Kanut looked around nervously. “Maybe you better pitch that tent of yours.”
“Right.” Luis hauled the tent from his pack. The ground cover went down on the flattened place where he and Brandon had pitched the tent two nights before. Kanut lent a hand to pound in stakes. Luis spread the rainfly while Kanut tied guylines to the nearest trees. It took only minutes, but a heavy wind was already blowing in.
A wind that carried with it swirling white flakes.
Luis stared at the flakes in disbelief. “Snow? It’s nowhere near cold enough for snow.”
Kanut caught a flake and rubbed it to dust between his fingers. “Mother of mercy—that’s not snow. It’s ash. A volcano blew.”
Twenty minutes after taking off from Rainbow, Estelle noticed a band of dark clouds in the west.
What the hell is that? The forecast had been for clear skies, no rain expected for days.
She switched from the intercom to the radio and tried the nearest flight control tower. “Fort Yukon, this is Alaska Eagle Med 224, five-zero miles southwest of Rainbow, five thousand feet, requesting an enroute weather update.”
Chatter filled the radio band: “What the hell? Not rain . . . dark so sudden . . . ash, repeat ash . . .”
Ash? Smoke from some gigantic fire?
“All aircraft, Fort Yukon tower. We’re getting reports of volcanic ash in the region northwest of Fort Yukon.”
A volcano? Merde!
“Hazardous volcanic ash conditions over the eastern Brooks Range, blowing east. Any flights encountering ash are advised to land as soon as possible at any available landing site.”
Fog-like clouds enveloped the plane. Tiny missiles peppered the windshield, as if she were flying through sleet. Estelle never flew through sleet. Not sleet, not fog, not even rain if she could help it.
Annie and Sera stirred in their seats, no doubt asking what was going on, but Estelle didn’t have time to switch back to the intercom. Heart thumping, she keyed the radio again. “Any station, Alaska Eagle Med 224. I’m encountering ash fifty miles southwest of Rainbow. I am transporting a heart patient and another passenger. Please advise closest airstrip.”
Cross talk covered any response. Had they even heard her?
“All flights north of Coldfoot and east of Route 11, you’re advised to get onto the ground as quickly and safely as possible. Ash cloud originating from the Brooks Range north of Yukon Flats, heading east.”
Alaska had more active volcanos than the rest of the US combined. Volcanic ash was something Estelle’s flight instructor had warned her about, but she’d hoped never to encounter.
The ash cloud seemed to be right in her path. She’d been flying in the valley, following the Rainbow River between the hills as it wound its way southwest toward the Yukon. If she turned northwest, that might take her to clearer air.
Something touched her shoulder—Sera leaning forward from the back seat, pointing to the headset mic.
Estelle switched to the intercom, breaking in on Sera’s stream of questions. “Volcano. Need to land. Seat belts tight.”
Sera shrank back into her seat. Annie folded her hands and began a whispery prayer in her home language.
Estelle veered northwest, peering into the murk to spot any other aircraft, any inconvenient peaks, anyplace that might be safe to land. She scanned the sky, hoping to see clear blue somewhere above. No good. If anything, the ash was thicker in the higher altitude. Ash that could choke the engine.
Grit pinged against the windshield. This is hopeless—I have to land.
The chatter of other planes in distress cut across one another, some issuing Mayday calls.
Her instructor’s lesson came back to her. First aviate, then navigate, then communicate. First priority was to keep the plane flying, second to know where she was and where she was going.
On second thought, keeping the plane flying wasn’t the problem: the problem was getting the plane to the ground in one piece.
Flying low under the dense cloud, she swerved to avoid peaks while scanning for a flat place. What did she know of the topography west of her usual flight path? The GPS showed her still over the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge. No town closer than some hamlet called Cody, at least fifty miles away. No airfields, not even a road anywhere near, just mountains and gorges—sharp, craggy, unforgiving rock.
Wait, there was a road. Of course there was: Route 11, the Dalton Highway, the legendarily brutal road joining Fairbanks to the defunct oil terminals at Prudhoe Bay. That was somewhere west, but how far?
She turned west, one eye on the GPS and one eye on the ground, straining to spot a place flat enough to land. Unfortunately, west seemed to be taking her deeper into the ash cloud. The air grew hazy with swirling dust.
The GPS glitched as dense cloud blocked satellite access. The engine strained and sputtered as ash fouled the intakes. Jesus, if you’re out there, help me land this plane.
Through the haze, she glimpsed on the ground a wide, pale stripe cutting roughly north-south. Route 11? Had she flown so far west already? Thank you, Lord.
“Hang on,” she spoke into the intercom. “I think I see a place to land.” On the emergency channel, she transmitted, “Mayday, Mayday, Mayday. This is Alaska Eagle Med 224, attempting emergency landing on Route 11.” If anyone heard her, the response was lost in cross talk.
She dropped altitude, praying no determined trucker was barreling down the dilapidated highway.
CHAPTER 22
Mayday
The air was a fog of swirling ash. Estelle aligned the plane to the pale strip of road, heading southwest, more or less into the wind. The Cessna was a workhorse, known to be forgiving to bush pilots who often flew and landed in less-than-ideal conditions. She prayed it would forgive her this time, too.
In moments snatched from flying, she prayed for a
