“Just remember this, Daws. We can’t change what happens to us, but we can decide how we want to grow from what we experience.”
He rolled his eyes.
They flew over the Copper River basin with its finger tributaries and splash of lakes, now frozen dots of white amid the green. A few cabin chimneys spiraled up smoke into the blue, the land a vast white. From here, the Copper Mountain range rose, the sun glinting off the high glaciers, the peaks a white rumple along the eastern horizon. Glorious and lethal. The Copper River traced its base as it ran south.
Dawson spotted the community of Willow, with the high-end vacation properties of the Silver Salmon township.
They’d cleared the land like small kingdoms.
“This is Remington land,” Moose said of the swath of forest below. “And Bowie land is just north of this.”
Dawson looked down over the massive plot owned by the private mining company west of Copper Mountain. “I see a cabin down there.”
“That’s a Forest Service cache cabin, for bivouac when needed. They come with stoves, a makeshift kitchen, and a ham radio.”
“Got it. Where’s Sully’s place? I can’t remember.”
Moose pointed out the front windshield to the east. “The Bowie Outpost? We’re just a few clicks away—you’ll see it below. It’s on the Copper River, just south of where it curves west, on the southern border of Bowie land and about two miles west of Woodcrest, the art community.”
“That’s right. Such a strange group.”
“They’re not strange. They’re just ... private. But good people. Accepting. They live off the land and make soap and jewelry and other things they sell in Copper Mountain. I think they might even have online sales to the Lower 48, although I don’t think they have internet, so I think someone in town handles the sales for them.”
As they flew overhead, he searched for the Bowie Outpost, tracing where the Copper River curved and—wait. The sun glinted off a crumple of red and white metal—
“Moose. I think there’s a downed plane on the riverbank.”
Moose looked out his window.
“This side. Turn the plane around—you’ll see it.”
Moose banked, then retraced his flight path. “I see it.”
Dawson got another look too. Seemed the plane had cartwheeled, its wings ripped off, the fuselage still intact but upsidedown, with gaping holes in the sides. And from the torn snowbank and crushed pine trees, it seemed recent.
As intodayrecent.
“Can we get down there?”
Moose checked his gauges, then glanced at the horizon. “Yes.” He banked and started to descend.
The riverbank widened, and Moose overshot the crash as he aimed for the shoreline. But Dawson got an up close view.
At least one person lay on the snowbank darkened with rusty blood. Luggage spilled out into the river, a gray duffel and a brown-and-gold roller bag. The wings had sheared off, and one propped against rocks in the river. The other lay embedded in a tree.
“I don’t see anyone alive.”
Moose nodded, his jaw tight. “Hold on. This might get rough, even with my tundra tires.”
Dawson put his hand on Caspian as the dog sat up. Probably he should have tried to belt the animal in. Instead, he pulled Caspian onto his lap and grabbed him around the body.
Moose put down, the wheels growling against the shoreline, then bumping against the rocks, jolting Dawson even as he braced himself on the back of the passenger seat.
Moose brought them to a halt. “Stay here.”
“Not even a little.” Dawson unbuckled his belt but turned to Caspian. “You, however, stay.”
He opened the door.
