Post by Ray on Sept 19, 2011 19:59:47 GMT -7
September 19th, 2011
Somewhere in Svalbard
It’s cold. But that’s a blatant understatement. I hate the cold. It makes me anxious and paranoid. Everything bad that’s happened to me has happened in the cold. That’s why as soon as I stepped off the twin-engine Cessna I knew this was a bad idea. So far, my prediction has been right. Not only did we get hit by a massive snowstorm 20 minutes after landing, but we’re so far away from any form of civilization that if the airplane somehow gets destroyed, we’re done for.
That’s the biggest factor for me starting this bullshit journal. If I die, and some guy just happens to wonder upon our frozen remains, I want them to have at least some recollection of who I was or what I did. Even if anyone who read this damn thing would probably think that I’m batshit crazy. They might not be too wrong.
Anyway, back to my fucking snow adventure. I only took this job because it paid big bucks (and I mean big bucks) and because I was curious. Not much survives up here, let alone monsters, and if this was my chance to see a yeti, I was taking it. So I hopped on that tiny little plane, completely unaware that the jackass that had hired me also hired two other guys.
Now let me get this straight real quick; Hunters are dicks. They’re smart…but they’re dicks. I always work alone because of this fact and always will. Hunters WILL take the chance to get the upper hand and ultimately screw you over if they have too.
So when I got onto the plane with these two wanna-be commandos with Marine tattoos and jarhead haircuts, I felt like shooting myself in the foot. Because not only were these hunters, but these were stupid hunters. No one needs a bulletproof vest in the arctic. What you need is socks, and lots of ‘em. M16s? Nope. Two pistols and a silver knife should hold you over if you have an inkling of what you’re dealing with. These guys weren’t even wearing coats for fuck’s sake. But while I was looking over them, counting mistakes one by one, they were looking at me the same way.
Maybe they were trying to figure out whether or not I was the tour guide. But I sure as hell wasn’t.
After sizing them up and biting back a demeaning comment, I strapped in and we lifted off from Reykjavik. Three hours later, we were touching down on ice. Not snow. Ice. Scariest fucking thing in my life. The two assholes sharing the cabin with me jumped out like they were on a secret mission that only they could finish, and, to my enjoyment, fell flat on their ugly faces. Now that’s entertainment. The pilot and I shared a good laugh while the assholes (who I now know are Rick and Thomas. Still assholes, though) brushed themselves off and acted completely surprised like they’d never seen ice in their life.
We grabbed our gear and shuffled towards the little shack that was supposed to be our “base” as the assholes nicknamed it, and unpacked our gear. Of course Asshole Number One had to prove his worth by stripping his rifle in less than 30 seconds. Something that honestly wouldn’t save him up here. While he was worried about having to put his gun back together, I was worried about ice freezing the chamber, or worse, my hands.
It wasn’t too long after this that the snowstorm hit and the two assholes started complaining that they were cold. The pilot, Vik, stated some old Norwegian proverb his father had drilled into his head before pouring himself and me a glass of cheap vodka he’d snuck aboard the plane. Nastiest shit I’ve ever tasted, but it definitely warmed up the cabin.
Somewhere in Svalbard
It’s cold. But that’s a blatant understatement. I hate the cold. It makes me anxious and paranoid. Everything bad that’s happened to me has happened in the cold. That’s why as soon as I stepped off the twin-engine Cessna I knew this was a bad idea. So far, my prediction has been right. Not only did we get hit by a massive snowstorm 20 minutes after landing, but we’re so far away from any form of civilization that if the airplane somehow gets destroyed, we’re done for.
That’s the biggest factor for me starting this bullshit journal. If I die, and some guy just happens to wonder upon our frozen remains, I want them to have at least some recollection of who I was or what I did. Even if anyone who read this damn thing would probably think that I’m batshit crazy. They might not be too wrong.
Anyway, back to my fucking snow adventure. I only took this job because it paid big bucks (and I mean big bucks) and because I was curious. Not much survives up here, let alone monsters, and if this was my chance to see a yeti, I was taking it. So I hopped on that tiny little plane, completely unaware that the jackass that had hired me also hired two other guys.
Now let me get this straight real quick; Hunters are dicks. They’re smart…but they’re dicks. I always work alone because of this fact and always will. Hunters WILL take the chance to get the upper hand and ultimately screw you over if they have too.
So when I got onto the plane with these two wanna-be commandos with Marine tattoos and jarhead haircuts, I felt like shooting myself in the foot. Because not only were these hunters, but these were stupid hunters. No one needs a bulletproof vest in the arctic. What you need is socks, and lots of ‘em. M16s? Nope. Two pistols and a silver knife should hold you over if you have an inkling of what you’re dealing with. These guys weren’t even wearing coats for fuck’s sake. But while I was looking over them, counting mistakes one by one, they were looking at me the same way.
Maybe they were trying to figure out whether or not I was the tour guide. But I sure as hell wasn’t.
After sizing them up and biting back a demeaning comment, I strapped in and we lifted off from Reykjavik. Three hours later, we were touching down on ice. Not snow. Ice. Scariest fucking thing in my life. The two assholes sharing the cabin with me jumped out like they were on a secret mission that only they could finish, and, to my enjoyment, fell flat on their ugly faces. Now that’s entertainment. The pilot and I shared a good laugh while the assholes (who I now know are Rick and Thomas. Still assholes, though) brushed themselves off and acted completely surprised like they’d never seen ice in their life.
We grabbed our gear and shuffled towards the little shack that was supposed to be our “base” as the assholes nicknamed it, and unpacked our gear. Of course Asshole Number One had to prove his worth by stripping his rifle in less than 30 seconds. Something that honestly wouldn’t save him up here. While he was worried about having to put his gun back together, I was worried about ice freezing the chamber, or worse, my hands.
It wasn’t too long after this that the snowstorm hit and the two assholes started complaining that they were cold. The pilot, Vik, stated some old Norwegian proverb his father had drilled into his head before pouring himself and me a glass of cheap vodka he’d snuck aboard the plane. Nastiest shit I’ve ever tasted, but it definitely warmed up the cabin.