Page 6 of One Last Shot

Already Oaken felt like a chump in his black Cloudrock hikers, his fleece-lined jeans, the oversized parka. He wore a slight beard but only because he hadn’t had a chance to shave this morning in Anchorage, still trying to survive jet lag.

Yep, he was murdering Goldie next time he saw her.Go to Alaska, be a tough guy, generate some social-media love.

Write a song.

Land an album.

Forget about the last horrid eight months.

Yeah, whatever. The hole seemed to be getting deeper.

“Hey, Mike!” he shouted and held out his hand. Mike gripped it.

“Ready for this?” Mike bore a bit of Montana drawl, although he’d lived all over.

“Not even a little.” But Oaken grinned as Mike clampedhim on the back.

“Alrighty, let’s get this started.” Mike pulled a topographical map contained in plastic and folded into a square from his leg pocket. “We’re here,” Mike said, pointing with his glove. “The road is here”—he ran his finger along a thick black line to the west—“and we’re starting here.” He tapped a circle maybe ten miles from the road, at the base of a mountain, according to Oaken’s quick glance at the legend. “But we need to get to this river tonight. If we can, we’ll cross. If not, we’ll camp on this side. Tomorrow, we will cross it, camp at this old fire shelter. Then we follow the river and finish at the Bear Lake Inn. It’s about fifteen miles total haul, and there’s a steak waiting for you, if you can make it.”

He clamped Oaken on the shoulder, gave it a squeeze.

“And we need to do it all before the blizzard sets in, so let’s not waste the sun!”

Blizzard? Aw?—

Mike ran over to the two backpacks, then lifted one and held it out to Oaken. It contained leg loops and a chest strap.

Oaken fixed on the rig, snapping it tight as Mike donned his, then handed him a helmet. “Let’s fly!”

Ho-boy.

“Stay low!” Mike grabbed him and they ran out to the chopper. Mike secured him to the deck with a carabiner on a line and then settled in next to him. The pilot looked back. Dark hair, gray-green eyes. A copilot with braids sat in the other seat.

“You good?” the pilot shouted.

Mike gave him a thumbs-up.

They lifted off, and in a moment the cabin on shore turned small, the lake a mirror of the sky, now shimmering with the muted sunlight. Despite the cold, they had nearly fourteen hours of sunlight today.

Across from them, Mike waved to the other chopper, Huxley still filming. Oaken did too, giving two thumbsup.Good grief.

Mike turned to Oaken, shouting over the rotor wash. “So, Oaken, ever jump out of a chopper before?”

“I’ve tried to keep my legs and hands inside the flying vehicles.”

Mike laughed. “Okay, so we have a saying—pull high, don’t die. As soon as you get out of the chopper, pull the rip cord.”

“Where’s the rip cord?”

He patted the pack near the bottom, and Oaken put his hand on it.

“Now, if it doesn’t deploy, here’s what you do. Put your arms out.”

Oaken held them out.

“Now move them up and down.”

Oaken started to move, then got it, shook his head, and put his arms down. “You’re hilarious.”

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