And so all was in order when we took off from Zapolarie and headed
northeast. All was in order, and I was no longer thinking about what I
had heard from Valya the night before. Below me I could see the
Yenisei—a broad, white band between white banks, along which ran a
forest, now closing in, now drawing back. I had a slight headache after
that sleepless night and sometimes there was a ringing in my ears, but
only in my ears, for the engine was working splendidly.
After a while I left the line of the river, and the tundra began-a level,
endless, snowy plain unrelieved by a single black dot, nothing whatever
to catch the eye...
Why had I been so sure that this could never happen? I should have
written to her when she sent me her regards through Sanya. But I had
not wanted to make any advances to her until I had proved that I was
blameless. You must never be too sure of a woman's love, however. Sure
of her loving you in spite of everything.
Snow, snow, snow, wherever you looked. There were clouds ahead,
and I climbed and drove into them. Better to fly blind than have this
endless, dismal, white waste under you which distorted perspective.
I bore Romashka no particular malice, though if he had been here at
the moment I should probably have killed him. I bore him no malice,
simply because it was impossible to associate that man with Katya, that
man with the scruffy thatch on his head and the flaming ears, who had
decided at the age of thirteen to get rich and was always saving and
counting his money. His wanting to marry her was just as senseless as
his wanting, say, to suddenly become a different person other than
himself, someone with Katya's candour and beauty.
We passed through the cloud-bank and entered another, beyond
which snow was falling. The snow glittered somewhere down below
under the sun, which was hidden from us by clouds.
My feet had begun to grow chilled and I regretted that I had put on a
pair of fur boots which were a little too tight on me. I should have put on
larger ones.
So my mind was made up—1 was going to Moscow. I would have to let
her know I was coming, though. I must write her a letter, a letter that
she would read and never forget.
We emerged from the layer of dark clouds, and the sun, as always
happens when you emerge, seemed brighter than ever-but I still could
not decide whether to begin my letter simply with "Katya" or "Dear
Katya".
There were the mountains. They rested on the clouds, lit up by the
sun, some bare, others covered with dazzling snow. Through the rare
rifts in the clouds gorges could be seen, long picturesque gorges,
spelling certain death in the event of a forced landing. I could not help
thinking of this, then I went on composing my letter, continuing this
until I was compelled to give my attention to other, more urgent
matters.
There did not seem to be any wind, yet huge cloudlike caps of snow
started to break away from the mountain tops and whirled up and up.
Within ten minutes it was impossible to imagine that there had just
been sun and sky above us. There was now neither earth, nor sun, nor
sky. All was chaos and confusion. The wind caught up with us and
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struck us first from the left, then in front, then from the left again,
blowing us off course, to where there was a mist and falling snow—
small, brittle snow which stung your face and pierced through every
buttonhole and gap in your clothing. Then night closed in. You could
not see a thing around you, and for a time I flew the plane in utter
darkness. I seemed to be running into walls, for all around us were real
walls of snow bolstered up on all sides by the wind. At one moment I
broke through them, at the next retreated and broke through again, or
found myself far beneath them. It was a frightening experience to feel
the plane suddenly dropping a hundred and fifty or two hundred
metres, without your knowing how high the mountains were, as they
were not marked on my map. All I could do was to wheel round in a
half-circle and go back to the Yenisei. I would see the backs there, fly
over the high bluffs and steer clear of the blizzard, or, if it came to the
worst, return to Zapolarie.
Turning round was easier said than done. The plane began to shudder
when I pressed my left foot down and we were flung aside again, but I
continued swinging her round. I believe I said something to the
machine. It was at that moment that I felt something was going wrong
with the engine. This was too bad, because we still had those gorges
beneath us, which I had been hoping we had left far behind. We caught
glimpses of them here and there—long and utterly hopeless: nobody
would find us there or ever know what had happened to us. I had to get
away from these death traps, and I did, though I was having engine
trouble and would have to put the plane down soon. I began to descend
very slowly, keeping an eye on the turn indicator and thinking all the
time about the ground, which was somewhere below me, though I did
not know where it was or what it was like. Something was beating in my
brain, like a clock ticking, and I talked loudly to myself and to the
machine. But I was not afraid. I only remember feeling hot for a
moment, when some great bulk swept past me. I flung the plane away
from it and almost grazed the ground with my wing tip.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE BLIZZARD
I am not going to describe those three days and nights we spent in the
tundra, not far from the banks of the Pyasina. One hour was like
another, and only the first few minutes, when we had to make the plane
fast somehow to prevent it being swept away by the blizzard, were
different from the rest of the time.
Just try securing a plane down in the tundra, which is bare of
vegetation, and with a force ten wind blowing! With the engine still
running, we placed the plane with its tail to the wind. We thought of
burying it, but the moment we touched the snow with a spade the wind
blew it away. The plane was still being tossed about and we had to think
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of some reliable way of anchoring it, because the wind was building up
and in half an hour it would be too late. We then did a simple thing—1
recommended it to all Arctic pilots—we tied ropes to the wings and to
these in turn we attached skis, suitcases, a box containing cargo, and
even a funnel-in short, everything that might help snowdrifts to form
rapidly around them. Within fifteen minutes snowdrifts had piled up
around these objects, but in other places under the plane the snow was
still being blown away.
Now we could do nothing but wait. Not a very cheerful prospect, but
the only thing we could do. To wait and wait—who knows how long!
I have already mentioned that we had everything to meet the
emergency of a forced landing, but what can you do with a tent, say, if a
simple thing like getting out of the plane is a complicated and agonising
business, which you can only bring yourself to do once a day and then
only because you have to get out once a day.
So passed the first day. A little less warmth. A little more sleepy. To