Rusty Summer (16 page)

“Shane, this is Leonie.” Greg's voice grates a little.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

After a fluttery instant, Leo offers her hand.

After a gob-smacked second, Shane takes it.

They finally remember to let go hands after another gaze-soaked spell. Beau clears his throat.

Shane and Leo return to reality.

“So, yeah . . . um . . . so, you need a ride?” Shane asks.

“Yeah!” I reply, like this is news.

“Come inside the cabin.” He turns and leads the way. For a guy who just got loaded on love, he's moving and talking pretty normally. “Don't mind the mess, it's been in the family for generations.”

We haul the stuff we are bringing out of the truck and put it outside the front door. We walk from the bright sunshine into the dark of the cabin.

It is decorated like every cabin I've been inside: dark wood paneling and rough-hewn furniture made of logs and sliced tree trunks and stuff.

There must be a paragraph in the rule book of cabin deco that I missed: Furnish with stumps!

And the dead heads of large mammals. Deer, elk, bear, and moose heads all stare down at me.

I hang my head and don't meet their glassy-eyed judgments.

They're right.

“Anyone hungry? Should we eat before we get going?” Shane inquires.

So we do. He can cook! He starts banging around in the kitchen, making cheeseburgers.

I'm thrilled when he sits down beside me at the picnic table in his dining room. It faces the lake and has a view of the plane, which bobs daintily as it waits on the water for us to finish.

Even Leo eats a little. Roses bloom in her cheeks—especially after she gets back from the bathroom. She probably ran and put blush on, like he'd even notice.

After lunch we stroll along the lakeshore. Only about fifty feet of it are sandy, the rest is just water to the edge, but The Bomb gets a good run when we throw sticks—though not a good swim.

Wet husky + smelly plane ride = Ew.

I notice as we walk that Leo and Shane are falling behind Beau, Greg, The Bomb, and me. They are talking very quietly, but so intensely—for two people who just met!

We fall back so we are all walking abreast, and listen.

“I was just telling Leonie about when I lived in Seattle.” Shane's eyes flash when he smiles.

“You did? Nobody told us!” We are amazed. Home seems a million miles away.

“Yeah, when I went to the U-Dub. I haven't been down since I graduated, though.”

“Really? When?”

“I graduated last year. I tried to get Greg to attend with me; he would have been a freshman when I was a junior, but he doesn't like school, even though he's smart. So I went by myself.”

“What was your major? Why did you go to UW? Omg, that's so crazy; we were like neighbors! Do you like Seattle?”

We have like a thousand questions now that we know this, all of which he patiently answers.

Shane is a conservationist. He studied botany and biology and the environment and weather and is trying to save the world. He graduated college last year; he turned twenty-three in January. (I do the math; that makes Greg somewhere around twenty-one.) Shane writes articles for magazines about global warming and reversing the reversed eco-laws, which are allowing polluters to pollute again. He said he's been writing angrier articles lately, to force focus on the coming crisis.

His mom is American and his dad is Canadian, so he has dual citizenship. He likes Seattle, is not too keen on Vancouver, but isn't that thrilled with living in
any
city.

Too noisy. Too rushed. Too shallow. He shakes his head in resignation.

I feel my stomach knot with his eco-hippie coolness! I realize I'm staring at him like, hard. And probably breathing through my mouth, which is probably hanging open in adoration.

Keep it together, Rye. I try to button it up.

“Do you have a website, or blog, or something?” I ask, striving to sound ordinary.

Both of which he does. As he gives us the 411, I see Beau copy it down in his phone.

Beau's been watching him with goo-goo eyes too. Somehow, I don't believe either one of us has a chance.

I snort acerbically. Just typical. I fall for the hot guy.

Just then, Beau gets a text. Rapid-fire he sends something back. Then he snickers at the answer.

I have a grim feeling it's the dreadful Kurtis. When we get back to the cabin, Greg and Shane pack our stuff in the back of the plane. The plane is a four-seater.

We look at Greg. He sighs.

“Well, guys, I guess this is goodbye—for now,” he says, looking at Leonie.

She smiles at him sweetly. Encouraged, he goes on.

“I'll call when the van is done and then we'll figure out how to get it back to you, 'kay?”

“Yeah. That's a good plan,” I say gently, as Leo smiles again—at Shane. Poor Greg, right? I can relate. It's hard to always be the candidate who “also ran.”

We climb into the plane. Beau heads for shotgun, out of habit.

“Maybe Leonie should sit in front—to balance the load. Keep the dog in back.” Shane shrugs.

Which on the surface sounds okay, but really, doesn't it seems like if Leo and The Bomb and me were in the back and Beau and Shane were in the front it would be more balanced? I smile to myself.

Well played, sir.

We get situated and put on our seat belts. We settle as Shane goes through the checklist for takeoff. We watch Greg wave forlornly, then get in his truck and sit, watching us watch him.

Shane starts the engine. It's freaking LOUD!

He hands us earplugs and puts on a headset. He smiles at Leo beside him. She dimples up.

I hold my hands over Bommy's ears. Then I get the idea to tie Leo's scarf around her head. I poke Leo and gesture my intentions. She unwraps one she's wearing and hands it to me. I tie it under Bommy's chin with her ears flat against her head. Then laugh. She looks like Red Riding Hood's grandma.

“Nice hijab, Bommy!” I tell her. She “smiles” back at me, panting with nerves.

Shane starts talking on the radio in this weird, suddenly Southern accent. He's speaking some kind of airplane code that involves saying the word
niner
a lot, something like, “This is Cessna J-8-4-niner-3-4.” There is a squawking answer on the mic he holds.

We scoot out onto the lake. This is so cool! I've never done anything like it!

We go way out the one end and then turn, and using the lake for a running start, we GO!

Thrilling! And even louder! The lake begins to fall away and we are transported skyward.

I laugh with pure joy.

I look out the smudgy window and watch the shiny lake become a tiny feature of the topography, and then we fly away.

Bommy whines. I can tell, though I can't hear her; I just know that look on her face. I pat her.

Beau laughingly takes our pic. I borrow his phone to take his. He grabs The Bomb and mugs. Flash!

Shane said before we started the flights would be short, like only a few hours at a time, before we stop and refuel. It's so magnificent looking out the window I don't remember to be worried or bored. I see a dense unbroken carpet of treetops below me, fir and cedar and spruce and pine. I see scrubland and giant boulders made tiny by distance, like pebbles. I see far-off mountains' majesty. The sunshine refracts and makes rainbows when I try to take a picture.

I am happy for hours.

Eventually, I see a tiny speck ahead of the wing that grows larger and bluer till it becomes a lake, very similar to the one we left, with a few cabins and a fuel pump and two float planes moored. We aim for it.

The descent is also cool. Shane hands us Dentyne for the way down, though our ears still pop. Bommy looks worried. I'm sad her ears have to pop, but I don't feel she would be able to handle gum chewing.

We splash into the lake quite smoothly. The engine decelerates and we taxi around the lake and come back to dock at the fuel pump. The squawk box is garbling something incomprehensible, involving a lot more niners. Shane answers.

I start to fish out my debit card. Beau reaches over and stops me.

“Gina,” he says. Turns out she's paid for the gas, all the way up.

Oh, yay!! Also—whew. Thanks, Gina! I need to budget, now that the trip has gone sideways.

The cabin nearest the fuel pump has a little store with things like sunglasses, bait and tackle, and all kinds of snacks. And a bathroom, thank gawd. I drank way too much coffee at Shane's.

After we refuel, off we go again. I find this time that if you chew really hard at takeoff you don't get the ear popping so much.

Off we soar. Chew-chew-chew-chew!! This lake becomes miniscule too.

I am as gleeful at the beauty of the second ascension as I was at the first. I
love
to fly!

I want wings. Or at least a jet pack.

During this flight I covertly watch the occupants of the front seats. They can't really talk because it's so loud, but Shane touches Leo's elbow to point out something. Repeatedly.

Then she starts touching his. They lean close.

They start showing each other a lot of stuff.

I start to feel weird. Not mad, exactly . . . but definitely out of sorts.

Omg, I'm jealous. Gross.

I try to look out the window like I had been delightedly doing until one second ago. Only now I have a sour little smile.

Great. I'm an idiot.

 

Late that afternoon, we drop down onto our third little lake and dock and refuel. The sun is still up for several more hours but it's almost evening.

We get out and stretch. Bommy pees on the dock.

“We'll be in Alaska soon,” Shane informs us. “One more hop and that's it. Then a few more hops to Kodiak and you are there!”

We nod at him dotingly. Whatever you say, Shane.

I am a little nervous, though, since that means in a couple of days I will be seeing my dad.

 

Customs to get into Alaska from Canada are nicer than Washington into Canada, btw. It's actually easier because of the plane. They didn't take it apart like they did the van, so, having aced the inspection, we are allowed to take off and cross into the first leg of the Last Frontier.

Ketchikan to Juneau isn't a long journey in a bush plane driven by a bush pilot.

That's what Shane does for money—he flies scientists and the occasional rich hunter into the bush, and then returns for them in a week or so. Pretty good gig, I'd say. He says it's almost paid for the plane.

At one point he banks the wings and we look down. He indicates a blob in a stream.

“See that? It's a grizzly. I'll find my binoculars.” Even from this distance it looks big.

“Wow! What's it doing?” Beau presses his camera against the window.

“Fishing for salmon.” Shane returns the plane to its level position after Beau takes a picture of the scene.

The weather does not hold for our flight. It's socking in and we are in and out of dense foggy mist as we float on. We plan to stop and spend the night in Juneau and then leave for Anchorage first thing in the morning. After that, one more flight and we will be on Kodiak Island.

We descend into the Taku River. Shane says he has an idea but won't say what it is. He says it's a surprise. A good surprise? We're a little worried by surprises at this point. So far they haven't been great. He smiles and says, “You'll like it!”

After landing on the river we taxi and dock. There is an old-school-looking lodge. Shane turns.

“Ta-da!” He's very jovial as he smiles at us. He also looks like Ryan Gosling.

His smile is catching. We smile too. And for good reason.

Shane is known there as a bush pilot and he gets a killer deal when he stays. And guess what? So do we! We are assigned two rooms, Leonie and the Bomb and me in one, Shane and Beau in the other. We stiffly bring our stuff from the plane and put it in our rooms.

I stretch and do some deep knee bends to force blood into my numb feet. We've been sitting for over four hours. It feels good to move around. We leave our room and explore.

The lodge is an antique. We've stepped back in time. It smells dusty and authentic, like seasoned wood and aged varnish. The walls are covered with old dogsleds and rusty bear traps and other obsolete artifacts, some so old they're from the gold rush, over a hundred years ago.

I look around in delight. I
love
this kind of stuff!

That evening during dinner a guy tells the story of the lodge while we eat.

It was built in 1923 and was the only one in town for a long time. It's right across the valley from the Hole in the Wall Glacier, this huge glacier and one of only a few still advancing. It got famous back in the day when a musher named Mary Joyce made a thousand-mile journey with her sled dogs and stayed at the lodge.

We are sitting at a communal dining table and there are a few other people here, mostly old Last-Frontier-guy types. One guy knows Shane and gives a little wave. Shane leans over. They talk and make plans; the dude hires him again for next season.

They then talk about the “June hogs” (which I know are salmon). The outdoorsmen are up here for the fishing. This time of year is when the Copper River catch gets going. It's a huge deal, here and down in Seattle—and for delicious reason!

We listen politely to the dude telling us this and that. I do anyway; I can see Leo's eyes glazing over from across the table. However she is sitting right beside Shane and he leans over to whisper in her ear from time to time, which keeps her from falling off her chair completely.