by Jim Craig
The old Toyota pickup had suspension like a kid's red wagon, and it rumbled up the street slamming pot holes like it had some kind of a personal grudge. It had been painted powder blue years ago and left for scrap behind the airport’s main hangar. But with a few parts and some elbow grease I had it running fine. I was actually proud of the abandoned heap that I’d resurrected from the weeds and snow. Something about it felt like hope.
I kept my speed around thirty. The last thing I needed was a speeding ticket. Not to mention the delay. Having the State troopers calling me for flights was a good thing. Good money too. If they knew they could depend on me, they might call more often. Didn’t want to screw that up.
I had to brake for a huge motor home that turned in front of me coming from the marina. Slowing to fifteen I groaned but then took a deep breath and settled into the drive. I used the time to call Moose Pass. As expected I got their answering machine, so I was on my own with this flight. No one was there to ask me annoying questions.
Did I have enough gas? Did I have my survival gear? Did I have the sat phone? Did I get their credit card information? Blah, blah, blah. I know, I know. Safety first, I get it. Are you sure about the credit card? I smirked to myself and shook my head. They're already out of the office at six o'clock? Whatever.
The RV finally turned into the Safeway but as I picked up some speed I noticed flashing blue lights a mile ahead. Looked like an accident or something holding up traffic by the bridge over Resurrection River. As I got closer I spotted a city cop I knew, waving cars along. She looked exasperated.
As I got up to her, I rolled down the window. “Hey, Judy, what’s happening?”
She grunted at me. “Hey, Johnny. A grizzly sow and two cubs are down in the river over here fishing off a gravel bar, and all the tourists are stopping to take pictures. Even parking on the bridge. It’s a freaking mess. Now get the hell out of here, would ya?”
She stepped back and jerked her thumb down the road, but with a side wink and a smile, I knew we were cool. Judy was a good friend. Owned a Cessna 170 and flew it once in a while when she wasn't working.
I turned across the railroad tracks and made my way along Airport Way past some tall trees parallel to the runways. It wasn't a busy airport and glancing down toward the bay I couldn't see any activity or other airplanes moving. Small buildings and hangars lined the west side of the field, but no one was around. My office was the first in line - a small A-frame chalet with wide windows and a wooden deck in front. A white sign board leaning against the front rails offered scenic flights over the nearby glaciers.
The company airplane was parked next to the office. It was a white Cessna with a single engine and seats for four. She looked ready and willing sitting there on the tarmac in the dim light. The shadow from Mount Marathon was already spreading across the runways, but it was still plenty light out past the orange windsock twitching lazily halfway down the field.
Behind the office my motor home sat next to an empty tie-down space. It used to hold my personal aircraft, a Piper SuperCub like Willie's that I had flown with such pride through the back country of Alaska sharing adventures and scenery. Then one too many adventures of the wrong kind, and it was gone. I frowned at the image. Why had Willie brought it up again at the Yukon? Thanks a lot, pal.
I shook off the memory and started thinking about the gear I’d need for the flight. The usual stuff was already in the plane in a survival kit. Fishing tackle, first aid kit, a couple of granola bars, a signal mirror, mosquito hats. Most of the normal things required by Alaska law for every flight. I kept it to a minimum to keep the weight down. Then I stepped into my camper and grabbed a sleeping bag and a green day pack where I always kept a couple books and a change of underwear.
I always had flotation devices in the plane. They were like suspenders that slid over the shoulders and clipped around the waist. Lightweight but easily tangled. I didn't usually wear one in flight and I tried to ignore the possibility of a splash landing in the sea. Hank McDougal, one of the other company pilots in Moose Pass, liked to call them Coast Guard body retrieval devices. A cheery guy, that damn Hank.
I unlocked the door to the office and walked over to the laptop on my desk. The Middleton Island radar image was still on the screen and it looked the same as it had all day. No significant precipitation was showing anywhere except at the bottom of the screen where just the edge of a dark green shape lurked just out of view. That was the far southern edge of the radar’s range. Not close enough to worry me for the next couple of hours anyhow.
I walked outside again and after checking to make sure I had enough gas, I walked around the plane, tested the fuel tanks for water and made sure all the necessary parts were still connected. I gave the oversized tires a kick and unhooked the tiedown cables from the wings. A quick peek at the oil dipstick, and I was done. So much for the preflight checklist.
Gravel crunched behind me and I turned to see a white Alaska State Patrol car pull up and park. Two officers in dark blue uniforms emerged and walked toward me. The one in the lead looked to be around thirty years old. Short cropped blond hair, about five ten or so and clean cut, his head was shaped like an ice cube. He reached out and shook my hand with a strong grip.
“You must be Johnny Wainwright,” he said.
“I am,” I agreed.
“I’m David Rankin. I'm the one who called.” He nodded toward the other guy. “And this is my partner, Officer Daniels.”
The partner was taller, darker and older with a wiry frame and a thin weather beaten face. He reached toward me slowly like you move toward a mongrel you don’t know. He took my hand and stared intently into my eyes. I nodded at him and returned his stare. Something told me to hold his look. He hadn’t said a word but I could see a thousand questions running through his mind. The slow percolation of a hundred hidden opinions like the ninety percent of the iceberg you can’t see. I wondered what was below the surface. I dropped my gaze and pulled my hand back. He let go like he was releasing something that smelled bad.
I turned to listen to Rankin who was starting to talk. Daniels stayed behind me, but I could feel him back there studying me.
“We got a call from the island just over an hour ago. Their communications aren’t the best, and the signal was breaking up, but our dispatcher said it sounded like a women screaming like she was getting beat up. I think the department's been out there before for this same guy, so it's probably routine.”
“Okay,” I said. "How big is this guy?” I didn’t want to overload the airplane.
“Ah, if it's who I think it is, he’s pretty good sized. Two fifty at least.” Rankin tilted his head back and watched me as I frowned and mentally calculated the figures. Remembering that we would burn part of the fuel load on our way out there, I shrugged.
“Should be okay.” I glanced behind me to get a look at the partner. Something about him made me uneasy, but Daniels had moved away and stood with his back to us staring down the runway toward the bay. He was much older than Rankin but so far seemed to be letting the younger officer take the lead. His gray hair was shaped into a severe flat top about three inches long. The sides of his head gleamed as though freshly shaved. High and tight as the Marines call it. He wore a black leather equipment belt that held a radio, pepper spray, handcuffs and a handgun. His profile was a craggy mountainside and his face was deeply creased with what could be laugh lines except he didn’t seem like the laughing type. His nose had a couple of turns in it, the unmistakable marks of breaks and self repairs.
Rankin talked and his partner stared into the distance in silence. I wasn’t sure if he was listening or not.
“We’re not expecting any real trouble, but you never know, so we’re just going out there to check it out. By the time we get there he'll probably be calmed down. Maybe sleeping if off if he was drunk. That's what it usually is. Depending on what we learn we may have to bring him back with us. He'll probably do
some time in the Seward jail, then the judge'll send him home.”
“Okay, no problem,” I said. “We probably ought to get moving. There’s not a lot of light left.”
Officer Daniels turned then and his silver gray eyes locked onto me and froze me to the spot. “You ready for this?” he growled at me in a graveled rasp.
My throat went dry. “Uh, whattya mean?” I tried to keep my voice level, but I knew I didn’t sound very convincing.
“Are you ready for this?” He repeated, biting off each syllable like he was talking to a suspect that didn’t speak English.
I frowned and squinted back at him. “Uh, yeah, I think so. Is there something else I should know?” What was this guy’s problem?
He ignored my questions, the spoken and the unspoken. “You got a flight plan and current weather?”
His eyes were unblinking and fixed on mine like a rattlesnake in the Mojave. All of sudden I knew what it was like to be an insect pinned on a black felt board.
“Yeah, that’s all taken care of.” I kept the annoyance out of my voice.
“So what is the weather?”
“I didn’t see anything to be concerned about. You want a briefing or something?”
His jaw set and his eyes narrowed to tight slits. His words spat at me like machine gun bullets, and I started to feel like I was sitting in ice water.
“I know the weather information around here ain’t jack. Middleton radar is all you’ve got and it won’t show fog. Just because it looks nice here doesn’t mean it’s okay out there.”
I turned then to face him directly, folded my arms and returned his hard edged stare. I’d had enough.
“I’m well aware of that. Look, Officer Daniels, this flight wasn’t my idea. You guys called me. If we get out there and it doesn’t look good, we come back. That’s all you can do around here. Or we can forget the whole damn thing right now. Your choice.”
Daniels wasn’t backing down. “I’ve flown in and out of the bush all around Alaska for a lot of years," he said. "Too many hot shot pilots have killed people flying into bad weather. And even the best have disappeared in Prince William Sound.“
I looked at him for a moment and glanced over at Rankin. The younger officer was busy checking equipment on his belt. I bit back on the tightness building in my throat and worked to keep my voice slow and controlled.
“Like I said, officer, we don’t have to go. It’s your call. We won’t know what it’s like at the island until we get out there. That’s all we can ever do around here. You fly out and you take a look. Believe me, I’m not going to fly into something I can’t get out of. You can count on that.”
Daniels smirked like he was closing the door on a salesman. He dropped his stare and began to adjust the equipment around his waist. Rankin’s head lifted then and they looked at each other. Then they both shrugged and turned toward the plane. As they walked away from me, I gawked after them and wondered what had just happened.
I went to relock the office doors and then followed them to the plane and opened its side door for them. As I walked back to my side I shook my head to myself and thought, ‘Why can’t it ever just be easy?’
Without another word, I climbed in the Cessna and waited for them to squeeze into the front and back seats. Their equipment belts squeaked and protested the tight quarters. I realized then why their shapes were so bulky. Bullet proof vests.
Daniels got in the back. While Rankin was settling into the seat beside me our eyes met for a second. I thought he looked apologetic.
Who knows? Maybe I just wanted him to be. I pointed out the headphones they needed to wear for the intercom. Rankin placed his on his bright blond head, but Daniels only stared out the window and said nothing.
Starting the engine and running through the rest of my preflight checks I mentally went over the weight and balance figures. I had a half load of fuel, light survival gear, two troopers with equipment, probably four hundred pounds between them and myself at one fifty. The total left us room for another two hundred and fifty pounds or so.
The engine rumbled smoothly and the oil pressure was in the green. Pushing in on the throttle we started moving forward. I taxied toward the runway and spoke into the intercom.
“Can you hear me now?”
Rankin adjusted his microphone and said, “Roger that.”
I glanced behind me and Daniels was still staring out the side window without putting on the headset. I looked at Rankin and he gave me a slight shake of his head. Like he was saying let it go.
I went over the final safety items with him. I checked that their seat belts were secure and talked about where to find the life vests, survival gear and fire extinguisher. The emergency exits were kind of obvious. I’d climbed in one of them and they’d come in the other.
Everything in the plane checked out. I made a radio call for the takeoff, but no one answered. That was typical. Even on a nice night like this one, the Seward airspace was deserted. All the better, I thought. No one around to get in the way. Before pulling out onto the runway I ran up the engine and checked the mags. It all felt good.
I shoved the throttle full forward and the sudden surge of power started us down the runway. Eager to be back in the air I focused on keeping the white centerline of the runway straight in front of the nose.
It didn't take long. The bird wanted to fly, and in a few moments we lifted off. The ground slipped away underneath us and we sailed out over a grassy meadow and then the beach south of the airport. A hundred feet off the ground the cabin suddenly filled with sunlight as we climbed above the ground shadow. I looked to the left and saw where the shadow was creeping up the side of Mount Alice like a gray tide invading a beach. But we were free of it, soaring into clear Alaskan air. A couple wisps of evening clouds above us glowed pink and orange in the sunset light.
The peaceful waters of Resurrection Bay slid past below us as we climbed toward the ridgeline east of Seward. There were none of the usual white caps thanks to the light winds. Fourth of July Creek passed beneath us mixing its flow of gray silty water into the smooth turquoise mass of the bay. Street lights in town were just visible to our right reminding me that daylight was in its last throes. I glanced at my watch and figured that I’d have enough light to find Taroka, but not much beyond that.
The irony wasn’t lost on me. Town was shutting down for the night, and here I was just setting out on a job. And I’d already put in a full day. Not that busy maybe, but staring out the office window and waiting for customers or a phone to ring can be exhausting.
I almost started to say my usual scenic tour spiel but then remembered I didn’t have to say a word on this flight. As I leveled out at a thousand feet it was all I could do to avoid my usual announcement: “Seward down there is a town of about three thousand people, a little more in the summer, a little less in the winter.”
I liked that about charter flights. I didn’t have to describe the sights. Not that I minded, but at the end of a summer I got tired of the sound of my own voice, saying the same things one flight after another. Sure, I could get creative and mix it up, but that takes energy. It was easier to follow a routine. Like the grizzly bears that stood in the creek letting the salmon jump into their jaws rather than chasing them around. In September it was time to earn what you could with minimal effort.
In June I’m a funny guy, Mister Entertainment. It’s a kick to mix it up with the tourists, joking about their nervousness and telling tall tales. Rambling on about some extraneous Alaskan history. Most are looking for a good time, a diversion, an eye popping vista, and that’s what I give them. Cruising over glaciers, fjords, milky blue water and jagged mountain peaks gives them the thrill of a lifetime. I show them lots of bears and other wildlife too and when we land they’re gushing like a bus load of kids in Disneyland.
The troopers looked out the windows in silence. I was glad for the quiet, but uneasy at the same time. I kept glancing at the mountaintops pass
ing below and watched the shadow line creep higher and higher. The pink alpenglow is always a beauty to behold, but it rides with darkness close behind.
We were passing the prison then. Spring Creek Correctional Facility sat in the valley across from Seward, glimmering with a wicked brilliance. Powerful flood lights illuminated razor wire fences around a green grass courtyard. Maximum security prisons are all like that, I guess. Let there be light, the enemy of evil. Banish darkness where the devil plays. Spotlight the ones for their unspeakable deeds committed in the black of night. Light 'em up for the man. The man in the tower. The one with the sniper rifle.
Feeling like a privileged soul, unfenced and free, I pulled back on the controls and trimmed the plane for more altitude. As expected the air was smooth. Not a single bump disrupted our steady climb over the ridgeline of mountains. The wide expanse of the Gulf of Alaska filled our world on the right side of the airplane. Rugged mountains and glaciers filled the left. The last of the direct sunbeams lit the highest peaks, but below that the details faded to gray. Directly beneath us the rocky coastline slipped by where placid waves splashed white foam against a black gravel shoreline and sheer granite cliffs.
Rankin and Daniels stared out at the view without a word as if mesmerized by the spectacle. Silence was good. I figured they were enjoying the respite from a busy life fighting crime. Soaking in the quiet beauty of the Alaskan wilderness while leaving the driving to me had to feel good. No headquarters calling in, no surly offenders sulking in their face, no hostile stares from the clueless public. For thirty minutes or so their thoughts were their own.
The murky twilight of the evening made it difficult to see very far into the distance. I could tell we were going to be okay for another hour or so, but a low blur on the horizon to our south had me concerned. I wasn’t sure, but it looked like a fog bank. With the south wind it was probably moving north. Towards us.
At three thousand feet I pointed the plane across Day Harbor. Familiar beaches passed below as we crossed Horseshoe Cove and Whidbey Bay. Cruising easily around the high mountain on the west side of Johnstone Bay I spotted lower clouds ahead.
Damn. I silently cursed the unexpected surprise. I was going to have to descend low over the water to get underneath them. And just like that, the prospect of a pleasant evening flight in perfect cloudless skies evaporated. My jaw clamped a little tighter.
Low clouds aren’t usually a big deal. Especially when there’s no wind. I like to fly low. It gives me a close and intimate sense of being connected to the earth. But not over the ocean. Less than a thousand feet over the water doesn’t leave much room to glide to shore if the engine quits. And there were two wide expanses of water between us and Taroka Island. Wide enough that three thousand feet of altitude would have been comfortable and safe. But not tonight. Comfortable was gone, and safe was becoming a question.
As the airplane settled toward the ocean I tried to remember everything I knew about Taroka. It was a narrow island only about five miles long, a slim finger of forest covered hills nestled in Prince William Sound in a gap between two other islands, Evans and LaTouche. A high mountain on its south end rose a thousand feet in the air and blocked some of the wind and rain that roared in regularly off the Pacific. It had been uninhabited until 1950 when the rich owner sold out and the new owners built a lodge.
The north end of the island was fairly flat and a gravel airstrip had been built to bring in guests and supplies. A road from the airstrip wound through the trees for a couple of miles to a tiny bay where the lodge and other buildings clustered at the edge of the water. I’d been out there a few times in prior years dropping off guests. There was a nice overlook to the dock below where I’d seen fishing boats, yachts and an occasional float plane.
The island and its lodge now were owned by a wealthy family from back east somewhere. Word was their money came from war profiteering. The old man had taken his fortune and purchased the whole island, built a fancy lodge and ran a five star fishing operation every summer for three decades. Then I heard he passed away and although his heirs went through the motions of continuing the business, it had been the old man's dream, not theirs. The passion was gone. I wasn’t even sure they were still open.
What was it they'd said about the guy they were after? Nothing really. Just that he was big and probably drunk. I glanced over at Rankin, but he was just quietly watching the waves below. He looked deep in thought, so I decided not to interrupt. I wanted to know more about the job we were undertaking, but they weren’t sharing.
I didn’t want to look back at the other guy. Officer Daniels. I could feel him back there. His presence loomed like a final exam I could never pass. He knew more about their mission than I did, so he was one up on me. He knew it, and I knew it, but there was no way I was going to let him know that I knew. If that makes any sense. My job was to fly the plane. Get them there and get them back. The rest was none of my business. My curiosity be damned.
To them I was just a cab driver. Mind your own business. Cops are a closed club. They don’t share with outsiders. My part was to pretend I didn’t care. Shut up and drive. I could do that.
I turned my thoughts back to my own mission. With a subtle shrug I built a mental wall between them and me. I’m the pilot here. You guys need me so you can get your job done. You don’t want to talk, fine. You don’t know how to do what I do, and vice versa. So, fine. I’ll deliver you to the island and then you’re on your own.
First, I needed to find the airstrip and get the plane on the ground in one piece. When they got their guy I needed to get us back to Seward. I glanced around at the growing shadows. With the clouds ahead, the ground was definitely getting dark. I took another nervous glance south at the suspected fog bank on the horizon. Was it getting closer? But first things first. Where the hell was the island?
The clouds ahead were dark gray and covered the Sound for as far as I could see. There was blue sky above, but the dense layer sealed off the terrain completely. It wasn’t very thick, maybe only a couple of hundred feet top to bottom. Like a moldy old comforter from grandma’s damp basement, it lay on the earth in front of us sullen and unmoving. As I descended toward the water to get underneath the front edge of the cloud layer, I estimated that we’d be about eight hundred feet in the air. Eight hundred feet above the water. The icy cold unforgiving water of the Gulf of Alaska. And that’s if I kept the airplane’s radio antennas in the cloud.
The sun had dropped behind mountains way behind us and the lower we dropped, the darker it got. Sliding underneath the front edge of the cloud bank, we entered a different world. A world of water all around us with the murky shapes of mountains and cliffs emerging from its surface reaching up to the cloud. There was enough light to see the mountains, but that wasn’t going to last long. I felt my teeth starting to grind and I made a conscious effort to relax my jaw. It was decision time.
Should I turn around? Tell them it’s too dark? I spotted a cruise ship in the distance, its full array of lights sparkling gaily against the water. I could see far enough beyond it to give me a little confidence. I kept going.
The good news was I knew we were close. All I had to do was find a path in between the clouds and rocks. The bad news was nothing looked familiar. I couldn't tell which way to go. The island was out there somewhere less than twenty miles away behind one of the lush green mountain sides that loomed in front of us in the murk.
But everything looks different when the Sound is covered with low cloud. That’s a bad thing about flying low. You can see everything close up just fine, but you can't see things far away. Like familiar distant shore lines that you’ve seen many times before. The ones that guide you in or call you home.
On bright sunny days Prince William Sound glistens and glimmers, its islands and mountain peaks are clear and distinct. Everything you want to see is in plain view. But throw grandma’s comforter on top and it’s a whole new deal. The peaks thrust up into the overcast and i
nstead of wide open spaces it’s all tunnels, burrows and obstacles. A maze of jagged rock cliffs and tree covered ridgelines in all directions.
The last few times I was out here postcard photographers would have wet their pants. The beauty of the Sound is unequaled in the world. But not tonight. I peered into the murk looking for familiar landmarks and saw none. My hands grew damp, and I had to remind myself to relax my shoulders. I didn’t want Officer Cranky noticing the tension. He was uptight enough without seeing that his pilot was nervous and lost.
Was I lost? Uh, well, yeah, sort of. I mean, I kind of knew where we were but not exactly. I knew how to get home. That was no problem, but I couldn’t very well admit that I didn’t know where to find the island. What the hell kind of professional pilot would that make me? I needed to find that airstrip quick and get the damn plane on the ground.
I glanced at the fuel gages. Both tanks held enough to let me explore for an hour if needed and still get home with gas left over. But I didn’t want to wander around admitting I didn’t know the way. It had taken a long time to establish myself as a dependable pilot in the Alaska back country. The last thing I wanted to do was to fail.
Too bad I didn’t have a GPS on board. The company shared one between three planes. Normally I never needed it, so they kept it in Moose Pass. There hadn’t been time to get it before this flight.
The officers shifted in their seats. Rankin beside me leaned forward slightly and peered into the distance. I could sense him glancing over at me from time to time. Like passengers do when they get nervous. I ignored him and concentrated on looking calm, cool and collected. I adjusted the throttle with my right hand, then dropped my arm on my leg in a relaxed gesture. Giving the appearance that everything was fine. Just another routine trip through paradise. The last thing I needed was their anxious questions distracting me and adding to my own.
I started to realize that I was setting myself up. Pride and determination were powerful forces, and I was letting them cloud my thinking. I needed to make good decisions out here. Decisions based on common sense and safety. The little voice in the back of my head was poking me. An old song came to me: Should I stay or should I go? If I stay there will be trouble, if I go there will be double.
I gave myself a quick shake and looked hard at the shorelines that were approaching now on either side. They looked familiar. I was pretty sure that the channel ahead was the water between Evans and Bainbridge Islands. Evans was the island on our right. Taroka was on the other side of Evans, but there was a mountain there tightly capped by the cloud layer. There were some openings along the wall like ridgeline, but I couldn’t see well enough through the gaps to tell if the far side was clear. It was a real bad idea to squeak through a cloudy gap hoping the other side was okay. Too many dead pilots had plunged through with false confidence only to find themselves surrounded by impenetrable fog and rock.
I stayed with my best option. I would follow the coastline of Evans Island all the way around the north end until I could see the conditions and hopefully the familiar shape of Taroka Island. The plan was okay as long as the clouds behaved themselves. I studied the gray shape above and craned my neck to look behind us making sure I had a way back to Seward if things closed out ahead. It looked okay. I turned the plane to follow the easily visible line of white frothy waves where they dashed against the rocks on the ragged coastline below us.
“Did you get us lost?” Daniels’s gravelly voice cut through the intercom like breaking glass. He had finally pulled on his headset.
“No, we’re fine. This is the Prince of Wales Passage we’re following. That’s Evans Island to the right and Taroka’s behind that. I just have to find a way to get over there under these clouds.” I was glad he hadn’t asked me two minutes before.
He didn’t respond. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed Rankin look out where I had pointed. Then he pulled out a notebook and started reading. Like he was preparing for the next step and reviewing his notes.
Light rain began to spot the windshield. It was still twilight behind us, but much darker in front. I didn’t like it, but there was no wind and I had room to turn around. I reminded myself that these kinds of clouds were pretty stable in light wind. I’d never seen them change fast enough to trap me. But I would keep my eye on them anyway, just in case. I kept going.
A low place between two high hills came into view on our right. Steep forested walls rose into the clouds, but a saddle dropped away from the gray ceiling to let me see through. I put the plane in a steep bank and turned toward the gap. I had to make a decision quick. If I couldn’t detect clear airspace on the opposite side of the pass, I’d need to make another steep turn to get back on my original track. At the last possible moment I spotted the water on the east side of Evans Island and the white rimmed shoreline of Taroka Island less than ten miles away.
I hugged the right side of the saddle and sailed straight through. All of a sudden the huge gravel airstrip called Chenega Bay appeared directly ahead of us and just two hundred feet below. I felt my lungs inflate with a deep breath of relief. Seeing an easy place to land after so much water and so many rocky shorelines and cliffs settled my nerves. The Chenega airstrip was my alternate. If everything turned to crap unexpectedly, I could easily get back here. I pressed on for Taroka five hundred feet over the water.
“That’s it straight ahead,” I announced with all the calm I could muster. Rankin leaned forward and squinted into the gloomy scene ahead.
“Got enough light?” he asked.
“I think so,” I answered. “I’ll overfly the strip to be sure.”
I could feel Daniels in the back seat shift his weight forward. Out of the corner of my eye I saw his dark shape come up close behind me where he could see out ahead.
I jerked my attention back to the destination. I pulled back on the throttle and slowed the plane. My hands seemed to move over the controls automatically as I set the flaps and pulled on the carburetor heat. My eyes flicked rapidly over the instruments and the fuel gauges. Everything looked good.
Setting the trim for eighty knots I flew straight and level across LaTouche Passage. I looked all around for other airplanes but the area was deserted. No boats in sight either, no planes and no wind. Nothing moved.
I keyed the radio. “Taroka traffic, Cessna four four nine five zulu, five miles west, inbound.”
The words echoed in my headset, but no one answered. I wondered if anyone on Chenega Island was listening. They didn’t have a transmitter but a Native council leader over there told me once that they had an old receiver set up in the health clinic and somebody usually monitored air traffic in the area. I liked thinking about that. After all, Willie was the only one who knew I was out here. Besides the troopers. And their dispatcher, I guessed.
Then I could see the strip ahead of us. It was just light enough to make a landing, but the approach was going to be tricky. The near end of the strip started just above water’s edge, only a few feet from jagged rocks. The tide was high, and white foam was splashing against the shore. Rotted moss and small driftwood logs were scattered at the top of a small slope of dark gray rocks above the water. The rest of the runway ran uphill toward a steep embankment. A pile of boulders had been left there by the bulldozer that cleared the strip years ago.
I had one chance to make the landing. No room for error. If I set it down too fast or too far down the runway, there wasn’t enough room to stop or to take off again. The embankment and the mountainside beyond made sure of that. It was what they called a one way strip.
Tall trees lined the left edge of the runway by the water’s edge. Another hillside on the right gave me just enough space to set the plane down between the two obstacles. If I set the wheels down just past the water line nice and slow and got on the brakes in a hurry, we’d be okay.
I looked at my watch. It was after eight. I kept my altitude and lined up the plane so I could fly over the right side of the fi
eld and look at the runway surface for problems. It looked rutted but fairly flat. No big rocks in the middle anyhow. No abandoned vehicles, lumber or wandering moose. No airplanes down there either. It would have been nice to see another plane for some confirmation, but like so many remote landings in Alaska I was on my own. A faded windsock hung limply on a wire frame halfway down the strip. No wind to push me off track on landing, but no wind to help slow us down just before touchdown either.
Then I had to bank to the left to keep clear of the approaching mountainside. I took another look down for any surprises on the far end of the landing area. I felt Officer Daniels behind me leaning over to look down too.
I straightened the plane's flight, it was decision time. "How important is this flight?" I asked.
“Why? We need to get in there. Now." Daniels snapped.
"Because it's a little iffy," I answered. "The weather's turning. It's starting to rain and getting dark. I doubt we'll get back out of here tonight."
"We're here, let's land. If we have to stay over, we stay over. Can you do it or not?"
"I'll make that decision when I'm ready, alright?" I snapped back.
Daniels didn't answer. I could tell he didn't like being out of control.
I turned for another pass over the strip. “Help me look for anything down there that looks like a problem," I ordered.
It was silent inside the plane as we repeated the pattern over the island a little lower. The only sound was the drone of the engine as we all stared down and I maneuvered. The rain was picking up but the airstrip surface didn't look wet or muddy yet. I thought about the slight incline of the strip and the condition of my tires and brakes and decided to keep going.
"Anybody see anything to worry about?"
"No,” they answered in unison.
“I didn’t either. Okay, here we go.”
I kept the bank going and swung out over the water again. Out of habit I keyed the mike. “Taroka traffic, ninety five zulu is left downwind, turning base to final.” Like talking to ghosts in a graveyard.
Looking down and to my left I searched for my touchdown point, but all I could see were trees. I could only guess at where the exact spot was. I took a deep breath and concentrated on setting up the plane.
I pulled back on the throttle and let the plane start sinking toward the water. I put down all the flaps and trimmed for sixty five knots. Glancing back over my left shoulder, I gave myself an extra wide turn to make sure I had plenty of time on final to get it right the first time. Once I committed to landing I only had this one chance.
With my right hand ready on the throttle, I turned left and then left again. The white foamy waterline was straight ahead. Sinking just a little too low I punched in just a few more RPM to get back on track, then chopped it again. We glided toward the dark spot between the trees and the hillside. I slowed us to sixty. Then I saw the touchdown spot clearly, just past the foam and the rocks. I glanced down the runway to make sure no obstacles had suddenly appeared. From this angle it looked short but doable. The boulders at the far end loomed in the dim light.
My last chance to abort came and went. Then I was committed. As we slid the last fifty feet out of the sky, I took a deep breath, relaxed my shoulders and prepared myself to land.
I noticed Rankin’s hands twitching out of the corner of my eye. Apparently he didn’t like the look of the rocks and water coming straight at the windshield. I didn't either but I fought off the alarm rising in my throat. If he did something stupid like grabbing to pull back on the controls he’d kill us all. There wouldn’t be time to stop him. It had happened before in small planes with dual controls and nervous passengers.
“Everything looks good,” I droned with a practiced steady tone. “We’ll ride it down just like this.”
He looked over at me for just a second and then immediately went back to staring straight ahead. I noticed that his hands stayed on his thighs where they belonged.
Just above the water, I pulled smoothly back on the yoke and flared the plane ten feet off the deck. I could see the embankment waiting up ahead at the end of the gravel. She floated for a split second, then descended further and the stall horn started to squawk. I felt the final sink and saw the rocks pass by on the right and the left. I pulled back even more and all I could see over the nose was the immense pile of rocks at the far end. If there was something on the runway now, I was going to hit it.
For a moment I felt helpless, almost panicked, knowing there was no escape. I set my teeth and gave into it. At this point it’s all you can do. You know you’re committed and there are no other options. You have to let the landing happen. If you hadn’t made good decisions up to this point, you could have a real problem. If you'd done everything right, it would work out. Usually.
I felt the main tires touch the gravel and we settled with a rolling rumble. I pulled off all the power and slid my toes up to the brakes. As we slowed the nose dropped, the front wheel touched down and our weight pushed forward. It was all feel then as I pushed hard against the pedals but not enough to make us slide, I stretched myself as tall as possible and peered into the shadows ahead. The ground crunched underneath as I brought us to a stop.
The boulders looked huge now just thirty yards away. I felt my breath release and a wave of exhilaration rushed over me.
“Whew! Nice job.” Rankin bubbled with the euphoria of a doomed man with a new lease on life. Daniels said nothing. I felt him unlatch his seatbelt and the plane moved as he shifted his weight toward the door. With a burst of power I turned the plane around and taxied back to find a parking spot. There was an area just uphill from the center of the strip and I turned us around again to stop clear of the runway. You never know when another plane might come in for a landing.
I pulled the mixture to shut down the engine and flipped all the switches to their OFF positions. The propeller lurched to a stop. Rankin popped open his door, and a cool rush of wet salty air flooded into the cabin. The scent of spruce and seaweed was as thick as a wet dog in an afternoon rain. As the officers climbed out of the plane, I reached for the record book and wrote down the date and ‘Seward to Taroka Island.’
I looked up to the instrument panel to locate the Hobbs meter. It’s the instrument that records the time the engine has been running. Zero point seven. Forty two minutes.
I wrote it down and did the math in my head. Since I was paid for the time the engine was turning, according to Mister Hobbs, I had just earned thirty five dollars.
I snapped the book shut, stowed the pen away and rotated my head to relax the muscles in my neck. With a deep breath I slid my seat back, unfastened my seatbelt and stepped out to take a look around.