I was bored. Driving the supply truck up the Dalton twice a week, every week, all summer long will do that to you. So, when I happened upon the abandoned jeep, the half-eaten caribou, and the trail of blood—but no human driver—I couldn’t help myself. I followed the red droplets through the underbrush, into a clearing not far off the road.
He was magnificent and blonde, save for the moustache of blood. Random caribou parts were strewn about. His black eyes met mine, empty and yet strangely alive.
Drudgery and solitude take a collective, primal toll on Dalton travelers.