by Steven Swaks
I had a writhing knot in the stomach.
“How is he doing?”
“He’s alive,” Jim shrugged, “but he’s not doing so hot.”
“How bad is it?”
“Well, last night I called his wife, she said he had a head injury and a punctured lung, but she said that he was stable. I called her back this morning and she told me he’s in a coma.”
I felt chills running down my spine. I had only met him once, but he was a fellow pilot, a coworker, a brother sharing the same passion. His life was like mine intertwined in the same company, sharing the same fears and hopes, working together in the same environment.
Jim threw a few pictures on his desk.
“The lead mechanic in Fairbanks, Rich, emailed me these shots this morning.”
I looked closer, the Skyvan was resting at a shallow angle in a large, but shallow pond. Most of the fuselage and wings were mostly intact. However, the cockpit was completely crushed.
“The rescue crews had to cut open the cockpit to extricate him.”
I did not know what to say, I could only shake my head in disbelief.
“Take it easy today… don’t take any chances… you know, you don’t even have to fly if you don’t feel like it.”
“I’ll be fine. Thanks.”
I was numb. I walked out. Norton was quiet. Pilots and ground crews, mechanics and dispatchers did their work in silence. There was nothing to say. Benjamin was preflighting a 207 in the hangar for a flight with Robert. In a way, I felt sorry for him, his first commercial experience was grim. I did not want to talk to him, he was busy anyway. I picked up my jacket and walked out to work on my own plane. My heart was not there, it was much further north in a hospital room in Fairbanks.
Downfall
October
Norton Aviation was quiet during the days following Dean’s crash. There was no bustling, no cursing, no running around for the morning flight. The air felt empty and cold. The company was running to the pulse of medical updates and news from Dean’s family. There was no joy, no passion, there were not even arguments about flights. Jeb did his work and dispatched us, disagreement did not matter and an issue was resolved with a few soft spoken words.
Norton Aviation and the ongoing events carried Benjamin like a raggedy doll down a street gutter to a storm drain. His dream of flying was shuddered, flushed in a whirlpool of incomprehension and doubts, questions, and self-evaluation. Benjamin was standing back, his parents did not understand his move to Alaska, so far away from the family nest. Alaska was the old Wild West, his family had warned him, his friends had raised questions, even his fellow pilots had doubts about flying up North. Their doubts were becoming his reality. Benjamin was witnessing firsthand the stories and legends he had heard.
“Hi Jim.” I said entering his office three days after Dean’s accident. In this early October morning, Jim’s office was fairly dark, a desk lamp hardly lighting up the room.
“Any news of Dean?”
Jim looked at me. His gaze was lifeless, hollow.
I knew.
“He passed away last night.” Jim said quietly.
I opened my mouth to say something. Nothing came out.
Jim kept his head down without saying another word.
I turned around to walk out, stifled.
“Did you know he had a little girl?” Jim asked with a gentle voice.
“I didn’t. I hardly knew him. I only met him once when he came to pick up Five One Hotel three weeks ago.”
“He is… he was a good guy. Good pilot,” Jim said.
I agreed.
“Get out of here, try not to think about it, focus on your flying, be careful.” Jim said softly.
I walked out and did what I was paid for, heartbroken.
So Long, Farwell…
October
Two days after Dean’s passing, the pre-funeral procedure was into effect. It was almost mechanical, not that we were used to it, but we followed the required steps, sending cards, flowers, donations, and going to the memorial service for whoever could attend.
Norton Aviation was mourning. We came to work, flew, and retreated home. Aside from the required arrangement discussions, we avoided talking about Dean. I don’t even know why, perhaps because his passing highlighted our fragility, maybe because it was just too painful to even mention him. I had only met him once, and yet it was painful, I cannot even fathom how I would react to the passing of a close fellow pilot. People often say they understand the pain someone goes through after a traumatic event. They have no idea. How can they comprehend the anguish if they did not share the same experience?
We were robots, walking through Norton like programmed machines, preflight the planes, check the weather, obtain the release for the next flight and go. I was sitting at the computer station reviewing weather charts for the morning flight, a low coming from the West, one more, what was new? My thoughts were lost in dismay. Possible snow showers… snow showers, it reminded me of Benjamin, I had not seen him this morning.
“Where’s Ben?” I asked Toad.
“He left last night on the evening jet.”
“That was quick. Did he talk to Jim before leaving?”
“He talked to him yesterday evening after everybody left. After, he went directly to the Alaska terminal and took off.”
“Did he say why?” I asked, even if the answer was obvious.
“There was a bunch of reasons, take your pick,” Toad replied grimly.
A light snow started falling. I looked out in a melancholic gaze. Dean passing away, the isolation, our brush with strong cross winds in Chefornak, and the first snow of the season all ganged up on Benjamin to show him the way out. The Friday evening flight to Anchorage was too strong of an attraction, the tempting appeal of warmer climates and basic safety seduced him before snatching him away from us. Ben lasted six days. Max was right.
Nyac, Epilogue
October
So that was it, as fast as it came, Nyac was leaving me for the winter. With the venue of subfreezing temperatures, mining was rapidly becoming impossible, and just like the valley’s bears, the mine was going dormant. The DC6 flights bringing heavy supplies and fuel died down, the 207s flying mail and passengers were becoming a rare sight after a last surge to fly back the miners. The last call to the mine was taking place.
Jason grew on me, the condescending comments turned into a mutual respect. I never raised my voice, I did not complain and did my job to the best of my abilities. It paid off. Could I say that our relationship turned into an unspoken friendship? To be honest, I did not see myself hanging out at a local bar with him and recalling the good old Nyac days, but I would most certainly leave him with an earned respect.
The last flight to Nyac was nothing more than a passenger pick up, a last landing for an ultimate look at the valley before the winter. Jeb had first sent me to Marshall to drop off some mail, and, for the first time, I approached the valley from the North. A first for a last. The perspective was different. The Kilbuck Mountain was offering a last present, a grand sight for a lone pilot. The new valley was grandiose and tall, exploding into my destination. It was the curtain rise before a play, snowcapped ridges, coniferous trees climbing up the mountains, narrow streams and brooks trickling down the valley, a last ode to life before the dreaded season. I kept staring at the sights passing by, admiring the beauty and melancholically recalling the last few months, the joy and the challenges, the sadness and Dean occupying my thoughts. It was a flight of reconciliation, a cease-fire to reflect on the summer. It was time to move on and prepare for the next chapter. The winter was coming.
I landed on the lower strip and met Robert who had come with the Skyvan to pick some last bulky items. Maureen the sweet cook and the large Tim were also present in an eerie end of the school year atmosphere. Maureen was excited like a teenage girl with unlimited use of her dad’s credit card, Tim was just quiet, happy to go home and enjoy the fruits of a good season.
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A few days prior, I had picked up Dr. Karn for the last time. Leaving Norton’s terminal, Dr. Karn had stopped at the exit door, and told me he would see me in the spring. April seemed so far away, I could only brace and prepare for my first winter as a bush pilot. In a few months, the arctic weather would be a cold memory, but tonight, we were only at the beginning of the new season and the winter was only a frail glimpse. Summer flying had been relatively easy and fun, up to Dean’s accident, where the tragedy was a constant reminder of our feeble condition. It could only worsen. The winter was waiting for us around the corner. In its bag, all the ice and terror it could handle. I was getting ready to face it. I was ready for the battle to begin.
Cape Romanzof
November
Wednesday morning. I parked the 4Runner by the Norton Aviation light brown hangar. I shut off the engine and listened to the morning sounds. There was hardly any noise, only the faint wind rustling on the car. I didn’t want to walk out. I was tired. I looked up. The snow was blowing off the metal roof. Aside from a few lights, the morning was pitch black, filled with an infinite cold. It was only November; it was not even officially winter yet. In Southern California, winter meant decorations in the mall, perhaps a light jacket on the rear seat of the car, and family gatherings for the holidays. Here, in a biased perspective, the winter was a void, an empty season to walk through until spring. I opened the car door, stepped into the deep snow and walked to the terminal.
I pushed open the white front door and walked down the short and narrow corridor into our terminal. Jeb greeted me. He was cordial and welcomed me with a quick, but appreciated, “Hi.” The cheap coffee was already brewing and diffusing its wonderful aroma. The morning was already improving my somber mood.
I walked into the hangar, hugged my favorite 207 -Five One Charlie-and started the preflight. I took my time and did my walk around to make sure nothing would fall apart in flight. Meanwhile, my coffee patiently waited in a styrofoam cup a few inches from the main landing gear. Every time I picked up my cup, I could only stare at the cracked flooring. A long time ago, it had been the mechanic’s pride, today, it was part of the décor, an old wrinkled mate on a tarnished postcard. The continuously buzzing thirty year old lights illuminated the hangar in a yellowish glow; there was nothing much to see, the room was not very large and barely big enough to fit two 207s and a mail room. In a corner, were our mechanics Max and Brent’s not-to-be-touched-without-explicit-prior-approval tools. Max’s gears had been thrown into his tool box in an inextricable mess, but somehow, he always knew where to find what he needed. Brent on the other hand, was ruled by organization. His tools were lined up in perfect order like little soldiers waiting for the call of duty. Every morning, Brent conducted a self-imposed inspection, his fingers running down the rows of wrenches and screwdrivers. Max did not care as much, about anything. He only leaned against the wall and continuously chatted on the phone. It was a question of priority, and an oil change was at the very bottom of his list, the engine inspection was not much higher either. Marten hunting was another story. Max brought and hung up one of the ferret-like creatures in the hangar for everyone to see, and to educate my atrophied urban culture. I had looked curiously, but had been unable to decide between repulsion and curiosity, Max had stayed back amused.
The mechanics’ workshop had nothing out of the ordinary, two work benches, an FAA approved naked girl poster over Max’s tool box, and a large fence separating the mail room from the work shop. A few passenger seats hung on the fencing, along with their removable seat belts.
The ground crew was already preparing the load for the Skyvan, the forklift bustled by, a supervisor barked orders, doubtful workers asked questions from the other side of the hangar and the answer most often fell on deaf ears. The pilots worked at a different pace, barely awake, we were preparing for the first flight of the day. We cautiously preflighted our rides and checked the weather to get a big picture of what Mother Nature was doing.
Then, it was according to the mood, sometimes I jumped in feet first and asked about my first assignment. Other times, I was too lazy to ask or just wanted to spice up my morning and waited for Jeb to be interested in my idling condition. This morning was on the side lines. I preflighted my plane more by habit than by real need, or perhaps to find something worth fixing and beg Max to attend my bird. A snow storm was coming in and the day would be spent indoors staring at the falling snow while babbling with the other pilots and ground crew.
“Cape Romanzof, next!” Jeb hollered towards me while entering the hangar.
“Seriously?” I said baffled.
“No, I’m just messing with you, the coast is already gone, but you have three passengers coming from Alaska Airlines. Do you have any idea when the weather is going to improve?”
“There’s a huge low coming in, and Bethel is going to come down in a couple of hours. As for the coast, it’s going to be bad for the whole day, probably also tomorrow.”
“Well, let me know.” Jeb swirled around and walked back into dispatch.
Cape Romanzof, the name sounded like a place straight out of a dark novel, Dracula’s summer retreat meeting The Thing. It was right at the rim of the free world and nested in the mountains on the craggy shore lines of the Bering Sea. Cape Romanzof was not one of a kind. It was part of a network of early warning sites, reminiscent of the fifties, protecting us ever since against potential invaders. First, it had been the harassing Soviets coming at the very edge of our airspace, after that, who knew, our freedom has had plenty of threats to deal with. After Romanzof, there was the vast emptiness of the frigid sea, the deserted gulags of Siberia, and finally, thousands of miles away, the Empire of Japan.
I followed Jeb into the terminal; eight passengers were already waiting for a local charter flight on the Caravan. Randolph walked in.
“You guys for Akiak?” Randolph asked. Half of them nodded in unison. “Vamos.” He turned around and walked out on the ramp towards his plane without another word. That was it. That was Randolph’s burnt out version of customer service.
“What did he say?” One of the passengers asked with a frustrated look.
“You guys can go with him,” Jeb replied. The passenger shook his head and walked out followed by the others.
Voices came down from the staircase.
“Heck, you’ll like this dump! Everybody gets along! Most of the time.” Jim barked and walked in. “All right, this is Jeb, he’s going to train you for a bit. This is Steven; he’s one of our pilots.” Jim quickly pointed at me.
“Boys, this is Annie and Chris, they’re going be working with us. They are going to help out upstairs and do some dispatching once they get used to it.”
We all greeted each other with a curious and inquisitive eye. Annie was a fairly young Yupik lady in her early thirties perhaps, with long black hair and strong cheekbones. There was a passive grace about her, a striking innocence with deep brown eyes which contrasted with the rough Alaskan environment.
Chris was from the previous generation. Throughout the years, Chris had managed to stay slim and grew an elegant salt and pepper goatee. He had only been hired to work two days a week, the rest of the time Chris was an air traffic controller with Bethel Control Tower. There had always been a love/ hate relationship between pilots and controllers. Even if we always worked together, we seldom met them, the enigmatic voice behind a microphone. They were the other side of the aviation world, the opposite pole complaining about pilots and wondering how we could be so stupid, while they sat in their safely anchored chairs, sipping a cup of coffee. Pilots often underestimated the level of stress involved in a controller’s line of work. More than once, I had seen new controllers overwhelmed by inbound traffic, their voice crackling under the pressure of multiple targets converging towards the airport. Chris became an insight, an open door to a foreign line of work while I did my part on sharing our airborne perspective.
“Ok, let me show you the hangar and find those bu
ms we call our mechanics.” Jim walked into the hangar along with Annie and Chris.
The terminal door opened and three men entered with a fluff of fresh snow.
“Randolph better hurry up, looks like the weather is getting worse by the minute,” Jeb said.
Two of the men, Bill and Bob, were straight out of the bush, another two copies of rugged adventurers among the thousands in the Last Frontier. Bill and Bob were like twins belonging to a brotherhood of technicians and workers, the winters had chiseled their faces and their overwhelming white hair could no longer hide their age. The size of their muscles had roughly remained the same throughout the years and the unrestricted calorie intake had done the rest to ever increase their size. The thick winter coat and heavy boots were the final accessories to the rugged look.
The third one, Allen, was different. He was still a work in progress, a blossoming Alaskan in the making. A wild guess would have propelled him a year or two shy of forty years old -a kid in Alaskan standards-, and his green looks spoiled any attempt to belong. Allen would have been seasoned anywhere else, but not here. In the Delta, he was the sweet and tender newcomer. Don’t get me wrong, Allen had the perfect Alaskan built, his broad shoulders and stature inspired respect, but his short blond hair and soft skin gave him a juvenile look. The perspective of staying in Romanzof for the first time along with the apprehension of traveling in a bush plane disarmed any true attempt to fit the Alaskan stereotype. Sorry pal, come back in a few years and we’ll talk again.
The trio walked to the counter and introduced themselves. It was always the same dialogue, word for word.
“Hi, we got a charter for Romanzof,” Bill said with a monotonous voice.
“The weather is terrible, looks like you guys are going to be here for a while,” Jeb said mechanically.