The tallest mountain in North America, Mt. McKinley is often said to be second highest in the world, behind only Mt. Everest. In reality, Denali, as it is known locally, is the tallest single mountain in the world, as it ascends directly from sea level to a full height of over 20,327 feet, whereas Everest's base starts on the Tibetan Plateau that is already 17,000 feet above sea level, the mountain only continuing another 12,000 feet to a total height of 29,029. Regardless of the semantics of the mountain's measurements, Hilde had no idea what that meant in perspective until she was in a plane two miles above the ground and saw that the summit of Denali was still three miles higher. Marcus drove the plane straight toward the mountain until there was nothing else visible in the front windscreen.
“Shouldn’t we pull up or turn away?” she asked.
“Afraid we’re going to hit it?” Marcus replied with a grin.
“Well, it is getting awfully close.”
“It’s still forty miles away, ma’am.” Marcus reassured her. He pointed to the northeast. “We land over there.”
In the distance, Hilde made out the barely visible shape of a clearing in the dark evergreen forest. It looked like a hole in the surface of the earth.
“I thought you said we’d land on a lake.”
“That is a lake.”
Marcus banked the plane toward the clearing and dropped to just above tree level. Hilde’s stomach tickled like she was on a roller coaster. She closed her eyes and again gripped the armrests. In a replay of the takeoff, the skin on her knuckles stretched tight, whitened to the point where it looked like her bones had come through. When she opened her eyes, she saw that there was indeed a lake below them. It was much smaller than the one they had used for takeoff, and there were no float plane docks or sidewalks, or parking areas — no signs of modern life anywhere around them.
Marcus dipped the nose to a steep angle toward the water. Hilde’s heart jumped, catching in her throat. She squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for the impact and trying to push away visions of her body being smashed to pieces in a wreck of DeHaviland Beaver debris.
Suddenly the plane leveled and the roar of the engine softened. She sensed that they were still moving, then laid back like she was being gently forced in a La-Z-Boy recliner. The engine shut off. She opened her eyes and found that somehow Marcus had landed the plane without her even realizing they had touched down. The plane drifted across the surface of the water, powered by inertia that slid it toward a narrow beach comprised of smooth round rocks, a secluded hideaway rimmed by massive spruce trees, spires pointed heavenward.
“Well, this is it,” Marcus said.
Hilde regarded their surroundings as if unsure they were actually still on the surface of the same planet. Marcus took off his headset and she did the same. The plane drifted to a halt against the rocky shoreline and he climbed out.
“Told you it would be a nice landing,” Marcus said as he stepped onto the pontoon.
He jumped toward the rocks with the rope in his hand, the splash of his feet landing in the water like a quotation mark announcing the beginning of a new dialogue. He walked toward the shore pulling the plane forward until it stopped, then tied the rope to a tree. Mike and Hilde climbed out and joined him. They piled the gear at the forest’s edge and Marcus started setting up camp with Mike’s help. Hilde, who had only slept in a tent once in her life, was totally unfamiliar with the whole concept of real camping. Backyard sleep overs as a twelve-year-old Girl Scout seemed like staying in a hotel by comparison. The peace and quiet of this place lay on her like a comfortable blanket. Mosquitos quickly found them, and Marcus tossed her a bottle of bug dope.
“Put this on your exposed skin,” he said, “but not on your lips or eyes. It’s pure DEET. Works like a charm, but not good to eat.”
“I don’t want to rub poison on my skin,” she said.
“It won’t hurt you unless you use it every day for months at a time,” Marcus said. “It’s definitely better than getting eaten alive by the mogies. They’re the only evil scar on this otherwise picturesque scene.”
As she rubbed the clear lotion onto her skin, she was amazed at how the “mogies” immediately seemed unwilling to land on her. The silence of the forest gradually became an entity of its own. Wind whispered between the branches of the spruce trees and clusters of willow that grew along the edges of the lake. Small insects skimmed the water as if inspecting its surface. A gathering of swallows flitted out from a tangle of willow branches, spinning and turning then dashing back into the trees as if playing a game of tag, their song like laughter on the warm afternoon air. The air had vitality. It was not just some unseen necessity here. It was a being in its own right, clean, fresh, sweet. Her lungs felt as if they were being filled properly for the first time in her life. Hilde breathed deeply and let the undiluted purity of it soak into her blood stream. She felt the sensation that since infancy, she had been on the verge of drowning, kept alive by artificial means for the past thirty-nine years and only now discovered what oxygen really felt like. She had the fleeting thought that it was original air, an untouched leftover from Creation, air that God had reserved, kept in a secret store house, unspoiled, holy.
Hildegard Farris had found heaven on earth.
Chapter 4
“I’m not doin’ it.” Sammy Davis Jr. started for the door. “I told you a hundred times, no houses.”
Jimmy snorted. “Look, Babe, why don’t you just admit what you do and stop pretending to be freakin’ Robin Hood.”
“Don’t call me Babe! I said no, and that’s final.” Sammy stormed out, letting the door bang shut behind him. He threw the truck door open and jumped into his beat-up eighties model pickup, jolting awake the ratty-haired mutt sleeping on the seat. The sudden movement elicited a tinkling sound from the metal tags on the dog's collar, one with his veterinary info, the other with his name inscribed in bold letters, “Deano.” The frame rattled and the truck door’s bent hinges squeaked when he slammed it. He gave it a quick yank to make sure it would stay shut.
“Jerk,” Sammy grunted as he turned the key in the ignition. The dog cocked his head, ears raised. “Not you, Deano. You’re cool. I just wish my other friends were cool like you.” He turned the ignition again and the engine made a sound like an over taxed coffee grinder then went silent. On the third attempt, it fired over. The tape deck instantly started up with Sinatra’s “My Way” as he slammed the truck into gear and backed out. While Alaska’s Sammy Davis Jr. was certainly no relation to the famous singer of the previous century, unlike most of his head banger or hip-hop friends, he and Deano loved the music of the Rat Pack as if it were, in fact, their own.
“If he calls me Babe one more time, I’m going to punch him in the nose!” Sammy slammed the truck into reverse and quickly backed up. Deano gripped the seat with his paws to avoid sliding to the floorboards as the truck lurched. “Just ‘cuz I cried in that pig movie, he thinks I’m a wimp. Well, I ain’t gonna break into a house and have some little kid crying for real ‘cuz I made him scared forever, and I ain’t gonna have some wife bein’ all upset after her wedding ring goes missing. No way — I’m just not that kind of guy.”