when he heard the crack.
CHAPTER 21
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It wasn’t a particularly loud crack. It was more like someone had snapped a piece of kindling. Nevertheless, it stopped him in his tracks, and he stood stock-still.
As his eyes swept the area around him, his ears struggled to pick up any further hints of danger. It took only a moment.
The sound resembled a string of lightbulbs being crushed, as if they were being driven over by a heavy truck. It was quiet at first, but was quickly growing louder. He didn’t need to see through the snow to know the ice was spiderwebbing.
His mind panicked and urged him to run, but he ignored it. Instead, he listened to his training.
Casting his poles away, he quickly flattened himself on top of the ice, arms and leg spread wide in an effort to distribute his weight as evenly as possible.
The cracking stopped. All he could hear now was his heart hammering inside his chest.
He tried to kick off his snowshoes, but it was no use. They were too firmly affixed. Instead, he had to turn both of his legs out at uncomfortable angles in order to belly-crawl the rest of the way across the ice.
Using his forearms to pull himself along, he dared move only inches at a time, but at least he was moving, and fortunately, the ice was holding up.
Arm over arm he crawled, dragging his equipment behind him. The snow piled up in front of it like a plow, making it harder and harder to tow.
He was doing everything with his upper body. With his feet off the ice because of the sides of the snowshoes, all he could do was drag his legs behind him. It only added to the pain he was already feeling in his hip sockets, but he pushed it from his mind and forced himself on.
Less than twenty feet from the bank, he had to stop. His lungs, seared by the arctic air, were burning. His body was out of adrenaline. He needed to catch his breath and regain his strength.
Spreading his arms and legs like a starfish once more, he lay back down. As he did, a wave of fatigue swept over him.
He was beyond tired. What he was feeling now might have been even worse than what he had felt in Hell Week. All he wanted to do was close his eyes.
Instead, he forced himself to look at his objective. Even with the snow, he could see the edge of the riverbank. It was so close—only fifteen feet away. He was almost there.