Free Hidden Courage (Atlantis) by Christopher David Petersen

plans, then slowly advanced the throttle forward.
     
    With a full load, the tiny plane moved forward slowly, then, after a few feet, started to pick up momentum. Nearly seventy feet down the runway, he had reached his departure speed and pulled steadily back on the stick while adding a slight bit of rudder to keep the plane from drifting off-course.
     
    Jack’s climb rate was about 1,200 feet per minute – nowhere near the 2,000fpm he experienced the day before when the plane was empty. He was climbing to 13,000 feet, the maximum height he had reached while flying around Destination B. This would ensure he cleared the deadly saddle that almost claimed his life the day before.
     
    At the higher elevations, Jack’s engine performance was greatly reduced. He could only expect about three hundred fpm above 10,000 feet, and much less above 12,000 feet. In all, it would take him at least forty-five minutes to climb to 13,000 feet, almost the exact time it would take him to get to the saddle. If he arrived too soon, he wouldn’t have the altitude to clear the ridge. He decided to circle the small town while climbing, ensuring he would have the altitude well before he reached the saddle.
     
    After fifteen minutes of circling, Jack had climbed to the 10,000 foot level. With only 3,000 feet left, he knew he would clear the saddle with time to spare. With that, he exited the valley to the east, following the directions displayed on both GPSs.
     
    Forty minutes of light turbulence later, he could see the saddle in the far distance. Apprehension swept over his body as his eyes locked on the spot he almost gave his life to the day before. He was about 1,000 feet above it, and still lower than the snow-covered mountain tops that suspended the saddle between them.
     
    As he passed over the ridge, right on cue, the wind that was being driven over the top of the saddle like water over a dam caused him to lose altitude as the downdraft forced him lower. He watched as his altitude unwound from 13,000 feet down to 12,700, clearing the ridge by 700 feet. He learned his lesson and felt good because of it.
     
    “Oh yeah! Jack, two; saddle, NOTHING,” Jack said out loud, mocking the inanimate mountain pass.
     
    As the valley opened up in front of him, he no longer needed the flight sectional to guide him. He headed for the northern side of Destination B, where he had spotted the snowfield and the two ridges. Working his way around to the ‘front’ of the mountain, looking out the right passenger window as he flew, he watched as the football field-sized snowfield came into view, the two ridges bracketing each side.
     
    Jack’s heart started to pound. He had butterflies in his stomach as he moved in for a closer look. As he flew closer, he lowered his flaps to the halfway point, allowing him to lower the nose of the tiny plane without picking up unnecessary airspeed. He now had a commanding view of the mountain through the windshield as he descended.
     
    Minutes later, he judged his altitude to be a thousand feet above the snowfield. He reached down, pulled the throttle control and reduced his power to idle. Jack’s heart was now pounding and his hands were wet with sweat, as he thought of landing under such extreme conditions.
     
    As he descended, he took a hard look at both the ridge and the snowfield. Aside from a couple of exposed rock climbing pitches that looked easy, the ridgeline looked like an easy snow hike. He looked down toward the field. It looked flawless, without a single depression or bump along its entire surface.
     
    “Wow, this is unbelievable,” he shouted to himself over the roar of the engine. “How lucky can I get?”
     
    At about 250 feet above the field, he could tell that it was much bigger than a football field; twice as big, if he had to guess. Pretending to land, he flew over the snowfield and straight at the mountain. With a quick glance down at the snow below, then back to his altimeter, he