Clear to Lift (11 page)

My hands squeeze the controls, and I curse myself for wearing my gloves again, my fingers slipping inside.
Stubborn much?

“Easy forward fifteen, easy forward ten…,” Beanie calls.

“Eighty-nine, ninety, ninety-one, ninety-two…,” Will says.

Crap! Keep it steady, Ali!

“The rotor speed is dropping. It's at ninety-eight,” Will says.

“Easy forward five…,” Beanie calls.

“You're holding at ninety-two percent. Rotor speed's now at ninety-six.”

Crap … crap, crap, crap.

“Four, three, two, one, steady right there, ma'am.”

“Ninety-two percent power, ninety-four on the rotor speed,” Will says.

The rotor-speed alarm would have sounded at ninety-two. Of course, I shouldn't be anywhere
near
ninety-two.

I
cannot
believe I'm doing this.
So
far beyond any acceptable standard of responsible flying.

Out the open door to my right, the tip-path plane of the rotors presents a blur of movement, the group of three standing just above it, at the base of the bergschrund. Mojo stills now, bracing against the onslaught of the rotor wash. “You're clear to go,” I say to Will. “If you could step out as gently as possible, that would be a great help.”

He unhooks his helmet from the radio system and steps out through the center console.

“Nice and steady, ma'am,” Beanie says. “Lookin' good. We need to come down about three feet. Easy down three, easy down two, easy down one, steady. Steady right there. Man's at the door. He's on the skids.…”

Beanie doesn't have to tell me when Will steps off. Even though he did so with care, the subtle dip in the aircraft told me the moment he left.

“Man is out,” Beanie confirms. “I have a thumbs-up. Stand by. Grabbing the litter. Okay, I have the litter. Handing it down. He's got it.”

Will crouches, backpack over one shoulder, and drags the litter in the snow behind him to clear the rotor arc.

“All right, ma'am, he's clear. You're clear to go.”

Easing the nose down, dropping left at the same time, we begin to accelerate, using the slope to our advantage as we speed downward.

I look at the fuel gauge. “Beanie, I think we're gonna have to land to save gas.”

“Roger that, ma'am. I don't think we'll have to shut down, though,” he says, peeking through the cockpit passage to look at the fuel gauge. “We could just idle and still be fine, right?”

“Agreed,” I say. And because we screamed down the cirque, in only seconds we're flying over the eastern tip of the glacial lake. Beanie calls me down over the rocky landing site, and we steady into a hover about a foot off the ground.

“Ma'am, it's a little more uneven than I thought.”

“I can see that, yeah. Guess we'll have to look for a place further downslope.”

“I don't think that'll be necessary. Let me jump out. I think I can build up the rocks under the skids, and we should be good. Just hold it steady here.”

“You're gonna do what?”

“SAR-flying fun fact. If you don't have a level platform for landing, just make your own!”

Beanie jumps out of the bird, and starts picking up boulders and shoving them under the right skid. He walks farther away, finds the sizes of rocks he needs, returns, and continues to build until satisfied. Then, moving beyond the rotor arc, he signals me downward. I feel the skids crunch as I lower onto the rocks, but there's no shifting, no slipping. I lower the collective all the way, settling firmly on Beanie's platform. Crazy.

Beanie waits for my nod, then ducks under the rotor arc and returns to the aircraft cabin. Once connected to the radio, he says, “Ma'am, I'm gonna go talk to Kelly.”

I look up, seeing Kelly and the tents about fifty yards away.

“I'll let her know what we're doin'. Be right back.”

Beanie leaves the rotor arc once more, making a precarious walk over the large stones that litter the base of the cirque.

And here I remain.…

There are out-of-body experiences, and then there are
out-of-body
experiences. I sit perched in a bright orange helicopter on a platform of rocks at the base of a glacial cirque with a direct view into the Owens River Valley over eight thousand feet below. In a word, electrifying.

My senses heightened, every molecule awake, I feel bouncy in my seat. I peer across the empty left cockpit seat, ducking so I can see upslope. The bergschrund is one thousand vertical feet above me. One tiny dog and four tiny humans scuttle about in the snow, but one of those humans is already higher than the rest. Will is easy to pick out, climbing in his yellow jacket and neon-orange gloves—the same clothing he wore on Mount Morrison, minus the thick insulating base layers he needed on that bitterly cold day.

I imagine him scaling this wall of ice with single-minded focus and concentration, reaching the top, and peering over the edge into the blackness below. Self-assured, self-reliant. In charge.

And I have the most bizarre thought—a vision, actually.

I stand at the rail of a fishing boat in the Bahamas, a boat heavy with the smell of diesel fuel, salt, sunscreen, and fish parts. I stand there as someone baits my hook.…

I catch myself, having just laughed out loud. Someone is going to bait my hook … then put my pole in the water before handing it to me. I will catch a fish, reel it in; Rich will take my picture, post it on several social-media outlets; I will hand the pole back to the deckhand, and he will clean my catch. I don't have to touch anything except the pole, do anything except stand and reel, and of course, smile for the camera. A true fishing experience, all neatly packaged and presented to the world as if we'd done it ourselves. Yep, me and Rich, the adventurers.

“Rescue Seven, Whiskey One, I'm at the victim. Estimate fifteen minutes, over.”

“Copy, Whiskey One.”

Conflicting thoughts, thick enough to touch, battle in my brain over the next ten minutes. And in all of them, Will is there. In some way, shape, or form, he's there.

Beanie waves to grab my attention from outside the rotor arc. I nod, and he runs under.

“Rescue Seven, Whiskey One, victim is out of the crevasse, unresponsive, head injury, securing him in the litter now.”

“Rescue Seven copies.” I switch to the internal radio, rolling up the throttles at the same time. “Ready to do this, Beanie?”

“Ready, ma'am. You're clear to lift.”

I do a quick scan of the gauges, and everything looks good. I start to pull up, but stop.

“Ma'am?” Beanie says.

“Stand by,” I say. “I just need to do something first.”

I remove my left hand from the collective, bring my hand to my mouth, and pull my glove off with my teeth. I then use this hand to steady the cyclic while I remove the other glove in the same manner.

When I regrip the controls, the sensation is a strange one, like standing on the beach naked or something. I've only
ever
worn gloves. I don't think I've actually felt the controls before. Can that be possible? I flex my fingers, stretching them, before curling them around the controls again. I take a deep, satisfied breath.

“Okay, Beanie, I'm ready now.”

 

12

I hover near the spot where I first dropped Will, watching out my window as he and his friends pass the litter to Beanie in the main cabin. Jack wears a green jacket, his red helmet still on his head, yet smashed on one side.

Pain masks Will's face as he steps back, a pain that stabs through me just the same. He stands with Mojo, who's pressed firmly against his leg. Mojo seems oblivious to the whine of the engines, the steady whop of the rotors, the erratic wind, and the swirling snow particles kicked up by the rotor wash that beat his tiny face.

Like a son letting go of his father, Will looks into the main cabin one last time before shifting his gaze back to me.
Take care of him.

Dejected, he turns, and follows his friends out from under the rotor arc.

“Okay, ma'am, you're clear to slide left,” Beanie says.

“Copy, sliding left.”

I move away from the slope, allowing myself a glance at the gauges once safely clear. One hundred percent rotor speed. Eighty-nine percent power. Eighty-nine …

I've got three percent to spare.

I turn my head back to the right, meeting Will's eyes as he stands motionless in the snow. It turns out, all the while I was saving fuel, I was burning a little, too. Perhaps enough to accommodate the weight of one more person and a sixty-five-pound dog … maybe.

Another look into Will's eyes, and the decision is made.

“Beanie, I'm gonna slide back. I think we have the power to take Will and Mojo.”

“Roger that, ma'am, clear to slide right.”

“Whiskey One, Rescue Seven,” I say as I move the controls to the right.

Will raises the radio to his mouth—another of those weird out-of-body moments, me hovering, yet looking directly into his eyes, as I talk to him.

“Rescue Seven, go ahead.”

“We can take you, Will. We have the power. You and Mojo.”

His eyes widen, communicating that same thank-you I saw at the Bishop airport when I said I'd fly.

“Steady right there, ma'am. Callin' 'em in.”

Will then drops to one knee, an arm around Mojo, and gives a command while motioning him toward the aircraft. Mojo bounds away, leaping into the main cabin, and Will follows right behind him.

“Man's stepping onto the skids,” Beanie says.

The aircraft dips, and I shift my eyes quickly to the torque gauge. Ninety-two percent. Rotor speed, ninety-seven.
Oh, boy …

“Beanie, I'm gonna have to skim the surface here, until we hit translational lift. We don't quite have full power now.”

“Roger that, ma'am.”

I coax the aircraft forward and left—gently, gently, slowly, slowly, moving downslope. The aircraft begins to accelerate, and my muscles relax just that little bit when I feel the telltale bump indicating we've hit translational lift, the extra boost you get from obtaining forward airspeed while still low to the ground—a cushion of air that lifts and speeds you on your way.

“There we go, ma'am. Sweet,” Beanie says, feeling it, too.

As before, we drop away from the mountain, and plunge toward the valley.

“Will, are you up?” I ask.

“I'm up.”

“Bishop or Mammoth Hospital?”

“Mammoth would be better, if we have the fuel.”

“Barely, but yeah,” I say, scanning the low-fuel lights that began to flicker just a few minutes ago.

“Can we radio the hospital to give them a heads-up?” Will says.

“Absolutely.”

“Okay, stand by.”

Beanie and Will put Jack on oxygen first and take his vitals before Will relays the information to me, which I, in turn, relay to the hospital. I note that Will speaks in a detached way, remote. I'm sure he's had to go on autopilot, shutting down the emotions for his friend, to get through this. How gut-wrenchingly difficult.

The helicopter moves in slow motion, that infuriatingly laggard, stuck-in-maple-syrup pace, when a medevac victim needs to be at the hospital
now,
and a twenty-minute transit becomes a lifetime.

The exhale I release when we finally settle onto the deck of the helipad—the one on the roof of Mammoth Hospital—is a big one. The medical team awaits, and Beanie and Will slide the litter directly onto the stretcher, which is immediately rolled away. Will follows, and Mojo trots along behind him.

“Ma'am, I'm goin' in with them,” Beanie says. “I'll call Boomer and figure out the logistics of where to meet up.”

“I'll be here,” I say.

And so I shut down, feeling the aircraft rock from side to side as the rotors slow, wondering for the life of me who the hell was flying just now.

 

13

“Alison?”

My eyes blink open as someone touches my leg.

“Will,” I say, groggily.

“I'm sorry, I didn't realize you were asleep.”

“No, don't be. I can't believe I actually nodded off.”

I rub my eyes, yawning in the process, as Will stands sedately in front of me. It takes a moment to recollect where I am and why. I sit up, still in the middle of the helicopter cabin, right where I lay down when Will and Beanie went inside the hospital earlier. My phone is still in my hand. I tried to call Rich, but he didn't answer.

“Where's Mojo?” I ask, realizing as soon as the question is out of my mouth that I've just asked about Jack's dog before asking about Jack.

“In the waiting room. Wouldn't leave.”

“They let him stay there?”

“Everyone here knows Mojo. Kind of a local hero. Has the run of the place, if you ask me.” Will allows a light laugh before his tired expression returns.

“Would you like to sit?” I ask, motioning to the space next to me.

He nods, and lowers himself to the cabin floor. I thought I felt tired, but Will looks flat exhausted.

I'm thankful that all the doors have been removed from the aircraft, which allows for the exact-perfect-temperature, lazy autumn breeze to drift through the cabin. Aspen trees blaze in gold, their rounded leaves shimmering, producing a whispered tinkling, like a thousand dainty wind chimes.

The seats remain flipped up, just as they were earlier to make room for the litter, so Will scoots back against a pile of equipment bags, which are nestled near the cockpit passageway in the center of the cabin. I lean back against the opposite bulkhead.

“I want to thank you,” he says, pulling his knees up and wrapping his arms loosely around them. “I know it was a big decision for you to fly today, but especially in this case, I want you to know how much I appreciate it.”