Cotton Grass Lodge by DeNise Woodbury Page B

Cotton Grass Lake.
    Charlie cleared the hive of air traffic around Lake Hood’s airport, his gruff voice filling the headset with information, and Duncan gratefully soaked it up.
    “Ain’t much you can do about some stuff.” Charlie concluded, “If ya have trouble just call. We’ll see what we can do. Depends ’course, I just work here.” Duncan appreciated his offer above all else.
    “Who owns the business?” Duncan asked.
    “Damn Dog owns it. Don’t let her fool ya; she runs a tight ship.”
    Duncan decided not to pursue how that worked. Charlie continued to talk about Alaska and a jumble of unrelated topics.
    Duncan had now flown into Cotton Grass Lake four times. His curiosity intensified, and he asked Charlie the next obvious question. “Is it hard to learn to fly?”
    “Nope. You can drive a stick shift. You can fly a plane. Just one added dimension.”
    Duncan figured there was more to it, but still. “Hanna said you taught her to fly, does she have a regular schedule?”
    Charlie cocked an eyebrow and tipped his head in Duncan’s direction. “Nope, she’s busier than a one armed paper hanger, too damn many irons in the fire, if ya ask me. Just helps Dog out when she wants to go up to her cabin.” Charlie thumbed the mic on the yoke and made an announcement. “Cotton Grass Lake area traffic, this is Cessna one seven one four Alpha, landing south three six.”
    Duncan twisted his neck to look around. “Charlie, we haven’t seen another plane for fifteen minutes. Why did you tell an empty sky where you were?”
    Charlie scratched his five o’clock shadowed chin. “When was the last time you ran a red light ’cause you couldn’t see a car coming?” He paused, “You get my point? Fool.”
    “Yes.” Duncan craned his neck to look down at the lake. The ice had large patches of opaque color since he’d left and several irregular shaped holes. When the plane touched down he happily realized he has become accustomed to landing on a rough gravel strip. This time seemed not so loud or bumpy or fast.
    Charlie coasted the plane to the end of the strip and whipped the plane around in a tight circle. The two men unloaded freight into a pile on the ground. Charlie shook hands with Duncan. “I invoice every two weeks, so pay the dog on time, and we’ll get along fine. Good luck.” He got into the plane and closed the door with a firm tug. He opened a small sliding window and shouted, “Clear!”
    Duncan backed away as the engine coughed and the prop started and stopped and coughed again. The engine throttled up, and Duncan plugged his ears and closed his eyes as the prop wound up and threw sandy gravel into the air. He watched the plane bump along the strip as it motored to the other end of the runway and then turned into the wind. The engine howled over his head as it skipped off the end of the runway, tipped over the lake and turned into the hazy morning.
    Quiet descended. He was alone for the first time in years. Really alone. His insides trembled from the strain of the last several weeks. There was much to do before the season began, but right now a cup of coffee on his front porch sounded like a better idea. There weren’t any groceries to spoil, and no one to steal them. He hoped. The notion of not worrying about theft or vandalism was a concept new to his big city mindset.
    He turned and instead of the long stride toward the four wheeler he expected to take, he found his feet tangled in four fuzzy gray legs.
    Duncan landed hard on the dog. “Yii-yiik-yiik!” the puppy cried as he scrambled away.
    Duncan couldn’t remember the last time he’d fallen down. Rocks bit into the palms of both hands, and red stars swirled for a second in his eyes.
    Anger flared and burned with incandescent embarrassment. He pushed himself over and sat still to catch his breath. Chunks of gravel fell off his hands as he gingerly brushed them together. At his shoulder a warm, wet tongue lanced twice across his ear