by Steven Swaks
“Oh, you lost your teeth?!” I could not help but smile.
Duvall rolled her eyes, stepped further back and hit the wall behind her, there was no more room to retreat.
“Where did you lose them?”
“Outsipe, in the puckin pnow!”
“Well, did you guys look for them?” I said, even if the answer was obvious.
“Op courfe!”
“Well, what do you want me to tell you? We’ll keep an eye out for them. Sorry.”
Ron stepped outside and resumed his search, the dentures were out there probably buried in the powdery snow.
Mrs. Duvall came back to the counter. I did not want to give the unavoidable sorry, no can do, weather too bad, got to come back tomorrow or wait for a while (who in their right mind would expect to be dropped off on the other side of the delta and be picked up the same day by a 207 in the heart of the Alaskan winter anyway?), but today the weather was indeed poor with widely spread fog and overall reduced visibility.
“Where were we before this… intrusion?” Duvall asked.
“You were correctly understanding that I was your pilot today,” I said mechanically.
“That’s right, when are we leaving?”
“I am sorry, we might not be able to go for a while, the runways need to be plowed and the delta is mostly foggy. We will need to wait and see how the weather evolves.”
My explanation seemed to soar well above her patience and understanding. Her methodical logic came to a simple conclusion: she was stuck in Bethel for an undetermined period of time. There was no reassuring latté, no mall to stroll through, only our small terminal surrounded by a suffocating winter.
It was my turn to investigate and find out the very reason for her presence, it was not by vain personal curiosity, I just cared about the way the Delta would be portrayed. So many times, cameras did what they knew best, they came and only focused on the superficial, the mud layer that made their viewer’s empty life at home seem a little better. Very few really bothered to go beyond the old front doors of homes and businesses to extract the true essence of the Y-K Delta. It did not matter how cold it got, or how muddy the streets were, or that there was no road out of town. Bethel was well beyond that. The cameras often failed to understand the soul of Bethel, the unique sense of community, a group of warm people living in great harmony.
Jacqueline Duvall was in front of me, right on the other side of the counter.
“So, what kind of documentary are you going to film?” I asked with a forced nonchalance.
She looked at me with disdain. I was the bug needing to be crushed. I was the culprit, the one at fault for her miseries. Without me, she would probably be away, at least on her way to shoot the segment before getting out of here. She came closer, she leaned her elbows on the wooden counter top and stared at me in the eyes. Her answer was a revenge, a personal favor to serve her own frustration. She dropped her reply like a B17 releasing its load on Berlin, “we are going to follow a stupid plumber who needs to fix a frozen sewer.”
She never flew out that day.
Taxi!
December
The writer of the Los Angeles Times did not sit in a quiet room wondering what he could write about. He did not ask a fellow reporter to blind fold him and roughly point him towards a U.S. map, only to throw a dart at a wall mounted map hoping to find something to write about. Let’s see, the topic will be… cabbies in… in… Bethel? Alaska?
My L.A. Times reporter did not do that, or at least I hope he did not. In one form or another, he found out that Cabbies overran Bethel despite a healthy pest control program. The rest was simply history.
The taxis were everywhere ready to respond to any transportation demand in a blink of an eye. They sat on street corners; they roamed the paved -and unpaved-roads in search of their next client like predators looking for their next prey. The victim stepped out of the supermarket, grocery bags in hand; he looked up and faced a row of hungry cabbies awaiting their next course, engine running, exhausts puffing smoke, ready for action.
Backed up by the Times, the legend said that Bethel had the highest concentration of cabbies per inhabitant in the United States. That was roughly about one driver per 60 residents. But who needed the figures? Anybody walking the muddy streets would have seen the plethora of cabs roaming around without needing an actual figure.
Now, why was that? It just came down to the proper alignment of a few factors, from the high cost of transportation with insanely high fuel prices, to the importation of a car by air at around two to three thousand dollars. To top the prohibitive cost of owning a vehicle, the very short distances to travel often did not justify the exorbitant investment. At $5 per passenger within the bulk of the city and $7 to the airport, the taxi fare seemed very affordable to many folks.
The Koreans and Albanians rapidly understood the ever growing need for a fast, warm, affordable, and reliable means of transportation and seized the juicy opportunity. Today, years after the first taxi saw Bethel’s frozen roads, five or so companies serve this lucrative niche.
While the taxies comfortably drove the ride-less travelers, the vehicle owners often stayed outside in the cold mornings struggling to start their hopefully preheated cars. They warmed it up for an eternity (an eternity being a fat fifteen minutes), and de-iced their pricy ride with Alaskan temperatures wondering why in the world they did not call a cab like everyone else.
Besides slight delays during peak hours (twenty minutes twice a day), the customers could expect a taxi estimated time of arrival that would have thrown to shame more than one fire department. The taxis travelled through town or stayed at key positions to respond with amazing speed. The daily user long understood their efficiency and often even dressed up before calling. Yes, they could be that fast.
If Lydia was a heavy taxi user, I was a lot more moderate. See, we were one of those very few lucky -and appreciative-owners of a very rare commodity, a heated garage. No, hold on, I really do not believe you understood that one. It was a HEATED garage, a warm (meaning above freezing) garage to park a car. The simple possibility to step into a warm car, close the door and open the garage was a true blessing. So many times I had left our street with a mildly condescending look at the neighbors scrubbing the ice off their windshield. Unfortunately, that was until we sold our house and I turned into everybody else, I became a commoner, a schmuck, wondering why I had to wait in the car for fifteen minutes in -30°F in March. My eyes were glued to the engine temperature gauge with the true hope of seeing a sign of life, some kind of temperature rise, unofficial green flag for the departure. Why was I waiting in the car and did not run back inside? Because Lydia was worried somebody would steal it! Come on, it was Bethel, not L.A.!
Whether it was to go to the airport to catch a flight to Anchorage, or because my 200,000 mile 4Runner had personal issues, I had the occasional opportunity to experience our taxi system. I would pick up the phone and call our favorite taxi company to request a pick up.
This morning was like any other, minus my sick truck. I had to retreat to plan B and call a cab.
After a single ring tone, the dispatcher picked up. “Yukon Cab?”
“1215 Salmonberry Street for the airport,” I said.
“Thanks.”
That was it, a quick and efficient phone call to a dispatcher, himself a cab driver on duty. I had learned my lesson before, I could not call a taxi and expect to take my time to dress up like a cosmonaut. Time was of the essence, I hung up the phone and headed to the front door. Sure enough, in a handful of minutes the beat up white Crown Victoria with a green taxi light on the roof was pulling into the driveway.
I cautiously entered the icy walkway leading out. On either side, there was an ever mounting pile of snow, living proof of my endless snow shoveling ritual. I reached the car, opened the back door and sat behind the driver. The old leather cracked under my weight and provided a welcomed cushiness. Not surprisingly, there was already a passenger si
tting on the rear right seat. At first, I had been startled to share a taxi ride with a stranger, but everybody was used to it. Sometimes drivers asked if it was all right to pick up somebody else, other times they did not bother and let the customer face the fact. Usually it did not matter anyway, it was only a short stop to pick up an extra passenger a block away and both customers were dropped off in the same area of town. We all went to the same places anyway, whether it was the airport, the grocery store, or the hospital.
The taxi was comfortable and well heated. There was a sense of rustic comfort, the depth of the seat, the welcoming warmth, and sadly, a vague scent of cigarettes from a previous traveler. The CB radio was firing endlessly, customers requested courses and drivers responding to a controlled chaos. Our cabby tirelessly updated the units’ status on a dashboard mounted metal board, where each little magnet was a taxi picking up or dropping off somebody somewhere in town. The pulse of the company was beating on the little plate.
Today, my driver was Korean, his name was Kim. He was like so many other drivers attracted by the fast cash in the bush. Some stayed a few years and escaped, while others decided to call it home and thrive in town. Just like so many others, Kim grew up in Korea and migrated to California. A chat with a friend later, Kim had landed in Bethel to make a living driving around the big circle of a town that Bethel was, twelve hours a day, making enough money to live and save up.
The taxi ride was a fluke in my daily routine; it was an aberration in my driver’s condition. Lydia was on the other side. She was a heavy user, an addict well used to the system. Day after day, she called the same company in the morning to commute to the hospital. After a short while, the drivers became familiar faces sharing their personal life stories. Deep down, that’s what they did, their days were filled with personal experiences, sharing and listening to accounts of past events, directly witnessing a prom night fling or an argument.
The ride had only lasted a few minutes and the driver had shared a short part of his story. Before stopping by Norton Aviation, Kim dropped off the other passenger at one of the airline’s small terminals. My ride was over. I paid and stepped out. Without saying much, Kim drove away to pick up another customer. That was his life, at least for now.
Two Five Delta
December
Yesterday evening, Lydia and I came back from New York. It had been a wonderful trip far from the isolation, from a scene of Christmas music and neon lights to the frozen tundra. I came back with a knot in my stomach; I was not ready to face the weather and our abusive dispatcher.
This morning was not so dramatic, Chris was at the controls. I was coming to respect him, and each day only unraveled a little more of a dedicated and honest character. His hoary hair betrayed his extensive experience and gave him a peaceful appearance. His voice was the extension of his looks, a warm and wise tone without excessive fluctuation. I enjoyed sitting with him during down time, hearing his hangar stories and sharing air traffic controller and pilot’s perspectives.
Once again, I was sitting in Five One Charlie. After a typical engine run-up, I was ready to taxi out, admiring a soon to be sunrise. For once, my flight would be easy and mellow, a basic milk run to Tuntutuliak to drop off mail, then a quick hop to Kasigluk to pick up two passengers and back to Bethel. The weather was cold but nice.
Roman had left the ramp a few minutes prior to my departure. The larger Cessna Caravan had elegantly propelled forward on the crackling snow, its ghostly shadow ushered by the small green and red navigation lights barely standing out in front of a faint orange glow. Soon, the sun would rise on this winter morning. It was a good day in the making, a simple flight, good weather, and Christmas pointing its nose in less than two weeks.
Unlike other pilots, I liked to open my flight plan on the ground, so at least somebody knew I was airborne if things went south on takeoff, “Bethel base, Five One Charlie, an hour thirty in route, three hours on the fuel.”
Chris picked up the microphone, “Got it, hour thirty in route, three hours on the fuel, have a good flight!”
Ground was next. “Bethel Ground Norton Five One Charlie, North ramp, southwest departure with Delta.”
“Norton Five One Charlie taxi runway 36, cross runway 29.”
“Taxi runway 36, cross 29, Norton Five One Charlie,” I mechanically replied. It was routine, the elements followed each other in a well-orchestrated ballet.
I had just entered the taxiway when Chris called me on the company frequency. “Five One Charlie, Bethel Base.”
I monotonously answered, “Five One Charlie, go ahead.”
“Could you call Two Five Delta?”
“Sure, what do you want me to tell him?” I replied. I was wondering why Chris was calling me on the ground, his radio was probably more powerful than mine and he knew that.
“JUST CALL HIM!” Chris snapped back at me.
“Two Five Delta, Five One Charlie?” No answer, no surprise, the range of my radio was limited on the ground. I tried again twice without success, in the meantime, I could hear Bethel Tower with a disturbing chatter hidden behind ground control communications.
“Six two… clear… takeoff… miss… Norton…” What was happening?
I reached runway 36 and called Tower. “Bethel Tower, Norton Five One Charlie holding short runway 36… what’s going on?”
“Two Five Delta might be missing, about two miles north west, three planes already flew by but did not see anything. You’re cleared for takeoff.”
My heart dropped. Roman was flying that plane.
“Five One Charlie, cleared for takeoff… could I do a few 360s in that area?”
“Go head Five One Charlie.”
As my loaded 207 lifted off, I could hear the faint sound of an ELT (Emergency Locator Transmitter), an onboard emergency transmitter supposed to broadcast a radio signal after a crash. Tower told me they could not hear the signal, but I was hopeful Roman was still in the air. Who knew what Tower had seen, it was still very dark, it could have been anything, something as basic as an electrical failure, but the ELT was there tirelessly transmitting its dull tone, signaling that it might not be a simple failure.
With the little day light I had, I could hardly see the snow covered ground. I arrived in the presumed area, I gently banked the plane and started a circling pattern to find him. I was mainly looking to my left. My right window was far away past the passenger seat loaded with my pile of flight bag and clip boards, besides, during a left turn, my right window was mostly showing a black slice of starry night skies. Once in a while I glanced at my right, just in case, not that I really hoped to see something but mostly by pure reflex, I did not want to miss anything.
Either way, there was nothing. Nothing on the ground but the frozen tundra and no ELT broadcast either. The faint signal had faded. I was facing a disaster scenario, potentially finding a crashed plane with a friend on board, but there was nothing confirmed. Tower had not actually seen the plane go down, they only mentioned the Caravan might be missing. The ELT did not mean much either, ELTs went off on perfectly good airplanes all the time. Roman’s signal was gone, as if it was carried away by a flying plane. I did not know if it was denial or reason coming back, but the thoughts were jumbled, contradicting each other, flying back and forth from the fluke to the disaster in a demented tennis match.
I had been searching for twenty minutes. If anything had happened, I would have found it by now. Everybody was holding their breath. Bethel Tower kept doing their job directing aircrafts. Chris was behind his radio along with Jim, Toad, and the ground crew, all waiting, trying to catch an ounce of information, a confirmation, something. Bethel Tower was doing what they could, they had called the authorities and had redirected air traffic away from me.
I was starting to relax, there was nothing, I continued looking to confirm the lack of evidence, but during one of my futile glances to the right, the reality morphed into a nightmare vision, a single picture engraved in an ocean of memories. The
wreckage was there, it was just a glimpse of a downed plane, a traumatic sighting. For a fraction of a second, the proud white Caravan was lying wounded on the ground.
I keyed the radio and called Tower. “Bethel Tower, Five One Charlie, I confirm the Caravan is down, about, 1.9 DME*… about a mile north west of the Larson subdivision.”
Tower acknowledged. I sharply turned left to bring the site on my left side for a better view. I could not find him, I had lost him! I completed another full 360 to the left, nothing, only an endless spread of gray and white tundra. The sun was not even up yet, it was a mere growing orange and yellow glow on the Eastern skies. The thoughts were overwhelming, fly the plane, watch your altitude, maintain airspeed, the darkness, my friend, dead? I started to doubt myself, I hadn’t seen the plane! What was I thinking? Did I call something wrong? Where was it?
Nightmare or relief? Two Five Delta appeared on my left. I kept turning left and punched the GPS to lock the exact location. This time, it would stay there. I called Tower again and gave the coordinates from the crash site. Now it was up to the ground units to take over. I would stay there to show the way. I turned all my lights on, the 207 was no longer a transportation means but an airborne street sign dangling from the heavens with invisible ropes. Everything was on, the red, green, and white navigation lights, the red rotating beacon, the white flashing strobes, the powerful landing and taxi lights. A first responder Alaskan Trooper later on qualified my plane as a shining star showing the way to the site. That was the idea, to be seen as much as possible in the dark. I was thinking about Roman, if he was still alive, the sound of my engine might have been comforting. He was not alone, help was coming.
I endlessly circled over the site, I called Tower and they confirmed help was on the way. The rescue effort was a painstaking process. The site was in the middle of the tundra, isolated, away from any apparent trail. The Caravan was a wreck with a two hundred foot trail of debris leading to the plane. It was obvious the plane had violently hit the ground and plowed the frozen tundra before coming to a stop. The right wing was folded under the fuselage and the left wing had collapsed. The front right side of the fuselage showed major signs of intrusion just aft of the cockpit. There was no sign of life.