Clear to Lift

by Anne A. Wilson

  “I … well … okay, let me run it with the new weight.”

  I lower my head again, performing the calculations with me as the sole pilot. I bite my lip when I see that Boomer’s hunch is right.

  “It’s possible,” I say, looking up.

  “Will you do it?” Will asks.

  Crystal-blue eyes and a steady gaze communicate an underlying plea as clearly as if he were speaking aloud: Please. Please, help me.

  I glance at Boomer. He remains unwavering. Permission granted.

  Turning back to Will, I hold his gaze for a long moment … and nod.

  11

  Will moves past me toward the door, and as I pull the charts together, Boomer taps me on the arm. “You got this, Vanilla.”

  I can only shake my head, to which Boomer responds by gripping my shoulder and giving it a good squeeze.

  He follows me outside, barking directions at Hap and Beanie, who have just finished removing the doors. Beanie then moves to assist Will, who has climbed into the left seat, handing him a helmet and helping him plug in his internal radio cord.

  “Your radio switch is there,” I say to Will, “at your feet. Just step on it to talk.”

  I’ve got the bird turning in less than a minute, and just a short sixty seconds after that, we’re airborne. Will points the way to an area he knows by heart, a transit that should take less than ten minutes.

  I notice that Will fiddles with his chest harness. On it, he carries a utility knife, a Leatherman, a radio, and a flashlight, all attached in easy-to-access pockets. In addition, the strap houses his fluorescent orange transceiver unit, which he now removes. He turns dials, flips switches, and then I hear a solid tone—loud enough to be heard over the noise of the transmission and rotor blades.

  “What’s that tone?”

  “A test signal, to see if the unit’s working properly.”

  “Are you looking for a signal from Jack?”

  “Yeah, but I’m not getting anything.”

  “But I thought the range was—”

  “It’s not a range problem.” He looks down at the screen again, then turns to meet my eyes. “He just has to be able to push the SOS button.”

  The despondency in his expression is clear. Jack would have to be conscious or physically able to push the button to transmit the SOS signal. So if he hasn’t pushed it …

  Will searches my eyes for a moment, then moves back to planning. “Have you been here before?” Will asks, tucking the unit away in his chest strap.

  “No.”

  “The slope angle of V-Notch runs about fifty degrees toward the bottom of the couloir, so I don’t know how close you’ll be able to get to let me off.”

  “What do you think, Beanie?” I ask.

  “It’d be too steep to land, ma’am,” Beanie says. “This is one-skid all the way.”

  “There it is,” Will says, pointing.

  A grand, wide bowl of snow, circumscribed by towering black granite peaks, looms before us. Several tunnels of snow cut through the black, most of them half the length of the Death Couloir on Mount Morrison, but much, much higher in elevation. I spy the one that distinctly looks like a “V.”

  As we close the distance, flying over the bottom of the cirque, which lies above the tree line, the edge of a turquoise glacial lake peeks from the snow. The terrain around it is relatively flat—rocky, but flat—and free of snow.

  “I’ve got a person on the ground, three o’clock,” Beanie calls. “I think it’s Kelly.”

  A hiker wearing a fluorescent pink technical T-shirt and sporting a long red ponytail waves at us, two tents in place about twenty yards behind her.

  “That must be Thomas, Tawny, and Kevin up the slope then,” Will says. I look forward and up the vast expanse of snow to the three tiny figures nearing the top.

  “The couloir they’re approaching, that one on the left, that’s V-Notch,” Will says, confirming my earlier guess.

  “At least you’ll have help getting everything rigged,” Beanie says.

  “Yeah, no doubt,” Will says.

  “What will you do?” I ask.

  “Once I’m on the ground, I’ll have to climb up the side of the ’schrund. I have no idea how high or steep it’s running now, so we’ll have to see when I get there. When I get to the top, to the opening of the crevasse, I’ll rappel down and get Jack secured. Then, I’ll climb back up and rig a Z-pulley to haul him out. I can load him in the litter once he’s out.”

  “I’ll get the litter rigged and ready in the back,” Beanie says.

  “How long does it take to rig the pulley system?” I ask.

  “Hard to say. Twenty minutes?”

  I glance at the fuel gauge. “We might have to land and shut down to save fuel,” I say, not believing those words just came out of my mouth.

  “I’ll be quick.”

  Our helicopter is now dwarfed by the surrounding summits, a tiny speck of orange against a colossal massif. As the group on the ground comes into clearer focus, I see that they’re wearing technical T-shirts only, no jackets—another confirmation of the warm temperatures. The outside-air temperature gauge reads eighteen degrees Celsius, or sixty-five degrees Fahrenheit—a veritable scorcher at thirteen thousand feet.

  And then, a fourth figure. Small, coated in cream-colored fur, he would have blended into his surroundings perfectly if not for his bright red vest. Mojo races back and forth animatedly in front of the group, urging them upward.

  I see it then. The bergschrund. A gaping chasm running the length of the base of the couloir, and not just along V-Notch, but along U-Notch couloir next to it. The walls of the bergschrund that lead to the crevasse opening on top look almost vertical, covered in gray ice, even overhanging in places. “Formidable” would be an understatement.

  “She’s yawning, all right,” Will says.

  “Yawning?”

  “The ’schrund. As it gets warmer, the glacier recedes, pulling farther from the rock, widening the mouth of the crevasse. Like it’s yawning.”

  It would be easy to gawk at the crevasse, so broad and menacing, but I shift my focus to the gauges, performing an in-flight assessment, just as Boomer taught me. I note the power we’re using now, all the while thinking about the power we’ll need to hover, not knowing if we’ll have enough. On paper, yes. But at the actual rescue site, with all the variables of wind and weather, you just never know. Although, I will say, the winds have been kind so far. Before we passed the tree line, the pines below remained still, and the glacial lake was straight as a mirror.

  “I need to pull into a hover here, guys, just to check the power,” I say, approaching the bergschrund from the side, flying parallel to it, but still one hundred feet above it.

  As I reduce speed, the controls feel mushy, like they did on Mount Morrison, only worse. I ever-so-gradually pull into a hover, swallowing hard as the rotors begin to slow. Not enough to trigger an audible alarm, but close. I dump the nose to gain airspeed.

  “Based on the power we were pulling just now, we should be okay in a low hover. Right on the limit, but doable,” I say, accelerating and circling left, setting up my approach for a one-skid about fifty yards downslope of the bergschrund.

  “See where it levels somewhat, Beanie?” I say.

  “Got it, ma’am.”

  Above us, Mojo darts about at the base of the bergschrund, no doubt sensing his owner, but unable to see or reach him.

  “Will, could you help me out, please?” I ask. “See the gauge on the upper right corner of your instrument panel? If you could call out that number for me as we make our way down, it would be a huge help. It tells the amount of power we’re using, basically.”

  “You got it. Looks like it’s reading forty-five percent.”

  “Yep. And if you look on the gauge below it, there’s a needle with an ‘r’ on it. That’s for rotor speed.”

  “It reads one hundred percent,” he says.

  “And hopefully it’ll stay that
way,” I say. “We’ve only got ninety-two percent power available, and the charts say we’ll need eighty-nine to hover. Based on what it looked like in the high hover, it’s gonna be close.”

  “Easy forward forty,” Beanie calls as we move steadily forward on a shallow glide slope, adding power in the most minute amounts to control the rate of descent.

  “Passing forty knots,” Wills says. “Sixty-four percent.”

  “Easy forward thirty,” Beanie calls. “Easy forward twenty.”

  “Seventy-eight percent,” Will says. “Eighty, eighty-two, eighty-four…”

  My stomach tightens when we pass the go/no-go point, that place where if the aircraft doesn’t have enough power to hover—a sudden downdraft would do it—we would drop to the ground, not high enough anymore to nose over and gain airspeed and without the power to stop our descent. In this case, because of the slope angle, there would be no landing, just an uncontrollable tipping and subsequent roll, actions that would prove catastrophic.

  My hands squeeze the controls, and I curse myself for wearing my gloves again, my fingers slipping inside. Stubborn much?

  “Easy forward fifteen, easy forward ten…,” Beanie calls.

  “Eighty-nine, ninety, ninety-one, ninety-two…,” Will says.

  Crap! Keep it steady, Ali!

  “The rotor speed is dropping. It’s at ninety-eight,” Will says.

  “Easy forward five…,” Beanie calls.

  “You’re holding at ninety-two percent. Rotor speed’s now at ninety-six.”

  Crap … crap, crap, crap.

  “Four, three, two, one, steady right there, ma’am.”

  “Ninety-two percent power, ninety-four on the rotor speed,” Will says.

  The rotor-speed alarm would have sounded at ninety-two. Of course, I shouldn’t be anywhere near ninety-two.

  I cannot believe I’m doing this. So far beyond any acceptable standard of responsible flying.

  Out the open door to my right, the tip-path plane of the rotors presents a blur of movement, the group of three standing just above it, at the base of the bergschrund. Mojo stills now, bracing against the onslaught of the rotor wash. “You’re clear to go,” I say to Will. “If you could step out as gently as possible, that would be a great help.”

  He unhooks his helmet from the radio system and steps out through the center console.

  “Nice and steady, ma’am,” Beanie says. “Lookin’ good. We need to come down about three feet. Easy down three, easy down two, easy down one, steady. Steady right there. Man’s at the door. He’s on the skids.…”

  Beanie doesn’t have to tell me when Will steps off. Even though he did so with care, the subtle dip in the aircraft told me the moment he left.

  “Man is out,” Beanie confirms. “I have a thumbs-up. Stand by. Grabbing the litter. Okay, I have the litter. Handing it down. He’s got it.”

  Will crouches, backpack over one shoulder, and drags the litter in the snow behind him to clear the rotor arc.

  “All right, ma’am, he’s clear. You’re clear to go.”

  Easing the nose down, dropping left at the same time, we begin to accelerate, using the slope to our advantage as we speed downward.

  I look at the fuel gauge. “Beanie, I think we’re gonna have to land to save gas.”

  “Roger that, ma’am. I don’t think we’ll have to shut down, though,” he says, peeking through the cockpit passage to look at the fuel gauge. “We could just idle and still be fine, right?”

  “Agreed,” I say. And because we screamed down the cirque, in only seconds we’re flying over the eastern tip of the glacial lake. Beanie calls me down over the rocky landing site, and we steady into a hover about a foot off the ground.

  “Ma’am, it’s a little more uneven than I thought.”

  “I can see that, yeah. Guess we’ll have to look for a place further downslope.”

  “I don’t think that’ll be necessary. Let me jump out. I think I can build up the rocks under the skids, and we should be good. Just hold it steady here.”

  “You’re gonna do what?”

  “SAR-flying fun fact. If you don’t have a level platform for landing, just make your own!”

  Beanie jumps out of the bird, and starts picking up boulders and shoving them under the right skid. He walks farther away, finds the sizes of rocks he needs, returns, and continues to build until satisfied. Then, moving beyond the rotor arc, he signals me downward. I feel the skids crunch as I lower onto the rocks, but there’s no shifting, no slipping. I lower the collective all the way, settling firmly on Beanie’s platform. Crazy.

  Beanie waits for my nod, then ducks under the rotor arc and returns to the aircraft cabin. Once connected to the radio, he says, “Ma’am, I’m gonna go talk to Kelly.”

  I look up, seeing Kelly and the tents about fifty yards away.

  “I’ll let her know what we’re doin’. Be right back.”

  Beanie leaves the rotor arc once more, making a precarious walk over the large stones that litter the base of the cirque.

  And here I remain.…

  There are out-of-body experiences, and then there are out-of-body experiences. I sit perched in a bright orange helicopter on a platform of rocks at the base of a glacial cirque with a direct view into the Owens River Valley over eight thousand feet below. In a word, electrifying.

  My senses heightened, every molecule awake, I feel bouncy in my seat. I peer across the empty left cockpit seat, ducking so I can see upslope. The bergschrund is one thousand vertical feet above me. One tiny dog and four tiny humans scuttle about in the snow, but one of those humans is already higher than the rest. Will is easy to pick out, climbing in his yellow jacket and neon-orange gloves—the same clothing he wore on Mount Morrison, minus the thick insulating base layers he needed on that bitterly cold day.

  I imagine him scaling this wall of ice with single-minded focus and concentration, reaching the top, and peering over the edge into the blackness below. Self-assured, self-reliant. In charge.

  And I have the most bizarre thought—a vision, actually.

  I stand at the rail of a fishing boat in the Bahamas, a boat heavy with the smell of diesel fuel, salt, sunscreen, and fish parts. I stand there as someone baits my hook.…

  I catch myself, having just laughed out loud. Someone is going to bait my hook … then put my pole in the water before handing it to me. I will catch a fish, reel it in; Rich will take my picture, post it on several social-media outlets; I will hand the pole back to the deckhand, and he will clean my catch. I don’t have to touch anything except the pole, do anything except stand and reel, and of course, smile for the camera. A true fishing experience, all neatly packaged and presented to the world as if we’d done it ourselves. Yep, me and Rich, the adventurers.

  “Rescue Seven, Whiskey One, I’m at the victim. Estimate fifteen minutes, over.”

  “Copy, Whiskey One.”

  Conflicting thoughts, thick enough to touch, battle in my brain over the next ten minutes. And in all of them, Will is there. In some way, shape, or form, he’s there.

  Beanie waves to grab my attention from outside the rotor arc. I nod, and he runs under.

  “Rescue Seven, Whiskey One, victim is out of the crevasse, unresponsive, head injury, securing him in the litter now.”

  “Rescue Seven copies.” I switch to the internal radio, rolling up the throttles at the same time. “Ready to do this, Beanie?”

  “Ready, ma’am. You’re clear to lift.”

  I do a quick scan of the gauges, and everything looks good. I start to pull up, but stop.

  “Ma’am?” Beanie says.

  “Stand by,” I say. “I just need to do something first.”

  I remove my left hand from the collective, bring my hand to my mouth, and pull my glove off with my teeth. I then use this hand to steady the cyclic while I remove the other glove in the same manner.

  When I regrip the controls, the sensation is a strange one, like standing on the beach nake
d or something. I’ve only ever worn gloves. I don’t think I’ve actually felt the controls before. Can that be possible? I flex my fingers, stretching them, before curling them around the controls again. I take a deep, satisfied breath.

  “Okay, Beanie, I’m ready now.”

  12

  I hover near the spot where I first dropped Will, watching out my window as he and his friends pass the litter to Beanie in the main cabin. Jack wears a green jacket, his red helmet still on his head, yet smashed on one side.

  Pain masks Will’s face as he steps back, a pain that stabs through me just the same. He stands with Mojo, who’s pressed firmly against his leg. Mojo seems oblivious to the whine of the engines, the steady whop of the rotors, the erratic wind, and the swirling snow particles kicked up by the rotor wash that beat his tiny face.

  Like a son letting go of his father, Will looks into the main cabin one last time before shifting his gaze back to me. Take care of him.

  Dejected, he turns, and follows his friends out from under the rotor arc.

  “Okay, ma’am, you’re clear to slide left,” Beanie says.

  “Copy, sliding left.”

  I move away from the slope, allowing myself a glance at the gauges once safely clear. One hundred percent rotor speed. Eighty-nine percent power. Eighty-nine …

  I’ve got three percent to spare.

  I turn my head back to the right, meeting Will’s eyes as he stands motionless in the snow. It turns out, all the while I was saving fuel, I was burning a little, too. Perhaps enough to accommodate the weight of one more person and a sixty-five-pound dog … maybe.

  Another look into Will’s eyes, and the decision is made.

  “Beanie, I’m gonna slide back. I think we have the power to take Will and Mojo.”

  “Roger that, ma’am, clear to slide right.”

  “Whiskey One, Rescue Seven,” I say as I move the controls to the right.

  Will raises the radio to his mouth—another of those weird out-of-body moments, me hovering, yet looking directly into his eyes, as I talk to him.