Goodbye Ladue Valley and all the hiking, prospecting, mining adventures it had provided. Goodbye.
Chapter Eleven
Waikiki, Hawaii
The cool early morning air was redolent with the scent of gardenias and the exotic flowers cultivated in the sculpted gardens of the apartment complex. Palm trees, reaching 40 feet, swayed gently in the light trade wind fanning between the high-rise buildings. There had been a tropical deluge during the early hours but it was now evidenced only by a few puddles.
Hagen, nicely tanned and dressed in a crisp, multicolored sport shirt, shorts and sandals, negotiated the curving paths and the patio area, passed through the wrought-iron security gate and dodged across lanes of traffic on Ena Road. Someone shouted something unintelligible from a passing car but he avoided direct eye contact.
He had quickly learned that some of the younger locals resented what they called “Haoles”—outsiders like himself—but he patently ignored them. He had his own cynical theory as to what they might be occupied with, if it wasn’t for the “Haoles” living here or visiting as tourists. A theory he wisely kept to himself.
It was Saturday and there were no classes to attend. Time to pick up his mail, and take an early but relaxed breakfast at the corner restaurant. Later he would hit on the books and might go to the university library for a while to research and study.
Taking it all around the move to Hawaii hadn’t worked out too badly. Selling the house then quitting the job had been traumatic, but he’d left on good terms and really felt confident about being hired back or finding even more gainful employment once he had the degree in hand.
His house at Wasilla had sold surprisingly quickly. So much so that he had to shack up at Doug’s place for six weeks before flying to Hawaii. He’d sold the Jeep to a neighbor, and most of his larger furniture to a guy who was recently divorced and was setting up home for himself in Wasilla. Many other items were sold during a driveway sale.
The remainder of his belongings: paintings, personal effects, shop tools, and a multitude of smaller items were sealed in large packing cases in long-term dry storage in Anchorage. Herman and all the mining equipment had been sold lock-stock and barrel to Tony and Carl. The proceeds were split fifty–fifty.
He had arrived in Hawaii with a couple of large suitcases and four strong cardboard boxes filled with items he needed to make life bearable. Within a week of arriving he found a third-floor furnished apartment and was set up with most essentials.
The apartment was quite conveniently located in downtown Waikiki. Only a stone’s throw from the Hilton Hawaiian Village and a couple of city blocks inland from the beach.
It was awfully noisy, even at night, compared to living in Wasilla, but the central location had its compensations. He could easily walk to many places and the university campus was only two and a half miles distant. He buzzed back and forth on his new wheels, a moped. Not very macho after the jeep but at least it was economical and there were no parking problems. Shorts and casual shirts had quickly become his primary garb.
At least four evenings a week he jogged from the apartment, four miles out around the Ala Moana Park, Magic Island trail and back home.
The university was a hard grind and it had been extremely difficult for him to get into the habit of studying. He had driven himself mercilessly, however, and crammed late each evening and through weekends in order to keep up with the first-semester workload. He had to be extremely disciplined or he would quickly fall behind. He felt he couldn’t afford to fail even one class that might cause his stay to be extended.
In four months he had been to the beach only four times. Even then he had taken some books with him. Just as Doug had joked, the “bird-watching” was spectacular, but he found such sights distracted him from his studies.
He climbed the last of the steps and ramped pathway, passed by a series of ornamental fishponds and waterfalls to the second floor post office. He fumbled for his key, then unlocked his mailbox. It was well stuffed with envelopes.
“What a pile of junk again,” he grumbled to no one in particular. After a cursory glance most of it went straight into the trashcan. But today, along with a couple of bills and two early Christmas cards, was a large, manila envelope from Doug.
“I’ll save opening that till I get home.” Doug had the key to the post office box in Wasilla and was checking the mail periodically. The change of address had been sent to the most important contacts but there were still some bits of mail filtering through.
With his bundle of mail in hand he sauntered the couple of hundred yards along Ena Road to the corner restaurant, purchasing the Honolulu Times from the box by the entrance. Damn, why did he always have a fight with the door of these boxes? They all seemed to be alike. Entering the restaurant he selected himself a table near the window. He had purposely come early because he knew the tourists arrived to fill the place at eight o’clock or so.
Within a few minutes he had a cup of coffee and breakfast was on its way. Hawaii was considered to be expensive because, like in Alaska, so many things had to be shipped in. However, he found if one stayed away from the real tourist functions it could be quite reasonable. Breakfast at this particular restaurant was actually less than five dollars and the Kona brand coffee was excellent. School days he ate at home and, intent on conserving funds, stayed clear of restaurants as much as possible.
He ate, then relaxed for another hour. Digested the news thoroughly and had two refills of coffee. Finally he took care of the tab and returned home. The morning freshness was already dissipating and it was beginning to feel quite hot.
Back in the apartment complex he sat in the shade near the swimming pool and opened the mail.
Inside the large envelope was a collection of smaller envelopes. He sorted through them and then unfolded a letter from Doug.
6th Dec. 1984
Hi Hagen,
Hope you are still doing okay out there in the middle of that vast Pacific Ocean? I’m certain your weather is better—at least warmer—than here. Unlike last winter, which—as you may recall—started out mild, it has been downright bloody cold the last couple of weeks. Ten or 15 below zero most of the time. Not much snow yet though and there are predictions of frozen pipes if we don’t get some insulation on the ground soon.
As you can see, I picked up your mail. There was a mountain of obvious junk that I trash-canned. These seem to be the meaningful things. Oh. And I deposited the $350 check from the guy who bought your furniture. The deposit slip is enclosed. That’s the last of it. Turned out to be pretty reliable, didn’t he?
Missed having you around to bug me the last few months but I’ve kept up with the Polka dancing and aerobics. Most of the regulars have asked how you are doing and send their regards. I told them you have a great pad with an ocean view and they were all welcome to stay with you if they visit, Ha. Ha. Did a little downhill skiing at Alyeska last weekend but it was really a bit too cold for comfort up there on the slopes.
Spoke to Tony the other day. He and Carl are putting together some larger sluicing equipment to use on the mine next summer. They didn’t do anything out there this last year but he said they have already been out on their snow machines. Guess what? They have some kind of small tractor with a front-end loader so they will really be able to move a lot of stuff—if they can get it out there—retired, as they both are, I guess they can spend more time on it than we did. I’m not too sure they will be able to make it pay.
I met Old Smoky for breakfast the other day. I never seem to learn, because my clothes still smell of smoke. He told me to expect a letter from the Guard any time soon. It actually arrived on Friday so there’s a copy enclosed. As you will see there’s still something of an unsolved mystery. In fact, as I told you before, I still think they know a lot more than they are prepared to admit publicly. Not much to be done about it now I suppose. We did our bit. Best leave well alone.
Well, here’s the bombshell. I guess it’s my turn to ma
ke a big decision. My boss wants me to take a position in Atlanta. They call it a promotion but actually the salary is much less. Backhanded compliment. They figure the cost of living is so much lower and of course I lose the Alaska premium.
I’ve got mixed feelings about the whole thing but they are really twisting my arm. I stalled them with a counteroffer on the salary and I told them I wouldn’t even consider moving until springtime on account of selling the house. And, regrettably, maybe the plane. You remember that guy who stopped by one day and said he would like to buy it. I have his card so I’ll call him and give him first chance.
I suppose, in the end, I’ll have to accept the move but I don’t relish the thought. What the hell, maybe I need a change too. I can always quit and return to Alaska if things don’t work out.
If it’s still okay, I will take you up on that offer and will visit for a few days over Christmas. Looks as if I can arrive on the December 23 and leave on the January 2. I’ll phone when the travel agent confirms my reservation.
I look forward to seeing you soon. It’s only a couple of weeks away. Needless to say, I’ll check the P.O. Box again before I travel. Let me know if you need anything brought from Alaska.
All the best
Doug.
PS. Enclosed you’ll find a couple of the photos I took when we walked up to Flattop Mountain on the Fourth of July. Make you feel homesick?
Hagen – On Flattop Mountain with a view over the city of Anchorage.
Hagen (left) and Doug on Flattop Mountain. July 4th.
One photo showed Hagen sitting on a rock ledge overlooking Anchorage. The second was of the two of them together, backs against the rock, partaking of a snack. The latter, though it was taken on Flattop Mountain, was rather reminiscent of some places where they had picnicked on the Ladue hikes.
Attached was a letter with the official seal and letterhead of the National Guard. It was addressed to:
To: Major Robert M. Summers, U.S. Air Force. Ret
C: Messrs: Gauss and Anderson.
Ref: File # ANG/172/3965-84
November 26 1984
Gentlemen,
We have reviewed the findings of the above-referenced case and consulted with ANG head quarters in Washington D.C.
It is concluded that the site, which you brought to our attention, almost certainly contains, within a very confined area, the remains of a military aircraft. Records reveal that two lend-lease aircraft were lost and unaccounted for in 1943 enroute from Whitehorse, Yukon Territory, to Nome, Alaska. It is concluded that this site contains one of those missing aircraft. It is further concluded, with lack of evidence to the contrary, that all crew members remained with the aircraft and consequently perished in the crash.
The small amount of debris recovered from the nearby ridge has been examined by our staff and by Douglas Aircraft Co. (prime contractor). Unfortunately, due to the absence of serial numbers, there is no way to determine exactly which of the two missing aircraft these parts came from.
Given the difficult terrain and the remote nature of the location it is our decision to leave this crash site undisturbed at this time and, for all intents and purposes unmarked. With deepest respect for those who were lost in these two incidents, so long ago, we have traced some of the descendants and find they are unanimous in agreeing with this decision. We sincerely hope you, too, will respect this decision and refrain from tampering with the site or disclosing its true location to others.
We certainly appreciate you bringing the evidence of this crash site to our attention and for rendering assistance to the ANG. Perhaps in due course, and with similar cooperation from persons like yourselves, the second aircraft will eventually be discovered. Additional evidence may allow more complete identification and closure of both cases.
With best regards
Sincerely,
Mark L. Saunders - Commander
Army National Guard
Well, Hagen thought. This was a very carefully worded letter. They were making it seem that no one could be sure which aircraft this was. Didn’t even confirm the type. And they weren’t about to start digging it up either. Didn’t they normally go to great lengths to recover and identify remains?
He noted the letter pointedly made no reference to what either plane had been carrying. Aside from the crew, that is. There was no reference to the fact that one plane had probably been shot down by a Japanese fighter aircraft. Was this the plane with the gold or was it the one with the unidentified cargo?
“They know. They damn well know,” Hagen muttered to himself. He and Doug were pretty sure that a Geiger counter had been used during the search. Pretty sure that it had registered something, too. Had there been something radioactive on board the plane? Perhaps, in retrospect something to do with the development of the nuclear bomb. If so, it was very unlikely anyone would be told. Despite their efforts there was still a secret being closely guarded.
He sat quietly, reread the letter and digested the contents. A latticework of shadows, cast by the swaying palm fronds high above, moved slowly, in a mesmerizing pattern, back and forth across the papers spread on the patio table.
Whichever plane lay out there, the remains of the crew were probably still entombed inside. It seemed they would remain so for the time being. Perhaps that wasn’t so bad.
He leaned back comfortably in the patio chair, inter-linked his fingers behind his head and closed his eyes. He cast his mind back to the memory of those remote Ladue valleys. The sound of nearby traffic and the background roar of bustling Waikiki were blocked out by his thoughts.
Silence, a profound silence. Out there the winter shrouded everything safely for six or seven months of the year. It would be that way now. December. Pristine, clean white snow, streams slowed and turned to ice, trees gleaming with a thick coat of hoar frost or cloaked with snow. He had ventured out there alone and he knew how isolated and starkly beautiful it could be.
In marked contrast, the short summers could be idyllic with long bright days and warm sunshine. The high windswept ridges, the tranquil beauty of the sheltered valleys and swamps. The beaver ponds: bright green with marshgrass, a riot of colorful wildflowers, iridescent dragonflies flitting around.
On the last visit he and Doug had talked about reverence. It was true. There was a definite reverence to the place. You could sense it.
The end for those on board the plane must have been violent. But that was the way things were sometimes. When it was our turn we should all be so lucky as to find such a peaceful place to rest. Gold or classified stuff aside, of course the crash site needed to remain a secret. It would be almost sacrilege to go disturbing it.
But, what of the evidence? A dozen National Guard personnel had visited. Their records of the flight and findings could be sealed but their memories could not. There were notes and scribblings on the maps they had used. Chart recordings and other data.
Doug had made copious notes in his little red book throughout all of their flying, hiking and prospecting adventures. Thus a mass of written evidence remained. This was a mystery that could not totally be swept under the rug. One day it would be resurrected. One day the other plane might be found and the whole story would be pieced together.
If he knew Doug at all, that book they joked about would become a reality some day. It would make for an interesting tale. The recent episode with the plane was the icing on the cake. He also knew that any book published would not reveal the actual location of the gold claim any more than the true location of the crash site.
He had come a long, long way since those childhood years he and Doug had reminisced so much about. His own mother had initially been dismayed when he announced he was going to leave home, leave Germany. But, he remembered very well what she had said; “I just knew it was your destiny to travel away. Even in my worst hours it was in my dreams.”
He had traveled. First a lengthy and eventful trip to Spain and North Africa, then emigration to Ontario, Canada, eventually over the bo
rder to the United States. A two year stint in the U.S. Army with a posting in Korea. U.S. citizenship had been his reward. The years had melded one into another. He had moved around: Michigan, Oregon and Alaska. Now it was Hawaii.
Whilst he was living in Michigan his mother closed the gallery and sent him a number of her paintings. Flowers and yet more flowers, of course. So unique in style, because she always painted what looked like a lurid sunset in the background. Powerful, but so cleverly executed it never really detracted from the floral theme. Meine schrecklichsten erwartungen, “My worst nightmares on canvas,” she had explained when questioned about it. He still didn’t understand. He had studied the painting afresh. They were just floral paintings. Weren’t they?
He would be in Hawaii for at least three years, a single purpose in mind. Doug was now faced with a move to Atlanta. Times of change with new challenges for both. He sensed deep down, that it made no difference. Alaska was in their blood.
No matter what else happened, they would both be drawn back to the Great Land when the time was right. Maybe even back to the Ladue area. They would undoubtedly once again hear the echoing cry of the raven in the valleys. The babbling of clear streams over polished stones. They would climb those high mountain ridges, feel the cool wind on their faces and enjoy the immense panorama. Yes. They would return. The lure of wilderness Alaska was just too strong to resist.
Mystery in Trib 2 Page 13
