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Authors: Loreth Anne White
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down neatly on the airstrip that was better maintained than most he’d landed on in the north. Prevailing winds came off the lake. And far out on the water, beyond a peninsula of forested land, he saw whitecaps. A sign of the coming weather, the first big-ass snowstorms of winter. He’d have to get the plane’s skis on soon.
As he taxied to a stop, he saw Alan Sturmann-Taylor making his way down to the strip to meet him. Sturmann-Taylor was a giant of a man with a shock of prematurely white hair atop a handsome, angular face with striking, deep-set blue eyes. He came to a halt at the edge of the strip and stood facing square into the icy wind, a colorful Nepalese scarf flapping about his neck. A trophy from one of his Everest trips, no doubt. We all had them—trophies. Whether they were stuffed animal heads, scarves, trinkets, Instagram photographs, locks of human hair, kids’ baby teeth. They all said: I was there. I did this. This is my Story. My triumph. My bravery. My ownership of this thing. We considered serial killers creepy when they kept mementos from their victims, like body parts, and when they touched those mementos again and again in order to relive the emotional thrill of their kills. But really, it was no different for the rest of us.
As his prop slowed to a halt, Crash removed his headset, opened the door, and jumped down onto the hard-packed snow of the runway.
Two employees in lodge uniforms came running to unload the delivery he’d brought for the lodge. Crash threw the guys a salute, and opened the cargo door for them.
“How are you, mate?” Sturmann-Taylor said as he approached, arms open wide. He hugged and backslapped Crash with manly bravado, his hands big as hams, muscles like a logger’s. His dress was “Patagucci,” as Crash liked to call it—technical designer adventure gear. Expensive.
“Good, good,” Crash lied. “Chamonix trip worth it? Decent skiing?”
“Some of the best I’ve had. Lost one of our guides to an avalanche, but Christ, what an experience. C’mon up to the lodge while the boys offload. You had breakfast?”
“Coffee would be great.”
Sturmann-Taylor led the way up to the lodge building with his hearty stride. Whether it was conquering the Amazon, fly-fishing in Patagonia, tracking with the San bushmen in the Kalahari, crossing the Sahara on camel, or racing in the Dakar, Sturmann-Taylor drummed the beat of Adventurer, and he walked the walk. He was a psychologist turned big-shot investor with a passion for all things fine, and an intellect to match his bank accounts. It didn’t hurt that he’d come from serious money to start with.
“Got a new group in, I see,” said Crash, nodding toward where he could see Charlie Nakehk’o near the shooting range with several men in keffiyehs atop their camo hunting gear.
“Two new groups, in fact. The Saudis have come for grizzly bear. The other group is here for our new cultural experience. It was a huge success last year, everything from wild cuisine, foraging in the forest with our gourmet chef, locals demonstrating traditional ways and crafts. Sweat lodges and drumming. A lot of the wives are signing up while their better halves go after the blood experience.” He chuckled and held open the big door. “Of course Charlie is our main draw for the hunts. That man makes a small fortune in tips.”
They entered the lodge, and Sturmann-Taylor ordered espressos from his “butler,” who Crash pegged as his bodyguard. The man was a cipher. Expressionless. Ex-Israeli special forces. Built like a street fighter. He had a quiet physicality, and he was carrying concealed—that much Crash had deduced some time ago. Not legal in this country—not without complicated permits, or professional reason. Like being a cop. But then, this part of the world was out of sight enough that it operated by its own rules. Or rather, it was neglected enough that it had to forge its own rules. Wild style.
It’s why he liked
As he taxied to a stop, he saw Alan Sturmann-Taylor making his way down to the strip to meet him. Sturmann-Taylor was a giant of a man with a shock of prematurely white hair atop a handsome, angular face with striking, deep-set blue eyes. He came to a halt at the edge of the strip and stood facing square into the icy wind, a colorful Nepalese scarf flapping about his neck. A trophy from one of his Everest trips, no doubt. We all had them—trophies. Whether they were stuffed animal heads, scarves, trinkets, Instagram photographs, locks of human hair, kids’ baby teeth. They all said: I was there. I did this. This is my Story. My triumph. My bravery. My ownership of this thing. We considered serial killers creepy when they kept mementos from their victims, like body parts, and when they touched those mementos again and again in order to relive the emotional thrill of their kills. But really, it was no different for the rest of us.
As his prop slowed to a halt, Crash removed his headset, opened the door, and jumped down onto the hard-packed snow of the runway.
Two employees in lodge uniforms came running to unload the delivery he’d brought for the lodge. Crash threw the guys a salute, and opened the cargo door for them.
“How are you, mate?” Sturmann-Taylor said as he approached, arms open wide. He hugged and backslapped Crash with manly bravado, his hands big as hams, muscles like a logger’s. His dress was “Patagucci,” as Crash liked to call it—technical designer adventure gear. Expensive.
“Good, good,” Crash lied. “Chamonix trip worth it? Decent skiing?”
“Some of the best I’ve had. Lost one of our guides to an avalanche, but Christ, what an experience. C’mon up to the lodge while the boys offload. You had breakfast?”
“Coffee would be great.”
Sturmann-Taylor led the way up to the lodge building with his hearty stride. Whether it was conquering the Amazon, fly-fishing in Patagonia, tracking with the San bushmen in the Kalahari, crossing the Sahara on camel, or racing in the Dakar, Sturmann-Taylor drummed the beat of Adventurer, and he walked the walk. He was a psychologist turned big-shot investor with a passion for all things fine, and an intellect to match his bank accounts. It didn’t hurt that he’d come from serious money to start with.
“Got a new group in, I see,” said Crash, nodding toward where he could see Charlie Nakehk’o near the shooting range with several men in keffiyehs atop their camo hunting gear.
“Two new groups, in fact. The Saudis have come for grizzly bear. The other group is here for our new cultural experience. It was a huge success last year, everything from wild cuisine, foraging in the forest with our gourmet chef, locals demonstrating traditional ways and crafts. Sweat lodges and drumming. A lot of the wives are signing up while their better halves go after the blood experience.” He chuckled and held open the big door. “Of course Charlie is our main draw for the hunts. That man makes a small fortune in tips.”
They entered the lodge, and Sturmann-Taylor ordered espressos from his “butler,” who Crash pegged as his bodyguard. The man was a cipher. Expressionless. Ex-Israeli special forces. Built like a street fighter. He had a quiet physicality, and he was carrying concealed—that much Crash had deduced some time ago. Not legal in this country—not without complicated permits, or professional reason. Like being a cop. But then, this part of the world was out of sight enough that it operated by its own rules. Or rather, it was neglected enough that it had to forge its own rules. Wild style.
It’s why he liked
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