High Impact (7 page)

She breathed in the crisp, clear air. Though she’d seen the splendor of the state in countless movies, documentaries, TV shows, and books, to actually soak in this experience firsthand, to see for herself the endless desolation of the landscape and stark beauty of the unspoiled wild, thrilled her. She couldn’t wait to start exploring more of this magnificent place.

And then to discover that her Alaskan base apparently provided a backcountry haven for lesbians. Stumbling upon the lovely Sue Spires in Fairbanks had already surprised her, but to find so many lesbians in this remote hamlet had astounded her. The attractive waitress, Geneva, came on to her less than two minutes after she walked in the door, and certainly at least a few of the women in the corner booth—all attractive and fit outdoorswomen about her age—were “family” as well. Her gaydar pinged loudly as she swept her gaze over them, noting their haircuts, clothes, eye contact, and especially their body language. The brunette with the ball cap had her arm around the woman beside her, and they couldn’t stop looking adoringly at each other and smiling.

She’d considered joining them and introducing herself, but, dog-tired, she’d just wanted to hit the sheets. She’d even had to politely decline Geneva’s not-so-subtle invitation to join her for a drink after her shift. Despite her first-class naps during the long transatlantic flights, Emery still seemed sleep-deprived and felt the effects of the prolonged journey. She’d spent any reserve energy getting to know Sue Spires.

After a good eight hours’ rest and a huge breakfast, however, she wanted to discover all Alaska could offer. She’d hoped Dita Eidson could schedule a custom trip to fill the next few days until her photography expedition. Ordinarily she loved taking off by herself, but she’d read enough about Alaska to know newcomers shouldn’t strike off alone.

Right now, she’d check out Bettles and the nearby native village of Evansville, though that should take only a couple of hours. From the air, the two adjacent settlements looked miniscule, merely some clustered buildings and the mountains looming beyond. Probably totaled less than two square miles. But this area would serve as her home between trips, so she wanted to see what was available and perhaps meet some locals.

She’d thought about querying the woman at the outfitter’s office, maybe ask some questions about her upcoming trips. But her odd reception made her wary of lingering.

Since her accident, little escaped Emery’s attention. In the past, she’d certainly experienced moments of increased awareness of her surroundings, but only when she traveled to a new foreign locale. And she focused only on details that interested her—architectural marvels, unusual landscapes, eclectic costumes and food, a striking or unusual passerby.

But months of forced rehabilitative confinement had changed all that. She’d had long hours to memorize every sight, sound, and smell of her hospital room, the rehab area, and the staff who attended her. Even in a half-sleep, she could tell from the cadence of the mop in the hall which custodian was working. She knew the perfumes each nurse favored, could distinguish the gait and squeak of each pair of rubber-soled shoes, and even had gleaned some knowledge of her doctors’ favorite foods. Her surgeon ate a lot of garlic and onions, her Korean orthopedist frequently reeked of kimchi, and one of the young interns who made evening rounds lived on pepperoni pizza.

Now she noted everything. As she slowly traversed the streets of Bettles, she studied the people she met, initiating a greeting of some sort if someone didn’t immediately offer one—and they usually did. Often just a wave or good morning, but a few lingered when she slowed and exchanged a few words, introducing themselves or welcoming her to town and asking where she was from. To the latter, she always replied, “I’m from here, for now,” which usually elicited a grin. It took a special kind of person to live in Alaska—one who possessed daring, a sense of adventure, and a rugged individualism. She suspected they could easily appreciate her vagabond reply.

After seeing all sorts of people the world over in a different light, with increased awareness, she possessed new tools when reflecting on strangers who crossed her path: assessing their body language, odor, subtle expressions, tone of voice, vocabulary, and more. Recently, she could frequently detect a lie or a false front.

Doubtless she’d badly flustered the woman in the outfitter’s office, and she hadn’t merely been surprised. She’d looked like she’d seen a ghost. Her hands trembled, she breathed rapidly, and her eyes remained wide in stunned shock too long. The woman seemed almost to recognize her, but she would swear they’d never formally met.

She
did
look familiar, but it was because she’d been among the women in the corner booth at the Den last night. Come to think of it, she’d looked Emery’s way longer than normal.
Did she think even then that she knew me? If so, why didn’t she say something?

And the woman had ogled her so blatantly, even though startled, her gaze appreciative. Emery had certainly received similar scrutiny before, from both men and women. But this time the woman hadn’t offered her number or even her name. She hadn’t seemed anxious for Emery to stick around.

Something simmered in that woman, a lot more happening 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 she’d been running. “What are you doing this afternoon?”

“All depends,” Bryson answered. “Whatcha got in mind?”

Emery recognized the pilot from her ball cap—Bryson Faulkner had sat in the corner booth the night before, beside the woman from the outfitter’s office. Small place indeed, this little village. “I’d like to hire you for an hour or two. More, if you can recommend some must-see destination that takes longer and you’ve got the time.”

“You haven’t asked what I charge.”

“I don’t have to. I’ve done my research, and I expect your fare’s reasonable.”

“You have a particular errand or a destination you want to visit?” Bryson sipped from her glass. “Or is this just a flightseeing charter?”

“You’re based here, right?”

“Yeah.”

“So you know this area well?”

“Pretty well.” Bryson’s tone and the grin tugging at the edge of her mouth indicated a supreme understatement.

Emery didn’t need reassurance, though most visitors in her position would appreciate it. “Then please take me to some of your favorite places.”

Bryson did smile then, full and genuine. “You looking for awesome views or an adrenaline rush?”

Emery smiled back. “I’d welcome some of both.”

“Eaten recently?”

“Not for a few hours.”

“Grizz!” Bryson hollered toward the back. “Make it two! And throw in a couple apples.” She turned toward Emery as Grizz shouted, “You got it,” from the kitchen. “You’re going on a bunch of Eidson Eco-Tours trips, right?”

Curious, Emery didn’t try to hide her surprise. “Does everybody in town know everybody’s business?” She’d found similar overfamiliarity and curiosity about strangers in some of the isolated European villages she’d visited.

She hadn’t expected it in Bettles, though. The area attracted so many adventure-seekers she’d have thought strangers in town no longer raised eyebrows or interest. But apparently the long, dark winters made locals long for some gossip about or interaction with new faces. Probably few tourists visited in winter and spring. Eidson offered only a handful of dogsled and northern-lights-watching expeditions then, the reason obvious. Here in early June, temperatures still climbed only into the low fifties.

Bryson laughed. “Maybe that’s true, but I’m one of Dita’s pilots. I’ll likely transport you a lot of the time. When you arrived last night, Dita recognized you. We intended to say hello but you didn’t come back down.”

“I noticed your group, but the long trip here exhausted me.”

“Well, welcome to Bettles. Hope you’ll enjoy your stay. Dita does an awesome job arranging trips. Experienced guides. Great destinations and good food. Safety first, always.” Bryson gulped her ginger ale when she spotted Grizz coming from the kitchen holding a large paper bag.

“Throw in a couple sodas,” Bryson told him as she fished out her wallet. “Diet Coke for me. Emery?”

“Same.”

Bryson stuck the sodas into the food bag. “You mind if we take my Cub instead of the Cessna? I can give you a better deal ’cause it sucks less gas, and it’s better for what you want and what I need to do.”

“Fine by me.”

“I charge three hundred an hour, but if we follow my itinerary, I’ll cut that in half. Expect you might be repeat business.”

“Appreciate it. And yes, I’d like to hire you between trips to see as much as possible.”

“Your timing’s actually great. I intended to visit some of the places I’ll be taking clients the next few months, to check landing possibilities, so you’ll get to preview where you’ll be. Along the way I’ll detour to a couple of my favorite stretches.” Bryson zipped her leather coat and rose.

“Sounds great.”

“I have to make a quick stop at the outfitter’s office,” Bryson said. “Need to grab anything from your room?”

“Yes. Camera and binoculars, and maybe another layer.”

“Meet you out at the Eidson hangar, then. The big one. Logo on the side. Ten minutes?”

“Sounds good.” Excited, Emery headed upstairs to grab her stuff as Bryson left the bar. She’d always wanted to fly low into the Alaskan wilderness with an experienced bush pilot. Bryson projected confidence and maturity, without braggadocio. Emery looked forward to getting to know her because she seemed a kindred spirit. And perhaps spending time with her might give Emery insights into more trips in Alaska and information about the Eidson tours. Maybe she’d even ask what was up with the woman in the outfitter’s office, since they worked together and looked to be friends.