by Kim Baldwin
Pasha set off down the ridge. Her still-fatigued muscles and the need to test the integrity of the snow every few feet made forward progress excruciatingly slow. Every half hour or so she stopped to rest and try the satellite phone.
When she came to a sharp downward slope, she hesitated. The snowfield here radically differed from the rest of the vast area she’d explored. An avalanche had collapsed the overhang on the left side of the ridge, exposing clear rock. It would be extremely dangerous to venture any farther.
Pasha got out Skeeter’s map and tried to match the geographical features she could see with the symbols and colored lines of elevation. Finally, she spotted the area where everything seemed to fit. If she was right, she would find a cabin in this valley about a mile farther north, and the contour lines showed her the best possible way to get there.
If she could get past this dangerous area, she’d come to what looked to be the gentlest slope to the valley. She might not be able to negotiate a path all the way down, but it was the best possibility she’d seen so far.
She debated whether to risk going forward or return to the plane, and decided not to leave the others for such a risky and potentially futile endeavor.
Before she headed back, she once more dialed the office number. Encouraged by intermittent breaks in the static, she kept trying but could never make a connection.
*
Chaz stared dejectedly at the chaos of plastic wrappers and pieces of foil at the tree’s base. Something had eaten the food. She’d done her best to hang it out of reach, but they had only thin nylon rope and the short growing season here stunted the spruce trees. More likely a black bear than a grizzly, because they climbed better. And at least it hadn’t molested their campsite—no one had heard a thing. But the nocturnal visitor had devoured everything she hadn’t been able to fit into their two bear-proof containers, which amounted to the bulk of their supplies.
They should keep a fire going all night in case the bear decided to come back, but she’d leave the wood gathering to the clients, who so far had endured their predicament with a minimum of complaint. She’d have her plate full setting snares in the woods and trying to catch some fish.
Megan must be worried sick by now.
She hadn’t had any luck reaching Dita or anyone else. But the wind, coming from the north this morning, seemed to help dissipate the ash cloud, at least at lower altitudes. The first encouraging development since they’d arrived.
*
Bryson slept longer than she’d meant to, but when she awoke she found the sky had cleared enough, at least at the lower elevations, to risk getting back into the air. She hurriedly packed her stuff and removed her engine covering.
She held her breath as she hit the ignition switch. When the Super Cub’s engine roared to life, Bryson cheered aloud and thumped the windshield with her fist. “That’s it, baby. Nice and smooth.”
The cowling and spinner covers had done their job. The propeller purred like a kitten on steroids. She went through her preflight checklist much quicker than normal and was in the air a short time later, her map spread out on the co-pilot’s seat. Hang on, Karla. I’m coming.
Fortunately she had enough fuel to be out for a while, after topping off her tanks from three ten-gallon containers she carried when on long runs.
She flew as low as she dared, nearly clipping the treetops, because she could see the haze now only in the upper elevations, above five thousand feet or so. She had to take a circuitous route to where she thought the plane might have ditched, following river valleys and avoiding the higher mountain passes where she might encounter the ash.
When she finally bisected Skeeter’s route, her fuel gauge still read more than half full and she had a couple of hours of search time before she’d have to head back to Bettles. She tried her radio for the umpteenth time. “A2024B Piper to BTT. Anyone there? Over.” She listened. Nothing. “Repeat, A2024B Piper to BTT. Come in, BTT. Over.” She tried several other frequencies but couldn’t reach Bettles or anyone else.
Slowing her speed, she scanned the wide river valley a thousand feet below, searching for the green-and-white Cessna. Where are you, Karla? Mile after mile of forest and swamp passed by, with no sign that any human being had ever been this way. Please, dear God, let her be all right. Show me where she is.
Her fuel gauge kept dropping as she neared the place where the rafting trip should have commenced. Not seeing the plane almost encouraged her; perhaps Skeeter had arrived safely after all.
Finally, in the distance, she spotted the campsite, and her heart fell when she saw no plane there and only three tents. As she neared, two women sitting by the fire jumped up and began waving frantically in her direction. Four others came out of the tents and did the same. She wagged her wing tips to acknowledge that she’d seen them, then banked left for the best approach to the gravel-bar runway. As she set down, Chaz bolted out of the woods and ran to meet her.
“Am I glad to see you,” Chaz yelled as the propeller died and Bryson stepped from the cockpit. They embraced as the six clients headed their way. “We haven’t been able to get through to anyone on the satellite phone. What the hell’s going on?”
“I take it you haven’t heard from the second flight?” Bryson asked.
“No. They never got here. I was hoping they didn’t take off.”
Bryson shook her head. “I talked to Dita briefly last night. Had to ditch about a hundred miles from here. The Cessna’s missing and no one’s heard from them. I followed the route but didn’t spot the plane.” Struggling to keep her voice from breaking, she added, “Karla’s on board.”
Chaz gripped her shoulder. “Jesus, Bryson.”
“If anything’s happened to her—”
“Don’t go there. Skeeter’s a good pilot. Maybe he just veered off the planned route for some reason. Tried to go around the ash.”
“Maybe. Look, I’ve got to get back up there,” she said in a low voice as the six clients neared. “Everyone here okay?”
“We lost most of our food to a bear last night, but we’re fine otherwise.”
“Hey! When is help coming?” one of the clients asked.
“I’m not sure,” Bryson told her. “I’m searching for the rest of your party. I wish I could take one or two of you out, but I need to save what little room I have in case someone’s injured. I’ll get back to Bettles later today and inform them of your situation. Wind’s changed, and the ash seems to be confined to the higher elevations, so some flights may already be in the air. Just sit tight.” She turned to Chaz. “Wish I could help you out on the food, but I’m just about tapped out. I only have my emergency supplies.”
“I’ll make do. Go.” Chaz gave her another hug and led the clients away from the plane. “Good luck, and Godspeed,” she shouted as Bryson restarted the engine.
Bryson lifted off and retraced her path, heading back toward Bettles but at a higher elevation. It was risky to flirt so close to the ash plume, but she had to eliminate all possibilities. If Skeeter hadn’t been able to land safely in the valley, the plane might be somewhere in the mountains.
She tried not to picture the wreckage of her father’s plane, but the image was as firmly implanted in her mind as when she’d spotted it from this same cockpit seven years earlier. Not again, God. Please. Not again.
Chapter Thirty-two
Bettles
“The ash plume from the Mount Wrangell eruption has created havoc over the south-central part of the state, grounding all air traffic from Cook Inlet to Glacier Bay, and reaching as far north as Denali National Park,” the newscaster reported. “That’s bad news for residents of Anchorage, who are being advised to remain indoors with their windows closed. Sam Feeney filed this report a short time ago.”
Video of empty streets in downtown Anchorage, barely visible through the thick fog of ash, appeared on the screen as a male voice detailed the school closings, grocery-store panic buying, flight cancellations, and other repercussions of the change in the win
d direction. The reporter, who looked barely out of his teens, delivered the last portion of his story from beneath a hooded jacket covered with ash. “Officials within the Alaska Rescue Coordination Center here at Fort Richardson are spearheading efforts to locate a dozen small aircraft and numerous individuals who have been missing in the sparsely populated interior and northern regions since the eruption—the first areas impacted by the ash. The AKRCC is tracking several PLBs—Personal Locator Beacons—activated in the backcountry, along with two aircraft Emergency Locator Transmitters, which emit signals automatically if a plane crashes. Unfortunately, the ash interfered with many of those signals, making it difficult to calculate their exact positions. And most of the state’s rescue resources are based in Anchorage, so the coast guard and other entities have had to call upon their auxiliary stations in the north for help.”
Dita turned down the volume when the next report appeared, a feature story about residents of Anchorage coping with the ash. She, Megan, and Geneva hadn’t moved from their chairs since the TV signal had reappeared in the outer office an hour earlier, though Dita and Megan kept passing the phone between them trying to reestablish contact with the rafting parties and Bryson. “I wish we knew if one of the two plane signals is from the Cessna.”
Calls were still sporadic, but improving. She’d managed to get through to the AKRCC to report that she had three missing parties: two adventure groups and a charter pilot, all of whom had PLBs. She gave them Chaz’s location and details of Skeeter and Bryson’s flight plans, and asked them to keep her informed of developments. They told her fifteen PLBs had been activated since the eruption, and two small planes had apparently crashed, triggering their emergency transmitters. They planned to dispatch helicopters and search planes from the North Slope Borough.
Dita had then contacted three seasoned bush pilots in her Kotzebue and Winterwolf offices, well outside the danger zone, and asked them to get in the air to help search. She couldn’t do much else now except wait and keep trying to establish contact with her parties in the backcountry.
“Why don’t you try to get some rest,” Megan said. “You’ve hardly slept. I’ll keep trying and let you know immediately if I hear anything.”
“I’m staying, too,” Geneva said. “Grizz gave me the day off. So no arguments. We’ve got it covered.”
Exhausted, Dita didn’t protest. “I’ll lie down in the back if you swear not to let me sleep more than an hour or so. I want to follow up with the other offices and see if they’ve found anything.”
“Promise.” Megan took the phone from her and shoved her gently toward the lounge.
Dita collapsed on the couch, and exhaustion finally won the battle with worry. She fell asleep almost at once.
*
Bryson leveled off at five thousand feet, just below the visible layer of ash, keenly alert to any minor fluctuation in her single-prop engine’s familiar cadence. She flew down the middle of the river valley at her lowest cruising speed, scanning the mountains’ cliff faces. Any time she spotted anything slightly suspicious, she circled the area and flew closer, until she knew it couldn’t be the Cessna. Every now and then, she tried to raise someone on the radio but still couldn’t make contact.
Karla had to be all right. They had just holed up somewhere and she had to find them. A sudden change in the weather had stranded her more times than she could count, and, like all bush pilots, she took it in stride. But Karla already hated flying in small planes. Though part of her job, she’d never gotten used to it and felt only reasonably comfortable when Bryson piloted. She’d probably never want to set foot in one again.
Bryson focused on the mountains on either side, peering at every shadow or color change on the steep façades. Every now and then, she looked up and assessed the ash plume. This time she saw a stream of black within the haze. Smoke. Her heartbeat accelerated along with the whirr of the prop as she hit the throttle, heading toward the source.
Above her, probably around the nine-thousand-foot level, she reckoned, on the ridge of a mountain a half mile ahead. She inched higher. Six thousand feet. Seven. Eight. Did the engine sound different? Bryson knew every nuance in its tone and could detect the prop labor slightly.
Peering up through the haze, she spotted four tiny figures at the smoke’s source, which must be from a burning tire. One of them held up a large piece of orange fabric and the rest waved their arms and jumped up and down. Still too far away to recognize, the one with the fabric had to be Toni because of the height difference.
She clutched the controls tighter, ignoring her painfully lacerated palms, as she crept up to eight-thousand, five-hundred feet. The engine unmistakably labored now, but she had to know if Karla was there. She grappled for her binoculars and nearly wept with joy when she saw her, smiling and waving. With one arm, Bryson realized, her other in a sling. Toni stood next to her, then Emery and Ruth. She quickly swept the area around them with her binoculars and saw the tail of the plane, sticking up at an angle, the rest obscured because she flew below it. What about Pasha and Skeeter?
The plane had plowed nose-first into the ridge, and Pasha would probably have taken the co-pilot’s seat. Were they both dead? Injured?
Bryson waggled her wing tips to acknowledge she’d seen them, then circled to make another pass. The engine sounded rough, but still functioned all right. As she straightened, she tried to raise them on her Eidson-issued satellite phone. Dita had given every pilot and lead guide one and programmed everyone’s numbers on speed dial.
She hit the button for Skeeter’s number and, after several seconds’ delay, heard ringing. She expected one of the four, maybe Karla, even, to answer, so was shocked when Pasha picked up.
“Bryson! Thank God!”
“I don’t see you. Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine. I’m way down the ridge from the plane, to the south. I can see you. I’m heading back.”
“Where’s Skeeter?”
“In the plane. He has a bad leg infection. We need to evacuate him right away.”
“Lot of ash up here. Not sure if I land whether I’ll be able to take off again. Engine’s running rough.”
“Nowhere for you to land, anyway,” Pasha said. “We need a helicopter.”
“Is Karla all right? Looks like she has a broken arm.”
“She does, but she’s okay. Taking good care of the rest of us.”
“Gotta head back, my fuel’s low. I’ll get a chopper here soon. And Pash?”
“Yup?”
“Tell Karla I love her, will you?”
“You bet, Bryson. Get home safe. We’re relying on you.”
She waggled her wings at the foursome one more time before descending to a safer altitude. The engine still had a worrisome knock but seemed marginally better. She pushed the throttle forward and headed to Bettles at top speed.
*
Pasha raced back to the plane and arrived not long after Bryson’s call to find Toni and Ruth still celebrating upwind of the still-burning tire.
“Did you see the plane?” Toni hugged Pasha fiercely. “She saw us! That was Bryson!”
“I know.” Pasha grinned. “We talked on the satellite phone. She’s going back to Bettles to arrange for a helicopter to come get us.”
“Do you know when?” Ruth asked.
“No. It may not be right away—it’s still dangerous to fly this high, apparently. But she knows Skeeter needs to be evacuated and exactly where we are.” She patted Toni on the back. “Great job getting the fire going.”
“We were so discouraged,” Toni said. “We heard the plane when it came through going north and ran out here, but she had already passed, flying really low. By the time I got it going good, she’d disappeared. We’d given up hope and thought we’d wasted the tire. Thank God she tried again.”
“I’m going in to tell the others and then start dinner. We can safely use some of our fuel for a really special meal. We’ve got good reason to celebrate.”
Emery,
Karla, and Skeeter sat laughing about something when she pulled back the flap and joined them.
“You’re back!” Emery’s relief was obvious.
“I knew if anybody found us, it’d be Bryson.” Karla jumped up and hugged Pasha with her good arm.
Pasha teased her. “I have a message from her, as a matter of fact.”
“You do? You talked to her?”
“She raised me on the sat phone. She’s headed back to Bettles to arrange for a helicopter. It may be a while, because of the ash, but she’ll do whatever it takes soon because of Skeeter.” Pasha leaned closer to Karla and added in a low voice, “She wanted me to tell you she loves you.”
Karla smiled broadly as a faint flush of pink colored her cheeks. “Thanks. I needed that.”
Pasha headed toward the food supplies and began to sort through them. “Hope you’re hungry. I’m going to whip up a feast.”
They devoured her pasta with enthusiasm, buoyed to an almost giddy fever. They talked about the first things they would do when they returned and made pacts to keep in touch. Toni and Ruth, undeterred, both said they’d be back one day to complete their aborted rafting trip.
Pasha went outside to try the satellite phone again after dinner but couldn’t reach Dita. Ready to go back in, she felt the power tell her Emery was headed her way, so she stayed there, looking out over the valley.
“Great dinner.” Emery held out her hand, and Pasha took it.
“Thanks.” At nearly nine p.m. the sun was low in the horizon, casting the landscape with the golden hue found only in the land of the midnight sun. “Doesn’t look like anyone’s coming today. Can you stand another night here?”
“Next to you? I’ll suffer through it,” Emery said. “Although I’d much rather be back in Bettles, taking you up on that dinner-candle-music-and-more scenario.”
“That’s for when a doctor pronounces you completely well, Emery.”
