“Copilot? You might be my ace.”
Chapter 9
With their gear packed, Noah and Max head toward the base of the mountain and look up at the challenge that lies in front of them. The summit tops off at around 1,300 meters, but they will only climb as high as is necessary to get to the other side. The mountain is ragged, with steep slopes and filled with large crevices in between, prohibiting any straight-line approach.
Noah looks to Max. “Which way would you go up, Ace?”
This elicits a hearty laugh from Max, who stands with his hands on his hips eyeing the peak. He slides his Spider from the utility belt that Noah has equipped him with and flips it in the air, end over end, the baton glimmering in the sun, before catching it and pointing. “I would approach it from the east and zigzag across, eventually reaching that crest on the west side just under that narrow ridge.”
Noah studies Max’s route and, after a few seconds of contemplation, concurs with his assessment. “That seems the most logical and, more importantly, the safest route. Well done!” He gives Max a friendly slap on the shoulder.
Max can’t help but smile. “Excellent. Let’s do this!”
They free climb the first twenty meters of the mountain, easily traversing the first leg of the ascent filled with spongy grass and red beech trees. Using a two-man belay technique, they set off on what will be a short but technical climb. Waiting for Max to reach the first landing, Noah comes across an old log nestled on a tuft of mossy grass. He peels the rotting bark from the trunk to uncover several large grubs feeding away on the decaying wood. He grabs as many as he can find, sandwiching them between two pieces of sod ripped from the earth, and then ties it off with a flax string before stowing it away in his backpack.
Max looks on curiously. “What are you doing?” he bellows from above, lurching over a slate ledge.
“I found some grubs that we can eat later. They’ll be delicious!”
“I’ll pass, thanks,” says Max, appalled.
Noah shrugs and begins his climb, thinking of the wilderness treks of his boyhood. During those times, his father, Jackson, would instruct him on the finer points of survival, indicating various plants and their uses, and how to construct traps for snaring small animals. Later, Jackson would test his retention by quizzing him on these points at odd times, usually while being challenged with various physical obstacles that he would throw at him to complicate matters.
Whether crossing an icy ravine over a slick log, or hanging precariously on a narrow ledge during a free climb, Noah was trained to respond quickly. His mind and body synchronized perfectly, acting and reacting to every situation with steady hands and crystal-clear decisions. Never did he think of his childhood as strange, or fear that his life was in peril. For him, it was a natural way to grow up, like a young falcon taking to flight.
Noah recalls a particular expedition with his father, high in the foothills of Spain’s Basque Country, a place they called home and where he spent the first eighteen years of his life. Jackson moved the family to Spain after his retirement from the Royal Navy, predicated by Noah’s birth in the autumn of 1984. Their home, set against a backdrop of dense wilderness, served as his backyard. They lived on a remote horse ranch, hours away from the closest village of Tularosa, and he was schooled by his parents at home.
On Noah’s sixteenth birthday, he set off with his father and his uncle, Randall Wellington, who was not an uncle in the true sense, but rather a close family friend of the Lockhearts who had served with Jackson in the Navy. Jackson had arranged for a helicopter to take them to a remote section of the Pyrenees, where Noah had assumed they would climb, a rather routine occurrence for them. However, this trip was different. Upon landing, Jackson instructed young Noah to exit the helicopter, which he did. But his father and uncle remained inside.
His father spoke then. “You will have exactly seventy-two hours to get from this point back to our home. You will need to use all of the skills that I have taught you over the years to make it back in time. It is imperative that you complete this task and arrive home within seventy-two hours. Any time after that window and the mission will be considered an abject failure.” He gave him a large hunting knife inside a black sheathe. “This is all you will have to get you on your way.” He turned to Randall. “Do you have anything to add?”
Randall flashed a facetious smile. “I do actually.” He tossed Noah a Motorola flip phone, which he caught with his free hand. “That’s in case you get lost,” he said, his words drenched in sarcasm. Noah flipped open the phone and water poured out, the device completely inoperable. This caused all three of them to share a boisterous laugh.
“Do you have any questions?” Jackson asked.
Noah was shocked, but he was also thrilled that his father would challenge him in this way. He knew full well that he would never put him in this situation if he wasn’t absolutely certain that he could accomplish the task. It was a brisk autumn day, the temperature hovering around thirteen degrees. He looked at his father with a small smile and shook his head no.
“Good,” Jackson replied. “Oh, and Noah, one last thing.”
“Yeah, Dad?”
“What time is it?” he asked. With that, he winked and signaled to the pilot to take off. Noah watched as the chopper lifted, his eyes never leaving his father, who looked down at him smiling. He followed the helicopter’s path until it was no longer visible. He peered across the sky and, from the location of the sun, he determined the time to be high noon. Jackson’s question was a typical one, as he often asked his son for the time of day. It served several purposes, depending on the situation, and in that moment in particular, it was to let him know that the clock was ticking. Since Noah was not allowed to carry a watch, he had to learn what time it was by the position of the sun.
His mission defined, he calculated his location based on where the helicopter had picked them up, how long they were in flight, and the direction they had flown. He figured he was at least 200 kilometers from home. He realized it would be impossible to cover that much terrain on foot in the time allotted and that he would need to improvise a way to gain ground and beat the clock. The first obstacle was the ring of mountains that encircled him. Known locally as the King’s Crown, the natural barrier consisted of six dead peaks. Just slabs of black rock laid bare, with the skeletons of a petrified forest strewn in a frozen panorama.
Noah had pleaded with his father for years to take him to the Crown. And now that his wish was finally granted, on his sixteenth birthday no less, he stood alone. Taking in his surroundings, he carefully studied each of the six mountains. There was no easy way out and each mountain held its own set of difficulties. The direct path home was obstructed by the most ominous of the black peaks — a technical ascent, littered with jagged cliffs like shark teeth and a dead forest full of snapped trunks, scattered like broken glass. The two neighboring peaks, while smaller, were just as technical and would take too long to get over. Noah immediately dismissed them. The three smaller mountains that lay opposite were still challenging, but would involve more hiking than climbing. He decided to take the path of least resistance with the assurance that he could easily free climb his way over one of the smaller mountains without exerting too much energy. He was certain that beyond the mountain range there would be a network of streams, which would help to make up for any time lost spent going the opposite direction. Throughout his childhood, he had often studied topographical maps of Spain, memorizing every detail, which allowed him to trace his journey as if the legend were in his grasp.
It was long into the day when Noah hiked his way past his first obstacle, and when he came across the banks of a wide stream, he looked for a place to settle down for the night. He built a shelter three times his size, leaning large branches of freshly cut pine against a mammoth boulder. He set up a small campfire, using the singular matchstick stored in the butt of his knife, compliments of his father. After a cursory sweep of the area, he was able to scavenge a tin can; a plastic jug; a bungee cord; and various grades of old rope that would serve him well during his foray in the wilderness. With what little daylight he had left, he set a trap in hopes of snaring a rabbit or squirrel, having found some tree nuts nearby to bait the trigger. He understood that food was a luxury under the circumstances, and he soon switched to the larger task: building a raft that he could navigate downstream, eventually making his way to the Rio Capota. The stream was deep and wide, having reached its full capacity from the abundance of summer rains and snowmelt. It would provide a perfect route to cut through the countryside and take him closer to home. He spent the rest of that evening putting the raft together by firelight, cutting and tying log after log, meticulously securing each one with a series of sailor knots, until finally he collapsed from utter exhaustion.
He woke at daybreak after a few hours of restless sleep, his growing hunger too intense to ignore. He checked on the snare he had set the day before but the trap was empty. He disarmed it and, on his walk back to the camp, he found a long tent pole made from aluminum, its joint broken and discarded. The pole inspired him to try his luck at fishing for his breakfast. He fastened his hunting knife to the longer piece of pole and constructed a serviceable spear. He then positioned himself on top of a long shale boulder that jutted out beyond the edge of the stream. He dropped a couple of worms that he had dug from the bank in the water and waited. The ripples stirred a few curious blue gills to the scene, but the fish were much too small and far too quick to lance, so Noah continued to drop more worms in hopes of a larger target. His patience was eventually rewarded when a large carp swam close by. He carefully dropped more bait into the water, which brought the fat fish even closer, the top of its murky green head breaking the surface as it fed on the nightcrawlers. He struck hard and fast into the water and his aim was true; his spear struck the fish squarely in the spine, killing it instantly. Victorious, Noah let out a loud roar and did a joyful dance, knowing the fresh catch would keep him well fed at least for the day.
As his breakfast cooked over a fire, he put the finishing touches on his raft. He had used the remains of the scavenged rope to fasten together the twelve logs, with each log roughly four meters long. After he broke his fast, he tested the boat’s seaworthiness, shoving it into the stream. While the initial result seemed promising, the moment Noah mounted the craft, everything fell apart. The boat capsized, leaving him furious and soaking wet. Frustrated, cold, and now behind schedule, Noah knew he had to reassess his plan and figure out what had gone wrong. He salvaged what he could of the rope but lost more than half of it, only infuriating him further. Knowing full well that any other setbacks would destroy any hope of his getting back on time, he took off his wet clothes and placed them on the rocks to dry while he came up with a new strategy. He concluded that the first raft was too big and the logs hadn’t been fastened as tightly as they should have been. He decided to scavenge the area once again, this time searching in the opposite direction. Dressed in only his skivvies and boots, the lanky Noah found a rusty folding beach chair with a faded green nylon back. The chair was half submerged in mud but otherwise intact, and he smiled when he saw its stubby legs. Deeper in the forest, he uncovered a ripped piece of a blue plastic tarp nestled amongst a pile of grey rubble.
The second raft was smaller, comprising only half the original number of logs, at half the length. The two center logs were the longest, surrounded by shorter ones in descending order, so that the raft resembled a wing. He wrapped the tarp around the fastened logs, ensuring that its brass rings all fell along the same side. This allowed him to cinch the tarp tight against the logs, binding both ends so that the front and back of the skiff were pointed. He placed the folding chair in the middle of the raft and secured it with the bungee cord. He converted the broken tent pole into a paddle by bending the broken end into a triangle and refastening it to the longer end. Then he wrapped the last of the tarp around the triangle. By the time this was accomplished, it was already near midday, and Noah was twenty-four hours into his challenge. His modifications paid off — the new raft was not only seaworthy, but fast, and the sleek design allowed him to snake through the stream efficiently. He broke camp and, with his clothes dry, he set off down the stream.
He spent the rest of the day in his improvised kayak, covering a remarkable distance with no incident and more than compensated for lost time. As evening fell, the water grew rapid. He beached the vessel, confident that his stream would soon join the river. He built a large fire which he started by using the waterlogged mobile that Randall had given him. Whether it had been an intentional gift or not, Noah knew that he could start a quick fire using the phone’s lithium battery. He used his knife to penetrate the battery casing, and the chemical reaction caused by oxygen mixing with the exposed lithium created a brilliant flare of shooting sparks and flames. Soon he had a blaze going that would burn long through the night. With less than an hour of light left, he hunted for crayfish under rocks in the stream. He boiled the shellfish in the tin can he had found the day before and built another branch shelter by moonlight. He spent the rest of the evening eating his fill of crayfish and slept well, vindicated after his earlier failure.
The next day, Noah woke up an hour before sunrise. He dragged his raft several kilometers along the shore, past the rough rapids, to where the stream entered Rio Capota, and set off once again. The river current was swift and much faster than Noah had anticipated, but he managed well enough and, before the day was through, he reached the sleepy town of Parmona. He abandoned the raft and walked to the edge of town, avoiding contact with curious locals, and hunkered down near the small train station to wait for his ride out of it. He fell asleep and almost missed his chance but he hopped on the train just as it pulled away from the platform and hoboed his way toward his destination. A few kilometers from home, he jumped off and spent the wee hours of the morning walking. He crossed the threshold of the front door an hour after dawn and was greeted by his parents and Uncle Randall who had just awakened and were drinking their morning coffee on the back porch.