"What happened to you?"
T.B. asked after hearing Anderson Jr. Seely let out a sudden cry of "Oh!" as he bent down. Anderson was reaching under the driver-side seat of the Toyota Hilux, finding in his "survival bag" for something he had placed there earlier. His movements were stiff and awkward, as though he had just become aware of a dull but persistent ache spreading across his lower back.
Anderson Jr. Seely's response, uttered with a mixture of surprise and mild annoyance, made Layla Smith, who was seated comfortably in the shotgun seat, smile slightly because she clearly knew the reason of Anderson's backache. "I don't know, Mr. T.B. Suddenly, I had back pain. I must have fallen into a tree or something last night. I don't remember anything. I drunk so much," he said. His voice laced with irritation at the unexplained discomfort now coming to him accidentally like a distant memory of some forgotten injury.
As if attempting to distract himself from the sudden pain, Anderson Jr. Seely took his iPad Pro from his "survival bag" and swiftly opened Google Maps, his fingers moving with practiced ease as he zoomed in and out, searching for any aerial images of the camp that might give him a sense of the terrain ahead. Despite his efforts, he found himself faced with an expanse of untouched wilderness stretching out endlessly in every direction, the vast valley devoid of any sign of human settlement, not even the distant speck of a roof or the circular outline of an Inupiat Eskimo igloo interrupting the monotony of the rugged landscape.
His eyes, looking at the aerial map of Google with growing more and more curiosity, eventually landed on an anomaly—the distinct silhouette of a pointed bell tower belonging to a solitary church, standing starkly against the vast natural scene of the valley's topography. Perhaps, he thought, the distant ring of bells he had heard from the top of the hill the day before had originated from this very structure, its architectural form unmistakable even from the top-down projection on the screen. A simple letter "T" on Google Maps, showinh the presence of a religious establishment, was accompanied by the faint outline of a white fence enclosing the perimeter of the small but resolute place of worship, a lonely sentinel in the middle of the untamed wilderness of Alaska.
"Mr. Anderson Jr. Seely, in about one and a half hours more, we will arrive at the camp of Kivalina Resources Limited Liabilities Company," T.B. announced, his voice steady and matter-of-fact as his eyes remained fixed on the road ahead, his hands gripping the steering wheel with the ease of someone intimately familiar with every twist and turn of the rugged terrain. "Once we arrive, I'll need to unload all the cargo and equipment from the two trucks so that the rental drivers can leave the valley before dark and make their way back to Anchorage. After that, it'll just be Ms. Layla Smith, me and two other members of Kivalina Resources who are participating in this field survey alongside you."
Anderson Jr. Seely, his curiosity piqued by T.B.'s unwavering confidence in navigating the treacherous road without the aid of a map or GPS, tilted his head slightly and asked, "Mr. T.B., you seem incredibly familiar with the road leading to the camp. Have you drive on this road many times before?"
Before T.B. could respond, Layla Smith, her voice carrying the casual authority of someone who had long since grown accustomed to answering such questions, interjected from the back seat, "Mr. Anderson Jr. Seely, not only has T.B. been here many times, but I have as well. Almost every summer, William Smith took both of us to this camp to survey the land and search for gold mine. He bought a piece of land from an Inupiat Eskimo chief and built the camp of Kivalina Resources LLC there, hoping to uncover something of value hidden beneath this vast expanse of wilderness. However, in recent years, as the survey and excavation efforts failed to yield the expected results, William Smith's visits to the camp became less frequent. His priorities shifted, and now, he spends most of his time focused on the New York Gold Market, where he has turned his attention to paper gold rather than the physical gold we once sought here."
"Well, I suppose that explains why he's lost quite a lot lately," Anderson Jr. Seely remarked, his tone neutral but perceptive.
Layla's eyes narrowed slightly. "How do you know that? Did you extract this information from our published financial statements?"
Anderson Jr. Seely smirked, his fingers tapping idly against the iPad Pro screen. "Of course, Ms. Layla Smith. But beyond that, it's common knowledge that nearly all real gold miners struggle when they attempt to enter unfamiliar sectors. Paper gold is an entirely different game compared to real gold mining."
"You're right," Layla and T.B. responded simultaneously, their voices overlapping in an unintentional moment of agreement, which made them exchange a brief glance before refocusing on the road ahead.
As the convoy pressed forward, the valley gradually gave way to an open expanse, a sprawling area spanning hundreds of square miles, where nature, in its unrelenting beauty, reigned supreme. The landscape was breathtaking—the verdant slopes of the lower reaches were dotted with lush trees, but as Anderson Jr. Seely's gaze traveled upward, he observed a distinct boundary where the trees abruptly ceased to grow.
This was the timberline, a natural demarcation where the relentless cold of the high-altitude air rendered the survival of even the hardiest evergreens impossible. He recalled from his studies that the timberline was determined by the average July temperature, for even the most resilient conifers required at least two months of warmth to complete their reproductive cycle.
If the temperature lingered below fifty degrees, the trees stood no chance of flourishing; instead, they remained stunted, their growth arrested by the merciless conditions. Beyond this line, only alpine plants—tenacious, low-growing perennials like dwarf willow and dryas—could withstand the short, unforgiving growing season.
At last, the convoy came to a halt. Anderson Jr. Seely stepped out of the vehicle and took in his surroundings—a breathtaking panorama of snow-capped mountains, rolling grasslands, dense forests stretching as far as the eye could see, a meandering river that snaked its way through the valley, connecting a vast, crystalline freshwater lake with several smaller bodies of water nestled between sheer cliffs. And there, standing in stark contrast to the untamed wilderness, was the camp: a cluster of sturdy, well-maintained, one-story houses, their roofs adorned with solar panels, a wind turbine spinning gently in the breeze, meticulously planted trees and flowers softening the edges of the settlement.
"You call this a camp?" Anderson Jr. Seely asked, raising an eyebrow and glancing around at the surprisingly well-equipped settlement. "This looks less like a camp and more like a luxury wilderness resort for people who like to pretend they're roughing it while sipping cappuccinos."
Layla Smith, her smile betraying a mix of amusement and unmistakable pride, responded, "With every trip to this place, William Smith insisted on adding something new, like a hard-working spider slowly weaving a perfect web to catch the food. Over time, the camp evolved into what you see now—an oasis of civilization in the middle of Alaska. We also have electricity from a hydro-generator in the nearby stream. It could make enough power for cooking, heating, and running all sorts of essential equipment, from coffee machines to probably some secret lab experiment nobody talks about. We had a laboratory, a kitchen, a warehouse, a dining hall, a workspace, bathrooms, and private rooms for each member of the survey team. And of course, we have a satellite phone to contact our New York headquarters, just in case or somehow the civilization world could forget our existance.'
Anderson laughed out loud. 'Of course, you must report verbally to your big uncle via this phone," Anderson thought wryly. He didn't dare say such sensitive and impolite words aloud, but the mental image of William Smith listening to their daily updates like some omnipotent overlord made him chuckle inwardly.
T.B. added with a grin, "And today, I'll be setting up the Starlink system from Elon Musk, so we'll finally have Internet here—twenty-four-seven connectivity at a much lower cost. You know, so we can keep up with our favorite Netflix series while surveying.'"
Well. Of course. It is just for more oral reporting to your big boss. The joke refused to leave Anderson's mind, playing over and over like a funny sitcom play.