Chris began to question the wisdom of this trip.
The seatbelt dug into his hip as beads of sweat collected on his forehead. He stole a glance out of the window at the snaking river and snow-capped peaks below and quickly averted his eyes. Remembering the calming techniques he learned with Dr. Jensen, he took a breath for a count of four. Hold…two, three, four. Then out through his mouth…two, three, four.
“Isn’t this RAD?!” yelled Grayson, sitting to his left and holding up the “hang loose” sign, smiling ear to ear. Grayson’s enthusiasm came through like a radio DJ introducing a hit single over the aviation headset. He’d say the same thing when they were riding down the slopes, his curly red hair transforming him into the bouncing mountain clown.
Chris enjoyed adventure. Preferably on the ground.
“I’m going to be sick,” Chris mouthed to himself, turning away from his ‘this-will-be-so-fun-just-trust-me” companion.
Taking in the single-engine flyer, Chris observed the various buttons, levers, pulley whatzits, and Pilot Phil’s profile. Just one thing going wrong could send them careening to icy depths ten-thousand feet below.
“Conditions are lookin’ smooth guys. We should be in Katmai in about an hour. How are y’all doing back there?” Phil asked.
“Duuude, epic,” said Grayson.
Chris just nodded in Phil’s direction. Trying to say anything could land that morning’s short stack all over his new flannel. Mental images of Buddy Holly and Amelia Earhart flooded his imagination. He winced, quickly bouncing his knee up and down, trying to picture soft meadows and his feet firmly planted.
After forty-five more minutes that felt like forty-five more hours, they began their descent into Brook’s Camp. Chris braved a look out at the dramatic landscape with rolling hills and glacial lakes. Momentarily mesmerized, he forgot the doom and gloom.
The pontoons hit the water, gliding the plane to a slow stop, its fuselage bobbing back and forth. Chris saw the other seaplanes that bespeckled the water’s edge like children’s toys. Across the lake, motion drew his eyes to a pair of brown bears, wading into the water—the purpose of their trip from Seattle via Anchorage and King Salmon.
Chris eased, lit up, and turned to Grayson, “Duuude, check it out! There’s a pair of ‘em right there!”
“Epiiic,” said Grayson.
What was Chris thinking about questioning it?
“You’re right dude. This is gonna be so fun,” said Chris.
Reaching the shore, they grabbed their boots and overnight sacks, handed Pilot Phil a crisp $100 as a thank you for being alive, and hit the ground running to their next adventure.
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