bottle of water, and a hat. Though she imagined they wouldn’t go far, she also tossed in her survival kit: matches, water-purification tablets, Swiss army knife and Leatherman tool, mosquito dope, Band-Aids and antibiotic ointment, disposable poncho, and signal mirror, all meticulously packed into a waterproof plastic case the size of a small brick. It didn’t weigh much and made her feel more prepared for any emergency, especially when travelling in remote, unpopulated areas.
Geneva had on a similar backpack when they met again, and she carried two khaki hats with mosquito netting bunched up around their wide brims. “Bugs may be bad where we’re going,” she warned Emery as she handed her one.
“Black flies ate Bryson and me alive today at one of the places we stopped. We didn’t linger.”
“Ready to go?”
“Lead the way.”
Geneva took her to the river, where more than a dozen boats were anchored, most just glorified rowboats with outboard engines. Geneva headed toward one of the newer ones and stepped inside.
“Not that I’m objecting, but I thought we were going for a walk.”
“We will. Trust me.” Geneva started the outboard and tilted her head toward the middle bench of the boat. “Get in.”
They set off downriver at an easy clip, and not long after they’d left the village, Emery spotted a bald eagle perched atop a tall dead spruce on the right bank. She fumbled for her camera and got several good pictures with her zoom as they motored by, the majestic bird seemingly undisturbed.
“I take it this is okay?” Geneva asked.
“More than. It’s wonderful.”
“I aim to please.”
After another few minutes, they stopped at a wide, deep spot, where the Koyukuk River forked and gave birth to a new tributary. The John River, according to Geneva.
Hiking inland a short way through a thicket of trees and dense undergrowth, they came upon the ruins of several structures. One was an old storefront, with the word Bettles carved in big letters above the doorway beneath a massive moose rack bleached white from the sun and elements.
“What is this?” Emery asked.
“Old Bettles. The original town.”
“What happened?”
“Well, the original settlement was founded during the gold rush. Gordon Bettles, a friend of Jack London, built a trading post here because it’s as far as the big paddleboats could get. Miners and supplies had to go on in horse-drawn barges to the claims, another hundred miles upriver.”
As Emery took more pictures, Geneva told her more about the area. “In the ’40s, the navy decided to build a runway here, but the best spot was upriver six miles. Wasn’t long before the whole town up and moved to be close to the airport, once commercial flights started.”
“I can almost see them. The people who lived here then.” She envisioned the elements reclaiming these once-vibrant buildings, reducing them to half-walls and collapsed rooftops overrun by dense vegetation. “Trappers, miners, and natives in their fur parkas. Had to be an awfully rough existence.”
“Not much easier these days for some,” Geneva said. “A lot of the Indians and Eskimos in the area still rely on subsistence—getting most of their food from the land. Moose, caribou, fish, berries.”
Emery kept snapping photos, lost in the rich history of the location. Fortunately, a light breeze kept the bugs at bay. When she finished, she found Geneva sitting on a fallen tree, watching her. She sat beside her. “Thank you for bringing me here.”
“I’m happy to get you alone.”
“Why me?”
“Isn’t that obvious?” Geneva gave her a look that said she was crazy for asking the question. “You’re sexy, and bright. Funny. Well-traveled. You’ve got to have women coming on to you all the time.”
“I’m sure you do, too.”
“Pickings are kind of slim up here.”
“Geneva, look…you’re an incredibly hot and sweet woman. And I’m flattered and honored that you’d think we’d be
Geneva had on a similar backpack when they met again, and she carried two khaki hats with mosquito netting bunched up around their wide brims. “Bugs may be bad where we’re going,” she warned Emery as she handed her one.
“Black flies ate Bryson and me alive today at one of the places we stopped. We didn’t linger.”
“Ready to go?”
“Lead the way.”
Geneva took her to the river, where more than a dozen boats were anchored, most just glorified rowboats with outboard engines. Geneva headed toward one of the newer ones and stepped inside.
“Not that I’m objecting, but I thought we were going for a walk.”
“We will. Trust me.” Geneva started the outboard and tilted her head toward the middle bench of the boat. “Get in.”
They set off downriver at an easy clip, and not long after they’d left the village, Emery spotted a bald eagle perched atop a tall dead spruce on the right bank. She fumbled for her camera and got several good pictures with her zoom as they motored by, the majestic bird seemingly undisturbed.
“I take it this is okay?” Geneva asked.
“More than. It’s wonderful.”
“I aim to please.”
After another few minutes, they stopped at a wide, deep spot, where the Koyukuk River forked and gave birth to a new tributary. The John River, according to Geneva.
Hiking inland a short way through a thicket of trees and dense undergrowth, they came upon the ruins of several structures. One was an old storefront, with the word Bettles carved in big letters above the doorway beneath a massive moose rack bleached white from the sun and elements.
“What is this?” Emery asked.
“Old Bettles. The original town.”
“What happened?”
“Well, the original settlement was founded during the gold rush. Gordon Bettles, a friend of Jack London, built a trading post here because it’s as far as the big paddleboats could get. Miners and supplies had to go on in horse-drawn barges to the claims, another hundred miles upriver.”
As Emery took more pictures, Geneva told her more about the area. “In the ’40s, the navy decided to build a runway here, but the best spot was upriver six miles. Wasn’t long before the whole town up and moved to be close to the airport, once commercial flights started.”
“I can almost see them. The people who lived here then.” She envisioned the elements reclaiming these once-vibrant buildings, reducing them to half-walls and collapsed rooftops overrun by dense vegetation. “Trappers, miners, and natives in their fur parkas. Had to be an awfully rough existence.”
“Not much easier these days for some,” Geneva said. “A lot of the Indians and Eskimos in the area still rely on subsistence—getting most of their food from the land. Moose, caribou, fish, berries.”
Emery kept snapping photos, lost in the rich history of the location. Fortunately, a light breeze kept the bugs at bay. When she finished, she found Geneva sitting on a fallen tree, watching her. She sat beside her. “Thank you for bringing me here.”
“I’m happy to get you alone.”
“Why me?”
“Isn’t that obvious?” Geneva gave her a look that said she was crazy for asking the question. “You’re sexy, and bright. Funny. Well-traveled. You’ve got to have women coming on to you all the time.”
“I’m sure you do, too.”
“Pickings are kind of slim up here.”
“Geneva, look…you’re an incredibly hot and sweet woman. And I’m flattered and honored that you’d think we’d be
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