Stargate Atlantis: Latitude

Chapter 3 - Survival

John stopped, his breath pluming out before him in the freezing air. He turned and looked back the way they had come, their footprints visible in the light dusting of snow which had fallen overnight. The sky was a clear blue and the sun sparkled on the frosted grass and patches of ice. The pod was just a speck in the distance, along the valley to the west and far below.

"You need a breather?" asked John.

"No, I'm just admiring the view!" snapped Rodney, who had also stopped, but was gasping for breath, head down, his hands on his knees.

John waited, giving Rodney a couple of minutes to regroup. He looked up the slope they were climbing, hoping it would level off soon. They'd set off about four hours ago and John had chosen this route as the most likely to get them over this range of mountains and down into the next valley before nightfall. They couldn't afford to be on high ground overnight; their clothes weren't really adequate for daytime hikes in this climate and at night they simply wouldn't survive.

John looked at Rodney, still gasping, hunched over against the cold, hands tucked under his arms.

"Here, have one of these," he said, bringing out a bar-shaped foil packet from the messenger bag. "It might be like a power bar!"

Rodney unwrapped the bar, bit the end off and chewed, grimacing.

"It's not," he said grumpily, but carried on eating anyway. "Aren't you having one?"

"Already have," John lied, knowing he could manage on far less than Rodney. "Come on, it's too cold to stay still."

They carried on, trudging up the side of the mountain, sometimes finding an animal trail which saved them energy, more often scrambling and slipping over the uneven ground and clumps of tough, dry grass. A couple of times they thought they were at the top, only to come over the crest and find another rise in front of them. At last, though, the ground began to level off. The mountains swept up to either side, their peaks wreathed in cloud.

They stopped to eat one of the ration packs each, standing because there was nowhere dry to sit.

"These don't improve with altitude, do they?" said Rodney, sucking on a corner of his pack and squeezing it with both hands. "The Asgard stuff is beginning to look attractive."

"Make the most of them," said John, crumpling up his pack and shoving it back in the bag. "They won't last forever." He looked at the sky; the sun was well past its zenith and clouds were forming in the blue. John hoped they weren't in for more snow.

"C'mon, Rodney, time to move," he said.

The descent was steep and they trod carefully, knowing that to skid and fall could mean injury or at the very least, wet clothes, both of which could be fatal.

The sun had gone behind the far line of hills by the time they were approaching the valley floor. It was steeper and narrower then the valley where they'd left the pod, but had the same scattered clumps of thorn trees, contorted by fierce winds, following the line of a mountain stream.

The river had cut deeply into the peaty soil, leaving sharply defined banks that dropped down about four feet to the icy waters, which tumbled and frothed over the bedrock. In places the river had changed its course and stones and soil had built up in the lee of the vertical banks. It was one such place that John spotted as a potential campsite. A little beach had formed, about a foot higher than the water level and the bank of black, rooty soil would give some shelter.

"We need as much firewood as we can get," said John decisively.

Rodney, in his now customary pose, hunched up with his hands crossed over and tucked under his arms, just nodded miserably and shuffled away toward the stunted trees.