Chapter 1

Finally, it was time to get going on this trip. I'd been working my way up to it for three years. Working all the doubles I could get at Lone Star Steel to pay for my equipment and supplies, and guns. You know, firearms. It was a hunting trip of course.

At first, I'd thought about going on a "canned" hunting trip somewhere in Africa, but the turmoil over there in several places put me out of the mood for it. Hell, who wants to go hunting where you might end up in a war zone? Besides, I didn't want to go shoot a mangy lion or some shit like that. And that's another thing. Who wants the hassle of trying to get your weapons shipped to Africa? I nearly laughed every time I thought about walking up to an airline check in with a couple of rifles and a pair of heavy duty .44 Magnum revolvers.

Hell, for the price of an African Lion Hunt I could buy a new four-wheel drive pickup and drive to Alaska for a bear hunt. Not only that, but I wouldn't have to fuck with hiring a bunch of porters to haul all the crap I'd need to take along so I could eat along the way. I'd also get out of hunting in front of a bunch of game beaters.

Sure, I'd saved up for years for this hunt, but damn. I could go for a grizzly bear for around ten thousand bucks, for an African lion the price was twenty-five thousand, and that didn't even count getting to Africa. When I really thought about it I took the advice of a movie title. "Out of Africa", as in, "Stay, Out of Africa."

Saving up for an African Big Game Hunt was a fool's errand for me. Just the thought of how many sixteen-hour shifts I'd have to work sealed the deal. I was going bear hunting and that was that.

Hell, a new pickup and a trip up the AlCAN Highway sounded a hell of a lot cheaper to me. I even bought a small Airstream camper. Mostly, I bought it because I wanted one anyway, but also because it would be cheaper for this trip.

You'd think the guide places would shy away from a guy trying to save money on a big hunt, but it wasn't the case. Sure, they'd hit you with a try at selling you an airline ticket so you could fly in, be driven around, and then fly out later.

Once they realized you weren't going for that shit though they'd switch you to talk to someone who knew what was what and the person would work with you. They'd even check out google maps for you and send you a URL for a saved version of a map right to their front door.

When I got the web address for the saved map I was a little let down. I didn't see one fucking thing about the AlCAN Highway. Most of the traveling was through the US and Canada but none of it was on anything named the AlCAN Highway. Maybe I just didn't know what it was called.

In a way it made sense. No one in Alaska knew how to find the "Goat Shack Road" down here in Texas. Never mind that it was easily the roughest trail through the woods anywhere near International Paper's holdings around their Texarkana Milll. It was six miles of hell on earth even with a four wheel drive vehicle equipped with giant Monster Mudder tires and a Warn winch on the front bumper.

Also, when I'd asked about the best rifle I could buy for hunting Grizzly the guy simply told me to buy the biggest one I could afford and he told me to make sure it was semi-automatic. I had a feeling he'd have said fully automatic if he thought there was a chance in hell I could get hold of one.

I'd wanted a Barrett M821A for a couple of years now anyway so it was what I bought. I also bought another Ruger Superblackhawk to match the one I already had, a Forty-four Magnum, natch. As long as I was at it I ordered an ATN Yukon 2.5x50 night vision scope for the Barrett. I knew damned well I wasn't going to be hunting bear after dark, but as long as I was paying so much I went for the night-vision capability too.

When I got hold of my camper I spent three days loading my crap into it. I threw in every firearm I owned and bought the extras I've already mentioned. I had to order a special reloading press for the Barrett's long as a well rope cartridge dies and of course the powder was oddball, not to mention trying to find the .50 caliber bullets. At least the new RCBS press I bought would be able to do the job for all the other cartridges I wanted to reload too. It did look a little stupid for reloading the .44 and .357 mag stuff though. Hell, even the .35 Remington cases looked tiny in the damned thing. Still, .35 Remington was nothing to sneeze at as far as knockdown power was concerned.

Finally I was set to go, almost. My last stop in town, after picking up my truck from the mechanic who'd added the 150 gallon auxiliary fuel tank, was at Brown's tire shop where I changed the dipshit road tires for a pair of spur grips for light mud hole duty and I also bought four aluminum 12" wide wheels and a set of 36" tall Monster Mudders for putting on later. Monster Mudders weren't the best for highway use. Hell, I'd wear out a set of them on the five thousand mile, one way, trip to Alaska.

I packed up my hunting clothes, my sleeping bag, and plenty of food, filled up all my fuel tanks, and hit the road. I knew I was in for one hell of a drive, but I could handle it. Six years as an Over the Road truck driver left me confident I could find any place with a road to it, sooner or later.

Seventy-two hours later, give or take, I pulled up to the guide place and was I ever a surprise for the people there. They had me down for the trip all right, but they had already sent the guide they had reserved for me off with someone else since I hadn't called them from the airport to come and pick me up.

Strangely I 'd had a premonition some shit like this was going to come up and so I played back the recording I'd made of my last phone call with them and it was easy to hear we'd gone over my arrival time and method over the phone.

After they admitted their foul up they said they could send me out with another guide. I told them not to bother and asked if they could direct me to a good lawyer in town.

"What for?" the headman asked.

"What for? So I can start the lawsuit. You told me yourself Jenkins was your best guide, told me he'd be here waiting for me to show up and then sent him off with someone else while I was driving six thousand miles to get here." I said.

"I'm real sorry mister," he said.

"Not half as sorry as you're gonna be when my lawyer gets through with you. I ain't some fat cat off on a lark. I'm a steelworker for God's sake. I had to work 116 double shifts to pay for this trip and now you've ruined it because you thought I'd be late. Hell, if I remember correctly I paid in advance so you already had your money."

The guy was getting a little sympathy out of me with his hangdog look until his wife started in on his ass. She gave him a serious cussing for pulling this shit and she didn't hold back from going on about how she'd told him he was fucking up when he did it. Turns out he'd sent Jenkins out with one of his bankers.

"Ma'am, would you mind telling me the name of the banker and the name of the bank? I'll just have the lawyer sue him and the bank too." I said.

Hell, she wrote it all down for me. She even told me the name of a good lawyer and said she'd be right behind me for a divorce.

"He pulls this shit all the time and then wonders why he can't get any repeat customers like the other guides, but will he listen to me? Take a wild guess. I'll tell the lawyer I'll testify too. That damned banker knew all along he was taking your guide. Jim even let him have him for half his normal price," she said.

"Sarah, you're going to ruin me," he said, trying the hangdog look again.

"Nope, you've ruined yourself. When it comes to divorce court I'm gonna tell them you've been fucking your customers so hard you ain't even got time to give me any anymore," Sarah said.