We make another reconnaissance trip at 4.00pm.
Randy starts with the western route, bravely steering the motorboat among the floes. The large chunks bang loudly against the aluminum hull. I'm worried that we'll spring a leak, just like the Titanic.
Ice is deceptive.
You might see what looks like a small piece floating on the surface; you would think the boat could easily push it aside. But, beneath the surface, it could be the size of a house. That is the real danger of ice. We keep searching for a channel between the bergs, a path that, right now, is clear. It has to be wide enough for the yacht to get through. But, here in the west, we can't see any chance of a passage. We take a look at the eastern route, just to be sure, but the bergs are even more numerous there. Large ice-floes are floating everywhere…
Today, neither route is navigable.
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We have to accept the fact that there is nothing we can do.
We return to the Ruffinit around 5.00pm. I had just got undressed when Randy has a bright idea: if we are stuck here, we might as well go for a hunt in the nearby area. I've packed all my hunting clothes and ammunition, ready to be put on the plane. But, within 5mins. I've emptied my bag -
they are all at the bottom, of course - and soon report on deck, ready for hunting duties. Yet again, for the third time today, we set off in the motorboat.
We get to a small bay, where, because the water is so shallow, we can't reach the shore. For the final 300ft. we get out and, wearing our rubber boots, drag the boat along until it is beached.
Randy throws out the anchor because when the tide comes in, the water will rise and the boat could drift off. He puts the one-person canoe on his shoulder; if the tide is high, he will have to use it to get out to the motorboat. We walk 1500 - 1800ft. to the nearest hide; we'll spend most of the evening here.
Alaska leaves an indelible memory in the mind of every hunter and nature-lover.
It is a wilderness in which we are merely guests. Modern civilization has not interfered here. If a tree falls over, it remains where it is until it rots. There are no paths. We just go whichever way seems easiest. If a hunter is lucky, he might come across a well-worn trail made by some game animal. In this part of the world that would count as a freeway, and be remembered appreciatively. Tangled branches, thick, dark-green moss growing over everything, undergrowth the height of a man, dead trees - which then become homes for other plant species - water constantly dripping from high above us, and many, many streams: together they all create an impression beyond anything I've ever experienced before.
It is good to be sitting here in the hide.
Now it is really freezing. The frozen grass and sedge crackle beneath our boots when we stand up. My boots are still unlined; I'm wearing two thick pairs of socks, but the rubber continues to leech out all the heat. My feet are cold, so I start to wriggle my toes. We talk in low voices. This is probably my final Alaskan hunt for this trip.
As my feet have now become completely numb, we decide to do some stalking around the area.
We go along a bear track, and Randy points out places where baribals have been shot in recent years. We don't go far; dusk is falling, and we still have to get back to the boat.
The tide is in, so Randy's canoe has proved essential. As he rows towards the motorboat, I turn and look back at Alaska.
A final glance at the true home of authentic hunting.
On the boat we have boiled ham for dinner. Then we watch a DVD of Night at the Museum, I've
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never seen such an idiotic film in my life, and by half-way through we've al fal en asleep…
We are prisoners of the ice.
On Board the Ruffinit