by Jeff Egerton
Oblivious to Davis’ misery he continued his routine for another five minutes, then landed. When he parked, he turned to Davis and said, “It’s hard to hear anything from the front cockpit, did you say something?”
Davis, covered with his breakfast and red with rage, was visibly shaking as he said, “You…!!”
Catwalk smiled and yelled, “You better fly some more so you get used to it.”
He walked into the office to get his personal effects, and said goodbye to the people on duty. Billy Sue was in tears as he hugged her and promised to stay in touch. The rest of the employees wished him well and he left the airport feeling better, except he’d have to clean out the Jenny first chance he had.
Catwalk flew back to Meridian, thinking about his future the entire trip. On one hand his wanderlust was steering him toward Alaska because he yearned to see this unspoiled land where bears outnumbered humans and the humans treated each other equally. Another part of him said he should settle back in Meridian with his Mother and the family, so he could spend some time with his brothers and sisters while they were growing up. The problem was, there was only one job for him back in Mississippi and that was working on a farm, which he wasn’t about to do.
Another possibility was to use one of his contacts in the airline business to find a job with another carrier. The problem he faced here was he knew the job would be menial at best. This just wasn’t a time when anyone, unless you found another saint like Barney, was going to hire a black man for a management position, regardless of his experience. He landed with his mind still tugging him in different directions.
His Mother was overjoyed to see him and the happiest woman on earth in her new house. Cecil had finished enough of the house that the family could move in about two weeks ago. Now, he was working on a third bedroom in his spare time. The first thing he asked Catwalk was if he was going to be there long enough to finish the room.
“I’ll be here a week or so. We should be able to get it done. I’ll go into town tomorrow to get the paint and shingles we need.”
“Good. When I finish this I’m going to start on the other house so Mom can rent it out.”
His Mother asked, “Where are you going, Luke?”
“I don’t know, Momma. I’m thinking about heading up to Alaska to find a flying job.”
“Alaska? Why so far away. Can’t you get work around here?”
“Momma, the only job I can get around here is on a farm. I’ve done enough farm work.”
Cecil said, “He’s right, Momma. If he’s got a chance to find decent work, he should go after it. There’s no future working on a farm.”
His Mother said nothing, even though she was beset with conflicting thoughts. She wanted her son close to her so badly, that she wouldn’t mind if working on a farm accomplished this. On the other hand, she was immensely proud of him and knew his success would not allow him to work in the fields any longer. She hugged him and said, “Do what you have to, Luke. Just come back to see us every now and then.”
Catwalk had been home eight days when, during his sleep one night, he heard Sam’s voice. “Go to Alaska, Cat. Find your destiny in the land of the midnight sun.”
He awoke, sat straight up and looked around him; all his brothers were sound asleep. He pulled on his jeans and went out on the porch. Had he imagined that he heard her voice? No, there was no mistaking it; he knew where he was going.
He was still sitting there two hours later when Dee got up. He told her about hearing Sam’s voice.
She didn’t hesitate, “Go then, Luke. Go to Alaska, but be safe, honey.”
Catwalk called Curly from a pay phone at the drug store. He told him he’d pick him up at the airport in Norwich day after tomorrow. Curly was ecstatic and sounded like he’d been released from Purgatory. He asked Catwalk, “Do you think there’s many women in Alaska?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Catwalk and Curly were standing on a pier in Valdez, Alaska, next to a Stinson Detroiter seaplane, looking at the Chugach Mountain range.
Curly said, “Do you think they’re higher than the Rockies?”
“I don’t know, but they sure got a lot more snow, and they got those glaciers too. Do you know what those are?”
“Bunch a’ damned ice, as far as I know.”
A voice boomed out behind them. “I’m Hank Conroy. I s’pose you’re the two hot-shit pud-knockers lookin’ for a job flyin’ the bush.”
They turned and saw a sawed-off fireplug of a man, with blazing eyes dressed in wool cap, flannel shirt, corduroy britches and knee-high lace-up boots. A plug of tobacco the size of a baseball filled his cheek. Catwalk said, “That’s right. I’m Catwalk Jackson, this is Curly Levitz.”
The guy flung words at them, then spit a wad of sewage onto the pier for exclamation. “How much seaplane time you got?” Patooey!
Curly said, “We don’t have any seaplane time. We flew Jennys and airliners like the Boeing Model 80. He flew DC-3s.”
“What?” Patooey! “No seaplane time?” He barked what was supposed to be a laugh. “A couple of crappin’-pee-shit tenderfoot greenhorns.” Patooey! He looked over the two pilots like someone assessing a steer. “Well, I’m up agin’ it, an’ need someone to fly. I’ll see what you’re made of.”
He knelt on the dock and pointed to the floats that kept the seaplane on top of the water. “See that step on bottom of the float? You gotta’ remember that. If you got a heavy load and you can’t get up on that step, you can go ‘til your tank runs dry and you won’t get off the water.”
He walked up close to Catwalk, spit and said, “Here’s how it is. I don’t care what color a man is; he can be green, yellow, red or blue, I don’t care. I judge him on two things: courage and good judgment.” Patooey! “You have those, you can fly the bush for years. You don’t, you kill yourself and whoever’s with you. You ever fly a Detroiter?”
“No, but I can fly it.”
“Unh-huh. Get in the left seat.” He turned to Curly and spat, “You, get in back.”
Catwalk buckled in and looked over the instrument panel. It was bare compared to the DC-3 and he knew why. In Alaska, the bush pilots didn’t fly on instruments and very few had radios. Seat of the pants flying by needle, ball, airspeed and altimeter was the only way here.
“Here’s what you need to know about flyin’ a floatplane.” He turned to Curly, “You listen to this good.” He spit into a beer can. “Don’t try to turn downwind with power; it’ll tip you over. Just let the plane weathervane into the wind. Don’t try to turn a seaplane at all in a high wind. You tack it and sail it like a sailing ship, back and forth. Don’t try taxiing at half throttle; you’ll ruin your engine. Either taxi slow, or put the plane up on the step an’ your engine will run cool.”
Again he turned to Curly, “You got all that?”
“I got it.”
Catwalk smiled because he knew Curly didn’t like Hank’s demeanor. He hoped his side-kick didn’t say anything that would cost them a job.
“Good, you guys might not be so worthless after all.” He shook a finger at Catwalk. “Now, you gotta keep the nose up, or your prop will pick up spray, an’ it might hit the waves. That’ll ruin your prop. Ya’ wanna’ be real careful landing on glassy water. Sometimes you get a reflection off the bottom of a clear lake and it fools you. Last, don’t drift a ship backwards in high wind without power on. You do, an’ the floats and tail will dig in and you’ll sink tail first. You don’t want to do that, do you?”
Catwalk looked at Hank and said, “Sinking doesn’t interest me in the least.”
“Good.” Spit. “Your wind is northwest about eight knots. You got a light chop, but that’s the best kind of water for a seaplane, just a little chop to let you know there’s water under your plane. O.K., full back pressure on that wheel and let the speed lift you out of the water. Take-off northwest and turn up that valley at two o’clock.”
Curly looked at the valley and swore he saw a fog bank lying in t
he valley. He thought, nah, this guy ain’t crazy enough to fly into the fog. It must look different up here.
Catwalk taxied away from the dock and remembered the warning about turning into the wind. When he was a safe distance from the dock he let the plane weathervane and applied take-off power. He held the wheel full back and waited for the plane to rise onto the step. When his speed built, the plane broke the bond with the water and they were airborne.
Hank liked it. “By God damn, you remembered what I tole’ you. You’re gonna’ be a bush pilot, son.”
When they turned into the valley, Curly found his assessment of the fog was right on. Catwalk asked, “You want me to climb above that fog?”
“Not on your life, boy. You get right down on that river bed and fly the river.” He turned to Curly, “There’s a hell of a lot of bad weather up here, an’ storms build before you can blink an eye. That’s why you gotta learn to fly in the weather instead of going around it. You get above the fog and run into a storm, you can’t get back down through the soup. This-a-way, you’re down here where it’s safe.”
Catwalk flew into the bottom of the fog, keeping the river in sight below him. Hank went on, “One thing you got to remember boys, there ain’t no mountains in the middle of a river. You stay down on the river bed and you’ll never hit nothin’, just keep your eye out for the moose. I been so low I almost hit a few. Then, when you’re ready to land, you jes’ set her down. But, watch out for sand bars. You’ll learn where they are.”
Catwalk flew for thirty minutes and came to Blueberry Lake. The weather had cleared so he felt more comfortable, but he was apprehensive about his first landing on water. He turned into the wind and Hank started again. “Now, boys, one thing you gotta learn is, you gotta learn how to read the water. This is the most important thing about flying a float plane. You don’t learn to read the water and you’ll be back flying your Boeings, if you don’t die first. This lake ain’t bad ‘cause there’s no current like there is on a river, but it’s kinda’ rough today. Use a full stall so you got the least forward speed. The closer you can land to the upwind shore, the calmer the water will be.”
Catwalk set up a final approach and about ten feet above the water, killed his forward speed and stalled just before the floats entered the water. The landing felt rough to him, but Hank nodded his head. He took that as a passing grade.
They pulled the plane onto the shore where they changed pilots. While Hank went to take a leak, Catwalk told Curly, “Just do as he says. Don’t say anything that’ll blow this job.”
“Oh, I won’t, but that guy’s a real turd.”
Curly had some trouble taxiing upwind, but finally got the hang of it. They flew back to Valdez through a pass that took them to the shoreline of Prince William Sound and over the fishing village of Tatitlek. Catwalk knew this type of flying was going to take getting used to because throughout his whole flying career he’d been avoiding weather, and now he had to learn to operate in the weather.
Once they landed at Valdez, Hank said, “You boys done pretty good. I want you to make some touch and goes and practice taxiing. Tonight we take your first night flight over to Lake Hood, then day after tomorrow you go to work. I got a gov’ment contract to fly some fellows from the Fish and Game Department ‘tween here and Fairbanks and Bettles. Be ready to see the country by then. If you get forced down by a storm, you might have to camp in the plane for a couple days, so here’s what you gotta take with you: a Coleman heater and stove, four days of food and water, plenty of warm clothes, and something to read. That’s for you, for your plane you take blankets to wrap your engine in and gear to drain the oil so it don’t freeze. You wanna’ be prepared, ‘cause it might be forty below outside.”
After Hank left Catwalk looked at Curly and smiled. Curly said, “Camping in a plane for four days. Shit, I’ll go crazy sitting in a plane for that long.”
“That’s why you bring something to read.”
Curly lit a cigarette and said, “Cat, what the hell have we got ourselves into?”
Their night flight wasn’t much different than flying the daytime, as long as they kept the instrument lights turned down, so they didn’t ruin their night vision. This time of year there wasn’t much nighttime in Alaska, but in six months there would be very little day time. After the flight they went back to the room they’d rented. Curly walked across the street to a bar and Catwalk tore into a Jack London novel.
Curly came back in fifteen minutes and said, “Cat, you can come over and have a drink if you want to, There’s a couple other black guys in there.”
“You’re kidding me?”
“No, come on.”
Catwalk followed Curly into the bar. He saw three other black men in sitting at the bar and because of this he didn’t feel the stares that he usually got. It felt incredibly liberating to be able to walk in and be one of the guys and get served like anyone else. He was halfway through his first beer when he struck up a conversation with a burly guy next to him. The guy seemed interested that he and Curly were learning to be bush pilots.
“Where’d you guys fly in the states?”
Catwalk said, “We flew out of Albuquerque for Rocky Mountain Airways.”
By now a few other onlookers had gathered to hear about the two new pilots. One man said, “Bullshit! You guys look too young to be airline pilots.”
Curly immediately got in the guy’s face, “Listen, Buster, not only did we fly for Rocky Mountain, he was president of the airline.”
Catwalk wished he would have kept his mouth shut. The guy said, “Who are you kidding, ain’t no way he was president of an airline. If he was, what’s he doin’ up here flying the bush?”
Curly stood up and Catwalk pleaded, “Curly, let it go. It doesn’t matter.”
Curly persisted, “Listen you fat tub of lard, this guy was president of the airline until the board of directors railroaded him ‘cause he’s black.”
With that the guy took a swing and Curly tore into him, pummeling his face even though the guy outweighed him by fifty pounds.
Catwalk grabbed Curly and pulled him away from the guy, then stepped in between them. “Curly, if you get thrown in jail, we might lose this job. Take it easy. It doesn’t matter.”
He turned to the other guy and said, “He ain’t gonna bother you anymore. We’ll just finish our beers and we’re out of here.”
He steered Curly to an empty bar stool and they sat down. A few minutes later another black man approached Catwalk with his hand extended and said, “I’m Jack Winters and I used to work for Northwest Airlines. I’ve heard a lot about you. I’m sorry you got shafted so bad. You handled that pretty well.”
Catwalk shook his hand. “Thanks, Jack. Curly gets a little excited sometimes.”
“Listen, you should know that color doesn’t mean anything up here, but the people are a different breed. They’re leery of people from the states because so many are running from something. They respect honesty, courage and strength of character. And, if you see someone else who’s in a fix, you always help them. Next time it might be you that needs the help.”
“Thanks, we’ll remember that.”
Jack left and Catwalk said, “C’mon, Curly. We’ve got our first money making flight tomorrow and I want to be well rested because we’re flying over the roughest terrain on earth.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Catwalk departed Valdez in beautiful clear skies flying the Detroiter. Curly trailed him in a Gull Wing Stinson. They each had four men from the Fish and Game Department and boxes of supplies they were taking to Fairbanks where they’d drop the men off, then pick up five hundred pounds of frozen fish and a couple hundred pounds of animal pelts for the return trip.
The flight up proved to be uneventful and Catwalk was grateful for the fair weather, not only for easier flying, but for a chance to take in the incredible beauty of the land. He never imagined such an expansive and breathtaking wilderness.
When they landed on th
e Chena River, next to the ballpark that was used for land planes, the temperature was a balmy fifty degrees. Over lunch in a diner, Catwalk told Curly, “On a nice day like this it’s hard to imagine all the stories about the terrible weather are true.”
“Everyone says it can get a lot worse than those storms in the Rockies. Sooner or later, we’ll find out. I’d like to get a few flights under our belts before we run into a real bad storm.”
Catwalk smiled, “Well, partner, we got one flight under our belts.” He then finished his meal. He’d been surprised to hear Curly express some apprehension about the weather. He would have expected Curly to say something like, “Bring it on, I ain’t worried about their piss ant storms.” He was pleased that his partner showed some respect for the weather.
They loaded the fish and pelts, and departed for Valdez. Following the Chilitna River through the valley between Mt. McKinley and Mt. Hayes, Catwalk saw the skies growing dark in the west. He resisted the urge to turn away from the weather, even though it would be at its worst close to Mt. McKinley. He had to stay over the river in case they were forced to land.
The storm was on them in minutes and they both descended toward the river to avoid getting caught above the weather. The wind began howling and changing directions every few seconds. In the space of a few miles he flew through rain, hail and snow. Now he worried about icing which could coat his wings and force him down whether he wanted to land or not.
Catwalk looked down at the river and saw no sandbars, but he also didn’t see a bank where he could beach the plane after landing. He checked his wings and saw the buildup of ice that he’d feared. He’d have to land soon and if there was no shoreline to beach the plane, he’d be forced to somehow navigate down the river until he found a suitable mooring area.