Tim had forgotten what a total pain-in-the-legs it was to get home. It was the sort of thing you did your best to block out, and he had succeeded. If he’d remembered, he might still be at the Doghouse.
He always had a kit bag behind the seat of the truck, so that had saved him driving back up to camp. An hour later he’d arrived at the Portland airport.
Smokejumper planes weren’t really made for guys who were six-foot-four, but they figured you had a lot of gear. As long as he watched his head there weren’t any real leg room problems.
The Alaska Airlines Dash-8 jet was made for people smaller than Akbar’s five-six. Twelve-year-old kids wouldn’t fit in these seats. He’d barely survived the forty minutes to Seattle. The leg up to Anchorage on a 787 had been at least tolerable, but scrunchi
