Fog. The moonlit mountainside I’d spotted earlier was still there but dimmer. In fact, I could see the whole moon low in the sky just above the horizon. Except now it was fuzzy. Fuzzy from the tendrils of fog reaching across it from the south. Creeping silently and steadily northward the low bank of impenetrable gray covered everything in its path.
The moon had become a dull orb shining through a lace curtain, like a small glowing cottonball. My heart sank at the sight of it. Any fleeting thoughts of flying home or my beckoning warm bed flew away with them. I glanced at my watch. Unless the troopers were back soon, taking off was going to be impossible.
I hunched my shoulders to relieve some tightness and turned back toward the plane. The fog bank I’d seen out over the Gulf was moving a lot faster than I’d thought. As if to confirm my suspicions a gust of wind swept down the hillside rustling the bushes and pushing at me as I walked.
I heard a new sound. A strange metallic squeaking somewhere above me. As I approached the plane I spotted its source. It was the windsock. A tall pole stood just ten yards away. A rusted ring of metal was attached to its top like a basketball hoop but bent vertically. A ragged hunk of faded orange cloth hung from the ring, and it flapped sluggishly in the breeze. With every nudge of wind the rusted metal cried out in decrepit protest. As if it wanted to rust and wither in peace and to slumber through the twilight of its life undisturbed. But no such utopia existed on the remote islands in the Gulf of Alaska. Gimme a break. This place wasn’t for sissies.
Staring up at the windsock frame creaking in the wind I saw more bad news. Wispy gray threads of cloud were streaming over the ridgeline high above the airstrip. No doubt about it, the fog was rolling in fast and would have us covered within the next fifteen minutes. I looked at my watch again fumbling to find the little button that lit up the dial before I could see the time. They hadn’t even been gone a half hour.
I looked down the road toward the lodge. If they came back right then, we might have a chance. Even so I shuddered at the thought of taking off and trying to find my way through thick fog, mountain sides and cliffs. The heavy blanket of the low overcast sealed us in like the top of a coffin. There was no way.
I’ve had close calls out there before flying in heavy rain. Blinded by cloud and water on the windshield, all you can do is try to keep the rock walls in sight off the wingtip. Sometimes the cliffs are your only visual reference. Lose that and vertigo can take over, spinning you straight into the sea. You can slow the plane down and creep along trying to feel your way home, but at sixty miles an hour you don’t want to feel anything.
Feeling your way in a dark basement is one thing. You bump into something, you stop, adjust your path and move on. In an airplane in the fog, if you feel anything you die. A shot of ice water dashed down my spine. I shook myself trying to erase the image from my head.
Then it started to rain. Wet pellets slapped the airplane’s aluminum skin with erratic intensity. It wasn’t some little shower that might pass by in an hour or so. It was thick wet air choked with wind, rain and mist right down to the surface. We weren’t going anywhere.
I moved under the wing to stay dry and listened to the drumbeat of raindrops pummeling the metal above my head. The random pattern shifted into a steady downpour, and became a loud roar surrounding me in the dark. I sat down on the left tire and inhaled the aroma of damp Goodyear rubber. I looked at the time again and wondered what was happening at the lodge. Where were Rankin and Daniels? Were they aware of the weather? Did they care about spending the night out here? How would that work?
I remembered my sleeping bag in the back of the plane. At least I could curl up in the backseat somewhat comfortably. One of the advantages of being a little guy. I could sleep anywhere.
I used to wish I had more bulk, but I’d learned to get by on smarts and persistence. And it was good to have friends like Willie. Bar fights weren’t my thing, but nobody messed with Willie. He wasn’t much taller than me, maybe five foot eight. But get him riled up and the sonofabitch could tear your head off. It seemed like his temper simmered just below the surface under a thin ice veneer of jokes and good old boy stories. But when something cracked its surface, his cold blue eyes went wild. His barrel chest expanded with rage, and hardened fists of cement could crush a guy in a whirlwind of fury.
The wind picked up then and blew rain sideways on the back of my neck. I stood up, opened the airplane’s door and climbed in. The wind fought me for control of the door before I could get it shut. More gusts rocked the wings and jostled the plane back and forth. It was like the inside of a hollow log in a hail storm, but at least I was dry. I peered through the windshield to look for the light across the water but it was gone. Through the fog and rain I could barely see white caps shimmering just offshore. I took a deep breath and tried to fight off the rising tension in my neck.
Calm down, chucklehead. You’re warm and dry. You ain’t even dead yet.
I thought about Rainey then, a waitress friend of mine in Seward. I don’t know why. Maybe I knew she’d cheer me up. She was my good mood charm. Like a positive mental attitude coach. Ever since she’d read some book about it, she was always pointing out the silver linings in life. At least she didn’t go around saying “It’s all good” like so many people do without thinking. I was sick of that phrase. Sometimes it wasn’t all good. Sometimes it just sucked. Like now for instance.
I looked out the window again. Rainey. I had to smile at the irony of her name. She was the brightest ray of sunshine I think I’d ever met. Her blond hair and flirty smile lifted the spirit of every room she walked into. I wondered what she was doing. Her work day was long over by now. She was probably getting her beauty sleep, as she called it, preparing for another day slinging hash for tourists at the Breeze Inn. Then I remembered she’d left town a few days ago for a new job. Still restaurant work but on a boat somewhere. Missing her washed over me like a dizzy spell. I reminded myself she was married and not available.
The raindrops continued to roar down without mercy. I shook my head at my reflection in the window. A tired bearded face stared back at me, dark rings under round sunken eyes. I rubbed my eyes with my fingers and dug the crusted sand out of the corners.
Rainey, Rainey, Rainey. A brief jolt of impending gloom gripped me deep inside. Would I ever see her again? I owed her so much. It was Rainey who had pulled me through a rough time the previous year. A runaway affair of the heart that had almost destroyed me. I’d made such a mistake, such a dumb mistake. I’d let down my guard and fell down a rabbit hole. Head over heels like I hadn’t done in a long time. Then like I’d been run over by a truck and left on the side of the road watching tail lights disappear in the distance.
Her name was Brandy Fontaine. An amazing person really. Smart, pretty, playful and tough. A LearJet pilot of all things and Willie's daughter. I’d fallen hard. The irony still made my head spin.
When she fled I think I went into a kind of shock. Pulled my head inside a shell and tried to turtle my way through the winter with blinders on.
Willie was no help. I’d asked him about her once, and he’d just shrugged. I could tell a brick wall when I walked into one. It was a guy thing, I guess. Willie and I had never been able to talk about Brandy.
Rainey had called me back then at just the right moment. How she knew to do that I’ll never know. Cell phones and fate. I tell ya, I’ll never get it.
“Hey there, Johnny. Wanna buy a lonely girl a beer?”
Rainey’s voice on the phone that night had been exactly the life preserver I’d needed. Rainey and I were safe with each other. We were friends. Never been lovers, never would be, I guess. We both understood that without needing to talk about it.
I was embarrassed to admit how hard I was taking the whole Brandy thing. I wasn’t supposed to be that fragile. Wasn’t supposed to feel that kind of pain. Wasn’t supposed to be that needy. That wasn’t the plan. That wasn’t the deal. My life was supposed to be orderly and s
ane. Not mixed up and weird. I don't roll like that. Do I?
I stared out at the rain again. What the hell was I doing here? What’s happened to me? Where was the fame and fortune? Instead of living the high life, basking in my fame as a renowned Alaskan bush pilot and glowing in the success of one amazing adventure after another, here I was, stuck in the middle of nowhere in the rain and getting all weepy over some woman. Instead of making big bucks flying the Final Frontier, I was scratching just to make a living any way I could.
What? Wait a minute! Where’s the honor in that? What was the point? Where was the applause, the crowd of smiling admirers?
I pushed open the door of the cockpit. The air inside was suffocating me. I had to get outside. The swirling thoughts were making me nuts. Where’s the remote? Change the channel. Please.
I paced for a while. Twisting my neck from side to side I tried to release the tension. Tried to force my mind to think about something else. I couldn’t tolerate a lot of whining. Especially my own.
Back and forth I walked under the left wing waiting for the troopers. I wondered how they would take the news that we couldn’t take off. Shouldn’t be a big surprise. They knew about Alaska. Weather forced most of the decisions around here.
Just for a second I thought about taking off without them. Make my escape before the fog closed us in completely. Get back to Seward and go to bed. I knew it was a bad idea and dismissed it immediately, but it was tempting. After all, they hadn’t come back on time, and fog like this can close down an area for days.
But I’d never be able to justify abandoning the troopers. And if kept my job, I’m sure we’d never get any more calls from them. You can’t turn your back on government work. Not unless you’re independently wealthy or stupid.
I thought about the guy they’d come out after. What was his story? Probably some drunken loser. A guy who beat up his wife and was headed for jail. Pathetic, I guessed, but I didn’t know. Could be something else altogether. I didn’t need to worry about his drama. I couldn’t even control my own.
The rain started to let up then. The owls sang out to each other from nearby trees, their haunting calls echoing in the night. I thought about the little voles and field mice huddled under the heavy grass nearby. They had to be listening too, their little eyes twitching at the sound. I wouldn’t want to be a vole. Knowing you were one of the major menu items for a long list of predators.
I looked at my watch and wondered again what to do. It was after ten and dark. Thick fog had descended on the whole area blocking any help from the moon or stars. I couldn’t escape now even if I wanted to. Were the troopers waiting for a break in the rain before they came back to the plane? Or had they settled in for the night at the lodge and were just letting me figure that out for myself? I kicked the tire absentmindedly listening to the dull thump and felt the vibration rattle its way up my leg.
It didn’t seem right. Something was wrong. Too much time had gone by. I was getting pissed. Why hadn't they left me any instructions? Officer Daniels was a jerk for sure, but Rankin seemed like a nice guy. I thought he would at least come back to tell me what was going on. I was usually slow to anger, especially when there might be another explanation. But not knowing made me nervous. I hated that. I’d never make it as a beach bum waiting to see what might wash up on the shore. I had to do something. I needed to go look for answers. I’d been waiting long enough.
The drizzle had quit by then, and the wind had stopped too, but the fog was relentless. Some kind of weather system had moved in, then stalled and shut down for the night. Lights out.
I tried to decide if I was really pissed or not. I wanted to remain professional and not give these guys any attitude, but I was feeling pretty damned inconvenienced. I was cold, damp, hungry and stiff from an uncomfortable nap in the airplane. And these guys were probably cozy and warm up at the lodge.
Whatever, I shrugged again. Hell, just write it off to life in Alaska. Flying the bush wasn’t supposed to be easy. It was usually one unexpected surprise after another. Nothing predictable about it. Isn’t that why I was up here in the first place? Living the Dream?
I could hear Willie griping at me in one of his big brother speeches. "You came up here to avoid boredom, so why bitch about the hardships? If you don’t like it, get the hell out. Go back to some nine to five crap until you rot and die. But just remember, there ain’t no adventure in Lazyboy land, rookie."
Thanks, Willie, just what I needed. A bullshit pep talk from a burned out bush pilot. But he was right.
“Yeah, so what?" I thought to myself. "So I had to spend the night on an island airstrip trapped by fog and rain. Whatever, dude. Big deal.”
I had to find out what was going on. I stuck a large rock under the front tire and made sure the doors were closed. I looked around with a quick glance to confirm there was no one nearby, but I pulled the keys from the ignition anyhow just in case.
Then I started to walk the road to the lodge. I’d never walked it before. My previous trips had all been simple pick ups or drop offs. The guests had always been waiting at the airstrip. But I’d seen the road from the air and it pushed through the trees for a couple of miles winding its way along the coastline to a small bay halfway down the length of the island.
Leaving the open air of the airstrip and moving into the trees, I noticed the strong sweet smell of spruce. The road inclined and inky darkness surrounded me like I was walking into the open mouth of a whale. Silence dropped on me like a net. Only the sound of my footsteps on the soggy trail kept me company as my shoes slip slopped along, the muddy surface sucking at my soles. I could only see about ten yards of the road in front of me. Its brown surface was wide enough for one vehicle with little room to spare on either side. It was slightly crowned with a ditch on each side and assorted pot holes and puddles along the way. The ditch on the right carried a shallow stream of runoff, the remnants of the recent rain shower running down to the sea.
I walked along listening to my own scuffle. The fog had crept in tight and muffled all sound. Except there was no sound. Even the birds and the bugs had gone silent like they were frozen in place and time, watching and waiting. All I could hear was my breath and my heart pounding against my eardrums in the stillness.
A guy in my line of work needs to be vigilant, but I wasn’t that concerned. I was only mildly nervous and slightly annoyed. Staying up this late cut into my sleep. I had business waiting for me back in Seward. The good weather there was holding, and a cruise ship was coming in. If I could get back, I might make some good money. I didn’t like being tired on busy days. I enjoyed flying and talking with the tourists, but not when I was strung out from too little sleep. Or hung over.
The deeper I moved into the forest, the darker it got. I didn’t have a flashlight with me. I almost never carried one. Never have. Probably a leftover from my Army days and special ops training. A flashlight lets others see you from miles away. Way before you have a chance to see them. It’s a dead give away. Besides, when I was poking around on a repo job, I made my living in the dark. It was safer to be unseen.
The human eye is an amazing thing. If you just stand still and wait a while, it’ll adjust to low light, and you can see plenty. Because of that, complete and total darkness is a rare thing. It’s not often when you can’t see your hand in front of your face.
I’ve actually learned to enjoy sneaking around in the dark. Relax into it and you have the upper hand. You need to move carefully and feel your way along with your hands and feet. That way you don’t drop into a hole or fall off a cliff. And you avoid sharp sticks in your face.
It’s like an art form easing your way along like a deer moving through the forest. Muscles and limbs gliding with liquid slowness, gracefully choosing each step with care. Avoiding dry sticks and crispy patches of dried leaves. That way you can hear better too. Humans are very noisy. You can hear them a long way away. Especially when they’re don’t know you’re nearby.
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br /> But, like I said, I wasn’t that concerned. I wasn’t exercising that kind of care. I kept up a steady pace, scuffling along on the dirt and gravel. I didn’t need no stinking flashlight. What, me worry? It felt good to walk. A lot better than sitting at the airstrip lost in confusion. I just needed to walk down this road, find the troopers and figure out what to do with the rest of the night.
It was colder in the woods, and my fleece jacket felt good zipped up high around my neck. Walking was warming me up too which was a good thing since the wet air and fog were nipping at my hands and cheeks.
Not seeing anything ahead of me, I started wondering if I’d taken the wrong road. What was that old joke? Sure we’re lost, but we’re making good time.
The road curved now and then and rose and fell with the irregular shape of the island terrain. Once in a while I could see down the slope toward the ocean. Then I could barely make out the sound of water lapping innocently at the shore.
In about a half hour I felt a change. A subtle shift of energy in the air. I guessed that I was getting close to the lodge but it was too dark and foggy to tell for sure. I topped a rise and started down a long slope. I remembered seeing this from the air last summer. Just ahead the woods opened up into a circular driveway, and there was a light.
I almost bumped into something on the left side of the road. It was an ancient pickup with a snow blade on the front. Both of the tires that I could see were flat. The rusted rims dug into the dirt with a look of silent resignation.
A solitary light bulb shining in the distance had to be the front door of the lodge. Fog dulled its reach but it gave off enough illumination to reveal the clearing in front of me. I stopped and looked around listening. Nothing moved.
The circular driveway held two other vehicles, a log cabin barn and a small cabin with a front porch. In the center of the drive a couple of large boulders were surrounded by a soggy morass of mud and beaten down grass. An old split log bench lay on its side, moss covering its broken legs.
I walked toward the light and studied the lodge that loomed above me. It had a wrap around deck and a log railing that led around to the back. I frowned at the sight of it. I couldn’t tell if anyone was there or not. Where were the troopers?
All the windows were dark. Only the one light bulb above the door gave any sign of life. I felt the muscles in my face tighten in confusion while I stared at the place. It looked shut down. At first I’d expected to meet them along the road on the way back, but then I figured I’d find them at the lodge sitting in the kitchen or the dining room talking to someone. I had imagined their faces as they looked at me in surprise and then remembered who I was and why I was there.
But there was no one in sight anywhere around the lodge or inside the windows. I moved to the double door in the dark shadow under the light and found a handwritten sign taped from the inside. Closed for the season.
Had I taken a wrong turn? Or missed some other place along the way where they had gone. I retraced my trek along the road in my mind, but I couldn’t remember any other place they could be that I wouldn’t have found along my walk. Then again it was really dark and maybe I’d missed it. Weird.
I looked around more carefully then, using the light to search for signs. There were footprints in the muddy surface in front of the deck, and muddy scuff marks on the deck itself. Small clods of dirt and mud were scattered around an old welcome mat at the door. I picked one up. It still felt damp. Someone had to be around. Whoever had last cleaned off their boots before going inside must be in there. Were they inside and asleep for the night?
I knew I was going to have to do something. I was going to have to make some noise and draw some attention. The polite approach of walking up and joining them wasn’t working out. I hated to impose myself, but I had no choice. This was too strange. I’d brought two Alaska State troopers out to this remote island in Prince William Sound and they’d vanished? If I’d felt alone before, I felt ridiculous now. Like one of those dreams where you find yourself wandering around the halls of a school building looking for the room where you have to take a final exam that you’ve never studied for. For a class you never attended. And you’re in your pajamas.
I knocked on the door and listened to the rattle of its loose wooden frame and flimsy lock disrupting the stillness. After so much time in silence the sounds seemed harsh and out of place. No response. I pressed my face against the dirty window panes and tried to see into the room inside. It looked like a large entry parlor next to a kitchen, but I could barely make out any details.
I knocked again harder and heard a dog bark from deep inside the structure. Okay, I mentally prepared an apology for disturbing whoever I was waking up. Surely whoever was in there would at least listen to my questions. I guess if I lived in a remote place and a stranger knocked on my door with a story about missing troopers, I’d at least listen. Before I shot him.
I shrugged off that thought and tried to reassure myself that I wasn’t doing anything wrong. It was the most normal thing in the world to ask for help. Even though it was a weird story, I had to tell it to somebody who might be able to help.
The dog had gone silent. Nothing moved. I glanced around the yard behind me, but the damp and darkness sat out there unchanged. Then I heard a sound. A bump from somewhere inside and above me. Like it was coming from an upstairs bedroom. I heard a door open and someone moving. I pressed my face tighter against the window and noticed a tiny light flickering at the top of the stairway inside. It was a candle and someone up there was holding it while leaning out of a doorway looking down toward me across a wide lobby.
“Hello?” I called up to the shape behind the light.
“We’re closed,” came a high pitched scratchy voice barely loud enough to hear.
“Hey, I’m really sorry to wake you up, but have you seen a couple of troopers?”
There was a hesitation. “What?” The voice sounded confused.
“Troopers. Alaska State Troopers.”
“Cops? No. There’s nobody here. Can’t you see we’re closed?” The voice was Minnie Mouse high and getting shrill. It was a woman’s voice, tense and guarded.
“Yeah, I see that. I’m a pilot from Seward. I flew these guys out here a couple of hours ago, and they walked over here to talk to somebody, and they didn’t come back. You sure you haven’t seen anybody?”
“I said we’re CLOSED.” The shriek echoed in the lobby. Then the door slammed and I was in the dark again.
CHAPTER FIVE