CONTRAILS VANISHED FROM THE SKY

HERE COMES THE SUN

The westerlies brought more snow that morning and Betula was chewing on a third mocha bar while struggling to recall nearly forgotten tidbits of her Meteorology textbook when she noted a hint of a break in the gloom of another dark day. In that class the presumed wind conditions in the Arctic were of little importance to future pilots whose range would remain below the mid-latitudes, but they might just have been in as an extra-point question over the dreadful period of final exams. She vaguely recalled a graph that showed prevailing surface winds blowing from the east in the region's summer. So, what were they waiting for? It finally dawned on her that at 60 degrees North she was still under the Polar Jet Stream, one of those conveyors of weather events such as the storm she was stuck in. If, when, she was to leave Mont d'Iberville, she had to go much further North and escape to a calmer, colder zone. Calmer it better be since the Atlas didn't show much detail on the ice sheet up there or identified elevations likely to offer nunatak refuges until the far reaches of Alaska's North Slope.

A silver lining was forming in the clouds as she told herself that a more Northerly trek would also offer a shorter Great Circle Route. The navigation would be challenging and would take her closer to the Pole but, what-the-heck, what else could go wrong when things were looking up. By midday the snow had dwindled to flurries with sparse snowflakes floating up and down in a light breeze. The sky grew brighter, then cloudless at dark and Betula was treated to her first Aurora Borealis. She was in a spell for hours, at times shivering free of her pitted canopy for a better look.

Going to sleep was not an option. She was too excited, too ready, too obsessed with the routine tasks of her anticipated departure flight in the morning. She was repeating to herself every safety check, every task, she was worrying about every possible mishap, malfunction, disaster. She was a wreck. It was like she was on the eve of her first solo jaunt. Distraction was in order. She had one more disc to watch.

It began with a familiar scene. A graduation ceremony with the usual litany reading of the laureates' names, the families in attendance, the hugs. Just like the Institute except for the weird caps the graduates threw in the air only to quickly retrieve. Precious mementos probably destined to mold in an attic at home. There was a young man, his sister and their parents at a rather tense lunch, some goodbyes and presto the young man gives away his college scholarship money to charity and sets out to disappear, to be free. His adventures as a vagabond were fascinating to Betula who recognized a free spirit like her in some ways, but the peoples he met did not in the least fit the accepted stereotypes of the vile Ancients. They were sometimes cruel, but much more often kind, they worked, they played, they were odd, they made music, they were fun. Maybe it was in the underbelly of the beast that the Ancients showed themselves at their best. Still, that was not enough for the young man who wanted to go North to experience the wilderness, to be free, to survive on his wits. That certainly caught Betula's attention, but the tale's ending was sobering. Unable to return to civilization as cold weather sets in, he tries foraging to survive and eats the wrong part of a plant that makes him unable to digest food and he starves to death. A true story, apparently.

That was not encouraging to someone just about to head into a wilderness even less forgiving than the one the young man dreamed to conquer, but Betula quickly put that concern to rest. Starvation was an unlikely fate. Should a mishap put her down on the flight path she had chosen, she would freeze long before she ran out of protein strips. So be it, she thought and turned in for a very peaceful rest.

LEGENDS IN THEIR TIMES

Not a cloud in the sky, not a breath of wind. The dawn was bright though the sun was still below the horizon. It was a hint of approaching days without nights. After a week of stormy darkness, the change was astonishing. A taste of summer perhaps, though the harvesting of a few icicles for freshwater would have been painful without gloves. It had been hard to free the ice anchors, the gull didn't want to leave Mont d'Iberville it seemed. Hopefully this wasn't an omen, thought Betula while giving a last look at the whiteness on the slopes at her feet, the few leads of milky water parting the crowding of icebergs far out into the Labrador Sea below the dawn's now sparkling at the horizon.