The bush plane slid to a stop on the crusty, late-November snow near a freezing lake in the western part of the Alaska Range. Carl stepped down in his lime green parka and pulled his pack out. Robert handed his own pack to Carl and stepped down after. The pilot cut the engine and opened the cockpit window. "Last chance," he said. "You guys sure about this?"
"Course we're sure," Carl said. "You'll be buying us drinks at the West Rib within a week." The Pilot looked at Robert, who nodded with forced confidence. He had been backpacking before, had spent ten days in the Bob Marshall wilderness last summer, and four days in the Wind Rivers the January before it, but he had nowhere near the experience Carl had. Not with an undertaking like this. Small amounts of daylight, the likelihood of extreme cold. This was new. The pilot started the engine, gave a quick salute, brought the plane around, throttled up, took off, and banked toward the coming sun. After checking that their snowshoes and other gear were secured to their packs they pulled the straps up over their shoulders.
"So," Carl grinned through his red beard and pulled his watchcap down over his ears, "we sure about this?"
Just past midday Carl sat on a rock, planted his ice axe in the old snow like a flag, and pulled out the map. Robert remained on his feet a few yards away, bent at the waist and sucking in breaths. He straightened and gulped from his canteen. They had been climbing for the better part of three hours along a ridge to the pass, but not before two more hours of negotiating woods and hills of the valley they landed in. "It's still forty miles to Talkeetna, as the crow flies," Carl said and marked an X on the map before he folded it and stuffed it back into a side pocket on his pack. "And then you can call that dear Karen of yours."
Robert forced a single laugh. "I guess so. She'd probably kill me if I didn't."
"What's that now? You aren't going to be just dying to call your old lady? You two, uh," Carl began adjusting the crampon on his right boot. "You two doing alright?"
"Yeah," Robert said, suddenly feeling the spotlight. He sat down on a nearby rock to appear comfortable. "Same old, same old."
"I don't know how you can handle it, man." Carl shook his head. "Not Karen—I don't really know her. I mean having a girlfriend in general."
Robert laughed genuinely this time. "Not so sure I do handle it."
"Well, you do better than I ever could. That's for sure," Carl said, but got no response. "Anyway—" he unzipped the bottom compartment of his pack and pulled out a few granola bars and some beef jerky "—I figure we'll do lunch now. It should be mostly level for the next five to ten miles, but we might need to strap on our shoes in parts." He opened a granola bar and bit off half of it. "And you look like you could use a break."
"You're not wrong there." Robert took some jerky from his own pack.
Carl laughed a little. "You sure you don't want to do McKinley with us this summer?" Robert laughed too.
"Good one."
Carl stopped smiling and looked east and then up. "We probably could see it if it weren't for these clouds."
Dark had fully set in when they made camp. Carl cut some kindling with his hatchet while Robert gathered more wood. He pulled down his balaclava and put his flashlight in his mouth so he could adjust the small logs under his arm and wondered if Karen had been right. Maybe this was a bad idea. They got a fire going and ate a meal of army surplus MREs. Carl took out the map and compass and after studying them for a minute marked another X. Robert unfastened the Motorola PRC-68 portable radio from his pack and began slowly twisting the tuning knob. All he got was a steady kshhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. It was like the night he had told Karen he was coming on this trip. That kshhhhh as she tuned the radio in his Jeep Wagoneer while they drove into the downtown lights.
