Distances and Disappearances

Evening falls early over Kachemak Bay. Clouds press down, obscuring the ridge line of the bluff behind town. Gusting winds spatter rain and snow against the window of the Flight Service Station where I am on watch and smearing my view of the streetlight outside. I squint my eyes, trying to determine the percentage of snow versus rain in the mix--for such subtleties are important in the world of weather observation.

But in layman's terms, it's just pretty snotty.

ANCHORAGE, Alaska (AP) - Bad weather continues to hinder the search for a missing medical helicopter, but rescuers say they plan to look for the aircraft all weekend in Prince William Sound. A spokesman for the effort, McHugh Pierre, says searchers are approaching as if their mission is still a rescue, rather than recovery, operation.

There has been no new developments in the search for the missing air ambulance flight. But until the weather improves enough to allow for a thorough search, it is hard to abandon hope. Two feet of snow fell near Whittier on Tuesday, which would effectively bury any wreckage on land. What the cold waters of Prince William Sound may have swallowed will be disgorged reluctantly.

I live in a place where people disappear. Alaska. Too large to comprehend. People go out in planes, boats, on foot, and are never heard from again.
--Sheila Nickerson
Disappearance: A Map

Vicariously, I feel the frustration of those trying to mount an effective search in weather conditions that have been described at times as "horrendous." I feel a quiet ache in my heart for the families of the missing, constrained by circumstance to stand helplessly at the side, unable to go and look for themselves.

Meanwhile, time passes and whatever grace period there may have been vanishes.

*~*~*~*~*

I am waiting myself this evening, as Denny flies home from a visit with his family in Florida. I track his progress on FlightArrivals.com as he moves along a four-thousand-plus mile thread that stretches from one side of our country to another. Now suspended in the air between Minneapolis and Seattle; now on the west coast, only one time zone away. Already he feels closer.

He should arrive in Anchorage just before midnight--over two hundred miles away via the serpentine Sterling and Seward Highways. He has then another journey to make, following the long road home down Turnagain Arm and over the passes of the Kenai Mountains, then the long coastal bluff to home.

Weather permitting, he should be home by five tomorrow morning.

I watch the thick precipitation clot against the window and listen to the winds increase outside. I am an old wife. I have spent evenings like this before.

Midcentury Love Letter

Stay near me, Speak my name. Oh, do not wander
By a thought's span, heart's impulse, from the light
We kindle here. You are my sole defender
(As I am yours) in this precipitous night,
Which over earth, till common landmarks alter,
Is falling, without stars, and bitter cold.
We two have but our burning selves for shelter.
Huddle against me. Give me your hand to hold.

So might two climbers lost in mountain weather
On a high slope and taken by storm,
Desperate in the darkness, cling together
Under one cloak and breathe each other warm.
Stay near me. Spirit, perishable as bone,
In no such winter can survive alone.

--Phyllis McGinley