Free Dunc Breaks the Record by Gary Paulsen Page B

glider moved off to the right.
    “What are you doing?” Amos clutched at the bar. “Don’t move that way.”
    “It’s so strange. I can turn left or right, but it won’t go down. In fact, we’re still climbing. I’ll bet we’re ten, twelve thousand feet up now. I wish I had an altimeter—I
know
we’ve got the record now.”
    All the time he talked, Amos had been strangely silent. He craned his neck around to look back, then forward. “Dunc …”
    “Not just the distance record for two boys our age, but probably the altitude record as well.”
    “Dunc …”
    “Maybe if I held the nose up a little, we’d climb still more—just to clinch it.”
    “Dunc!”
    “You don’t have to scream—I’m right next to you.”
    “I’ve been looking down.”
    “I know. And I’m very proud of you, conquering your fears that way.”
    “That’s not it. I’ve been looking down, and I don’t recognize anything.”
    “It all looks different from up here.”
    “No.” Amos shook his head, his helmet wobbling in the sunlight. “I mean, we’re moving. It’s hard to tell from up here, but I think we’re sliding sideways all the time.”
    Dunc studied the ground, then nodded slowly. “I think you might be right—there must be a sidewind, and we’re blowing with it. I think we’re moving southwest.”
    “Southwest,” Amos said, “southwest. How fast are we going?”
    Dunc shook his head. “I can’t be sure. I think I read an article in the library once that said thefronts go through here at about thirty-five miles an hour.”
    “And we’ve been up here how long?”
    Dunc looked at his watch. “Almost an hour—man, that’s
got
to be the record! Not only distance but altitude and time—we’ve got them all!”
    But Amos was figuring. “So we’ve come close to thirty-five miles, heading southwest.”
    Dunc nodded. “I think so—maybe. About.”
    “And we haven’t started down yet.”
    “Not yet.”
    “This isn’t good,” Amos said. “Not good at all.”
    “What’s the matter? We’ll come down sooner or later.”
    “Think,” Amos said. “You’ve been so caught up in this record business, you’re forgetting something. We’re heading southwest. We’ve come thirty or so miles, and we’re still heading that way.”
    “Right—when we come down, we’ll get to a phone and call home. It’ll all work out.”
    “Except for one point—the Davis Wilderness Area starts twenty-five miles southwest of town.”
    “Oh.” Dunc nodded. “I didn’t think of that.”
    “And it stretches for close to eighty miles in a southwest direction.”
    “Almost ninety, actually,” Dunc said. “I read that it was named after a guy named Milton Davis who worked hard to save some small trees or fish or something. He disappeared back in the seventies.”
    “You’re not following me, Dunc.” Amos took his hand off the bar long enough to wave a finger, then slammed it back down when the glider wiggled. “Stay with me now—we’re flying in a hang glider out over a wilderness area where there isn’t a phone or a road. We don’t have any way to get out. We don’t have any food or clothing with us. We don’t even have a compass.”
    Dunc studied Amos for a moment, then nodded slowly. “I see your point, but I think you’re worrying needlessly. We haven’t started down yet. Heck, we might go all the way across the wilderness area before we come down.”
    But they didn’t.

.3
    “Dunc, why is everything getting bigger?” Amos was looking down. “See the trees, and that river—aren’t they getting bigger?”
    Dunc nodded but said nothing. He was also watching the ground intently, frowning. Below them stretched miles and miles of raw wilderness—thickly wooded small mountains and rolling hills. Here and there lay a lake, cut back between hills, and across the whole of it stretched a river.
    “Are we going down?” Amos looked at Dunc.
    Dunc nodded. “We must have lost the thermal.”
    Amos