I coaxed the plane lower—200 feet from the swampy surface—and turned to the north. This put Trib 1 on Hagen’s side so he had a good view.
Hagen nudged me with his elbow and, gesturing downward, shouted, “There’s a cow moose and twins.” I took his word for it because they were out of my line of sight. We had seen several moose in that same locality over the years.
Moose — Photographed near the trail.
Trib 1 was a couple of hundred feet below. To the right was the shear rocky cliff. It was a rather remarkable geological feature midway along the ridge. North of this point the valley floor rose slightly and the course of the stream became concealed by trees. Though I was holding the speed down, we were rapidly approaching the head of the valley where the mine was located. Hagen would have a clear view while I concentrated on safe control of the plane.
The valley narrowed, the main ridge loomed closer but I had done this before. Before we passed the mine I had the plane at full power and had set in a gentle climbing turn to the left. It was a course that followed the tributary and avoided a crash into the steep hillside. Bit scary, but we had done it several times.
Hagen waited, I think with bated breath, until we were at a safe altitude before speaking. “It looked just as we left it. I couldn’t see anyone around. Or any sign of Herman.”
“Well. Maybe they didn’t come out here after all. They could be watching football on TV for all we know.” I was bringing the plane around so that we could cruise by again. This time the mine would be on my side.
With the plane in position I throttled back and set up for a downslope glide. The plane burbled quietly as we flew by the mine again. Nothing. As Hagen had observed, it seemed to be deserted. I couldn’t help but think what a good job we had done. Even from the air it was almost impossible to tell there had ever been activity there.
“There was a black speck down there. I think it was Freddy waving to us. “ I joked.
Hagen chuckled. “He’d better be careful when Tony and Carl come. They’re trappers. They’ll have him for dinner right away and make a hat of his pelt.”
“Okay. Let’s go around to Trib 2.”
I powered up and we cruised southward. It was my turn to see the wildlife. Startled by the noise, Mom was legging it for cover and the gangly twins were in close pursuit.
We rounded the tip of the ridge and obtained a clear view of the entire Trib 2 valley. It was really wet. Thanks to the beaver dams a fair portion of the valley was under water.
I pointed. “Look at that.” V-shaped ripples on one pond suddenly terminated with a splash as a beaver panicked and dived. The remainder of the valley, we knew, was a soggy marsh. The Trib 2 stream, such as it was, was lost amid the ponds and only became clearly defined only as it emerged from the valley.
Prime territory for the airplane crash site was the hillside ahead or the swamp at its base. Hagen raised the binoculars and started scanning the slope. Soon I had to turn the plane and put the hillside on our right. I slowed the plane whilst maintaining a safe speed and shouted, “Somewhere near here,” as we reached the place downslope of the impact area.
The adjacent hillside was covered with a thick growth of willows, a scattering of northern hemlock and spruce trees. At the foot of the slope there were dense stands of aspen and silver birch but the fall leaves were thinning and a fair percentage of the ground was visible. There certainly didn’t seem to be any significant parts of a plane.
I continued flying north until the valley narrowed. A powered left turn took us safely around so that we now had a view of the western hillside. Fewer trees at the base of the slope but more on the drier land of the hillside. Once again we had a fairly clear view but couldn’t spot anything unusual. We had scanned this slope thoroughly with our binoculars from the opposite ridge and we had hiked along the base so we were already fairly sure there was nothing to be found.
“We seem to be drawing a blank.” I commented to my companion. “Let’s have second look at the other side.”
I maneuvered the plane around so that we could once again view the slope.
“Stay further out this time. It’ll give us a wider field of view.” Hagen said.
I nodded and divided my attention between flying and watching the marsh below. I saw nothing remarkable. Once again we ran out of valley and had to turn.
“Doesn’t seem to be anything,” Hagen shouted. “How about looking around the other side of the ridge?”
We had already planned to try and replicate what we thought would have been the course of the plane, based on the markings on the rock. Of course we had to avoid crashing into the ridge. We didn’t want to make it that realistic.
I brought the plane around in a wide, climbing turn past the southern tip of the ridge and headed way out to the east. A mile or so out I turned the plane and lined up with the impact point on the rim of the ridge. The Ladue River snaked one thousand feet below. Our northwesterly course took us away from the river and over Trib 3.
The ridge reared up precipitously ahead. It was a bit difficult to judge its height so I made good and sure we had enough altitude to pass safely over. Nevertheless, it seemed a bit hazardous. The very rocks we had sat upon loomed larger and larger then disappeared under the nose. In an instant we seemed to rocket out over the Trib 2 Valley. One second there was ridge below. Next there was marsh. Even at one hundred miles an hour it was all over in a flash. Perish the thought we would have touched the ridge.
This little exercise, such as it was, served to reinforce our feelings about the crash site. It was easy to visualize a plane striking the rocks then plummeting to the valley below.
I continued straight ahead and, as we passed over the next ridge, had the satisfaction of locating the three mysterious craters. “See,” I shouted to Hagen, “they are almost in line.”
He nodded. Could there be a connection? Maybe an open question we might never answer.
I suddenly realized Hagen was a bit quiet. I glanced at him and he was looking pale. Too much zooming around at low level had made him feel queasy. I decided to gain a little altitude where our movement would not be so pronounced.
I did so gently and we were soon flying parallel with the main trail and about a thousand feet higher. That should have a steadying influence.
I mentally ticked of the familiar landmarks. Poplar Hollow, Squirrel Peak – wonder if the pika squirrels are watching us fly by Mt Son, No Name Peak. Hagen almost had his head out the window and was gulping lots of fresh air. I could tell he would be okay.
Finally came the long slope down toward the Taylor Highway and the trailhead. Mindful not to upset Hagen again I retarded the throttle and the slipstream noise decreased to a whisper. Then I trimmed and let the plane slide quietly downward, following the contours of the land.
We burbled quietly down, down, down until we passed over the swampy area protecting the entrance to the trail. I remembered how we had waded through there on our first hike and almost got ourselves stuck. We had hung on to each other until we started laughing uncontrollably and had all but fallen over, seventy-pound backpacks and all. There’s where we always hid our vehicle and trailer amongst the trees. There was the gravel pit at trails end where we had staged our equipment. It defined the end of “our” trail.
The Taylor Highway continued downslope for ten miles to Tetlin Junction where the land leveled and became swampy by the Tanana River. I had to apply a little power to maintain a safe altitude but still it made for a fairly quiet ride. Those last few miles had been so pleasant it could almost have been put to classical music.
I powered up to cruise. Made a right turn to follow the highway to Tanacross. We would stop there for a while, build ourselves a meal, gas up the plane and then fly nonstop to Wasilla.
I looked at Hagen. He was back to normal, though I thought he looked a little watery-eyed. Could it be he was? Nah. He was a tough frontiersman. Way too tough to be that nostalgic. Oh yes. It was the cool draft from the open windo
w. That’s what it was.
“Okay, Hagen.” I said, a little husky myself. “Let’s go home.”
He nodded and raised his eyes to the distant horizon.
Hagen — With a rare smile. Perhaps because dinner is being prepared.
Chapter Nine
Research
It was a crackling cold Saturday morning in late January. Just now, at nine o’clock, it was beginning to get light.
I brought my almost new Chevy Blazer to a stop beside Hagen’s jeep on the hard-packed snow covering the parking lot of Elmer’s Restaurant. A turn of the key brought the V8 to immediate shutdown.
Hagen climbed out of his own vehicle and smilingly said “Good morning. That was good timing, Doug. I just arrived. By the way, I told you, you need to get that engine fixed.”
I chuckled. “Hey, it doesn’t sound normal when it’s running either.”
My previous Chevy Blazer had suffered from post-ignition syndrome and always, without fail, went clinkity-clink for a few seconds after the ignition was switched off. Despite the efforts of the Chevy dealership, it persisted for all of the eight years and 140,000-plus miles I owned it. Hagen had dryly commented there must be something wrong with my new vehicle because its new, tight engine shut down quietly right away when the ignition was switched off.
“Nice cool morning.” I commented. “Got down to about minus ten degrees last night.” We hadn’t really had a cold snap in Anchorage so far, so we were feeling a little spoiled.
“Yeah, I think it was much colder in Wasilla. I prefer it to be cold and dry like this. The roads stay much cleaner. Notice how it’s getting light earlier.” Hagen cocked a thumb toward the brightening southeast sky.
“We’re already picking up quite a bit of light every day.”
On Thursday I had received a call from Bob Summers, our contact at the Air Museum, and had arranged for the three of us to get together for breakfast. After returning from the claim in August we had visited with Bob at the museum and shown him the pieces of aircraft.
It immediately fired his interest and he had promised to carry out some research. He had many good connections and said he felt sure he could soon identify the aircraft type. He told me he had now gathered some worthwhile information for us. “Let’s meet and talk about it.”
Dry powder snow squeaked under our boots as we walked toward the restaurant entrance. Elmers had been recently constructed and we quickly found it to be a comfortable and convenient place to visit. With an interesting architecture, quality oak trim and two brick fireplaces, it had quite a warm, homey atmosphere. Anchorage already had a wide assortment of restaurants but Elmer’s seemed to have been an instant success and was usually quite busy.
The place was almost full and at least ten people milled around in the lobby area waiting for a table. Bob, however, had obviously arrived early and commandeered a table near the fireplace. Unfortunately for us, it was in the smoking section. Through a cloud of mostly self-generated blue smoke, he waved us over. I heard my companion groan.
Bob was a sickly looking individual, in his mid-sixties, painfully gaunt, grey, balding, and smoking like a factory chimney. Contrary to his appearance, however, he had an unfeigned energy and enthusiasm. Years ago he had retired, with the rank of Major, from the Air Force. Good pension, we supposed but he worked part time during the summer as a guide at the Air Museum. During the winter months he helped to restore aircraft for the display.
During our first meeting in the fall we quickly found he had been a pilot in the latter part of World War II and had flown from islands in the Pacific. He had also seen action in Korea. Must have been somewhat fitter then, we thought. He had some hair-raising and colorful stories to tell, always in a loud voice, and it didn’t take much to get him going. We were never quite sure what was fact, fiction, or exaggeration but he related it well.
He greeted us with a loud and overly boisterous, “Hey. How are you guys this fine morning?” which made a number of other patrons look around and frown. We cringed a little and both responded quietly—hoping it might catch on—that we were fine. It didn’t work. Bob continued to talk loudly through all of the usual pleasantries and ordering of the meal. Everyone in this smoking section had to know what he was going to have for breakfast.
Fortunately, I think he realized there was an element of secrecy to the subject of our meeting and lowered his voice to what he obviously thought was a discreet whisper. Still a little louder than we would have preferred.
“You know, you guys have hit on something really interesting.” He looked around furtively and nervously tapped the dangling ash from his cigarette. “That piece of aluminum you found came from a Havoc.”
“A what?” Hagen and I said in unison.
“A Havoc,” Bob looked at us like we should have known what he was talking about, “A Douglas, A20 Havoc. It was a World War II, twin-engine attack aircraft built by Douglas Aircraft. There were many variants but this particular one was an A20H. We used some of them in Korea, too.” He took a long drag on his cigarette and I sensed, rather than saw, Hagen tense. He hated to see people ruin their lungs and didn’t relish secondhand smoke any more than I.
I asked, “They had Havocs in Alaska then?”
“Well, no, not really but they did ship thousands of them through Alaska to the U.S.S.R. under the lend-lease agreement. Most of them were A20G models but later ones were A20H’s. They were built at the Douglas plant in Santa Monica, California, marshaled at Great Falls, Montana then ferried through Canada and Alaska by the Seventh Ferry Group to places in Russia. Most of them refueled at Edmonton, White-horse, Fort Wainwright, Fairbanks —It was called Ladd Field then,—or Nome on the way.”
“And one of them didn’t make it,” Hagen chipped in.
“Oh heck, over the years a lot didn’t make it for one reason or another. They built six emergency runways for the ones in trouble—Northway and Tanacross were both lend-lease fields—and radio beacons through Canada and Alaska. They still lost quite a high percentage of planes but,” he lowered his voice secretively to a loud whisper, “this side of Whitehorse they accounted for all of the lost Havocs except two.”
“You mean we have found one of the missing ones? Or at least a bit of it?”
Bob looked at me through his blue smoke screen. “I didn’t say that. It may well be a piece from one they did find. It’ll take a bit more research to check that out. But from what you said, there aren’t any more signs of wreckage nearby so the chances are this is a missing one.”
“Doug said they rarely bothered to recover wreckage,” Hagen said, “You obviously concur that even if they had discovered the crash site they would have left most of the bits where they fell.”
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure they would. There were no roads nearby in those days, were there? And there were no helicopters to speak of. To this day there are a lot of crash sites around the state and the bits’n-pieces are still there. Over the years we’ve scavenged quite a few sites to get parts for the museum.”
Bob continued with his story between sips of coffee and drags on the cigarette. “There’s an even greater mystery to this and I was extremely lucky to pick up on it. One of the missing Havocs was carrying some kind of classified cargo to Russia. Of course, it never got there. The plane left Whitehorse but never made it to Nome. Didn’t contact any of the alternate airfields either. There was a search, of course, but the military put the wraps on it after a few weeks.”
He paused a moment and looked at each of us in turn. “Well. Why would they do that, you ask? Hah, hah!” This time he really whispered. “The records show they think this missing plane was shot down by a Japanese aircraft.”
We both gasped. “A Japanese aircraft over that part of Alaska?” I said incredulously, “I thought they never made it any closer than some of the Aleutian Islands.”.
“Bah, humbug. That’s what the government would like you to believe. Or at least would have had you believe in those days.”
&nb
sp; Hagen said, “ What makes them think this uh … Havoc was shot down somewhere in Alaska?”
“Boy, I’m telling you, I’ve had some fun with this one,” Bob grinned, smoke filtering grotesquely through his teeth. “Did a lot of digging and almost got myself kicked out of a few offices on the base for being such a pain in the rear end. Fortunately I have friends in the right places over there.” He laughed so loudly we both cowered in our seats.
Oblivious to our discomfort he continued, “You know the Al-Can was constructed in 1942 by the army. A lot of it was temporary and in 43 civilian work was underway to improve it. Straightening out some corners and the like. The first permanent bridge was finished that year. Well, during that time a highway survey crew came across a wrecked Jap Zero fighter. Actually a Mitsubishi A6M Zero, what the Japs called a Reisen. Pretty good plane actually. They surmised it attacked the Havoc but got itself shot up in the process. The Havoc carried quite a bit of firepower, 10-,50 caliber machine guns.
“The reports speculate the Jap pilot was wounded and might have been trying to set down on a part of the new highway but crashed instead. The plane was riddled with bullet holes and the engine was dead at the time of the crash. There was blood in the cockpit but they never did find the pilot. Now here’s the clincher.” Bob paused to add drama. “Number one, it had released two bombs before it crashed; number two, his ammo was partly used up and, three,” he counted on nicotine-stained fingers, “the Zero was found only two weeks after the second A20 was lost.”
Hagen leaned a little in his seat and allowed the waitress to place his own and Bob’s plates on the table. “Where the hell did this Zero come from?”
“That’s another reason they kept it all quiet. A bit embarrassing. It came from an aircraft carrier that sneaked into the Gulf of Alaska. A PBY long-range patrol aircraft tagged it and its destroyer escort as they were leaving. That was the same day the A20 left Whitehorse and disappeared, never to be seen again.”
Mystery in Trib 2 Page 10