Story Sample For Mike

Jake Preston eased back on the throttle, reducing airspeed, thus allowing the little Cessna 185 to shed a bit more altitude. The agile four-seater responded accordingly, and it wasn't long before the jagged crags and snow-capped peaks of the Frank Church Wilderness appeared to be right outside his cockpit window. He marveled at the staggering remoteness of the area; tree topped peaks and craggy spires in every direction, as far as the eye could see.

“It's so beautiful,” a sweet and heavily accented voice modulated through his headset.

He pulled his attention away from the rugged mountain vistas to the woman seated next to him. The morning sun gilded her yellow-blond hair in a halo of gold, and sparkled in her ice-blue eyes as she beheld the massive landscape with the wonder of a child. He smiled as she peered through the viewfinder of his 35mm Nikon and snapped a series of pictures out the window.

“Not as beautiful as you, Mags,” he said. Yeah, it was the cheesiest and most cliché line in the book, but sometimes cheesy can work with the ladies. You just have to know how to do it right. It's all about timing, and this seemed to be one of those times.

Sure enough, she took the camera from her face and let it rest protectively in her lap—she was wearing those faded jeans he liked—then blew him a kiss, her rose-colored lips making a cute, little pucker. He chomped at the air, pretending to catch the kiss with his teeth—a little more cheese. She giggled, slapped him on the shoulder, and then resumed taking pictures. It's all about the timing.

Damn, I'm the luckiest guy on the planet, he thought as he gave his instruments a quick glance. Ever since he was a kid thumbing through those issues of National Geographic at the dentist's office, he had dreamed of being a photojournalist. He had asked his dad, “You mean, people actually get paid to travel the world taking pictures of cool stuff?” When the answer came in the affirmative, he knew, right then and there, which path his life would take.

And what a path it had turned out to be! At just thirty years old he had been to nearly every continent, visited dozens of countries—his passport was full of stamps—interviewed warlords, dined with chiefs, been the guest of a sultan, danced with a princess, been frisked by a Secret Service agent, rafted sections of the Amazon, Nile, Yangtze, and Danube, backpacked in The Andes, French Alps, Carpathians, Urals, and Rockies; just to name a few of his adventures.

But none of those adventures could quite compare with the rush of Magdalena Samuelsson. He met Maggie about a year ago in her native country of Sweden. He was there to cover the emerging story of Middle Eastern and North African refugees that had inundated the Nordic nation, bringing its famous hospitality to the brink of collapse.

One day, Just by chance, Jake had learned about Alvdalen, a remote Swedish village with a tiny population of people that spoke a nearly forgotten language all their own. A guy in a Stockholm pub had told him that some folks compared the language to the famous Elvish from Tolkien's Lord of The Rings. As a matter of fact, the language was known as Elfdalian. Only about three thousand people in the world could even speak it.

It didn't take much more to convince Jake that this was a place he just had to see. Besides, the whole refugee story was beginning to depress the hell out of him anyway. The long and short of it: Maggie Samuelsson happened to be a resident of this Alvdalen and the two of them had hit it off almost immediately. She was a Norse beauty: blond hair, blue eyes, long legs, and the athletic build of an avid cross-country skier. He jokingly referred to her as his Viking shield maiden.

Initially, he had only intended on spending one night in Alvdalen before returning to the States. That was before he met Maggie at the tiny hotel where she worked the front desk. One night became two, two nights became a week, and suddenly, he found himself traveling all over Scandinavia with her. And for one of the few times in his life, he found himself head over heels.

It hadn't been easy maintaining such a long-distance relationship over the past year. She had her life in Sweden and he had his life in … well, wherever his job took him. But they had kept in close touch through social media and texting. And he made stopovers in Sweden as much as he possibly could. But despite all the efforts, he found that they were still spending too much time apart. The time had come to take the next step.

A month ago, during one of his routine visits, he went down on bended knee and popped the question—in Elfdalian. It was a fairytale moment in his life as she flung herself into his arms, and accepted his proposal with the most passionate kiss he had ever received.

The plan was simple: she would learn the ins and outs of his profession, and they would work together as a team: husband and wife. It would be perfect! So, as soon as it could be arranged, he brought her back to the States with him--home to Idaho--to begin her training … and their new life together. A quick appointment at the county courthouse made things legal. They would return later that summer to Sweden for a proper, traditional wedding in her village.

He had always wanted to do a story on the wilderness airstrips of the Frank Church Wilderness in Idaho, and since it was so close to home, it seemed like the perfect job to ease Maggie into her apprenticeship.

“How many mountains are there?” Maggie asked. “It seems endless from up here.”
“Well, it's the largest designated wilderness area in the US outside of Alaska. A little over two million acres. More than three million if you lump in some of the surrounding national forests,” he explained. “That means no roads, no towns, no development. It's all protected.”

“Wow,” she said, bringing the camera back up to her eye. “So that's why all the landing strips? Because no roads?”

“Exactly. In fact, most people would be surprised to learn that Idaho has more of these wilderness landing strips than Alaska; over seventy. Of course the bush pilots in Alaska just land wherever they think they can put a plane.” He laughed, having been a passenger for some insane Alaska bush landings.

“But if there are no towns in these mountains, then why all the landing strips?”

Jake shrugged. “I guess they're mainly for hunters, fishermen, and rafters … sportsmen.” He flashed her a conspiratorial smile. “You know who actually lives around here and uses some of these little airstrips?”

Maggie scrunched her face up. “Who?”

“One of your favorite human beings of all time.” He began to whistle the famous theme song from the Indiana Jones movies.

Her mouth popped open and she nearly lost her piece of gum. “No way!” She looked around as if she expected Harrison Ford to suddenly appear out of nowhere.

Jake laughed and put a hand on her knee. “It's true!” he said. He has a ranch in Wyoming and loves to fly. A lot of local pilots have run into him unexpectedly in these parts.

“That would be so cool if we met him,” she said, beaming a killer smile at him.

“Yes, it would, but don't get your hopes too high, doll,” he said in his best Indy impersonation.

She put her hand on his. “Too late for that!” And she laughed.

And she was beautiful.

And he was very lucky, indeed.

****************

“We're going to land on that?” Maggie asked, staring from the window at the pine-covered canyon below.

“No sweat,” Jake said, banking in order to bring the aircraft on a line of approach with what amounted to little more than a narrow ribbon of dirt that had been carved out of a section of pine trees on the canyon floor.

“No sweat?” Maggie said, tightening her seatbelt. “Sure, okay. If you say so.”

“Okay, it's a little tricky,” he admitted as he cut the throttle. “But, it's nothing to worry about. I've done it before, and trust me, I wouldn't even attempt it if I had any doubts about our safety.”

Maggie seemed to take an amount of reassurance from this and visibly relaxed a bit.

“Besides,” he said, “No need to be nervous yet. This is just a practice approach to help me with my timing and stuff for when I make the real attempt on the next pass.”

She smiled and nodded. “What's that American saying again? Practice makes perfect?”
Jake guided them in low and slow. The wings were perfectly aligned over the remote landing strip, the tops of the pines floating by on either side. Conditions couldn't have been any better and he wished he had just gone ahead and landed. It was too late for that however, so he throttled up and pulled back on the yoke, preparing to come around for another approach.

Maggie clapped her hands. “You are good.”

“Thanks,” he said as the Cessna climbed above the mountains that formed the little canyon. “Did you see any good spots for us to camp down there?”

“Can we put our tent by the little stream?”

“We can put our tent anywhere you'd like. Or we could just unroll our sleeping bags and sleep out under the stars.”

“Yes!” she exclaimed. She leaned in close to him and held the camera at arm's length.

“A selfie?” he asked, feigning disgust.

“Smile,” she commanded with pouting lips.

He didn't have to work very hard to conjure up a sincere smile. She puckered her lips, kissing him on the cheek, and clicked the camera's shutter.

And that was when the engine sputtered … once, then twice. And then died.

Maggie gripped his arm. “What's happening, Jake!”  She cried, her voice dripping with mortal fear.

“Hang on,” he said, doing his best to compensate for the sudden loss of thrust. His body immediately broke into a cold sweat as he scanned his instrument panel.  Everything was dead … except for the altimeter, which was displaying a rapid decent—too rapid. He tried turning the engine over. No dice. Shit!

“Turn around,” Maggie said, still gripping his arm like a vice, “back to the airstrip!”

“I can't!” he said through clenched teeth. “We're not high enough. She'll stall and we'll nose right into the ground!”

“What are you going to do then? Are we going to crash?” The panic in Maggie's voice escalated with each question.

“Maggie, I need you to calm down,” he said. “I'm just going to have to glide us down to a place where we can land. Look around for anything that looks flat and doesn't have any trees. Don't worry, it's going to be fine.”

“Okay, okay.”

The ground was coming up fast, as the wind howled over the surface of the wings like a banshee's wail. With expert finesse he was able to maintain the right amount of trim and airspeed to keep the plane in a controlled glide. But all around them the terrain was an endless sea of rocky ridges and serrated peaks, separated by steep, narrow canyons. He couldn't see any good options for putting the plane down, and only seconds left before gravity made the decision for him. Maggie had gone silent, probably paralyzed with fear.

The plane barely cleared a ridge before dropping down into a v-shaped canyon and started skimming the tops of the taller pines. There was a small stream flowing through the middle and he tried to line up his fuselage as best he could with the course of the water. Maybe he could at least avoid a head on collision with the cockpit and a tree trunk.

He was radioing out a mayday call when his right wing snapped the top of a tree right off. The plane shuddered and pulled hard to the right but he was able to keep it mostly on course. But as the plane descended lower, the trees grew thicker. In fact, a beefy tree suddenly appeared ahead; there would be no snapping the top off this one.

“Hang on, Maggie!”

When the wing hit the big tree the Cessna seemed to explode. The noise and the violence was unreal. Jake thought he heard Maggie's scream intermingled somewhere in the cacophony of screeching metal and shattering glass as the plane crashed and slammed from tree to tree.

When they impacted the ground it was with so much force that the cockpit seemed to crumple all around him like the sides of a crushed soda can. Pain—sharp and searing in some places, dull and throbbing in others—flooded his body as he fought for the wind that had been knocked out of his lungs. The acrid odor of fuel was strong enough in the air that he could actually taste it on his tongue. One little spark and they would burn to death!

This horrific realization shocked him into action. “Maggie!” He strained his neck to the side, praying that she was okay. Panic and despair rose in his breast when he saw that her side of the cockpit wasn't even there, apparently having been ripped completely away at some point during the crash.

Tears welled up in his eyes as he struggled to pull himself from the wreckage, the pain in his body arguing very effectively against such action. It didn't matter anyway; his left foot was pinned where the skin of the plane had crimped down on his leg, and every time he pulled, it felt as if someone was stabbing a hot fire-poker into his shin and twisting it around.

A wave of nausea assailed him at that moment, and he suddenly realized that he was on the verge of losing consciousness. He guessed that this was it for him, doubting very much that he would have the chance to wake, as the wreckage would most likely catch fire at any moment. At least he wouldn't be conscious for that.

His final, fleeting thoughts were of Maggie. He hoped that somehow she had survived the crash, that she was better off than he was, and that she would live a happy life without him. Then, darkness finally took him into its cold embrace.