Under the Northern Lights
S.C. Stephens
Chapter One
Eagerness surged through me as I stared at the bright-yellow Piper Super Cub waiting patiently for me on a bed of crisp white snow. I was dying to get the small plane into the air, feel the rush and freedom that came along with exploring the skies. That wasn’t the primary purpose of the trip I was about to take, but it was definitely a perk. There was nothing quite like watching the world from above.
“Are you all set, Mal?”
I looked over at the grizzled man watching me. Nick. He stored my plane for me up here in Alaska. My home was back in Cedar Creek, Idaho, but that was too far of a trip for a bush plane like this, so Nick kept it secure for me, kept it ready for my annual trip into the wilderness. “Yep. The plane’s all gassed up; supplies are all loaded. I’m just going to do my preflight check—then I’ll be on my way.”
Nick nodded like he wasn’t expecting a problem with the plane. He usually took it out for a spin or two before I arrived, so he knew its condition even better than I did. Safety was high on his list of priorities. Mine too. I fully planned on coming back alive, and with the remote spot I was headed to, that meant being prepared. For anything. As my grandfather used to say, “Live each day expecting the worst possible thing to happen, and you just might get to see the next day.” Considering what I did for a living, I took those words to heart.
My love, my passion, my reason for being, was to photograph the world’s finest creatures in their natural environments—the more untouched by man, the better. I got a rush from capturing pristine landscapes that had remained unchanged by civilization for centuries and photographing wild animals that, until me, had probably never laid eyes on a human being. It was exciting and invigorating, and it filled me with purpose. It was also sometimes extremely frustrating. Truly wild animals weren’t exactly camera friendly. The herbivores were skittish, more likely to run than pose, and carnivores . . . well, it was challenging to take an award-winning photo when you knew you were being stalked. I loved the challenge, though, and the environment—and even the isolation, if only for a few weeks out of the year.
Taking a slow walk around my small plane, I checked for any imperfections that could lead to a disaster in the air. When I was satisfied that the wings were fine, I moved around to the front of the plane. It had already been winterized, skis replacing the tires, and I thoroughly inspected them for any sign of damage. Skis were more reliable for landing on snow, but they didn’t have brakes, and they took quite a beating whenever the plane touched down. Being able to land safely was of utmost importance anywhere, but it was even more so for me, since I wasn’t landing anywhere near civilization. If my plane broke in any major way, I was stuck, possibly for months. And I was only bringing supplies for a few weeks. I wasn’t worried, though. Precaution was practically my middle name—and this trip was important to me, worth the risk.
Everything looked good with the skis, so I moved on to the engine. It seemed to be in working order, so I was good to go. Finally! After reaching into the cockpit, I primed the engine, cracked the throttle, then spun the propeller. It caught just as I expected it to, and the engine roared to life. Yes . . . time to leave. I couldn’t wait!
Looking back at Nick, I waved a goodbye. “See you in a few weeks,” I told him, the joy in my voice uncontainable.
He laughed at my enthusiasm, then shook his head. “See ya, Mallory. Have a safe flight.”
Excitement pounding through my veins, I climbed into the cockpit and put on my headset. Nick’s runway was in his backyard, and his giant log cabin behind me had a thick plume of smoke coming from the chimney. Warmth. That was something I was going to crave over the next few weeks, since the northern Alaska Range wasn’t exactly a tropical beach, but one thing I never skimped on was insulating clothes, blankets, bedrolls, and the best boots money could buy. I was going to be as comfortable as possible while I was roughing it.
My plane sped down the runway, the skis making it a bumpy ride until I smoothly lifted into the air. A huge smile was on my face as I soared above the treetops. Takeoff was my favorite part of flying. Feeling that pull, the force pushing against your stomach in reminder that humans weren’t meant to be in the air . . . it was a little addictive. Grinning as I sailed higher into the sky, I glanced back at my cargo. Somewhere back there, safely nestled next to my survival pack, was my professional-grade Nikon camera. My pride and joy and the sole purpose of making this potentially dangerous trek into one of the remotest places in America. I was almost giddy to discover what surprises my camera and I would uncover this year. This job was so unpredictable—I could find nothing, or I could capture the photo that would become the epitome of my career. I loved the mystery of it all. The unknown called to me.
Once I was at my plane’s cruising altitude, I headed south, toward the range I’d been frequenting for the last ten years. My favorite spot to land was about a three-hour flight from Two Rivers and about one hundred miles south of the Arctic Circle. It wasn’t on the way to anything, and I’d never once seen another plane or person while there. It was isolated heaven. It was also bear country, and the grizzlies were plentiful. As were the wolves. That was why I had a rifle strapped to the outside of the plane, and I never went anywhere without it. While I lived for photographing animals doing what animals did, I had no intention of becoming their dinner.