Paleo Prompt - 1. A Long Way From Anywhere

“It’s looking awful.”

“I know.” Bill looked over his partner’s shoulder at the tiny screen. “I don’t like the look of it.”

“Environment Canada just issued an advisory.”

“That’s nothing. Advisories just mean there’s a chance of a chance of a storm.”

“What are they calling it?” Bill inquired.

“Tropical Storm Fred. It’s a monster; the Advisory says it came up the Mississippi, merged with a Pacific low and then sucked in a system that moved in behind it from Alaska.”

“Has Manitoba ever even had a tropical storm?”

Justin gazed at the gathering gloom. “I doubt it. Isn’t it too far north?”

“The earth is changing. That’s why we’re here: to prove it.”

Justin glanced at his partner. “So, we keep working?”

Bill nodded. “We still need those casing assays from the Houghton site. They’re critical to the study.”

“We don’t have enough tiny fossilized critters to count yet?”

“Not if we want the Throckmorton Foundation to pay off our study grant. The Feds may not want to hear about it, but the Foundation does, at least.”

The two of them stared at the clouds building up many miles to the south across the sweeping Canadian landscape. Justin sighed and stooped to pick up his heavy pack.

“We’d best get moving then, shouldn’t we?”

Bill shouldered his own a moment later. “It may never get here. Still, we’d better make assays while the sun shines.” He grinned.

They turned their backs on their base camp and the mounting weather to the south. They had an hour’s hike to the Houghton site.

The well-heeled trustees of the Throckmorton Foundation might have shuddered at the trek they had to make. The trail meandered across the grassland, only to leap small streams and marshy spots on its way to the drilling setup left behind by the previous team. Killdeer and plover started from the grass every now and then. Muddy tracks across the path indicated a herd of elk had passed not long ago. Every now and then, they spotted a hare keeping a watchful distance from them. Bill divided his attention between the uneven path, the swarming mosquitoes, and skies to the south. The broad shoulders and tapered frame of the younger man in the lead proved a welcome distraction.

Whatever the Ivy League Throckmortons may have thought about the setting, those same scions of wealthy families and money managers lived up to their progressive thinking on climate change. Unlike some in their circles, they felt it necessary to know facts, not mere speculation about historical global climate change. The core samples the Foundation sponsored would go a long way to confirm or disprove hypotheses concerning climate changes in the mists of prehistory and their relationship to the weather patterns in the present day.

The summer sun in that latitude barely set before it dragged itself back above the horizon again. Work started early and would finish late, under the fickle far northern skies and accompanied by the hum of a trillion insects.

And all that day, Bill and Justin trekked amongst their four drill sites, nervously checking out the skies to the south. At each installation, they performed routine maintenance and collected core samples. Some days were spent in lively conversation, but this had been one of the quiet ones.

Justin seemed preoccupied, and Bill didn’t want to pry. He was worried enough about the edges of Fred looming in the south.

“Hey, home sweet home,” Bill cried as their blue and yellow dome tent, spidery communications mast and makeshift landing strip greeted them at the end of the trail.

“Jeez, my back aches,” Bill complained, setting his pack down.

“What’s the matter, old man?”

“Screw you. It’s just a little wear and tear.”

“Yeah, sure.” Justin smirked. “How long have you been doing this?”

“I’ve been working with one university or another since you were a freshman.”

“Bet you’ve seen it all.” The younger man eased his load to the ground. “Satellite internet connections, regular air service in the north, the invention of the wheel –”

Bill spat a bug out of his mouth and took a long drink of water from his bottle. “Grad students are just as snarky as ever,” he said at length.

Justin just laughed.

“But I wouldn’t mind having younger hips and knees again,” he added.

“What, so you can chase the lady geologists at conferences?”

Bill’s face might have changed color, or it might have been the angle of the sun. “No chance of that.” He changed the subject, squinting and looking south. “Are those clouds closer than they were this morning?”

The younger man’s hair glinted red-gold as he turned. “Yeah. I think so.”

Bill felt something stir; he immediately shoved the thought aside. Each man stood awkwardly, alone with his thoughts. “Well, I guess we lucked out for another day. Let’s get these samples crated up and see what we can make for supper.”

“I think we can have mac and cheese or chewy beef stew. Just add water and gnats.”

“Extra protein,” the pair chorused, their easy camaraderie reestablished.

But as they rested in the uneasy twilight of the sub arctic summer night, Bill turned restlessly in his cot. He wondered if Justin knew about him; about his preferences. Maybe. He stared at the tent’s nylon roof.

It’s been too long. Even if he swung my way, there’s no guarantee he’d want me. I’m getting old. Ancient. Bill sighed and searched for sleep, which obligingly claimed him.

The radio squawked to life at four thirty. “Baker Lake Seven to Throckmorton Base!” The light through the tent fabric showed it was morning, but no sun illumined its colors.

Bill rubbed his eyes and rolled out of bed. “Baker Lake Seven to Throckmorton Base, come in.”

“Baker Lake?” Justin asked even as he yawned. “That north of us.”

“By two hundred miles,” Bill agreed as he picked up the mic. “Throck Base here.”

“Sorry to wake you guys.” It was difficult to hear; the voice over the radio had to compete with the drone of an aircraft engine. “You’re about to get hit by a monster of a storm. Fred’s on his way. We’re coming to take you out.”

“Roger that.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, a strong gust buffeted the tent. “How soon?”

“I’ll be at your location in about twenty minutes.”

Bill turned to Justin. “Get outside and secure whatever you can. Tie it down, cover it, whatever works.”

The younger man nodded as he tied on his shoes.

“Why isn’t Churchill sending us a plane? That’s our usual base.”

“Go outside and look south. Then ask that question.”

“I got that. We’ll pack up what we can. See you in twenty. Throck Base out.”

Bill joined Justin outside the tent. To the south, the sky was inky black; dark clouds piled high in the west where crystal blue had reigned the day before. No planes from Churchill would fly through that.

Only to the northeast did the sun show bravely against the encroaching front.

“Okay, Justin, get the samples covered and secured; use rocks and dirt to weight it down. The same thing applies to any supplies you can’t fit in your pack. I’m going to step the comm mast and try to secure the equipment.”

“Okay. No way for us to ride this out? It’s just rain and wind.”

“No way. Remember, what’s behind the rain? Snow and wind. This is the Arctic, even if the climate’s changing.”

The pair got busy; there wasn’t a moment to lose.

But even with both he and Justin working feverishly, Bill felt unready when he heard the drone of an aircraft engine in the distance.

Already the clouds were moving in; an eerie night enforced on the land south of them. The bright orange DeHavilland bumped to a stop over the turn as it landed on its oversize tires.

The plane swerved at the end of the strip, ready to take off again. The pilot switched off the engine and descended from the plane. “Gordy McTavish,” he introduced himself, extending a hand.

Bill felt reassured by the man’s lined face and white hair which blew around him like a wild mane. McTavish must have had plenty of experience. “I’m Bill, and this is Justin. Thanks for coming to get us.”

“Right. You ready to load up?”

“You have room for our gear and comm equipment?” Bill asked, re-figuring what could be taken with them.

“Of course. Unless you’re bringing a load of rocks with you, we can take everything you can load in five minutes. I’ll give you a hand.”

“Guess we leave the rocks behind.” Justin managed a laugh.

Bill smiled. The samples would be safe enough.

In short order, the tent came down; the expensive communications gear, laptops and data were stowed on board the little aircraft.

“Time to fly, gents,” McTavish said as he peered into the gathering murk, his voice muffled by the increasing breeze.

“We still have room for two crates of samples.” Bill hated to leave with nothing to show for their work.

“Fine, fine. You two take that one, I’ll get the other.”

“Be careful. They’re heavy.”

“Nothing I haven’t handled in fifty years of flying around here.”

Bill and Justin wrestled their crate of drilling cores onto the plane. But when they turned, McTavish was nowhere to be seen.

They ran back toward the camp. The pilot lay in the grass, writhing. “My back. Hell and death, my back gave out.”

Justin and Bill looked at each other.

“Don’t just gawp,” the old pilot said through clenched teeth. “Get me up. We’ve got to get out of here.”

“How are we going to do that?” Bill asked.

“You’re going to learn to drive a plane, boyo.”

Time seemed to slow down. Justin and Bill ferried a groaning and cursing McTavish to the plane, and installed him in the left hand pilot’s seat, followed by the second crate of samples. Bill tried not to think about what he was doing, he just watched as the old man revved the engine and sent the plane down the landing strip. Every lump and hump in the ground must have been agony for McTavish. He looked grey by the time they were aloft.

“All right, Bill. Take the yoke here and hold it steady.” The man’s voice was barely audible. “See the your heading on the dial there?”

Bill searched the panel full of indicators. Finding what he was supposed to, he nodded.

“Good. Now, gently – gently – turn us to a heading of twenty degrees. Got that?”

Sweating, Bill did as instructed; the DeHavilland dipped a wing slightly and complied.

“Now look at the attitude dial. There. On the left. Just keep that level. See? You’re flying. Nothing to it. Now then. You, in the back: reach down into the side pocket there and pull out the bottle. I’m going to need it before we try to land. Just keep the attitude and heading the way they are, and we’ll be fine.”

A bottle of amber fluid was passed forward. Bill held the control yoke like grim death, even as the aircraft seemed to sway and lurch in the strong tailwind, tension showing in every muscle.

And then he felt a warm hand on his left shoulder; it squeezed with surprising gentleness. They’d be fine. Everything was going to be fine.