Clear to Lift (7 page)

“Please switch your transceiver to receive mode,” he says.

Uh-oh. Will just called on the kid in class who wasn't listening. So embarrassing. And so not me.

Clark, who's standing next to me, discreetly points to the dial, showing me where to turn it.

“Thanks,” I say out of the corner of my mouth.

The transceiver lights up and begins beeping.

“Okay, find the buried transceiver,” Will says.

I look at him, confused, because he still holds his transceiver in his hand … and it's turned off.

“But you—”

“I buried one earlier,” he says.

Oh, shit.

A light blinks on the left side of my transceiver display. I hesitate, glancing up at Will, who is clearly enjoying the fact that I have no idea what I'm doing.

Following my gut, I pivot to the left. The light shifts into the center position, indicated by an arrow. Okay, arrows usually mean follow. I step forward and the distance number on the display begins to drop—8 meters, 7 meters, 6, 5 … Will falls in beside me, the beeps pinging faster and louder, 4, 3, 2, 1. The lighted arrow starts to flash, and the beeps are the loudest they've been.

“Very good,” Will says, like praising a six-year-old for picking up her laundry and throwing it in the hamper.

“As you approach the victim,” Will calls back to the group, “the beeps will grow louder and more frequent and the lights will flash. At this point, we begin the pinpoint phase of the search.”

Will holds up what looks like a tent pole—a collapsible aluminum set of rods connected by an elastic string—and quickly snaps them together, one into the other, in a series, until he holds a long, slender pole, half an inch in diameter and ten feet in length.

He hands me the pole, reciting the directions at the same time. I punch the pole through the snow in intervals, until I feel a soft thud. The pole indicates something two feet below.

“I think I found it,” I say. I wonder now if Will placed the transceiver in a backpack or wrapped it in something, due to the softness I feel.

“When you strike something,” Will says, “leave the pole in place.”

To me, he says, “Nice job.” And then to the group, “We'll go over shoveling procedures for extricating the victim later. For now, let's break off in groups of two. One of you will hide your transceiver, and the other will find it. Spread out well to give yourselves room.”

When everyone pairs off, I'm the odd man out.

“I, um…,” I say, pointing.

“That's okay,” Will says. “You can stick with me.”

Something shifts—weirdly, warmly, wonderfully—in my stomach. What the heck?

Our group scatters, and it's not long before the slope and surrounding forest are inundated with beeps on this unseasonably mild autumn day—temperatures even warmer than yesterday.

Will walks among our group to observe, and I follow.

“You called me out,” I say.

“Just trying to gain your attention, that's all.”

“I was paying attention … mostly.”

Beep … beep … beep … beep. The sounds grow louder as transceivers are switched to receive, one after another.

“Can I ask you something?” I say.

“Shoot.”

“Is vanilla really your favorite flavor?”

The question brings him to a stop. “Is that what you were thinking about?”

“No … I mean, it wasn't then, but it was earlier.”

“Does it matter?”

“No. I was just curious.”

“How about a definite maybe.”

“I knew you didn't like vanilla.”

“I never said that.”

Beep … beep … BEEP … BEEP … The volume increases as the searchers home in on their targets.

“Did you get a chance to try any of the food you bought from Schat's?” he asks, starting to walk again.

“I did. The sheepherder bread with the artichoke spread.”

“And…?”

“It was pretty good.”

“
Pretty
good?”

I look up, meeting his eyes—alight, happy, bursting with …
energy.

“Okay, it was the best bread I've ever tasted. Like ever. Like out-of-this-world ever.”

BEEP … BEEP … BEEP … “Found it!” BEEP … BEEP … “Got it!” BEEP … BEEP … “Got this one!”

“Guys!” Will shouts. “Go ahead and switch places when you find it, so you both have a turn at searching!”

He looks to me. “I know, right?”

What a simple thing. A piece of bread. We're gushing about a piece of bread. Rich sounded like this, well, sort of, when he told me about the interest rate he secured for the annuity.
“Can you believe that, Ali? A fixed interest rate like that is unheard of!”
But he should be excited, shouldn't he? It's what he does. What he's good at. I have flat zero financial sense, so I leave all of it to him. Maybe that's why I didn't react in quite the same way.

Beep … beep … BEEP … BEEP … The second man in each pairing is narrowing the distance to his find.

“Since I live forty-five minutes from Bishop, I buy several loaves—well, you saw—and freeze them.” Will turns and heads to our group's clustered pile of backpacks and equipment. “It tastes just as good when you thaw it and warm it later.”

“I'll have to remember that,” I say, my steps heavier now and taking far more effort, due to the mushy snow—snow that feels like we're walking through mashed potatoes, courtesy of the warm afternoon sun. “Forty-five minutes from Bishop? Where do you live?”

“June Lake. It's just north of here.”

I stop in my—literal—tracks. “You
live
in June Lake?”

“Uh-huh.”

“We … we flew over it two days ago! On the way back from Mount Morrison. It's one of the most beautiful places I've ever seen! I mean, one of
the
most beautiful places I've
ever
seen.”

“It is pretty special. Out of the way. Quiet.”

“And jaw-droppingly gorgeous. You are so lucky.”

BEEP … BEEP … BEEP … “Score!” BEEP … BEEP … “Got it!”

“All right, guys, come on back!” Will shouts. He raises his arms, waving everyone to him, as we finish walking—slogging—the remaining distance to our gear.

Our group straggles back—while the marines run—and transceivers are turned off as everyone clusters around Will.

“Okay, you've found your victim, you've placed your avalanche pole at the site, and now you have to dig the victim out,” Will says, leaning over and pulling his shovel out of the snow. “This is by far the most time-consuming aspect of any avalanche rescue. Shoveling just a cubic meter of snow is going to take you at least ten minutes, probably more, and it's exhausting work. If you're working in teams, you'll want to rotate out to help reduce fatigue.”

As Will talks, he demonstrates, purposely using incorrect shoveling techniques, followed by correct ones. He moves like an athlete would, coordinated, sure, strong. I tell myself not to look, and yet, I keep looking. I try not to notice, but keep noticing. Not the shoveling techniques, but him. The way his muscles move in his forearms, striated and lean. The way his wicked technical T-shirt clings to his back. Everything connected and tight. Of course, he
should
look this way. Any mountain guide would.

“So we're going to do some digging practice here first,” Will says. “Just spread out and pick a spot.”

Everyone moves out while Will looks at his watch. “Okay, begin!”

I put my shovel to the snow, but Will stops me. “Would you mind helping me out?” He motions to the spot I found earlier, still marked with the avalanche pole. “I need to get my backpack and since you're digging anyway…”

His grin is a wide one.

“Remind me never to get on your bad side.”

I move to the spot and start digging. Five minutes into it, a runnel of sweat trickles down my hairline. Maybe it's the sun's intensity at high altitude, maybe it's dehydration, or maybe it's just that shoveling snow like this is just plain hard work, but I'm huffing.

Shovel in. Scoop up. Snow to the side. Shovel in. Scoop up. Snow to the side.

The minutes tick.… Shovel in. Scoop up. Snow to the side.

My arms are getting heavy. Crap. Shovel in. Scoop up. Snow to the side. I'm even in relatively good shape. I run. I do yoga. But this?

Shovel in. Scoop up. Snow to the side.

I glance at my watch, now ten minutes in, and admit that this little “getting-a-feel-for-it” exercise is kicking my ass. I peek around, wondering if anyone else might be tiring like I am. I'm relieved to see several others wiping their brows, some bending at the knees to rest.

I resume digging, catching Will in my peripheral vision. There's so much movement around us, but he stands stock-still, only moving his head as he looks over his charges. His scan includes me, and it almost pulls me up short because—and I'm probably just imagining it—it seems that he's staring. Although, I am looking for
his
backpack, which probably explains it. But still …

Self-consciously, I look myself over. My jog bra is visible through my supposedly moisture-wicking, yet sweat-soaked shirt, but that's nothing. My upper arms glisten with perspiration, and my hair has come a bit loose from its tie, but no big deal. Hmm. Everything seems okay. I chance a quick peek once more as I drive my shovel into the snow. He stands tall, arms crossed, but I catch it when he looks away.

When I start digging again—and this is strange—the task no longer seems as difficult. The shovel strokes come with less effort, and I don't seem to be breathing as hard. I imagine Will, full to overflowing with his energy supply, transferring just a bit to me, enough to get the job done.

Shovel in. Scoop up. Snow to the side. Over and over. A rhythm. A tempo. A happy, blissful groove.

The pit widens. Shovel in. Scoop up. Snow to the side.

My breathing is steady now, hard, but steady, and my muscles ache, but in good way. Good … This feels
good
. Snow flicking in bits across my torso. The smell of pine. The sun resting in an azure, cloudless sky. Deeper and deeper, I begin to disappear into the snow, as I shovel it in piles around me.

Shovel in. Scoop up. Snow to the side.

I smile when my shovel stroke finally reveals a snow-encrusted black strap. Dropping to my knees, I use my hands like a dog digging up a bone to pull the snow away. Finally, bright blue material surfaces. I grasp the backpack, give a good yank, and pull it clear. Got it!

Proudly, from the position on my knees, I raise it up to show Will. He smiles, walking toward me.

“Nice job!” he says, jumping into the pit and kneeling next to me.

“Thanks,” I say, working to catch my breath. “You weren't kidding about the hard work.”

“Good thing you're in shape. It's lot rougher for those who aren't,” he says, motioning to the many who have stopped, shovels hanging in their hands. Not the marines, of course.

Standing, he offers me a hand, and pulls me up. Such strength. I sensed it with his handshake the first day I met him, and again now, popping to a stand without effort.

“Thanks. You saved me some work having to dig that up later,” he says.

“You're welcome … I think.”

Beep … beep … beep … beep … beep …

“What's that?” I ask, looking at the backpack in my hand.

He reaches for it. “Here, I'll show you.”

Pulling the zipper open, he removes a fluorescent orange bit of electronics that looks much like the avalanche transceiver strapped to my chest.

“Is that an avalanche transceiver?”

“It is, but it's a prototype unit Jack's been working on.”

“Jack? You mean, Mono County SAR Jack?”

“Yep. It adds a GPS feature with an SOS button—that's this here—to the avalanche beacon. Right now, beacons and GPS units are separate.”

“So why is it beeping?”

“Because Jack just transmitted an SOS signal. He carries the other unit. We practice like this all the time.”

“But I thought your unit was in transmit mode. I mean, it was just producing a signal that I followed and found.”

“Yes, but the GPS portion works separately and on a different frequency. It's sort of like a cell phone in that it's always ready to receive a call. Jack can punch the SOS button on his unit and transmit the signal anywhere in the world to my unit via satellite. This way, if he's in trouble, he has a way of letting me know where he is.”

“So why not just use that as an avalanche beacon?”

“Because first, you have to hit the button to transmit. If you're in an avalanche, more than likely, you won't be in a position to push a button. That's why you turn on your avalanche beacon ahead of time, so it can continually transmit. And second, the GPS unit isn't designed for small, local searches. You just wouldn't have the fine degree of accuracy necessary.”

“I see. So how far away is he right now?”

Will shows me the unit. “When we're talking small distances like this, it's hard to know for sure because of the range of error, how many satellite signals we're picking up, that kind of thing, but he's probably within a quarter mile.”

“Or closer,” I say, pointing to the creamy white Labrador that streaks across the snow. Mojo wears a red vest with the word “
RESCUE
” printed in white across it, tongue lolling, ears flapping as he sprints to us.

Will drops to one knee. “Come here, boy!”

Mojo almost tackles Will with an all-body hug and a lick to the face. “Hey, you,” Will says, scratching him well behind the ears. “Where's Jack, then?”

Will stands, searching for Jack, as Mojo turns his attention to me.

“Hi, Mojo!” I say, patting my thighs. “Don't you look official in your vest!” Mojo stands on his hind legs, placing his paws on my legs, a happy grin playing across his face. “He's a rescue dog?”