Infertile Grounds

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If the plane had crashed thirty minutes earlier, Chris Foster would be dead. It would have plowed him into the underbrush along the edge of the river he loved, ending his life with an incredible, almost humorous bit of bad luck.

He was in the middle of a yearly, two-week sabbatical at his secluded cabin in Northern Maine – no computers, no employees, no wife, just his fishing rod and the last great wilderness on the east coast.

Everything was perfect until a small yellow plane careened around the lazy bend down-river and clipped the top of a massive pine tree protruding from the eroded bank at a forty-five-degree angle. The plane dove violently, missing the water by inches. The pilot regained control briefly until a three-foot piece of tree-damaged wing snapped off, sending the plane into an arcing barrel roll. It passed twenty feet over Chris’ head and slammed into the opposite river bank with a tremendous crash that silenced the engine’s sputtering whine.

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