Rick picked up her suitcase from the combination baggage agent-ticket clerk in the tiny terminal building across the wide landing apron from the charter hangar and strapped it down in the back of the L-16 and Ginny climbed in, feeling more than a little embarrassed as she bent far over to maneuver into the back seat, revealing her thighs way up past the bottom of her white panties. No time for modesty, she told herself, and strapped the broad safety belt around her waist. Her elbow bumped the inside of the fuselage wall, and to her amazement, it gave like cloth!
"Rick! What's this plane made of?" she asked, almost hoping it had been her imagination.
"Oh, if you mean the fuselage covering, it's fabric… a lot cheaper than metal, and a helluva lot lighter."
"Fabric! You mean like cloth… cotton or something like that?" she asked.
"Yeah, something like that. But don't worry," he assured her. "It's airworthy. This little baby's been flying since 1943, and I don't think she's gonna quit on us now."
Ginny shook her head, unable to believe what she was about to do. Halfway across the Northwest Territories in a cloth-covered plane! I must be out of my mind!
The tiny L-16 leaped into the air almost before Ginny realized they were even moving down the runway, and before she could catch her breath, they were high over the Whitehorse airport, banking steeply as they left the pattern. The scurrying airport workers grew smaller and smaller, and soon they were just a dozen or so ants zipping back and forth between the six-inch airplanes scattered around the terminal.
"How high are we, Rick?" she shouted over the high-pitched whine of the single engine, leaning as far forward as her safety strap would allow.
"Not very high yet! About twenty-eight hundred feet! We'll climb to four thousand for the rest of the trip!"
The tree cover grew denser as they left the paved streets and houses of Whitehorse far behind, and the only break in the thick forest was an occasional logging road winding through the trees to a logged-over section. Animal life seemed everywhere; white-tailed deer leaped and bounded along beneath them, as if chasing the tiny shadow of their plane. She thought she spotted a huge brown bear, but she couldn't be sure, and Rick was using the radio, trying to reach the airstrip at Norman Wells.
They flew on for hours, seemingly in a straight line, and the excitement of flying soon became a monotonous bore, as they passed over miles of identical terrain, each mile no different from the dozens of others they'd left behind.
Rick started to spiral down, and Ginny readied herself for her reunion with Arnie and Flo, only to be disappointed when Rick leaned over the seat to let her know this stop was only for gas, and that she wouldn't even leave the plane. He cut the throttle and coasted in to a muddy landing strip – without a name, and only a couple of Quonset huts to identify it. They taxied over to an enormous red-painted tank, and a young boy, not more than twelve or thirteen obligingly filled their tank and wiped the dirt and grime from the plane's windscreen. Ginny stayed in her seat while Rick checked over all the fittings and the landing gear, and in a few minutes, they were back in the air, continuing their persistent northward course.
The constant whine of the airplane's engine soon lulled Ginny to sleep, and she dozed for over an hour, her head against the plastic window at her side. She might have slept all the way to Norman Wells, had the plane's course not suddenly shifted.
She blinked her eyes open groggily as the plane banked gently and began to head in a slightly altered direction.
"Are we almost there?" she asked. "I thought I felt the plane change course."
"Not quite!" shouted Rick. "But we're following one of the Mackenzie's tributaries. You'll be able to see the Mackenzie River pretty soon!"
Ginny anxiously searched the forest below, but could only catch an occasional flash of silver from the tiny stream beneath them. Tributary, indeed, she thought, why it looks more like a drainage ditch!
She looked away long enough to adjust her seat belt, and to maneuver her legs around a bit to ease the muscle cramps, and when she gazed out the window again, there was a long, widening giant of a river across their path, disappearing in the distance in the flat, treeless plain of the Arctic.
"There it is! You'll be in Norman Wells in about fifteen minutes!"
Ginny felt her stomach suddenly tighten, and for the first time, she was afraid of what she might find in Norman Wells – after all, she hadn't ever really gotten to know either of these people, even though they were Fred's relatives.
Oh, I hope they'll like me… I hope everything works out all right…
CHAPTER SEVEN
"Ginny darling!" came a loud shrill voice from across the taxi ramp, almost before Ginny could climb from the plane. It was Florence, but she didn't recognize the man with her, unless Arnie had changed quite a bit since the last time she saw him. This man was taller, and very blond, like maybe he was a Scandinavian.
"How are you, honey?!" Florence threw her arms around her as she stepped on the wheel cover, and then, shakily, onto the asphalt. "How was your trip? Was the weather okay?"
"Everything was fine, Flo… I was in good hands." Rick came around after chocking the wheels. "This is Rick Scovill… Rick, this is Florence Dennison, my sister-in-law and…"
"And this is Gus," injected Flo. "He's my husband's foreman. Arnie's out on the river checking some landings that got broken during the winter, but he said he'd be back by tonight."
Flo signed the pad Rick was holding in his hand, and Gus grabbed Ginny's bag. "Thanks, Rick… I had a wonderful time!" shouted Ginny as they walked toward the jeep parked by the landing strip. Rick waved good-bye, and headed for the hangar for a rest before the long lonely trip back to Whitehorse.
"Well, what'ya think of our little town?" asked Flo as they drove down the muddy street to the Dennison place on the northern edge of the settlement, past a surprising number of frame houses, some of the newer ones built on short stilts, like terribly fat birds perched in the melting slush of springtime.
"That's certainly a strange way to build a house, isn't it? Is your house built like that, Flo?" Ginny asked.
"No, no… Ours is just a plain house. Those stilts are kind of a new idea. It's supposed to keep the permafrost from doing any damage or something… maybe Arnie could explain it a little better."
Gus steered the bucking jeep off the main street and up a little hill, through a dense thicket of green trees. Ginny could feel the temperature drop several degrees as they left the warm sunshine behind.
The house soon came into view, and Ginny was surprised to find it so large. From their letters, she would have guessed it as half this size. It looked like an overblown log cabin, and in fact, most of the exterior was made of large, rough-cut logs; it looked quite comfortable and cozy nestled among the thick trees.
"Well, Ginny, here we are. Home sweet home," said Flo as they stepped from the jeep. "I hope you like it, but if you don't, keep your mouth shut around Arnie. He's crazy about this place. Next to Novlik, it's his favorite… I guess I come in about third or fourth." She winked at Gus as she spoke, but he didn't reply, just carried the suitcase to the front door and returned to the jeep, the motor still running.
"I don't want to seem stupid so soon," said Ginny as they entered the house, "but who's Novlik?"
"You mean I haven't written about Novlik? I should have devoted a whole letter to that animal."
"Animal?" Ginny looked puzzled.
"Animal is right, sweetie," exclaimed Flo.
"You see, Novlik is Arnie's dog… mostly Malamute and Husky… and the two of them are inseparable. Wherever Arnie is right now, you can be sure that dog is within ten feet. I swear, he'd let him sleep with us if I hadn't put my foot down. I guess you'll be the lucky one, since you'll be sleeping in his room."