I ate a solid breakfast in the motel, checked out, and drove to the airport. I filed a flight plan to Calgary, because the folowing day I wanted to fly to Banff and Lake Louise, then up the rift valley along the Fraser River, to Watson Lake, and then to Dawson in the Northwest Territories. I had been told the scenery was spectacular, the Canadian Rockies rising sharply into the skyscape.
Len topped off both wing tanks and together we preflighted. “She doesn’t use much oil, does she?” he asked. I told him to sit in the left seat — the PIC’s, the pilot-in-command.
“Wow. Look at all this stuff. As much as an airliner.”
“Yeah, makes you feel comfortable. Stable in turbulence, too. Well, better be going.” Outside on the ramp we shook hands warmly. “Say good-bye to everyone, and give that sister of yours a kiss for me.”
He smiled. “Why don’t you tell her yourself?” he said, looking over my shoulder. I turned around. Julie was walking in our direction, grinning.
“See you later,” Len said, and headed to the office.
Julie and I stared at each other. I couldn’t understand why she was wearing that happy smile.
“Well,” she said, “aren’t you going to help me with my luggage? I brought sandwiches. Where’s our first stop? And, by the way, I’m about to demonstrate my flying skills in your fancy twin-engined bird.”
“Julie! You’re coming with me? This is fantastic!” I picked her up and whirled her around a full 360 degrees.
“Blame it on Len. He told me to go. An opportunity not to be missed.”
She looked at me seriously. “Just so you understand, Henry Sabatini Martin, I get my butt back here by Sunday. No matter what.”
“Why all this luggage? All you need is a frilly nightgown. Will Sirius survive without Mommy?” I asked as I tugged her suitcase from the seat of the Alfa Romeo.
“Aunt Nadine will spoil him silly,” she said.
As an experienced pilot and instructor, Julie asked me if I had done a complete preflight inspection on the plane.
“Of course, just now. And before I left Islip, I had one of the other pilots do one with me, from stern to stem.” Then I told her about the sabotage. She looked shocked.
“Anyway, I got here safe and sound. So if something was going to happen, it would have already.” Julie nodded, and we climbed into the plane, but not before she checked the oil levels on the dipstick for each engine.
“Hope you don’t mind,” she said. “It’s your life I care about, too. Both engines indicate over eleven quarts. Okay?” I nodded.
Suddenly I thought of New York. A mile-high skyscraper soared from nowhere out the Wisconsin fields. The Martin Companies. Big Business. Big Banks. Big Trouble. I burst out laughing.
“What’s so funny, Henry Martin?”
“I just had a vision,” I said.
4
“WILL you get that silly grin off your face, Henry?”
I had swung 355 HM into the wind on Runway 15, after announcing that I was “taking the active.”
“Julie, read the airspeed indicator and tell me when we accelerate to eighty-nine knots. That’s rotation speed for this plane.”
Julie leaned over to kiss me, couldn’t reach, so she unbuckled her seat belt. “Julie,” I chided, “we’re about to take off! Put that thing on, will you?” Apparently I said that with the mike open.
“Hey,” Len responded over the unicorn, “you’ve got a stuck mike. I can hear you.”
We both laughed. I wagged my finger at her, turned my attention back to the controls, held the brakes, watched the manifold pressure spool up, glanced over at the temperatures and the inverted Y*s on the gauges. When Julie called out that airspeed had reached rotation speed, I pulled back on the yoke and the plane rotated.
“Three-five-five Hotel Mike departing northwest,” I announced. “Thanks again for everything, Len. Especially for having a sister. Except I may have to dump her out at twenty thousand feet.” I had tried to give him a hundred dollar bill, but he wouldn’t accept it. I made a note to send him something special from Alaska. The thought had crossed my mind to send the family a moose — not a stuffed one — and name him Hammerschlanger, the First.
Because the weather was marginal, I had filed an instrument flight plan. I contacted Minneapolis Center after changing from the Wausau frequency. “Radar contact established, one zero miles northwest of Wausau.” Our flight path would take us through North Dakota and then Montana. Hang a right at Cut Bank, north 328 degrees heading into Canada, pick up Victor 21 to the Leth-bridge VOR, then Victor 301 to Calgary. I estimated the time en route.
We flew between thick, pancake layers of clouds, on top of one soft gunmetal gray blanket and under another. I requested an altitude based on the winds aloft. When we reached 12,000 feet, I engaged the autopilot and concentrated on the navigation, glancing over every minute or so to observe the engine instruments and measure their temperatures.
“There’s coffee back there, Julie, behind the last seat on your side. Just a couple of inches for me. Cups are next to the thermos.” She nodded, licked my ear as she rose, a twinkle in her eye.
She returned with a cup of coffee in each hand. Stark naked. She put her cup in the copilot’s holder and handed me mine, which I had trouble grabbing. I placed it in my holder, after taking a quick sip so it wouldn’t spill. Then she moved her left breast gently against the right side of my face.
“Henry, let’s do it up here. We can become authentic members of the Mile-High Club.” She twisted so both firm breasts were pushed against my face, knocking my headset off
“Are you crazy? We could be upside down, and I wouldn’t know it.” She licked the grooves of my ear, the end of her tongue teasing.
“Oh, Henry, you’re a killjoy. What’s autopilot for, anyway?”
I heard Minneapolis Center calling, a bit annoyed: “Five Hotel Mike, do you read? We’ve been trying to reach you. Switch to one thirty-two point two-five.” I responded, my voice a little unsteady, checked in on the new frequency, and settled down.
“Tell you what, Julie. When we get to Calgary, I’m going to find the largest bed in town.”
She held my hand and kissed it. “I’m going back to get us some junk food we can gorge ourselves on.” She returned fully clothed and sat down in her seat. I turned off the autopilot and offered her the controls. She flew well, holding the heading and not climbing or descending more than 100 feet.
“Julie, can I talk about something?” I was feeding her a chocolate glazed donut. She gazed over at me. Her face was not only beautiful, it was beatific — which worried me.
“Julie, that expression on your face … I really care about you, but Fm all over the place emotionally. This past year has been a horror show for me. Know what Fm trying to say?”
She peered out of her window as if she hadn’t heard. “Will you just let me fly this plane?” she asked quietly. “You’re the one who’s on his own.” That sounded harsh.
I had warned her; now she was warning me.
“Ketchikan and farther up, Atlin on the Canadian side,” she resumed, “I want to show them to you. Maybe Lake Minchumina, too. Near the Yukon River, at the base of the Kuskokwims.” She squeezed my arm. “But I think Minchumina may be too far.”
“Sounds great,” I said. “Maybe Atlin first. I had planned Banff and Jasper, but the weather guys are forecasting a low that’ll hang in for several days.”
Within minutes, the weather did begin to deteriorate. “Minneapolis Center, three-five-five Hotel Mike, Fd like to go over to Flight Watch and come on back with you.” They approved the change of frequency. Flight Watch advised that the weather would not be clearing in Calgary as originally forecast, that the warm front had developed into a stationary front. Calgary reported 600-foot ceilings with visibility two miles in light rain and fog.
The conditions, though marginal, were acceptable because the minimum altitude for an ILS approach is 200 feet over the runway threshold, plus a half-mile v
isibility. Still, I was concerned about the temperatures at the various altitudes. Pilots were reporting moderate to severe rime ice down to 4,000 feet. We did pick up an inconsequential amount of ice as we descended, through layers from 11,000 feet
Julie called out the altitudes. We worked so easily together, sharing flying, something we both loved passionately. Once we were finally established on the Localizer for the ILS, I dropped the gear at the Final Approach Fix, broke out, and picked up the REILS — the runway end identifier lights. I put in the third ten degrees of flaps and rounded out, touching the runway on the three wheels.
“Not bad for a beginner,’ Julie commented.
We taxied to one of the FBOs on the field.
They recommended a nearby motel with rooms overlooking the airport. They also suggested the Calgary Air Museum, which we decided to visit later that afternoon. After lunch and after checking out the king-size bed in our suite. It wasn’t a mile high, but we felt miles above the floor.
Next morning, before departing, I studied the radar in the weather office. It indicated thunderstorms moving from the southwest across our flight path. I didn’t want to alarm Julie, but with the rain heavy and ceilings low, I sensed she knew the score. I set up the navigational aids, the VORs and GPS, checked the radios, the other instruments, and the de-icing equipment.
Tell you what,” I said, while we were taxiing to the departure runway. “You keep your eye on the radar for echoes and the Strike Finder for lightning. Ill watch the flight instruments. You do the radios.” She put the end of her tongue into the corner of her lips. “Well get up to twenty-four thousand feet, then well see the monsters,” I said. “Only a hundred miles to get past them.”
I didn’t disclose that from a point north of Calgary to Atlin, we would not have radar coverage, and at some point north of St. John, we would lose all radio contact. That would mean relying on the GPS and pilotage, the dead-reckoning method used before modern-day equipment. You place a map on your lap to identify mountains, lakes, streams, and an occasional road or settlement. And you don’t move your finger from your present position on that map.
The climbout proceeded normally, but at about 12,000 feet ice began to form rapidly on the wings and tail feathers. We both saw it. “Henry, the wings!”
With ice, it’s a question of how thick and how quickly, whether it is rime or clear ice. Of the two, clear ice is more dangerous. You get the hell out of that situation fast, very fast. I had neglected to check temperatures aloft. The information would have indicated any inversions. Sometimes a high layer can actually be warmer than a lower one. What I wasn’t sure of was at what altitude we would break out of the clouds and into the sunlight. When that occurred, sublimation would normally dispel whatever ice has accumulated. The critical element for flight is lift, based on the flow of air over the top of the wings. The weight of too much ice results in an uncontrolled descent.
“It’s either up or down to get out of this,’ I said as calmly as I could. I glued my eyes on the airspeed indicator and concentrated on the feel of the controls. If the speed dropped off or additional weight of ice prevented maintaining our attitude or climb, I’d have to descend. The problem with that was, we would pick up additional ice before we got down to warmer temperatures. That can be typical of a cold front riding under a warm front, flying from warmer air into colder air.
The controls began to feel sluggish. I was getting concerned — a slight understatement — but didn’t want Julie to be concerned. “Okay, let’s see,” I stated slowly, “if we …” I noticed the clouds beginning to thin just above us. “Hey, Julie, lookup there.” A few minutes later, we broke out and found ourselves bathed in the warmth and light of our wonderful star, the sun.
“AM right!” I shouted. “Goodness is its own reward.”
“Henry, you almost had me peeing in my pants. I’ve always dreaded ice. You’re not very amusing.” I looked over and was rewarded with a very broad smile. I reported the conditions to Calgary.
We flew to Fort St. John for a fuel stop after crossing over the VORs at Rocky Mountain House and Whitecourt, and finally the one at Grand Prairie. It was unfortunate we couldn’t fly northwest from Banff, via the rift valley. This geological phenomenon had been created by the glaciered, precipitous Canadian Rockies, through the Purcell and Caribou Mountains, past Jasper to Williston Lake, a thin, fish-shaped, 150-mile body of water. Someone told me the scenery was spectacular: the way the Fraser River carves through the Monashee Mountains to Prince George and Lake Williston north of Mackenzie, its length seemingly endless.
The clouds at Fort St. John dissipated, and after a pleasant lunch downtown, we departed. We were rewarded with limitless vistas of the knife-edged, glacier-saturated Rockies. They were as rugged as I’ve ever seen mountains not smoothed by erosion: one empty valley after another, sheer walls and craggy protuberances pushed up sharply from the land, a few flat areas stocked deep in fields of snow, countless fractured glaciers, small but determined in their permanency. Flying over these pristine areas gave me the feeling we were intruding into places we didn’t belong.
My thoughts turned quickly to my aircraft. There was no more reason for engine failure here than anywhere else, but going down here would be a wee bit different from landing at an airport in the East. Or anywhere.
I took photos with my wide-angle Panasonic and zoom shots with the Canon. At one point I noticed twin peaks with a U-shaped ridge between them, its edge pointed. I wondered why it hadn’t yet been rounded by eons of erosion. I decided to check it out and headed down.
“Henry, you wouldn’t. You’re not going to fly between those peaks. Please! I don’t have to be convinced about your skills.”
“Just having a little closer look,’ I said matter-of-factly. But I knew I was showing off
“For God’s sake, Henry!”
We slid nicely between them, past and immediately over yet another deeply carved valley. I heard her sigh. An old friend once taught me to listen to sighs. Usually we’re not aware when we make them. They provide a quick idea how someone really feels.
The clouds billowed up, forming gigantic cream puffs that tower tens of thousands of feet. We didn’t want to mess with them and scooted around or between. Our little craft could be torn apart by severe updrafts and turbulence.
“If you don’t mind, Henry Martin, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t take my life in your hands without my permission.”
“A deal,” I said. “But your life was never in danger back there.”
“Says you.”
“Okay,” I said. “From now on I'll ask permission.”
As we continued, no longer in radio contact, I glanced between the GPS course deviation indicator and the magnetic compass. In these higher latitudes, the mag compass tends to be erratic, controlled by the proximity to major iron deposits, also by being closer to the magnetic north pole. So we only had the GPS.
After crossing the Rockies, we flew over the Stikine Range and Cassiar Mountains, between Dome Mountain and the Three Sisters Range, past the settlement at Dease Lake, its paved runway and seaplane base appearing like an oasis in a green desert. Such a different world here. I wondered if I could ever adjust to it.
5
ATLIN was an outpost, almost an illusion. Fed by one long, rugged dirt road from Whitehorse, the capital of the Canadian Yukon Territories, 120 miles away. You don’t drive unless you have no other choice. You can also reach it by a gravel airstrip using a nondirectional beacon. Of all the instrument approaches, the NDBs are the most demanding to fly. But in the Midwest of the United States and remote places in the world, NDBs are the least expensive to maintain and therefore used almost exclusively. They operate on the low-frequency radio band, the same as for AM radio. For years, radio stations served as locator beacons.
I found Atlin both by watching the NDB needle point to the station and also by locating Atlin Lake: 100 miles north to south and shaped a little like a cormorant standing with its head rai
sed. We descended to about 3,000 feet above the runway situated to the east, flew over the village, then up the lake, and turned back.
“Atlin traffic, Three-five-five Hotel Mike, six to the southwest, will enter a left downwind for two-six.” I spotted a plane taking off, but heard no response. I learned quickly that any resemblance between methods and procedures in the Lower 48 and the bush is virtually coincidental. Perhaps this is because FAA is headquartered in Washington, D.C., thousands of miles away. But more likely it’s due to the difference between the pragmatic needs and routines required up there versus those in populated areas. Bush pilots, more often than not, dispense with traffic patterns, wind direction, and radio calls. But there are no better pilots anywhere. Flying in the world’s most difficult conditions demands superb skills. Also the determination to survive. Planes go down in bad weather. Comrades make incredible landings in implausible places, fly out downed pilots, or fly in the parts necessary to repair the damaged aircraft.
Atlin and its magnificent lake were cradled in a valley between two staunch mountain ranges. The village spills down a decline to Atlin Lake, its edge dotted with homes, docks, a few boat ramps, a single church, plus the Atlin Inn and cottages. Of particular interest to me and those who utilized their services was Jerry and Susan’s Summit Air Charters. Fifty-five-gallon gasoline drums lined their dock, plus paraphernalia used by their seaplanes to transport people and equipment. Several streets ran from the top of the knoll straight to the water. The false fronts on gable-roofed buildings were reminiscent of Gold Rush days. Log cabins and clapboard houses were painted a multitude of bright colors.
Flowering grasses with fluffed, wheat-type tassels in empty lots. Spring and summer flowers like phlox and Queen Anne’s lace like ossified snowflakes. Moose racks over front doors, dogs sleeping or wandering, and deep piles of stacked wood, always a reminder of the deep winters. Men who worked twelve to fifteen hours during long-lit summer days. Trucks with all their lights on, the four-wheel drive workhorses, and the Atlin Trading Post, run by congenial Native Canadians who all knew one another, and knew that most would never live anywhere else.
The Ego Makers Page 24