The email came from Azhar, who was finishing his final semester in environmental engineering. He had a professor who was leading a summer research project in the most remote part of the state's national forest, a place notorious for its complete lack of any communication infrastructure. They were studying the effects of acid rain on a rare species of alpine wildflower that grew in a single, isolated valley.
"The university is worried about safety," Azhar's email read. "The research team will be out of contact for two weeks. My professor knows I'm a ham, and he asked if there was any way we could provide a daily communications link. I told him I knew just the team."
This was different from our "Parks on the Air" event. This wasn't for points or for fun. This was a real-world mission, providing a critical safety link for scientists doing important work. It was an evolution of everything we had learned.
The plan was complex. The research valley was surrounded by high granite peaks, which meant line-of-sight VHF and UHF communication was impossible. A satellite shot might work, but the passes would be short and unreliable in the narrow valley. The only surefire way to get a signal out was with HF radio, bouncing it off the ionosphere.
This meant we needed a portable, efficient HF station that could be carried in backpacks for miles. Samuel, naturally, took charge of the technical design. He chose a lightweight, low-power radio and designed a "linked dipole" antenna system-a single wire antenna with special connectors that allowed us to change its length to work on different HF bands, depending on which one was open. It was a brilliant, elegant solution.
Doretha handled logistics and power. She calculated our power needs and sourced a set of lightweight lithium-iron-phosphate batteries, pairing them with a foldable solar panel array to recharge them during the day. We would be completely self-sufficient.
My job was operations. I worked with the lead scientist to create a communications plan. We would have a scheduled check-in every evening at a specific time on a primary and backup frequency. We established a simple protocol for passing routine "all is well" messages, and more importantly, a clear plan for what to do in case of a medical emergency or other crisis.
The five of us-me, Azhar, Doretha, Samuel, and Gregory, who insisted on coming along as "chief morale officer"-drove to the edge of the wilderness and hiked for a full day to reach the researchers' base camp. It was a beautiful, achingly remote place. The silence was profound, the same kind of silence that had once terrified me on Eagle's Peak. But this time, it didn't feel threatening. It felt peaceful. We had brought our own voices with us.
That first evening, as the sun set behind the granite peaks, we set up our station. We tossed a line high into a pine tree and hauled up one end of our antenna. We unrolled the solar panels. We connected the radio. A little island of technology in a vast, untouched wilderness.
At the scheduled time, I sat down at the radio. The research team gathered around, their faces a mixture of skepticism and hope. I tuned to our primary frequency, put on my headphones, and sent out my call. "This is 9W8ABC, portable, calling the club station. Do you copy?"
For a moment, there was only the hiss of static. My heart hammered. Did we miscalculate? Is the signal not getting out?
Then, through the static, a voice came back, faint but perfectly clear. It was one of the Elmers from our club, manning the radio back home. "9W8ABC, we read you five-by-five. Welcome to the middle of nowhere. How are the wildflowers?"
A cheer went up from the researchers. It worked. Our signal, powered by the sun, had traveled over two hundred miles, leaping over a mountain range to reach home. The connection was made. The silence was conquered.
For the next two weeks, we were their only link to the outside world. We passed daily status updates, relayed a request for a specific piece of scientific equipment to be brought in by the next supply helicopter, and even helped a young researcher wish her mom a happy birthday.
Thankfully, there were no emergencies. But the sense of security we provided was palpable. We allowed the scientists to focus on their important work, knowing that if something went wrong, they were not alone.
On our last night, the lead professor, a woman who had spent her life in remote field locations, sat with me by the radio. "You know," she said, "I've always seen this as a hobby for old men tinkering in their basements. I never understood the point. This trip... you've changed my mind. What you do is a critical service."
I looked out at the stars, brighter here than I had ever seen them, and thought about my journey. From CB to ham. From technician to extra. From a scared girl to a confident communicator. It wasn't just a hobby. It was a skill, a service, and a community. And out here, in the quietest place on Earth, I had never been more certain of its power.