Alaska! Up North and to the Left

by Steven Swaks

  Roman was recovering in a separate exam room at the end of the E.R. I approached, the door was ajar. I knocked. Dana answered a simple and almost jovial “come in!”

  I entered, gave Dana a quick hug, and saw Roman lying on the exam table. There was no other way to say it, he looked terrible. He was bearing large horizontal lacerations beneath his eyes, a few bruises here and there, and his hands were wrapped in thick white dressings.

  “How’re you doing?” I asked.

  “Look like shit, feel like shit,” he muttered. “But, hey, I don’t care, I’m alive!” He said and gave me a quick smile.

  “How’s everything? Your hands?”

  Dana did not give him time to answer and approached me. In a low voice she almost confessed. “Roman has frostbite. His fingers are already turning black and blistery. He was outside without gloves, and… you know… it was very cold this morning. The doctor said it might take a week before we know what’s going to happen to his fingers.”

  I cringed. “Sorry to hear that.” I felt we were still on damage control mode, we were far from knowing everything. For a while I had the feeling the situation was improving, we were reaching some normalcy, but I felt that we were diving back down into chaos. “Did you hear anything about Alex? Is he here? I didn’t see him on the way in.”

  “Alex is in the front room, they are going to medevac him to Anchorage,” she replied.

  “How’s he doing?”

  “He has a broken back,” Dana said.

  “Is he conscious? Can he move his legs?” I inquired concerned about the repercussions. A broken back meant so many complications. Possible paralysis if the spinal cord was hit, probably stiffness and chronic back pain for the rest of his life. Alex had been immobilized and pulled on a sled from the crash site to the ambulance. There had been no beautiful 4th of July Blackhawk, but a plastic sled dragged behind a snow machine, his spinal cord twisting and grinding on every bump. The State Troopers and the Fire Department did their best with the available means; there was nothing else they could have done better.

  Dana wore the pain and sorrow in her eyes. She was one of the most caring and sweet persons I had ever met, but in this situation, she was helpless. “The doctor didn’t want him to move to protect his spinal cord. They had to sedate and intubate him. Thank God, he still had good sensation and movement in the legs.”

  I let Roman rest, said good bye to Dana, and left the hospital. The sun was on a final dive below the horizon. Life was moving on.

  The Day After

  December

  The day after the accident, I woke up stressed out thinking about the situation. Still lying in bed, I was staring at the early morning blackened bedroom walls unable to find my bearings. I did not know what to do, should I leave Norton Aviation? Why? The Skyvan was right there, the hope of a wonderful experience, the gateway to the majors and possibly Alaska Airlines, but was the risk worth it? We had lost two planes in eight months, three people either dead or wounded. What if I left? What would I do? Go back to the flight school? Then what?

  Aside from self-centered professional considerations, I was reflecting on my own safety. Even during my 911 days, a malpractice lawsuit or an injury was the very worst a responder could face. After years on the field, I had never been to a hospital for a coworker, and a trip for a testimony on the 38th floor of a Downtown Los Angeles high rise, was the closest I had ever been to the legal system. The experience was intimidating. Aside from a dozen leather chairs, the long rectangular meeting table was the only piece of furniture in the conference room. Waiting for the attorneys, I gazed at the nearby Hollywood Hills, but the view was no longer relevant as the legal team walked in. The defendant’s attorney was young, nice and caring, the prosecutor for the civil law suit was more aggressive. His high end suit was a statement of strength and latent aggression. The well-trimmed goatee, the red tie and matching red pocket square, the perfectly ironed charcoal pants running down to recently shined shoes, were other nice touches on the attack dog. The attorney leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms and legs in a challenging stance. I did my job and commented on a few pictures of a car accident I had responded to a few months prior. I walked out of the room an hour and a half later and never heard anything else about the case. That was the very worst I had professionally experienced at a personal level. Until now.

  I stepped out of bed and did my morning ritual while trying to blank out thoughts about Norton. But how could I? I was preparing to work. I had a sad smile at the idea of approaching a plane. Aviation used to be magical. I spent hours as a child finding the best place to spot planes on takeoff or landing at the local airport. The flying airliners were magnificent, floating in air on a cushion of nothing, the unshakable pilots flying the beast to and from far away destinations. I dreamed about planes, talked about planes, stared at them all day long as they flew over my high school. Even the hard science behind the dream of flight did not lessen the beauty, it explained, it justified it.

  Then came Dean, and now Roman and Alex. What was happening?

  I stared at my reflection in the mirror. I looked terrible. Deep fatigue lines highlighted my eyes over a cadaveric skin. The idea of flying a plane was repulsive. The dream was sickening. Lydia came behind me and hugged me.

  “How are you doing?” She asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Maybe you should rest today. Take the day off, you look exhausted, you can’t fly like that,” she said with a soft and caring voice.

  I consulted my watch, 7:05, Norton was still closed.

  “You’re right, I’ll call Jeb at 7:30.”

  Lydia tapped me on the shoulder and kissed me on the cheek.

  Three hours later the phone rang. I picked up, Roman was on the line.

  “I called Norton, Jeb told me you called in sick.”

  “Yeah, I did. It’s the first time I called in with Norton, I needed to clear my head after yesterday. How’re you doing by the way?”

  “I was discharged last night.”

  “What about your hands?”

  “They’re going to be bandaged up for a while, I don’t know, a couple of weeks maybe.”

  “What did they say about your fingers?”

  “They don’t know, the doc said that we have to wait and see if they have to cut off anything.” Roman said quietly before chortling, “Hey, as long as I can flip you off, I’m good.”

  I smiled. “If… if everything works out, do you think you might go back with Norton?”

  “I don’t think so, I’m going to stick with the float planes during the summer. At least I won’t have to deal with sodas anymore!”

  I chuckled, “You got that right!”

  Roman’s voice leveled out, “By the way… thanks for saving my butt yesterday.”

  “You would have done the same.”

  “Me? Nah, I’m a selfish bastard! I’d never do that for anybody! Especially not for you surf boy!” Roman laughed, trying to keep a high spirit.

  “You’re a jerk! You take good care buddy; I’ll come by to visit.” We both hung up.

  Moving On

  December

  The day after my self-imposed break, I jumped back on the saddle and resumed my flying. My first flight since the accident took me on a mellow mail run to Marshall, some 65 miles northwest of Bethel.

  I grabbed my flight release, helped load the plane, and sat in the cockpit before initiating the starting procedure. I waited for a while to warm up the engine and perform the pre-takeoff checks like a robot.

  I looked out, it was bitterly cold and dark, the wind blowing powdery snow over the gray and white icy concrete. The glamour of bush flying was gone; I just had a job to do. There was no more fun, no more passion, just some mail to deliver to receive a paycheck.

  I taxied down Charlie and received my takeoff clearance. I launched Five One Charlie down runway 36, lifted off, waited for my five hundred foot altitude, and made my left turn towards the northwest.
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  The early morning light was the same as that fateful Tuesday, the same pitch black towards the west and the same faint orange glow over the mountains behind me. I stayed on heading towards Marshall like a properly programmed autopilot, like a machine led by automation and duty.

  Was it fate? Chance? Or a malignant force playing with my frail emotions? I did not care about the reason why I was precisely there as the 207 flew right over the crash site. I only knew I was in this particular spot, once again, that’s all that really mattered. I gazed at the remains, a few scattered pieces, and the deep gash in the slashed tundra. The main fuselage section had already been removed, but in a way, I was reliving that dreadful morning. My stomach writhed. I winced in anguish.

  The rest of the flight was easier, even if it was filled with wandering thoughts and doubts. Marshall was once again home of strong winds with a wind chill dropping to 35 below. As the day went on, I flew an extra three or four flights, in a daze, slowly getting back to the routine.

  Conclusion?

  December

  The Norton employees stayed quiet and avoided spreading false information or random theories. The vague acquaintances did not care as much and threw it all on the table short of the alien abduction. Ground crew and dispatchers from other companies came with their scientific theories based on loose aviation knowledge, and passengers knew better because of a family member working in the industry. The non-pilots became aeronautical specialists dissecting the flight with information gathered from third parties. The pilots were not any better; they added a coating of knowledge and voilà, a nice scenario served with garnish, whether it was in a terminal or behind the scenes, the rumor mill opened and gushed stories or hypotheses based on hearsays and unproven theories.

  The hangar talk found fresh food to chew on around the coffee pot. The seasoned pilot sat on a pile of palettes waiting for his next assignment, and accusations flew across the mail room, it was the pilot’s fault, or it was the mechanic’s fault, the plane failed, the flaps deployed asymmetrically, it was ice, the weather, or a simple fluke. Who knew? After a few weeks, the airport found something else to gossip about and moved on. The Caravan became an old twisted wreckage awaiting recycling into thousands of Coke cans.

  What was my take on it? The plane took off, flew for a minute or so, and came right back down. Let’s keep the facts there. I was not there to speculate, I was not there to point the finger and play the sad blame game. There was no fancy flight recorder, no black box with conversation recording and massive amount of data, there was not even a radar return. Doubts would be there looming over the accident filled with different perspectives and points of views, scenarios, and ideas. I could bury myself in an ocean of what ifs and misfired questions that would remain mostly unanswered anyway, or I could just let it go.

  Roman was doing better, even if we still remained concerned about his hands. Dana changed his dressing everyday and cringed at the darkened blisters. The process became routine, clean the frostbite while talking about something else. She did not mention it, but she was still worried about a few fingers.

  After a few days, Alex came out of the hospital in Anchorage and was admitted in a rehabilitation facility. The surgery had been successful, but months of recovery were lying ahead of him. This flight was an exception in his daily work, it had been a chance to go explore the Y-K Delta and see something more than Bethel and his native village.

  While Alex rested in a hospital bed looking out the window towards the snow covered mountains, pilots continued their job, Norton was moving on.

  Winter Day at the Village

  December

  It was with Roman in mind that Lydia boarded the flight to Russian Mission. It was one more trip to the village. If the previous ones had been exciting, this one was a chore. Lydia saw the small plane as a gamble, a necessary Russian roulette. I had been so focused on the recent events that I had probably failed to realize her perspective. I was a volunteer, she had been drafted. The flight was a break in time, an unavoidable step to reach her village

  The freezing December cold slapped Lydia as she stepped out of the plane. She looked at Russian Mission spreading over a small mountain. It was not her first time there; she had already seen the Mighty Yukon flowing by the sheer cliffs at the edge of the village. Even during the winter the river imposed a certain respect, it stood still and waited for spring to come to life, but the next season was so far out of reach.

  An old Chevy S10 entered the large gravel ramp and stopped next to her. A young native woman dressed with a long coat and boots jumped out of the small pickup and greeted her.

  “Hi Doctor Swaks, I’m Maria! I was not there last time you came, nice to meet you!” Her voice increased as the plane’s engine started and spooled up.

  “NICE TO MEET YOU!” Lydia screamed while shaking her hand. Maria threw Lydia’s large suitcase and a small box into the bed of the small Chevy. The two women rushed into the pickup before the plane taxied and swept the ramp with hurricane force winds.

  “It’s much better in here!” Maria claimed with a large smile. “We’re happy you came! There’s a lot of work for you!”

  “It has been a while, but I am glad to be here,” Lydia said smiling.

  The small -used to be blue-pickup lurched forward down a gravel road towards the village. Lydia was fairly familiar with Russian Mission and she truly enjoyed it. She loved the simplicity of the village, the calm and peaceful people, the small and older houses gently following the slope of the mountain all the way to the top like splashes of paint on a white canvas. The large spruce trees at the edge of the charcoal cliff overlooking the Yukon added a final detail to the scenery.

  After all, Russian Mission was one of her two dedicated villages. She knew most of the people; she knew the issues and the crisis, the problems and the personal dreams.

  “You have been in Russian Mission for two or three months, right?” Lydia asked.

  “I just got married and moved in September. I grew up in Anvik.”

  “Um, I’ve talked to you a few times for RMTs. It’s nice to come to the village; the trip always gives me a chance to meet the health aides. It’s always good to put a face to a voice,” Lydia confessed.

  The Chevy pulled up in front of the clinic, it was a small one story white building in the middle of the village. Maria picked up the box and Lydia fetched her bag and followed her inside. The clinic was a smaller mirror version of the Pilot Station clinic. The medical poster littered white walls, the same reception counter (but on the left side of the waiting room this time), and a short corridor on the right with a few examination rooms, a bathroom, and a single bedroom.

  Lydia pointed at the box Maria was carrying. “Oh, this box is for everybody in the clinic. It’s just a few fresh fruits, at least as fresh as they can be in Bethel!” She laughed.

  “Well, it’s much better than what we can get here!” Maria said. “Thank you so much.” Maria walked down the short corridor. “Your room is still the same… It’s the only one!” She chuckled. “Let me know if you need something.”

  “I should be fine, thank you.” Lydia paused. “Actually, did you turn on the hot water?”

  “Jack did.”

  Lydia walked into the small bedroom, it was almost the same as Pilot Station, the same bunk beds, the same adjacent bathroom down to the same microwave brand. It did not matter; she was there to spend time with her patients, she wanted to get to know them better. She knew intimate details of their lives but she sometimes missed the bigger picture. How did they live? How was their house, their grocery store? Conventional expectations -if there was such a thing-did not apply in rural Alaska. The means were limited and the resources were more difficult to access. It was good to visit the villages and get a better sense of how the Yupik lived.

  In the morning, Lydia was a pitiful spectacle, a step by step car wreck to the bathroom. The sacrosanct shower was the wake up call to officially start the day and leave the night behind. She s
tumbled into the shower in a blurry fog of leftover sleep, turned the HOT knob all the way, and waited. She stayed with her elbow against the bathroom wall at head level, her cranium solidly anchored to her hand. She waited some more. After what seemed an eternity, Lydia merged from her morning daze. Her hand had been in and out of the shower in a rhythmic back and forth motion to test the temperature. The water was still cold, it was not a lower 48 cold; it was more of a blunt and violent sub-arctic -a tad just above freezing-cold. Lydia’s sympathetic nervous system (the fight or flight one) was the first one to really realize that something was awfully wrong. Lydia was already in the clinic and in twenty five minutes the health aides would walk in soon followed by the first patients. “Jack turned on the hot water” Maria had told her. Well, I am going to have a chat with Jack… Lydia held her breath, dove in the freezing cold water, and turned it off as soon as she was wet. She soaped and rinsed with the courage of those bold Norwegians who jump in frozen lakes for fun.

  She dressed, forgot to eat her breakfast and stepped out of the bedroom.

  “Good morning Dr. Swaks! How’re you?” Maria heralded from the other side of the reception counter.

  “Good! But the shower was so cold.” She shook her head and laughed about it.

  “Really?” Maria frowned. “There was no hot water?”

  “No, for some reason there was not,” she shrugged.

  “Oh… I’m sorry. I’ll ask Jack to check it.” Maria replied.

  “That would be wonderful, thank you so much! Do you always have the hot water off?”

  “Yes, it saves a lot of fuel and we don’t really need it. We only turn it on when somebody spends the night here, but sometimes the pipes freeze. You know, it is getting pretty cold now.” Another two young health aides walked in. They greeted Lydia and disappeared in the back office.

  The day went by in a sweet routine. At 4:00 pm, the clinic closed. Jack had dove under the building and spent an hour with a heat gun to thaw a frozen pipe. Fighting the cold was an everyday battle in the bush. The weather was an integral part of living in Alaska and locals had learned to live with it, it threw the drivers in the ditch, it crippled the engines, froze the pipes, and killed the unprepared.