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Beyond Survival

by Gerry Gotro

240 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #99-0030; ISBN 1-55212-279-4; US$17.50, C$19.95, EUR14.50, £10.00

They beat all the odds against them. This action-packed novel by Canadian author Gerry Gotro has been a consistent topseller in audio tapes to North America truckers. First of the six-part series to be available in print.

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about the book      about the author      sample chapter      catalogue info

About the Book BEYOND SURVIVAL is a novel of a near impossible survival in Canada's high north. When three people survive an aeroplane crash in northern Ontario in late October, they are faced with surviving bitter cold and starvation. Their survival tools are a shotgun and a handful of shells, an axe, and a few yards of rope. Given up for dead, they must survive the winter, find food in a hostile terrain, and finally walk two hundred and fifty miles in springtime, to the nearest settlement. Summer proves more hostile than winter, but Mighty Manitou, The Great Spirit, blesses their courage and leads them to a life that most people only dream about. Three years after being rescued, they revisit the crash site and their lives are changed forever! Beyond Survival will make you laugh and make you cry - it will warm the coldest heart and chill the hottest blood. Chances are, you will want to buy the book for your family and your closest friends.

About the Author

Gerry Gotro was born in northern Ontario in 1932. After serving five years in the RCAF he was trained in design drafting in England, at Auster Aircraft. He entered the avionics field, then moved to the design and development of diamond tools. He is now a full time writer, with nine books to his credit. Beyond Survival is the first book in a series of six survival stories.

Gerry Gotro lives on Vancouver Island and is interested in gold panning, photography and archery. He is happiest when exploring the island's mountains, natural mysteries, and the wilderness.

Sample Chapter

Chapter One: THE BEGINNING OF LIFE

The woman in the hospital bed held her newborn son, her finger tracing every detail of the eyes, mouth, and nose. Tears of anguish coursed down her face. In the bed directly opposite, an Ojibwa woman lay, her eyes closed, and she too cried softly. Her husband stroked her blue-black hair, and in the Ojibwa tongue, murmured endearments and consoling words to her. The two women, grief stricken, were internally incapable of trying to help one another. Leaving his wife's side, the Ojibwa man crossed the room and sat down beside the white woman's bed.

"Your heart is filled with sorrow," he said in a deep soft voice. "My woman's heart is also filled with sorrow. I do not know how to ease the pain that fills you. I would cut off my right hand if it would ease your grief." The white woman studied him through her tears, as she sat, forearms resting on his knees, his head lowered so his face was in shadow. "My wife has asked me to say this thing to you - she asks that you let her hold your son for only as many heartbeats as there are fingers on your hands?"

The white woman began to shake, racked with sobs. "My husband died five minutes before my baby was born," she said, "How can you ask me to part with my newborn son for as much as a heart beat?"

"I asked because I did not understand your sorrow, and because my woman has nothing to cling to," he said softly, rising to his feet, "forgive me - forgive me." He glanced back at the white woman and her child, "I am sorry I bothered you."

"What do you mean," she said, her anger dominating her words, "what do you mean your wife has nothing to cling to?"

The anguish in the man's eyes became even more evident, as he tried to speak the answer to her question. "My son died five minutes after taking his first breath," the man whispered. "You and I, we have both lost much this day."

The young Ojibwa man's words rattled and echoed in her head like a voice from a deep well. A nurse entered the hospital room with medication for her two patients.

"Mrs. McKenzie I have some medication for you," she said taking a small paper cup from the tray and pouring a glass of water.

"Wait," Elinore McKenzie answered, "This is more important." She held her baby up to the nurse. "She needs to hold him for awhile," she said nodding in the direction of the Ojibwa woman. The nurse, smiling in understanding, took the baby to the Ojibwa woman who also smiled in gratitude. She held the little boy in her arms for a long time, rocking back and forth, crooning to him in Ojibwa. And tiny infant, Carlin McKenzie, closed his eye and slept. The Ojibwa man crossed the room again to stand by the white woman. Though her lovely face reflected the great suffering she was going through, she had stopped crying.

"I am Jonathan Peters," he said, "and I thank you for letting Tisha, my wife, hold your son. We have one boy - James - he was born last year, but you and I have suffered a great misfortune this year. Perhaps God wished it so for a reason." There was something much more profound on Jonathan Peters mind, but he was finding it difficult to express. "I am a father who has lost a son. Your boy has lost his father - the Great Spirit's wishes are seldom clear to mortals." He folded his arms across his chest, and stood looking out the window.

"Just what exactly does that mean, and what is on your mind Mr. Peters?" she asked wary of the answer and what it may imply.

"If you agree, I will be the boy's father. There is a name for this I do not know in your language. Not a stepfather or a godfather it is another word. It means a father to be there when he is needed."

"A surrogate father," Elinore McKenzie said, providing him with the word.

The nurse gently took the sleeping child from Tisha Peters, and returned him to his mother for feeding.

"Yes - yes that is a fine word," he said, a smile creasing his handsome face. "I offer myself as his surrogate father - when he needs me. Perhaps you will bring him to our home someday - then he could meet his surrogate brother James."

Elinore McKenzie was filled with gratitude at the desire of the Ojibwa family, to shield and protect her and her baby Carlin. What she would never know, was how close the bond would become as the years passed by.

Carlin McKenzie never really got to know his mother. The only time they were close was on the days she took him to the Peters home on the Ojibwa reservation. When their visits ended and they left, young Carlin couldn't stop talking about Jim Peters and his father.

Carlin was an excellent scholar, but disliked the conventions of schooling. He was deeply interested in people, but didn't make friends easily. Carlin never had a true friend until he began to understand and emulate Jim Peters. Through his adolescence and his teen age years he lived in the city, but longed for the wilderness and the freedom of the Ojibwa. When Carlin finished his first year of university he quit and worked as a guide off the reservation. He saved, and with a small inheritance after his mother's death, finally had a down payment on a used Cessna. Now, at thirty years of age, he owned little but the clothes he stood in, a three room log cabin, and a weary Cessna 172.

Carlin hadn't had a charter for more than a month and he was unsure about the pain in his gut. It could be attributed to the longing to fly again, but it was more likely hunger. It was his third day without a decent meal. The Cessna rocked gently at the dock, and a blue haze cloaked the low hills at the end of Little Spirit Lake. The wan autumn sun struggled to drive off the morning chill and the deep blue water was ruffled by a breeze. It promised a magnificent day for flying.

Carlin could only day-dream about opening the throttle and coaxing the Cessna up on the step. He imagined her moving at better than fifty knots. He knew he could lift her from the lake now, but would let her gain a little more speed before easing back on the wheel. The fantasy was cruelly shattered when a dozen sparrows landed near him and ironically, bounced around, pecking breakfast from the ground. Carlin knew he wouldn't be flying today, because all he had was a full tank of stale fuel and he was broke flatter than piss on a plate. He had struggled now for seven lean weeks without a charter.

Catalogue Information