Read Online Breaking the Ice by Kim Baldwin - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Kim Baldwin
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anything was amiss.
The Cub began to move, and Bryson spoke to the control tower as they taxied into position behind another small plane. Then they were on their way, lifting off after an amazingly short roll down the runway, and the lights of Fairbanks faded from view. Within minutes, there was nothing but black beneath them.
Karla had seen enough of Alaska from the window of a plane, however, to be able to picture the landscape they were flying over. White-capped mountains stretching in every direction to the horizon. Wild rivers. Endless desolation.
The plane hit a pocket of rough air, but it wasn’t too bad. Bumpy, like riding the Mind Bender roller coaster at Six Flags Over Georgia. And Bryson had warned her, so Karla was able to ride it out without becoming too alarmed. Then the plane dropped abruptly, ten feet or more, and her stomach lurched.
“I’m cold,” she said, bunching her fingers around the tigereye necklace in her pocket. “Can’t you turn up the heat any more?”
“Yeah, sure.” The pilot turned a knob on the control panel but Karla couldn’t feel any measurable difference. She craned her head, trying to spot where the heat was coming from, and saw Bryson yawn and rub her eyes. Not a minute or two later, she yawned again.
“Are you sure you’re all right to fly? You look like you’re about to fall asleep.”
She sat up a little straighter and blinked several times. “I’m fine.”
Karla’s unease grew when she soon yawned again. Maybe if she got Bryson to talk, she would stay awake. Karla could also perhaps forget that she wascareening over a vast winter wilderness in a flying sardine can with a sleepy pilot. “Don’t get me wrong, the scenery is nice and everything, but why does anyone want to live here?”
“Sure not for everyone,” Bryson replied. “Most people can’t live without their big-screen TVs and cell phones, never mind having to do without things like refrigerators and electric lights, if you live in the bush like I do. Heck, it’s hard sometimes even getting the basics, like Band-Aids and aluminum foil. Especially during fall freeze-up and spring breakup. Everything stops for weeks, or weather can keep you homebound for really long stretches and you gotta rely on what you have on hand. You learn to improvise.”
“So you don’t live in Bettles?” From what Karla had read, the village itself was isolated enough. What did living in the bush mean?
“Got a cabin thirty miles from there, in the mountains,” Bryson said. “Well, thirty miles by air. By boat, it’s almost double.”
“So you really do spend a lot of time in this plane.”
“Yup. Ferrying clients, mostly. And a couple times a month, I run supplies for the village. During the warm months, anyway. Once everything freezes, they plow a temporary road that links up to the main highway, and semis haul in everything, including all the big, heavy stuff planes can’t handle. Lot cheaper to get stuff that way, so that’s when everybody stocks up for the whole year.”
“I read online there are only forty-something people in the village.”
“Got to be from the 2000 census. Just twenty-seven now. Once the school closed, we lost some families. And a couple of cheechakos moved on.”
“Cheechakos?” It sounded like a breakfast cereal.
“Newcomers. Outsiders who come here loving the idea of Alaska and think they want to live here, till they find out how tough it is. You spend a couple of hard winters here, you’re a sourdough. Term started during the gold rush, ’cause prospectors used to survive on the stuff. Think we have it tough today, you should see the way they had to live.”
“So that brings me back to my original question.” The plane abruptly fell several feet again, and Karla gripped the edges of her seat. She didn’t continue until the plane had evened out. “You said you’ve been flying in Alaska more than twenty years. Why does anyone choose to live here? Why did you?”
The Cub began to move, and Bryson spoke to the control tower as they taxied into position behind another small plane. Then they were on their way, lifting off after an amazingly short roll down the runway, and the lights of Fairbanks faded from view. Within minutes, there was nothing but black beneath them.
Karla had seen enough of Alaska from the window of a plane, however, to be able to picture the landscape they were flying over. White-capped mountains stretching in every direction to the horizon. Wild rivers. Endless desolation.
The plane hit a pocket of rough air, but it wasn’t too bad. Bumpy, like riding the Mind Bender roller coaster at Six Flags Over Georgia. And Bryson had warned her, so Karla was able to ride it out without becoming too alarmed. Then the plane dropped abruptly, ten feet or more, and her stomach lurched.
“I’m cold,” she said, bunching her fingers around the tigereye necklace in her pocket. “Can’t you turn up the heat any more?”
“Yeah, sure.” The pilot turned a knob on the control panel but Karla couldn’t feel any measurable difference. She craned her head, trying to spot where the heat was coming from, and saw Bryson yawn and rub her eyes. Not a minute or two later, she yawned again.
“Are you sure you’re all right to fly? You look like you’re about to fall asleep.”
She sat up a little straighter and blinked several times. “I’m fine.”
Karla’s unease grew when she soon yawned again. Maybe if she got Bryson to talk, she would stay awake. Karla could also perhaps forget that she wascareening over a vast winter wilderness in a flying sardine can with a sleepy pilot. “Don’t get me wrong, the scenery is nice and everything, but why does anyone want to live here?”
“Sure not for everyone,” Bryson replied. “Most people can’t live without their big-screen TVs and cell phones, never mind having to do without things like refrigerators and electric lights, if you live in the bush like I do. Heck, it’s hard sometimes even getting the basics, like Band-Aids and aluminum foil. Especially during fall freeze-up and spring breakup. Everything stops for weeks, or weather can keep you homebound for really long stretches and you gotta rely on what you have on hand. You learn to improvise.”
“So you don’t live in Bettles?” From what Karla had read, the village itself was isolated enough. What did living in the bush mean?
“Got a cabin thirty miles from there, in the mountains,” Bryson said. “Well, thirty miles by air. By boat, it’s almost double.”
“So you really do spend a lot of time in this plane.”
“Yup. Ferrying clients, mostly. And a couple times a month, I run supplies for the village. During the warm months, anyway. Once everything freezes, they plow a temporary road that links up to the main highway, and semis haul in everything, including all the big, heavy stuff planes can’t handle. Lot cheaper to get stuff that way, so that’s when everybody stocks up for the whole year.”
“I read online there are only forty-something people in the village.”
“Got to be from the 2000 census. Just twenty-seven now. Once the school closed, we lost some families. And a couple of cheechakos moved on.”
“Cheechakos?” It sounded like a breakfast cereal.
“Newcomers. Outsiders who come here loving the idea of Alaska and think they want to live here, till they find out how tough it is. You spend a couple of hard winters here, you’re a sourdough. Term started during the gold rush, ’cause prospectors used to survive on the stuff. Think we have it tough today, you should see the way they had to live.”
“So that brings me back to my original question.” The plane abruptly fell several feet again, and Karla gripped the edges of her seat. She didn’t continue until the plane had evened out. “You said you’ve been flying in Alaska more than twenty years. Why does anyone choose to live here? Why did you?”
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