beneath the surface than she let on. Intrigued, Emery wondered what type of reaction she would get the next time they met.
The average tourist probably would have covered Bettles in a two-hour stroll, but Emery took longer. She paused often, studying the handful of small stores in addition to the Den, the post office, school, Alaska Power building, dozens of small houses, a ranger post and new National Park Service station, and, a quarter-mile distant, a fuel depot. Most handmade, all had thick, double-paned windows. Smoke poured from nearly every chimney, scenting the air with the fragrance of burning hardwoods.
The yard clutter often contained dogsleds, broken generators, and snowmobiles—not the typical fare of her suburban Detroit. She saw very few cars, presumably because people could reach Bettles only by air most of the year. In winter, when the boggy tundra and lakes froze solid, a road plowed over them connected to the Dalton Highway—a desolate, dangerous stretch of snow and ice.
Before she set off on the short hike to Evansville, she stood on the far edge of Bettles, staring toward the mountains and longing to be among them, dwarfed to nothingness in their shadows. Then she detected movement in the sky, and a low buzz flirted at the edge of her hearing. The small plane grew larger as it descended toward the airstrip.
Emery turned and jogged slowly back toward the Den. If she pushed too hard she’d end up limping at day’s end. Many bush planes functioned as air taxis, operating for hire when not previously booked. Perhaps she could reach the mountains today.
*
Bryson Faulkner taxied the Cessna Caravan to the Eidson Eco-Tours hangar, a massive structure Dita had erected the summer before, and cut the engine. The hangar housed the 208, Skeeter’s floatplane, and her Red Piper Super Cub, with ample room for another small bush plane, if needed, from one of the other Eidson outposts. She’d grab a sandwich to go from the Den and eat it in the office while briefing Pasha on the drop-off. She wanted to get back in the air as quickly as possible, this time in her own plane.
Actually, she could kill two birds with one stone and do some work. Dita had asked her to fly by the outlying areas where they’d drop off clients in the coming weeks and assess the gravel bars that served as her backcountry runways. Too much debris would necessitate finding a nearby alternate.
However, she lived for flying and always loved to take advantage of the days when she had less to worry about. A bush pilot could never say she had no worries at all, not in Alaska. Even during the best months, on perfect days, something could happen—freak winds, sudden turbulence, engine trouble miles from nowhere, fog, you name it. But this calm, sunny spell should remain, the weather fine all over the state.
As she jogged toward the Den, Bryson glanced at her watch. Almost noon. A Christmas gift from Karla, the heavy-duty, waterproof timepiece had both a GPS and an altimeter, a reassuring backup to the plane’s equipment. “Forever yours, Karla” adorned its back.
“Hey, Grizz.” She hailed him as she crossed through the next-to-empty Den to the bar, glancing at the village’s six chronic alcoholics. “Can you get Ellie to make me a sandwich? Anything you got a lot of is fine. To go.”
“You got it.” He headed toward the kitchen.
As Bryson reached over the bar and poured herself a ginger ale, the mechanical growl of the grizzly at the door announced someone had come in. She turned to look as she settled on a barstool and saw the woman who’d arrived in town the night before and caught Geneva’s eye. Emery something. Before Bryson could speak, the woman approached and hailed her with a nod. “You the pilot of that Cessna?”
“I am. Bryson Faulkner.” She extended her hand.
“Emery Lawson,” the stranger said as they shook. She took the next barstool and shed her coat over the back, slightly out of breath, as if
The average tourist probably would have covered Bettles in a two-hour stroll, but Emery took longer. She paused often, studying the handful of small stores in addition to the Den, the post office, school, Alaska Power building, dozens of small houses, a ranger post and new National Park Service station, and, a quarter-mile distant, a fuel depot. Most handmade, all had thick, double-paned windows. Smoke poured from nearly every chimney, scenting the air with the fragrance of burning hardwoods.
The yard clutter often contained dogsleds, broken generators, and snowmobiles—not the typical fare of her suburban Detroit. She saw very few cars, presumably because people could reach Bettles only by air most of the year. In winter, when the boggy tundra and lakes froze solid, a road plowed over them connected to the Dalton Highway—a desolate, dangerous stretch of snow and ice.
Before she set off on the short hike to Evansville, she stood on the far edge of Bettles, staring toward the mountains and longing to be among them, dwarfed to nothingness in their shadows. Then she detected movement in the sky, and a low buzz flirted at the edge of her hearing. The small plane grew larger as it descended toward the airstrip.
Emery turned and jogged slowly back toward the Den. If she pushed too hard she’d end up limping at day’s end. Many bush planes functioned as air taxis, operating for hire when not previously booked. Perhaps she could reach the mountains today.
*
Bryson Faulkner taxied the Cessna Caravan to the Eidson Eco-Tours hangar, a massive structure Dita had erected the summer before, and cut the engine. The hangar housed the 208, Skeeter’s floatplane, and her Red Piper Super Cub, with ample room for another small bush plane, if needed, from one of the other Eidson outposts. She’d grab a sandwich to go from the Den and eat it in the office while briefing Pasha on the drop-off. She wanted to get back in the air as quickly as possible, this time in her own plane.
Actually, she could kill two birds with one stone and do some work. Dita had asked her to fly by the outlying areas where they’d drop off clients in the coming weeks and assess the gravel bars that served as her backcountry runways. Too much debris would necessitate finding a nearby alternate.
However, she lived for flying and always loved to take advantage of the days when she had less to worry about. A bush pilot could never say she had no worries at all, not in Alaska. Even during the best months, on perfect days, something could happen—freak winds, sudden turbulence, engine trouble miles from nowhere, fog, you name it. But this calm, sunny spell should remain, the weather fine all over the state.
As she jogged toward the Den, Bryson glanced at her watch. Almost noon. A Christmas gift from Karla, the heavy-duty, waterproof timepiece had both a GPS and an altimeter, a reassuring backup to the plane’s equipment. “Forever yours, Karla” adorned its back.
“Hey, Grizz.” She hailed him as she crossed through the next-to-empty Den to the bar, glancing at the village’s six chronic alcoholics. “Can you get Ellie to make me a sandwich? Anything you got a lot of is fine. To go.”
“You got it.” He headed toward the kitchen.
As Bryson reached over the bar and poured herself a ginger ale, the mechanical growl of the grizzly at the door announced someone had come in. She turned to look as she settled on a barstool and saw the woman who’d arrived in town the night before and caught Geneva’s eye. Emery something. Before Bryson could speak, the woman approached and hailed her with a nod. “You the pilot of that Cessna?”
“I am. Bryson Faulkner.” She extended her hand.
“Emery Lawson,” the stranger said as they shook. She took the next barstool and shed her coat over the back, slightly out of breath, as if
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