The sudden turn to the left threw me off the sled, and the dogs bounded away, hellbent to reach the only tree in the Pribilofs.

When the skidding stopped, I stood up and spit the slush from my face. I was surrounded by a pearl-gray sky merging into the pearl-gray ice, the pearl-gray clouds diffusing the pearl-gray sunlight. Far, far off I could hear the yips of the dogs, but in this pearl-gray Hell I could not tell from which direction they were coming, and the fog was gathering.

Without stars, without sun, without even a tree with moss, I was forced to rely upon my compass, my GPS, and the emergency radio beacon I had in my pack. Soon, I heard overhead the sound of the engines of a Coast Guard rescue C-130. The plane dipped low and waggled its wings to let me know I'd been spotted. To be doubly certain, I fire a flare which, upon striking the plane, caused it to catch fire.

Hopelessly lost except for my balloon-tethered strobe light, the distress beacon, and a roaring fire I'd started with some driftwood, I sat down to Await My Fate.

Fortunately, I still had the serum safely tucked inside my parka to prevent it from freezing.