by Steven Swaks
“You do realize there is a pretty good chance we are going to turn around?” I said with a cold stare.
“That’s ok.” Tristan said with an onset of a smile.
“And I am not going to push the weather.” I said waving my index finger to emphasize my point.
“I understand.” His smile grew a little more.
“All right, give me five minutes and we are out of here.”
“Thank you! Thank you so much!” His smiled blossomed into a glowing radiance illuminating his weary face.
I did not have the heart to refuse the flight, the fire truck probably did it. This is how my Five One Charlie turned onto the rain soaked runway One Eight and started the takeoff roll carrying away Tristan sitting by my side, his two friends, the presents, and even the evil little fire truck. As I entered the runway I could not help but wonder why I was doing this job. I could have been a cook or a firefighter, but I chose to be a pilot in Alaska with the horrendous weather associated with it.
We were airborne -again-in the expected weather, the same low clouds and light rain I had braved thirty minutes earlier. They had not gone anywhere, they probably knew I was coming back and decided to hang around for a while and give me a little more of a hard time before moving towards the Kilbuck Mountains.
We kept flying southwest. I could see Tristan anxious to get there. The odds were on his side and the weather was greatly improving. The rain had stopped, and a small rainbow was even dropping by to show its washed out colors. The mood in the plane was also improving, the tension was fading away. Soon, Tristan would be reunited with his family.
We were in the back of the system, without looking at him, I could feel his relief. In a few minutes he would be hugging his loved ones, his mother anxious to see him safe, his little brother probably waiting for the demanding fire truck, and the older brothers ready for a good fight. The rest of the family would also be there, the uncles, the nieces, the entire clan would soon be reunited to celebrate his safe return.
Political standpoint aside, I was happy to bring my little contribution to the war effort. Whether we supported the conflict in Iraq or not, we had troops out there, our boys were getting killed on a daily basis by an invisible enemy and any help was welcomed. Tristan was fairly safe in Kuwait, but chaos was so close.
The weather continued lifting. There was a serene atmosphere in the plane, the smooth calm after an argument. I knew at least one pair of eyes was glued to the GPS watching the countdown to our arrival, but we were in Alaska, and we could not take anything for granted. The GPS showed us a mere twelve minutes away.
Twelve minutes, an eternity, enough time for the clouds to drop and the fog to roll back inland. Tristan gave me the this-is-not-happening look. The visibility was shrinking by the minute. The clouds were collapsing released from their giant strains. Seven minutes out. We were flying over the large T-shaped Dall Lake when the rain started again. The fog was thickening, my destination, so close, was fading away like the pulse of a dying patient.
Three miserable minutes to our destination, I could feel Tristan’s distress and despair, frantically looking at the GPS, looking outside, and trying to read my reactions. The thoughts jumbled in a pit of desperation, is he going to turn around? Is he? No, we are almost there! No, he can’t do that to me. I haven’t been sitting in a plane for 20 hours to turn around now. No, we are almost there! It’s going to be ok, we are going to land soon. Do I see Chefornak? Is that it? No, it’s a cabin. Come on!
With a Machiavellian gaze, I turned my head and looked at him with a straight face and the weight of the world on my shoulders. I was the veterinarian telling the little girl that her cat did not survive the surgery. My right hand rose. I was ready to execute the prisoner on the electric chair, my index finger made a small and quick motion showing a required 180 degree turn back to Bethel. In an instant, I wiped out the last ounce of hope from his face and witnessed disappointment incarnated.
In his annihilated world, time stopped, along with his heart. His eternity was a handful of seconds, the effect was total. Before the dust settled, I laughed, releasing any real doubts about the cruel tease.
The 207 landed and slowed down bouncing around on the uneven ground. The boy was home, there was no more war, no more weather, no more anxiety, just his home town and family roots waiting to be uncovered. Tristan could not get enough, overdosing on native scents, sounds, and colors. The small ramp was coming up. Soon, the engine would stop, soon, he would finally be able to open the door and escape the aluminum cage. Everything was too slow. Tristan had to leave, now. Eternity only lasted an instant.
The small plane stopped on the ramp, the clumsy pilot was endlessly shutting down the engine, pushing buttons and useless switches. This would never end. The propeller lazily came to a stop, deliverance was here. Tristan pulled the silver handle and opened the door, his foot landed on the ground. The first step never felt so good, his land, his childhood was here. The air, the perfumes, the Bering Sea a mile away, the family so close, another few hundred feet and he would be home.
The last chore, grabbing the presents, Tristan was confused, mumbling, “Oh, Norton… oh… you guys… you guys are mean!”
His face reflected fatigue, happiness, relief, confusion; months in Kuwait exploded in a glimpse, immortalized in a single facial expression.
In an instant, I was alone on the small ramp, everything was over. I was just standing there, facing the narrow gravel path running away from the ramp. Darkness was settling in, soon, the nearby high school and the village store would cast their ghostly lighting. It was time to head back home.
Two weeks later, the memorable trip was fading away and was ranking in the great souvenir section. I was at the Alaska Airlines Terminal waiting for a passenger. As usual, a small group of National Guards were waiting to embark the Boeing bound to Anchorage. To my great surprise, Tristan was among them, it was time to fly back to Kuwait. Like old friends, we walked towards each other and greeted. There was no more pilot/ passenger relationship, no more service to provide or expectations. With a single flight, Tristan became a good friend with a shared experience.
Our war was hitting home. Kuwait was so close to the lion’s den. A change of order would mean a one way ticket for torment. Another three months and Tristan would come home for the last time. For now, we were all hoping for the best, his mother was home, pretending that everything was all right, secretly praying for a last safe return, and his siblings noticed the empty chair at the dinner table. Tristan was just one among thousands, most came back, others did not. The conflicts in the Middle East affected everybody, and this was my little personal experience, even Alaska was not immune to the madness.
It Was All About the Moose
September
Some people might think that flying in bush Alaska is glamorous, and in a way, it was. Breathtaking scenery, wild life, and remote locations punctuated our days at the office like the smiles of a welcoming assistant in a dental clinic. Our playground was the size of a state and our neighbor was on a different continent. Occasionally, I came back from the front lines to visit family and friends or to savor a bowl of Californian hyper-urbanization. I enjoyed the look on the faces of burnt out physicians dragging their feet through hospital corridors, businessmen stuck in their office dreaming of freedom, or computer wizards left out by lady excitement. As they asked questions about bush flying, I could see the glitter in their eyes, yes, I know, if only you could be there.
In this wonderful world, I entered dispatch and a grateful Jeb told me that whenever I was ready, I could go to Dillingham, which was a 160 miles southeast of Bethel, to pick up two hunters, their moose meat, and bring the big happy family back to Bethel. The sky was a crisp blue and I walked to the plane with my silk white scarf floating in a light breeze. My two friendly passengers were already onboard briefed and buckled up, the young and beautiful ground crew had recently left her modeling agency just to cater to our needs and saluted us as we tax
ied out, her bleached blond hair waving in the gentle wind.
The fantasy world violently crashed against reality; the beautiful ground crew mutated into a grunting post hangover party animal and the romantic blue sky morphed into clouds looming over the airport.
The flight turned out to be pleasant, not completely boring or overly exciting with an unrestrained fear for my life, but it was the perfect harmony of a mild challenge combined with the beauty of the mountains going by. Despite my wildest hopes, the gray and white puffy blanket above me was not changing much with clouds between 2000 and 2500 feet, which was well beneath most mountains tops. As I looked to the left, I could picture the summits hiding in the mist like invisible walls in the sky. I did not want to play hide and seek with the terrain where I opened the door, screamed “gotcha,” before splattering my ride onto the rocky ground.
The prospect of being the next meal for the local brown bears was out of the question. I elected to fly south of the mountains and hug the coast to stay well clear of any significant rocky threat. Besides, a southern route with lower hills gently sloping into the sea would give me plenty of options if the weather deteriorated.
Quinhagak was the next village fifteen minutes further south from my current location. It was a unique town, the last stop of a summer river fishing trip for wealthy tourists in need of controlled adventure. I still do not know how he managed to pull that one off and get away from Jim’s wrath, but Roman was among a handful of charter pilots who left Norton and flew those tourists during the summer. They picked them up on the Kuskokwim River in Bethel and dropped them off on the beautiful Pegati Lake in the middle of the Kilbuck Mountains. The tourists came armed to the teeth with camping and fishing gear, along with their cumbersome rubber rafts. They rowed their way down the Kanektok River to Quinhagak, braving swarms of mosquitoes, an occasional ferocious grizzly bear and conniving wolves, all served in horrendous weather conditions. The worn out tourists finally made it to their destination ten days later. Some of them came out traumatized and treated the experience as a once in a lifetime trip never to be reiterated; others loved it, and came back every year for more.
Several times a week, Norton Aviation flew to Quinhagak to pick up the survivors at the end of their ordeal. I often taxied in and saw them huddling together like a group of wet dogs trying to stay warm on the uncovered ramp. The small 207 was the ticket to luxury, a dry bed, a hot shower, and the end of incessant mosquito attacks.
Jack Smith Bay was the next pin on the map. The bay hugged steep mountains which broke the monotony of the tundra, but it was much more than a scenic fly by, it was the beginning of a fight. As the great eastern winds awoke, they rushed over the mountains like a frantic cavalry and rolled down the slopes with devastating fury. The small plane was a raft on an invisible torrent, a live flood of torment and turbulence over the powerless bay. The following year, a Piper Cub pilot from California coming for the summer would mishandle the wind pattern and stall his plane over the bay; Alaska would claim yet another life.
The Bay marked the beginning of a thirty mile ribbon of land between the mountains and the Bering Sea. The next few minutes of flight were deeply enjoyable over the mountains and peaks going by. We were in bear country and each cove was a new chance for a sighting. Oh, I did see the beast; it was a large brown bear standing on its hind legs irritated by my plane flying by. I was an intruder and its standing posture was very clear, I was not welcomed in its territory.
When the weather did not cooperate, I followed the black sandy beach for a while; at least the coast line guaranteed an obstacle free routing. Or was it truly free? I was not the only one to hang out over the neighborhood; the sea gulls flew in formation and gladly patrolled the area. More than once, their black and white bodies became a zooming spec in the restricted visibility turning my flight into a Russian roulette without a real way to avoid them. While I dodged the birdies, the seals and walruses did not care, lying on the beach so far away from my occasional tormented condition.
My route was at the beginning of the Kilbuck Mountains, and the mean cliffs and peaks from Nyac were just in their infancy. The luxurious forests and mountains from the north were hardly tundra covered hills, not that the spectacle was insipid, it was only different. It was not the Great North with Santa hanging out with his elves while they prepared to spoil millions of kids at Christmas, it was more like the harsh lands around Scotland where a kilted Highlander might have been running along with his barbaric friends.
I flew another forty minutes before an easy ride to a stop in Dillingham. There was no tree to dodge, no last minute object to avoid, just the simplicity and comfort of a modern paved airport. I taxied to the Norton Aviation hangar and parked the 207, Five One Charlie, by the hangar. I never had a chance to enter our little Dillingham hub, after all, it was on the other side of the mountains and aside from an occasional charter I had really no reason to fly there.
The passenger lounge and hangar were fairly large considering our single 207 based at the airport. I entered the terminal and glanced at the room with envy, their lounge was much larger than ours. Often, I had seen people jammed in our small terminal, trying to avoid tripping over bags and boxes. Dillingham’s facility might have been able to welcome a greater number of passengers than ours, but their facility could not hide the true mail handling vocation of the hub. The room was bare bones, nothing was there to really welcome the brave travelers. There was no advertising poster, no required coffee machine, and the stripped white walls gave a ghostly pale tone to the waiting area. On the other side of a large counter splitting the room in half, there were two desks left by a previous operator.
Marc was the only pilot assigned there along with two ground crew. Once in a while, Marc traded his pilot hat for a mechanic one doing minor maintenance on his unique plane. He was like so many migrants from the lower 48 turned Alaskan. A long time ago, the beauty of the area had invaded him and had transformed him. There was no more stress and melancholy. Marc walked around peacefully and wore a beautiful white beard which only added to the warmth of his smile.
My two passengers were by themselves standing in the middle of the waiting area. They looked like typical hunters, still dressed with their rubber boots and camouflaged jackets. Their bags laid beside them, probably full of wet and bloody clothing. They were Jim’s friends and had been traveling throughout Alaska for the last few decades, or so I was told before leaving Bethel. Their rugged look answered all the questions I had. Each wrinkle on their face had a story to tell, a hunting trip, another cold night in the woods.
I expedited the routine introduction, and we walked towards the hangar adjacent to the passenger terminal where Marc was waiting for us. He was like my passengers, swimming in his late fifties and happy to be there, his extensive presence in Alaska had made him rough in appearance, but it also had turned him into a very pleasant man. Marc had the time to sit and share his experience. There was no rush, no need to be somewhere else. There was a little something about people who decided to spend the rest of their lives here. After a few decades, they developed the same look and attitude, a mixture of toughness and wisdom. They looked like the old bears to be handled with great care, but which could be approached with patience and could turn out to be very interesting and enlightening characters. So far, I had not seen much of the enlightened side of my two passengers. I guessed they did not know me and only offered the rugged aspect of their personality.
Marc walked us to a cold room and opened the door; the freshly killed moose was waiting for us as a large pile of meat. There were dozens of moose chunks resting on a wooden palette: ribs, thighs, and deformed blood soaked giant steaks. I had flown moose before, and like any other respectable bush pilot, I knew the basic anatomy of the animal. My moose came complete, down to the antlers and their disgusting, white, gooey, and smelly spinal cord connection.
I gassed up the 207 for the return trip. I added the weight of my two passengers, myself, their gear and bags a
nd I came down to 550 pounds available for the meat. I was far from able to take the entire moose, but that was still a good chunk of the total weight. Ultimately, I was facing up to 1000 pounds of dead mammal which was well beyond the capability of my ride. My passengers were aware of the plane’s limitation and accepted it without fuss. We picked up a cart and rolled it by a large scale. I reluctantly endorsed my butcher hat and picked up the pieces of meat. One by one, I weighed the shanks and dropped them off onto the cart in a grotesque and bloody splash. As for the leftovers, another lucky pilot of a scheduled flight would have the chance and joy to play with the butchered carcass.
My used to be beautiful and comfortable leather gloves were turning Alaskan. It was not their baptism by fire, but it was probably the worse I could do to them. I felt like a meat worker picking up his daily load. This time, I thought airline flying was really the way to go. I would have gladly traded my 20 pounds of gory moose ribs for a cappuccino and a chat with a fellow pilot wearing his recently ironed white shirt and immaculate black tie. We would not have been talking about sneaking between two mountain peaks and scud running, rather, we would have expressed our airspeed in Mach and the 34,000 foot winds aloft would have been the main subject of conversation.
I cautiously rolled the loaded cart to the plane. As a necessary skill, I knew how to load a moose in a cargo bay. It was not that hard but the pilot had to keep some requirements in mind. I could not simply throw the meat in the back of the plane like a butcher would on a rack, because my hunter’s meat was supposed to be consumed. They would not have been very happy to see their game thrown in a dusty plane (not that my plane was truly dusty). I was also thinking about my next passengers. My 207 should be able to handle customers a few minutes after my return to Bethel, and I could not afford to give them a blood soaked cabin. Lastly, just like any other freight, my moose could not slide anywhere during the flight. Especially on takeoff, the slimy meat had an irresistible tendency to go play in the back of the cabin. This could not happen. 500 pounds of meat sliding to the back would most certainly have meant an undesirable shift of the plane’s center of gravity down to the lethal zone of the flight envelope. The plane would have started a very steep climb only to realize that gravity was much stronger. In its last instance of agony, the tail would have decided to head straight back to the ground, most certainly killing everybody on board. Pilots had gambled before, often pressured by uneducated passengers, and soon found out their mistake as they had become passengers of a doomed aircraft.