'There are beautiful women in Alaska,' Tanner said. 'They're just spread out over a bigger geographical area. You have to go find 'em.'
Joe took a final glance around the lodge, then winced. 'I swear I must be crazy. But if you guys are staying, then so am I.'
Tanner clapped his hand on Joe's back and laughed. 'I knew you couldn't resist. In all the time I've known you, you've never backed away from a challenge.'
'This is one time I really wish I was more of a wimp,' Joe said, shaking his head. He held out his hand. Tanner placed his palm over it, then Hawk did the same.
'To the boys of Bachelor Creek Lodge,' Tanner said.
'Bachelor Creek,' Hawk repeated.
'I think we've all gone crazy,' Joe said, wondering why he was always drawn into impossible situations.
He suspected it was a character flaw, though he wasn't really sure. But stuck in the Alaskan wilderness, facing a future full of challenges, he knew it wouldn't take long to find out.
Chapter One
'One of these days, I really should have my head examined.'
Joe leaned forward and scraped at the frost-coated windshield of his Super Cub. His gaze caught the air temperature gauge, a nagging reminder of an ever present danger. The outside temperature was forty degrees below zero and his defroster had reached its limit. If he flew much higher, he'd be flying blind. Or the engine would quit from the cold and he wouldn't be flying at all.
He peered through the windshield at the craggy ridges below, so sheer not even snow clung to the rock. Denali. 'The High One,' as the native Athabascans had named it. Mount McKinley was the highest peak in North America and a magnet for climbers worldwide. And buzzing back and forth between Talkeetna and the mountain were the Denali fliers, those pilots who ferried climbers and gear to 'Kahiltna International,' the name given to the glacier at the bottom of the climbing route.
Since Joe had arrived in Alaska five years before, he'd heard tale after tale of their exploits-risky landings and daring rescues, true artists behind the controls of their airplanes. He'd grudgingly admired them, until he'd been accepted into the fold. After that, he'd held them in even greater awe.
His initiation had been achieved more by default than daring. He'd been flying a client over 'the Hill' on a sight-seeing trip when he'd noticed a spot of color near the edge of the Kahiltna Glacier near Denali's base. He dropped low then circled, his curiosity piqued. What he found had sent a chill through his blood. A Cessna, flipped upside down, the white belly of the plane barely visible against the snow. If he hadn't been looking in that exact spot, he would have missed it, along with countless other pilots flying in the area.
With the approval of his adventure-hungry passenger, he put his own plane down near the crash site, then struggled through the crusty snow to the overturned plane. The two of them had dragged three injured passengers and the unconscious pilot from the Cessna. And later, when more help had been summoned and all had been evacuated to the hospital in Anchorage, he'd been credited with saving the life of one of Denali's favorite fliers, Skip Christiansen, and given honorary membership in the elite fraternity. They'd nicknamed him Eagle Eyes Brennan.
Skip had talked him into this current mess-searching for a stranded Swedish climber who'd attempted a solo winter ascent of Denali. Skip had flown the woman in a week before and now had been charged with coordinating an air search to aid the park rangers. Six planes swept along the climbing route, each one required to descend out of the thinner air for a time after each run for safety's sake.
Had Joe been safe at home in Muleshoe rather than hanging out in a Talkeetna watering hole, trying to charm a beautiful girl into spending the evening with him, he would never have been drawn into the search, flying too high, too cold, breathing bottled oxygen every now and then to keep his head clear.
But Joe Brennan was never one to shrink from a challenge. And flying at the far edge of his talents and near the mechanical limitations of his plane was exactly the adrenaline rush he'd come to crave. Still, that didn't mean that he couldn't question his good sense once he was caught up in another risky venture.
'All right, Brennan,' he muttered to himself. 'Let's reevaluate your escape plan.'
Although Joe was considered a gutsy flyer by his Denali pals, he tempered that characteristic with a good dose of self-preservation. No matter where he flew, over ice or rock, forest or mountain, he always had a contingency plan, a way out if oil pressure dropped or his engine failed.
He spotted a small saddle of clear snow to the north and fixed it in his mind. If worse came to worse, he could put the Cub down there, landing uphill to slow the plane, then turning around to take off downhill. An air current, swirling near the sheer rock face, buffeted the Cub and Joe cursed.
'A solo ascent in the middle of an Alaskan winter,' he muttered. 'Now, there's a great idea, lady. Why not just jump into a crevasse and get it over with?'
The truth be told, he couldn't begrudge the climber her passion for a new challenge. Since he'd started flying in the bush, he'd accepted one dangerous job after another, always cognizant of his limitations but never afraid to push a little harder. He'd landed on glaciers and sandbars, lakes and landing strips in all conditions, in weather not fit for flying. And he'd loved it all.
He scratched another patch of ice off the windshield. 'Come on, sweetheart. Show me where you are. Point the way.' He pushed his sunglasses up on his head and scanned the area. Though he was slightly west of the usual route to the summit, he knew that a climber could easily become confused from the altitude or exhaustion.
One misstep was all it took and hypoxia would take over, dulling the senses until frostbite and hypothermia set in. Without a partner to take up the slack, a solo ascent was a ticket to trouble. Before long, a climber would sit down in the snow, unable to move, unable to think. That's when either death or the Denali fliers moved in, snatching half-frozen climbers off the face of the mountain and bringing them back to safety.
Wispy clouds surrounded the plane for a moment and Joe scratched the ice off his side window. 'I don't need weather,' he muttered at the approaching cloud bank. He dropped lower, beneath the cloud level, heading back down the mountain. The head of the Kahiltna Glacier passed below him now, safe landing and breathable air at eleven thousand feet. Suddenly, a flash of color glittered from an ice face in front of him. He stared at the spot lower on the glacier, squinting to make out a bright blue scrap of nylon.
As he descended on the glacier, the patch of blue became a pack, half-buried in the snow. He looked closer and thought he saw a rope tracing a path into the shadow of a deep crevasse.
Joe snatched up his radio. 'Denali Rescue, this is Piper three-six-three-nine Delta Tango. I think I have her. She's well west of the usual route on the lower part of the glacier. It looks like she fell into a crevasse. She was roped, but I don't see her. Over.'
The radio crackled and he recognized Skip's voice. 'Three-nine Delta, this is seven-four Foxtrot. Good eyes! I'm just off your left wing. I'll go down and search until Park Rescue arrives. Over.'
'I found her, Skip, I'm going down.'
'Buddy, that's a tricky landing. You catch a ski and you're done, never mind negotiating those crevasses. I took her in, I'll get her out.'
'You just back me up. I'm heading down. Three-nine Delta, out.'
Joe banked to the east, drawing a lazy circle around the stranded climber. Time after time, he passed over the ice field, flying from bottom to top as he judged the surface, memorizing every bump and hole in the ice. His pulse pounded in his head as he descended, his eyes fixed on a point above him on the mountain. An instant later, he felt the skis shudder and he cut the power. Slowly, the plane climbed the face of the glacier until it would go no further. Then he maneuvered it around until it faced down the slope, ready to take off in the same tracks he'd landed in.
Not two hundred feet below him, he saw the rope. Joe yanked the flap on his hood over his face and adjusted his sunglasses, then pushed against the door with his shoulder. He wasn't sure what he would find, but he hoped for the best.
He grabbed a canister of oxygen that he kept in the plane for high altitude flying, then struggled through the snow, following the rope until the snow disappeared in front of him. Above him, he could hear the drone of Skip's
