Chapter 13
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Small Island Off Chichagof, AK
Getting to the peak at the top of the island was Marco’s best chance to get his antenna high enough to pick up any faint signal from the missing woman’s radio.
Marco had his handheld SSB radio with a high-gain antenna attached to his jacket—hissing quietly on the same frequency he’d been monitoring for days now.
Marco had a set of safety rules he followed while traveling alone in these remote areas. Even something as simple as twisting an ankle could be fatal if it happened in a place like this. If anything went wrong, he was on his own. Help would likely never find him.
His normal go-to-shore kit included a small day pack with a VHF radio, a personal locator beacon/satellite text device, a survival knife, a camera, a length of paracord, and bear spray.
Most important of all were his XTRATUFs—heavy-duty, tall rubber boots that allowed him to step out of the dinghy into the shallow water and to hike through thick underbrush without getting his feet wet or injured.
Guaranteed nearly all fishermen you’d ever see up here were wearing XTRATUFs.
Aside from a couple of fishing floats and beer cans washed up on the beach, the island seemed to exist completely outside the realm of civilization.
Marco moved through the underbrush toward the middle of the island, fingering the safety of the bear spray on his hip. A mile or so away, Chichagof was home to one of the largest brown bear populations in the world.
The path was steep, and he had to scramble up several rocky levels, grabbing limbs and finding footholds on rocks and branches.
His forehead was hot and sweaty, and his legs felt heavy.
He had probably waited too long to eat. Pausing to catch his breath, Marco pulled the remainder of the tuna sandwich out of his pack.
Bringing food on a hike in bear country was generally a bad idea. Bears had an incredible sense of smell—better than a bloodhound’s. But the sandwich reinvigorated him. He took a quick swig from his water bottle.
After a brief descent, he broke through the trees onto a steep bluff overlooking the ocean.
Far below, countless rocks protruded above the water, and white plumes of spray reached high into the air as residual waves from the previous day’s storm crashed against the shore.
Across a narrow channel, there was another, larger island, and just the edge of a small beach was visible from his position.
Marco took out his handheld radio and attached the external antenna, securing it to a tree branch above him with a length of paracord.
“CQ CQ calling CQ—this is AK7MF Alpha Kilo Seven Mike Foxtrot—calling CQ. Woman who made a distress call this frequency—or any station who heard her—outside of Chichagof Island, Alaska, please respond.”
The radio static was interrupted. Just a faint click, but something. Maybe the signal was just too weak for him to hear what was being said? Maybe it was just a mic being keyed, as if someone started to transmit but changed their mind?
Marco repeated his call. There was no reply this time. He waited thirty seconds and made a third call. The static continued, sad and steady.
There appeared to be a peak on a bluff a little farther along the shoreline. It would be a better, unobstructed position to try his radio call again.
He made his way along the bluff, climbing over numerous downed trees.
He came upon a huge Sitka spruce that he couldn’t scale and began to work his way inland to find a spot where he could pass.
The forest had a thick understory. He wouldn’t get far enough along the massive trunk to get past it, but there was very little time before low tide would strand his dinghy.
He decided to try to go around on the shore side of the tree. The giant root ball was right at the edge, and he needed to climb down about five feet below the top of the bluff onto a rock ledge that paralleled the ridge.
A root line along the cliff at about eye level gave him a steady handhold. His boots had good grip on the rocky surface.
He proceeded along the ledge, holding tight to the root line.
Working his way carefully, he moved one foot sideways, then brought the other up to it.
The sound of the surf far below echoed in his ears.
The root line was wet and slippery, and he gripped it tightly each time he slid a hand to the next spot.
He rounded a slight curve. There was an easy enough route back up to the top about fifteen feet ahead of him.
Snap.
Marco grabbed frantically at the wall of rock—hands scraping at the cliff face—chin struck rock, knocking his head upward.
Warm taste of blood. Hands grabbing air. Accelerating.
The clouds spun in the blue sky.
The cliff face moved away, streaking upward.