Alaska! Up North and to the Left

by Steven Swaks

Lydia moaned.

  “I agree,” I said delighted in my temporary cocoon.

  “You know, you should see the bright side,” Lydia said trying to cheer me up.

  “There’s a bright side? Where? In the closet?” I chuckled.

  “If we were in Barrow, it would be worse. They have a month of night up there.”

  “Yeah, and they have vampires roaming the streets. You watch too many movies.”

  “Somebody told me they do have a month of darkness.”

  “That’s different.” I sat up on the bed unable to enjoy the last few minutes of rest, my back against the head of the bed. I rubbed my eyes. “I looked up the almanac on line a few weeks ago to see how bad it can get. Of course Barrow is the most interesting because it’s at the extreme north of Alaska. They have two months without sunrise during the winter, but that doesn’t mean it’s complete night time, it’s darker that’s all. Even for the winter solstice they still have three hours of pseudo light.”

  “How can they have light if it’s after sunset?”

  “You really want me to get into that? Ok, fine. The definition of night, meaning complete darkness, is at the end of the civil twilight in the evening, which is when the sun is six degrees below the horizon. This is not the case in Barrow for a few hours a day in the winter-”

  “Ok, ok, I got it. It’s too early for that. I’m not one of your students!” Lydia pouted. “On the other hand it must be great during the summer!”

  “I’m pretty sure they have a couple of months of daylight.” We won’t; not for a long time, I thought. My voice was dull, beaten, daylight; I hadn’t seen much of it in the last few weeks. Sunshine was an even more precious commodity. I used to see it, every day. When a California winter storm went by, there was always a patch of blue sky sometime during the day, a small window on the full blown summer to be, a prelude to an even warmer season to come. Here, there was nothing but darkness and cold, snowy days after a frosty misery. Once in a while, the weather did clear, but at what cost? Temperatures plummeting to unconceivable values, down where most life forms ceased to exist without a miraculous act of nature. I swung my legs around, and landed my feet on the thick carpet. I trudged to the bay window, pulled the curtains, and peeked outside. The sky was an impenetrable darkness, the ink black that swallowed everything but the nearby street lights, houses, and the thick morning fog.

  I felt like a sailor lost at sea, carried away by the events like giant waves. My ship was strong and sturdy, I knew -I thought-I was safe, but I ignored how long the storm would be. I was in a transition period, Lydia was on cruise control; she had passed the temporary stage and was sailing the rough sea with confidence. I was still wondering what was happening, thrown out of my element, detached from the reality of my current condition.

  The year went by with a few firsts. First boat ride on the river, first midnight cruise during the summer months, first berry picking, not that we actively participated but we followed the trend, we tasted and approved. First dance festival, Cama-i and its dancers, festivities in a high school gym for the entertainment and cultural enlightenment of all. It took a few months, but by spring and the snow melting, I discovered another Alaska. Perhaps not the one I had hoped for, but something else, not better or worse, simply something else. The weather was mostly rainy and miserable, but it did not matter as much anymore, the friendships and anecdotes were blossoming like wild flowers on a spring field, and overcame my anguish.

  The flight school ruled the regimen of my professional life in a docile and gentile way. It was a safety net, a soft and slow introduction to aviation without weather and pressure. The students were mostly motivated, my manager was convivial and the flying was as grueling as a drive-in Saturday evening movie. In a few months, a year at most, I would move on, I would shift the next gear in my flying career. The motivator was a few feet away from the school, Norton Aviation and their Short SC-7 Skyvan*, the fast track to the major airlines and the jet set. The flight school was a waiting room, a launch pad for commercial flying; there was nothing else to do but be patient and build up flight time to become more marketable. The ride was enjoyable; the days were punctuated with ground school, flying gentle cross country flights and basic maneuvers, theories and mild reality. On Fridays we took a break for a barbecue outside, no matter the weather. It was a sight, the grilling steaks and sausages, the rising smoke into the snowy skies. Norton pilots snuck in and inhaled calories before another flight, just enough time for me to ask a few shy questions about the company, a forbidden look into a timed goal. The neighboring State Troopers often stopped by for a quick chat around hot dogs and a soda. They were not feared lawmen but fellow pilots eager to advise the youngsters. The words were never spoken, but mutual care and respect floated around the room in a tranquil silence.

  Students came and went. Some walked away empty handed, rejected by a self-natural selection. The program was overwhelming with way too much studying, too much time in the books, and too many commitments for a demanding career. The Commercial License was on the other side of an impassable abyss. They came to the edge, stared at the frayed rope bridge, and went home after months of trying to walk across. Others dug their teeth into the training, and stepped out as Commercial Pilots. The journey was not easy, filled with traps and setbacks, passes and fails, lost battles and ultimate victories. If the flight school was a parenthesis, it was rewarding, it was a knowledge passed on for a selfish reward. Each pupil stood out for their uniqueness, their one of a kind tinted with teaching.

  The Leap

  April

  Once again, I was in the old beat up Chevy plowing snow. I glanced at the thermometer. Five below. I knew it was early April, I knew the weather would soon warm up, but not soon enough for my bitter taste. This winter was an endless procession of cold and snowy days, the same as yesterday and no different from tomorrow. Plowing became a routine, an unavoidable chore in the morning. Walk out to the aircraft ramp*, assess the damage, and plow away. How much snow this morning? If it was not the snow showers, it was the wind blowing drifts deep enough to prevent any safe aircraft movement. The snow plow blade dropped on the grounds. Gear shift forward, the blade careened through the drifts in grinding sounds. I kept driving back and forth, playing bumper cars with the drifts. I tried to stay warm in the cabin, the truck’s heater had long passed away and I could see my breath crystallizing before me. Gear shift on Reverse.

  Hours on end, I could only stare at Norton Aviation through the old dirt encrusted windshield, so close, just on the other side of the snow bank. Gear shift forward. The small charter company was vibrant with planes coming in and out, passengers boarding the Caravan or 207s*, forklifts rushing around and loading freight, ground crew attending to their duties and barking inaudible orders. Reverse again. In the middle of the chaos, the fruit of my desire, the golden ticket to the major airlines, the proud and incredibly loud Short SC-7 Skyvan stood there awaiting its next flight. The plane, if I dared call it that way, was bar none the ugliest flying machine in town. It was a container with wings, or worse, it was a gigantic Lego cube with long and skinny wings slapped on top of the fuselage and two big mean engines dangling underneath.

  I did enter Norton Aviation’s terminal a few times. The vending machine and the Twix candy bar was a good excuse to catch a glimpse of the airline in action. The small terminal was not very impressive, and its glory days were long gone. The faded walls had once been a proud white. A few hanging picture frames showed scenes of pilots who had left the company a long time ago, but they stayed on the wall as guardians of a wilting history. The opposite end of the room harbored a small wooden counter with two dispatchers. One of them, Ron, was lanky and well into his fifties with chronic difficulty enunciating, probably because he had, once again, forgotten his teeth on the shelves below the counter top. Even if he managed to say a word, decades of smoking distorted any sound coming out of his mouth into a dry and cavernous voice. I was not as familiar with the other dispatcher, J
eb. To be honest, I had never talked to him. He looked much younger, in his mid-twenties perhaps. He was obviously fired up in his vibrant youth and seemed eager to bark orders and assert his growing authority. Hopefully, soon, I would find out more about his peculiar personality.

  On the right side of the room, an old coffee machine was exhausted from brewing for the last few decades. Next to it, were two resilient servants, the candy and the soda machines. If the surrounding businesses truly envied them, they were also in pitiful condition after years of abuse. Traumatized, they hugged each other, waiting for the next frustrated customer in need of a sugar fix to slap them. In a bold move of defiance, they held the soda or the candy bar hostage, but man most often won. After an ultimate kick, the distributors gave up, surrendering to the human rage.

  Most of the time, I walked to Norton Aviation daydreaming about the day I would be part of the company. At 750 hours total time, I was considered a low time pilot in the commercial flying world, much too low to be hired. I simply entered the terminal, politely acknowledged the dispatchers, shook the stubborn candy machine, and walked back to the flight school candy bar in hand, ready to face my students for some more theoretical teaching. Our flying was nice and soft, far away from any real commercial challenge.

  At 1100 hours flight time, I updated my resume, gathered up my courage, and walked into Norton Aviation. This time, I was hoping for a lot more than a candy bar. It was meant, I would walk out of there with a pilot job. I knew it. The first five times I boldly walked in, but stepped out of the terminal with nothing other than the frustration of not seeing Jim Karl, the enigmatic manager and symbol of the hub, always out of town or gone flying.

  One day, I did meet him, and my perspective of Norton suddenly changed. The building was no longer limited to the small terminal. Somebody had opened the door. I was invited into the heart of the organization, I was invited upstairs. I started the ascension of the endlessly long and narrow staircase just past dispatch. I could already hear Jim having a colorful conversation on the phone. As a matter of a fact, anybody in the building could have heard Jim’s conversation, “John! How the hell are you doing? Yeah… Right… ah, ah…you got that right! Yeah whatever… done with that stuff…”

  I entered the break/ classroom/ locker room. The little space was not much, but Jim used it as an extension of his inner self. A couple of brave pilots had slightly altered the room with a few aviation drawings, “the 50 worst aviation lies,” and a detailed technical diagram of the Skyvan’s engines. The walls were filled with hunting trophies, stuffed birds, a large musk ox’s head, and even an entire twelve foot whale baleen plate hung on the wall. In the middle of the room, there was a long and heavy wooden table either used for teaching or to ease the pilot’s feeding process. To this day, I still wonder how they brought that monstrosity upstairs.

  As I walked in, I met Matt, a skinny, short, blond haired and blue eyed young man, obviously the youngest pilot around. I did not want to bother him. I nodded and moved on toward Jim’s office. To my left, was a tiny administration office followed by the mechanics’ room and finally Jim’s pad on the right at the end of a short corridor.

  Jim’s office was more of a wolf’s den than an actual office. The small room was littered with piles of books and junk accumulated from the past twenty three years. Jim Karl, the alpha male of the company, was sitting behind his desk. He did not really fit the mold of the typical bush pilot who had been living in Alaska for the last few decades. Jim was very tall, well over six feet, slender, and was wearing round metallic glasses to complete the perfect Eighteenth Century boarding school warden look. But his lively language combined with an incredible energy -not to say restlessness-made him a very cheerful, and yet intimidating character.

  We passed the required introductions like a horse jockey jumping over obstacles. Jim skimmed through my education, pilot licenses, ratings, and dug directly into the heart of the topic, the essence of a pilot, his flight time and experience.

  “So, how much Alaska time do you have?” He asked me with a quick nod upward.

  “600 hours, sir.”

  “Total time?”

  “I have 1100 hours.” Jim cringed.

  “Um, you know, we’re looking for 1500. That way we can upgrade pilots right away if we need to. Below that…”Jim shook his head. “It’s just a headache; insurance companies give us a hard time and so on,” his right hand wind milled to highlight his statement.

  The sentence fell like a blade of a guillotine on my tender hopes. In a well-staffed company, 1100 hours did not weigh much. That day, the law of offer and demand played against me, my offer was low, and there was not much of a demand. Between two strings of cursing, I was politely asked to build up some more time and come back later.

  Like a sign from destiny, my soon to be ex-manager called Jim, pulled a few strings, and convinced him to change his mind and give me the job. Two weeks later, I was on my way to Anchorage for the ground school. The training was straight forward. I sat in a class room for a few days, patiently listening to hazardous materials precautions, weather, regulations, and other Federal Aviation Administration approved pet peeves. I was entering the depths of commercial aviation and the responsibilities associated with it. There would be no more ground school with students if the weather was marginal, and no more local gentle flying. I would be transporting strangers who expected to get to their destination and a turnaround would have to be greatly justified. The easy going student next to me would soon morph into demanding charter passengers. It was time to leave the theory and enter the real world. I was about to enjoy the freedom of flying away from the prescribed maneuvers and the student mistakes, the endless takeoff and landing sessions with recalcitrant pupils and the make believe scenarios. But beyond the misleading frustration, I walked away from the flight school with a heavy heart. With each passing student, I had left a little of my soul. Today, somewhere in Alaska, a few of Steven’s trained pilots are flying, making their old instructor proud.

  Day One

  May

  On this first Monday morning, I entered Norton’s terminal and met Randolph, the unwillingly dedicated Caravan pilot sprawled on a torn brown couch. I extended my hand towards him and introduced myself. Randolph looked at me, laboriously raised his hand to shake mine, the rest of his body staying glued to the couch.

  “Hi, wha’s up, ‘m Randolph… this company sucks, I’m so sick of it, Jim keeps screwing me over!”

  Dax, the Skyvan’s pilot, walked into the room, laughed, and sat on a spare desk next to the couch, his legs swinging back and forth to the rhythm of Randolph’s complaints about Norton. “Come on, it’s not that bad…” Dax smiled. His nonchalance was obvious and his stockiness, cargo pants, and ball cap, only added to his bush pilot look.

  “Dude, I’ve been on the damn plane for fifteen months! Can you believe that? Fifteen months! I haven’t even touched the Skyvan yet!” Randolph sat up on the couch growing in anger.

  “I’m sure you’re going to get on that thing soon.” Dax patted him on the shoulder.

  I stayed there and found an easy escape. “I’m going to talk to Jim upstairs.” I slightly pointed towards the staircase.

  “Yeah, sure, go for it,” Dax barely acknowledged me, still attending to Randolph.

  I walked upstairs and approached Jim Karl’s office.

  “Yep, I’m not gonna deal with their crap-” as he saw me, Karl covered the phone receiver with the palm of his hand and greeted me in a wild clamor. “Heeeeey Steven, nice to see you again! Go hang out in the break room. Your instructor won’t be here this week… you can go mingle or check out the sled’s* manual,” Jim told me with a large grin before sinking back into his black leather office chair.

  Jim’s now typical cursing drove me out of his office. As I walked out, I could not help but notice some movement in the tiny administration office. My curiosity was picked. I came closer and discovered a short and slightly overweight young native man. His name
was James Atka, but was commonly labeled “Toad” by everybody. Atka was in charge of the administration and regularly backed up dispatch. We introduced ourselves, and chatted about basic paperwork requirements and company expectations. But it was Monday morning, and he had other chores to deal with rather than teaching a new comer. The rapidly growing stacks of documents and other flight logs patiently waiting on his desk reminding him that I was not a priority. I stepped out of the closet sized office and left him alone.

  I sat by myself in the main room, and skimmed through the company operation hand book, sort of the FAA approved bible for the company, the official dos and don’ts of flying for Norton Aviation. For hours, I reviewed cold weather operations and weather requirements, engine cooling procedures and proper aircraft loadings. My dream of flying was becoming entangled in a wide net of Federal Aviation Regulations. There was no commercial flying glamour, and the white silk scarf was long gone as the regulation book grew thicker over the years. I was facing the reality that my first few days would probably be spent alone in this small room, learning the ABC’s of flying for revenue.

  My salvation from complete boredom and dryness came in the form of a giant Eastern European pilot named Roman Matic. His 6’6” frame inspired respect from everybody, and his height only equaled his silence. Roman entered the room, barely clearing the top of the door. I was sitting at the table, and from my point of view, his size was reaching mystic levels.

  “I’m Roman, Jim said you can ride with me if you want.” His deep and calm voice filled the room. I felt like a small speck of dust invading his independence.

  “Sure, I’d love to!” Finally! Somebody had turned on the light at the end of the tunnel. My number was called. It was time to get up, stretch, and leave the books behind. It was time to open the window and breathe the fresh air. The world was mine, and I was ready for the quest. Of course I knew that Roman was not an instructor; I knew that I would have to sit back and watch, but I would also be out there away from this office on a joyful stroll toward the light. I was about to enter the realm of commercial flying and experience the dream.