Page 7 of Dear Alaskan Bush Pilot
I'm worried that she is getting too invested in this situation. I don't want to see her or anyone else involved hurt because we set in motion this reunion after thirty years. If there were a way to reach Patrick to see if he was even interested in us showing up on his doorstep, I would insist we talk to him that way first. But I already know that based on the area where I was told he moved to, there aren't any phones. People have to go to town to make a phone call.
“Are you sure about this?” I ask Jera.
I want to give her a chance to back out if she’s looking for one. But she nods her head once. It’s the first time she’s seemed self-assured since we walked out here.
“Okay, I’ll go get the plane ready,” I say and head for the door.
5
EMERY
I offer Jera the passenger seat next to Jack, but she assures me that she will be comfortable in the back.
“It will give me some time to think of what to say,” she says as we board the plane.
Jack is quiet, but I'm not sure if that's because he's not really on board with this whole plan to find Patrick and surprise him with a visit from his long-lost love, or he's in professional pilot mode and carefully checking the plane before we take off.
Despite the extra hours of daylight, it's already getting late in the afternoon, and we need to get going if we don't want to show up on his doorstep past the socially acceptable visiting hours. Especially since he doesn't even know we are coming.
Jack gives us the emergency rundown before we take off. It's a speech I've heard many times before, but it's always good to have a refresher course. As safe as I feel flying with Jack, there is always a risk you take when you fly in a bush plane—the weather could strike hard, or there could be a mechanical or system issue or some unknown factor that you haven't even prepared for. But when you get up in the air, and you see the views of the Alaskan landscape below, it never ceases to take my breath away.
From the snow-capped mountains to the winding rivers. The landscape below is better than a picture or painting. Nothing but the real thing can do it justice.
We fly the two and a half hours to get to Patrick's cabin. I thought the village of Frontier was remote, but when we pass over the last village we'll see for miles and show no sign of stopping, I start to realize just how much Patrick is living off the grid, depending solely on the land. Many people in Alaska prefer to live this way, and I start to wonder for the first time if it was a bad idea to come without giving him a heads up.
I glance back at Jera. If she's nervous, she's hiding it well. It's almost as if the closer we get, the calmer she seems to become. I want to say something to Jack over the headphones we are wearing, but Jera will hear it too.
“Nearly there.” Jack’s voice crackles over the headphones. He points just ahead at a long stretch of shallow stream with dense trees on either side of it. “We’ll land there.”
It's the closest thing we have for a runway out here. I clench my hands together in my lap. Taking off and flying is fine, but it's the landing part that always gets me. Jack puts his warm hand over mine and squeezes it.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I try and assure him, but I’m pretty sure he can see through my attempt at a brave face.
“I won’t let anything happen to you.”
I feel a sense of ease wrap around me like a blanket draped over my shoulders. The muscles in my shoulders relax, and I feel better.
The landing is rougher than I’m used to, but that’s because of the terrain. Water splashes up as we land, bouncing a few times before Jack steadies the plane and slows it down to a stop.
“That wasn’t so bad,” I smile at Jack.
He chuckles, and his dimple appears, making the butterflies flutter wildly inside me.
We all get out, and Jack walks around the plane to check and make sure nothing got damaged in the landing. I look around, but there is no clear sign of what direction we have to take to find Patrick.
“Are you ready to go find him?” I ask Jera.
"I think he already found us," she says, staring off at the tree line. I turn to follow her gaze. A man is walking through the brush. He's tall with a thick ginger beard. He stops in his tracks when he gets close enough to see her.
“Jera?” He asks, but there is no question that he knows that it’s her.
"Hello, Patrick."
He shakes his head like he doesn’t believe she is standing in front of him. “It’s been a long time.”
“Almost thirty years.”
