Anchorage Daily News

KONGIGANAK -- "You should put some plywood there," Richard said, kicking the 2-by-6 runner of my wooden sled, "to strengthen it." His face was difficult to see in the foggy, pre-dawn darkness; I thought he was smiling. Given my history with sleds, this wouldn't have been unwarranted. My last sled came flying apart 50 miles into a 250-mile hunting trip. With the runners held on by a single nail, it looked, as Richard commented later, like it had sprouted wings and was preparing to take off.

So the second he said that my new sled lacked strength, I should have headed home. Still, I didn't build this sled. It was built by my students under the supervision of one of the village elders during the school's cultural heritage week. I had to have faith.

Five of us stood above the river, waiting for distant, bobbing snowmachine lights to catch up. Everyone else was headed across the Kuskokwim to cut logs for steam baths. I was headed to Bethel to pick up lumber. Once the two late risers caught up, we sped for Tuntutuliak, where we split up.

Coming off the river, the sled hit an ice heave. The right runner smashed into the ice, and the sled flipped. I dragged it up the hill upside down behind the snowmachine, then stopped to check the damage. The tip of the runner was splintered, and a large chunk fell out in my hand. I threw it on the snow and jumped back on the machine. I eased my way through slumbering Tuntutuliak, found the trail and headed north alone, still more than 50 miles from Bethel.

North of Tuntutuliak, the crowding trees gave way to tundra and isolated hills. I reached the spot where my previous sled had come apart and stopped to check my rig. The jolt had done exactly what Richard had hinted at: It split the 2-by-6 runner front to back. It was bent inward, the weight of the sled resting awkwardly on it. The only thing holding it intact were squares of stovepipe that had been bent and nailed over the joints. I was glad Richard wasn't around this time.

When I dropped onto the Kuskokwim River, the sun rimmed the Kilbuck Mountains in molten hues. Ahead of me, a single headlight approached across the expanse of ice. I slowed down and stared as the hulking, alien figure of a hovercraft glided over the river ice, leaving in its wake a swirling mass of snow. And so began my trek across the Kuskokwim River ice, which, by the end, felt more like something out of Mel Gibson's "Mad Max" than a trip in Western Alaska.

When the river is frozen, it becomes a highway open to all traffic. Snowmachines of every make charge up and down the banks hauling all manner of sled and cargo: flat sleds loaded with gas and hunting gear, plastic basket sleds with groceries from Bethel, homemade wooden sleds with trapping supplies and bouncing, bundled passengers. A four-wheeler charged down the east bank toward Napaskiak. A state troopers van fishtailed down the bank in Napakiak and charged up to Bethel. A man and his 11-dog team raced past in the wake of the Kuskokwim 300. Two boys crisscrossed the center of the river on dirt bikes with knobby tires. Dozens of trucks made their way up and down the river, some taking the Johnson River exit to villages like Kasigluk and Nunapitchuk.

Two snowmachiners charged up so close together I thought they would collide until I realized the second machine was tied to a sled and being towed. The second rider sat atop his idle machine, waved and gripped the handlebar as if he were actually steering. I smiled at the absurdity and waved back.

Then again, I presented quite a sight. By this time, my right runner had sheared completely off. It was still attached to the tow rope, so behind me trailed a lopsided sled gliding on a single runner and a loose hunk of 2-by-6 that kept careening left and right, kicking up nearly as much snow as the hovercraft. A snowmachine approached; we smiled and nodded at each other, but when he saw what I was hauling he craned his neck to keep staring.

In Bethel, I bought some plywood and a hammer and nails and splinted the busted runner as best I could. It was ugly. Still, it would fit on the Kuskokwim. I splurged in the hint of civilization and bought a Subway sandwich, ratcheted down the rest of my lumber and headed home. Despite the hours traveling, $40 dollars on gas and $80 dollars on sled repairs, it was still cheaper than the nearly $500 it would have cost to ship the lumber from Bethel. I hope my dogs appreciate their new houses.

As I neared Tuntutuliak under a nearly full moon, I wondered how my friends were doing. I was later than planned, and I figured they were ahead of me on the trail home. Despite getting lost in the myriad trails in and out of Tuntutuliak and getting the sled stuck in a drift and snapping the plywood support on the runner, I managed to get home in about six hours, two more than it took to get to Bethel. When I called Lilly, Richard's wife, around 9 o'clock, 14 hours after we left, she told me they hadn't returned yet. I fell asleep sore and exhausted and woke late. Around 11:30 the next morning, Richard called.

One of their machines kept breaking down. Eventually, they left it on the east side of the Kuskokwim. They traveled all night and arrived home at 5 in the morning. Still, I would have to argue that they had the more productive trip: loads of wood for the steam baths and four caribou. When I explained my troubles with the sled and Richard's shamanlike intuition, he laughed and said, "You must like learning the hard way."

"I must," I said, laughing.

"At least you won't forget." I assured him there was little chance of that happening, and then I promptly fell asleep on the couch and dreamed of still being on the trail.

R. Brett Stirling, 31, lives and writes in Kongiganak, 70 miles southwest of Bethel.