Dog seriously proficient student of body language, I thought. Said, “So am I supposed just to throw it, or should I have you stay, throw it, then release you?”
Decided just (she crouched) to throw it.
Unlike majority, who use backhand, away-from-body flip, am sidearm Frisbee ace: Grip rim like pencil, between thumb, index finger; thumb on top, straightened index finger lying along curved inner rim groove. Sidearm motion spins disk off fingertip; generates much faster rotation, more lift, nets way more distance. But directional control can be tricky.
Drew back, let fly—and surprised to find Maggie already 50 feet along intended flight path, running flat-out, well ahead of Frisbee but headed for likely eventual landing site.
However, as often happens with sidearm technique, disk begin to tilt, then curve. Instantly, without looking, dog angled in correct direction. Must have been tracking flight path by audio ranging.
Maggie slowed to let Frisbee overtake her. Bore slightly off to one side; only then glanced up, snatched out of air with precise sidelong snap, slid to stop.
Concluded retrieve with another perfect front-and-center stop, practically dancing sitting still with joy, excitement.
Second time, momentarily held her with stay command as threw Frisbee. Upon release, Maggie accelerated like rocket, overtook disk maybe 200 feet out. With Frisbee soaring almost horizontally, some six feet above grass, Maggie launched skyward, nailed it midair; then raced back again.
Gave hereditary new Best Friend half hour's worth of Frisbee chasing before announcing “Last one” prior to final throw.
(Another useful Weldonism: Formally declaring game's end just prior to conclusion helps familiarize BCs with concept of limits; reduces likelihood of activity becoming endlessly obsessive/ compulsive addiction.)
Thereafter, with M-1 leaning against leg, field-stripped, cleaned, lubricated, reassembled Glock.
Then slung M-1 over shoulder, dug out prybar, canteen; strolled across field to fixed-base operator's facility. Sampled various vehicles; found aged International Harvester station wagon with charged-up battery, nearly full tank.
Checked yellow pages for holistic/organic pet supplies; amazed to find EarthPets outlet in such remote, if lovely, backwater.
Maggie loved riding in car: Not head-out-window type (wouldn't have permitted that in any event; eye injury risk from bug strike outweighs fun), but sat up very straight on seat, watched intently as scenery went by. Smiled nonstop.
Prybar proved unnecessary; store unlocked.
Surveyed inventory. Scrutinized food labels. Ultimately selected brand with artsy timber wolf logo (friendlier looking than last night's visitors). Came in several flavors; primary protein nutrients listed, respectively, as lamb, bison, caribou, venison, chicken, salmon—and specified actual meat cuts; not hooves, hair—with rice, together with healthful, selected herbal mix.
More importantly, contained no ingredients impossible to pronounce, nor patently toxic preservatives (butylated hydroxyanisole [BHA], butylated hydroxytoluene [BHT], or ethoxyquin) furnished free with nutrition prior to World's End by virtually all Big Name grocery-store dog food manufacturers—despite having been shown in studies to promote liver disease; related also to tumor production, dozens of other ultimately fatal conditions.
Likewise, since health food doggie-din-din oven-baked, not extruded, contains no trapped-superheated-steam-generated, cumulative toxins.
Final additional benefit: Packaged in forever-airtight foil/plastic bags, ruling out hideously toxic aflatoxin mold contamination.
Offered Maggie taste-test on the spot. Bottomless mobile appetite put away heaping cupful; seemed to find flavor acceptable. Fixed me with roguish sidelong version of The Eye, hinting without detectible subtlety that additional samples would be at least as acceptable.
Tossed dozen 50-pound bags into wagon. Figured at three, four cups daily, ought to carry her for expected few weeks’ absence (with modest six-month reserve, just to be safe).
Gathered up bunch of containers of chewable vitamins, omega-3 complex fish oil capsules—figured if good for me (Teacher says so), good for new baby.
Also took along dozen plastic canisters of freeze-dried liver. Lasts forever, consists of nothing but little cubes of (surprise?) freeze-dried beef or chicken liver. Experience with Weldon's dogs suggests most canines regard flavor as little less than spiritual experience. After test, Maggie concurred here, too.
Collected several easily cleaned stainless steel dishes for water, feeding.
Next, since could foresee circumstances in which might need to limit Maggie's movement for her own safety, picked up selection of short leather leads, couple 25-foot “flexi” recoil reels, spare nylon buckle-on collars.
(Recalled Weldon's multiple-national-obedience-championships-based opinion that no one who actually knows anything about dog training uses choke collars—and especially not potentially larynx-damaging metal-chain chokers!)
Finally, picked out nylon seat-restraint harness. Resembled sled-dog harness. Carefully adjusted straps to fit. Locked onto car (or aircraft) seatbelt/shoulder harnesses, would provide whole-body support in sudden stop.
Ultimately, Foster sisters departed Klamath Falls around noon, headed for Bellingham. Only two-hour flight. Last stop before departing Lower 48.
Maggie untroubled by harness; perhaps reminds her of tracking leather. Required her to sit in seat, wear it only for takeoff, landing. Rest of time allowed her to wander cabin at will.
However, appears to like flying every bit as much as car riding. Spent majority of time sitting up in copilot's seat, peering out windows, nudging me for occasional scritch.
And smiling.
* * * *
Bellingham stop uneventful. Landed; fueled, serviced plane; ate.
Then experimented briefly with Weldon's voice commands, hand-signals. Pleased to discover Maggie knew every single one; responded flawlessly, no matter what maneuver asked her to perform.
Pleased but a little surprised: Not unreasonable to expect itinerant, lost-and-found BC to have regarded some of Weldon's commands as puzzling.
“Classical” herding system developed originally in Scotland; command structure tends to serve as boilerplate pattern worldwide. However, by the time trainers have brought dogs to Maggie's level of performance, most will have developed own unique variations on theme.
But apparently Maggie's owner/handler had trained under same grand master who had influenced Weldon; matched/followed Wisconsin dairy-farmer's system to the letter. No foolin'; if had been working with actual sheep, cows, could have had them square dancing in five minutes. Maggie that good.
Rewarded BC thereafter by playing Frisbee with her for two solid hours before bedtime. Maggie breathing almost normally by conclusion, eyes still laughing. By contrast, elder sister's throwing arm nearly ready to fall off.
Plan to take off for Ketchikan at first light. Tad over 600 miles; easy three-hour hop. Only challenges relate to potential pitfalls facing unlucky aviatrix in event of engine failure: Canadian west coast pretty much unsettled even prior to depopulation. Road count on nonexistent side of few. What towns existed were mostly water-/aircraft-dependent. Far between.
Terrain unforgiving: wrinkly, largely fjordic; multiple “arms of the sea” outlined by jaggedy cliffs, mostly low but heavily forested mountains.
Cruise-line-frequented waterway, euphemistically known as Bellingham-Ketchikan Marine Highway, wanders among mountainous offshore island chain extending from ... well ... Bellingham to Ketchikan. Most popular views from touristy ships related to whale watching, glaciers, scenic cliffs, etc.
But darned little in way of emergency landing accommodations for distressed aviators.
If get to Ketchikan in time to fuel, service plane by noon, Anchorage only four hours’ flight beyond. True, slightly longer hop; will burn two-thirds of fuel load as opposed to half. But still well within absolute, no-reserve, 1200-mile cruising range, and cannot imagine fin
ding less than unlimited fuel at Anchorage.
Of course, if Ketchikan stop should take longer than expected, will just spend night there; move on in morning. Not as if have schedule. Only considerations are weather, daylight.
(Ketchikan. Ketchikan-Ketchikan-Ketchikan. Tee-hee—fun word. Ketchikan...)
Hmm. Guess am really tired.
Good night, Posterity.
* * * *
Day III
Wonder if Northwest Canadians, Alaskans ever tired of being surrounded by gorgeous scenery 24 hours a day. Possible, I guess.
Personally, in no danger of satiation yet. Every time turn head, see something else just too darned beautiful for words: mountains, glaciers, forests, oceans, fjords, lakes, rivers—and more mountains, glaciers, forests, oceans, etc....
Ketchikan experience rivaled do-it-yourself NASCAR pit stop: Brim-full Jet-A fuel truck with charged-up battery (even came with own ladder) parked right there on ramp adjacent to fully stocked parts department. Fueling took ten minutes; topping up fluids another three.
Except for potty break, lunch (and hour-long Frisbee session for you-know-who), could have been back in air in 15 minutes.
As was, departed Ketchikan by 11:00; touched down in Anchorage just before 3:00, where found another Michelin Guide five-star, stocked-way-beyond-frontier-class airport.
Spent three hours prior to dinner, even before Frisbee session, taking advantage of local, fully equipped, bush “airline's” service facilities to give Stallion extra-thorough going-over in preparation for tomorrow's 600-mile-plus flight over trackless Alaskan interior wilderness.
Destination: Wales, small town, smaller airport, at very point of Bering Strait (Alaskan Airports Guide describes accommodations as “basic,” but promises ample supplies of Jet-A).
Also stocked up with couple dozen cans of turbine oil, gearbox lubricant, plus hydraulic fluid for constant-speed prop, extra fuel & oil filters, igniter components, etc.; sorts of goodies unlikely to be found in abundance if find self nonscheduledly parked in unmarked clearing at heart of Alaskan outback, much less amidst desolation sure to encounter on far side of Strait.
Final step: Uncased, assembled massive Barrett 50-caliber sniper rifle. Had debated whether to bring huge, almost cartoonish weapon at all. Grosses, for heaven's sake, almost half what Intrepid Special-Ops girl does: Manual lists 34.6 pounds. Feels even heavier in field, but that's attributable in part to five-pound contents of Wallace's custom-fabricated 20-shot magazines, stuffed full of five-and-a-half-inch-long, quarter-pound cartridges. Standing on end, rifle only inch shorter than self: 57 inches from butt to muzzle brake.
Under most circumstances, less than ideal weapon for 11-year-old—all I can do just to hold it up, using classic freehand stance: standing, butt against shoulder, front grip supported (ha!) by left arm only. Can't begin to steady sights long enough in that position to hit anything at any distance.
On other hand, weight not unmixed curse: All that mass, combined with recoiling barrel and extraction-action assembly cushioned against cleverly opposing spring and buffer mechanism, in addition to remarkably efficient muzzle brake, does sop up incredible amount of recoil. Net effect only little more punishing than 12-gauge shotgun. Which is to say, plenty to dump unprepared 85-pound shooter on duff, as learned first time fired one freehand.
(Danni's imperfectly suppressed smile more annoying than belly-laugh—never happened again.)
As practical matter, however, only way can shoot this (only technically portable) personal field-artillery piece accurately is prone or from bench rest, using built-in bipod muzzle support, or, standing, with height-adjustable post-and-crotch pole holding up noisy end.
However, notwithstanding gripes, really have come to enjoy firing Barrett. Under Danni's supervision, have garnered modestly encouraging results: With big scope, no-wind conditions, shooting prone or bench, have repeatedly achieved three-inch groups at one mile; six inches at mile and half.
(Danya does her quietly frightening best to conceal inappropriate pride over preteen apprentice assassin's previously unsuspected aptitude for reach-way-out-and-touch-someone-style homicide, but somehow always does seem to come up in conversations with her colleagues.)
However, monstrous bangstick's presence on mission not due merely to anticipated need for long-range slaughter.
Motivation far more basic.
Yes, Posterity; Candy Smith-Foster—Intrepid Girl Adventurer—pathologically, deathly, just plain terrified of polar bears.
(Okay, can stop laughing now. Hey, not kidding—traumatized young person here!)
See, expedition's itinerary calls for spending several nights in Ursus Maritimus' territory.
Beginning tomorrow.
Now, to be fair, never been attacked by polar bear. In fact, never actually even met one in person; not even in zoo.
However, over time, neurosis-motivated research has turned up far more information regarding big white eating machines’ attributes than ever wanted to know.
And for whatever reason, ever since earliest childhood, giant, flame-eyed, tusk-studded, saliva-dripping, shaggy white phantasms have starred in some of Yours Truly's better, more lastingly psyche-scarring, recurrent nightmares. Few of life's experiences are less restful than whole night spent fleeing in slow motion through pink, baby-blue, and fleecy-white cotton-candy arctic terrain (somehow always in neighborhood of towering, red/white-spiral-striped, candy-cane-style North Pole), with 11-foot-long, 1800-pound, highly intelligent, single-mindedly hungry carnivore nipping unstoppably at heels.
(All right; nipping unstoppably—usually wearing futuristic, wrap-around Foster Grants. Often with WWI flying ace's silk scarf around neck. Sometimes adorned with jaunty beret; alternating with menacingly ghetto-style backward baseball cap. Once showed up on Plucky Girl Psych-Eval Candidate's trail wearing classic Native American full war bonnet.)
But always smiling. Always drooling. Always licking lips.
And never more than three floatingly slow-motion bounds behind....
Practical bear-related consideration for lugging Barrett along on expedition, however, is fact that smallest, least motivated adult polar bear on planet could rip open Stallion's lightweight aluminum structure easier than I used to pop open Happy Meal boxes.
(Ooo ... could have lived long, happily fulfilled life without dredging up that image.)
Now, manifestly, odds on hitting charging white ursine freehand at any real distance comparable to winning PowerBall. (Remember? Back when lotteries existed?) But if should spot mobile appetite approaching in time, can use post-and-crotch support.
And even freehand, if target shows too much interest, gets scary close—absodamntively guarantee 20 two-inch-long, half-inch-thick, Hydra-Shok-type expanding slugs, each traveling at almost 3000 feet per second, will drain enthusiasm from biggest, baddest, hungriest (most stylishly attired) polar bear in or out of my nightmares.
However, regardless of explanation (rationale? excuse?), no doubt whatever, big gun's presence—assembled, loaded, conveniently at hand—will render tomorrow night's stopover at Wales (and subsequent three, four nights in northern Asia) more restful.
As will Maggie's wonderful, ever-twitching canine nose, marvelously sensitive ears.
* * * *
Day IV
Held off departure until nearly ten to give ground fog time to burn off. (Maggie didn't care: Leap, bound, gambol, frolic—crispy, cool mornings simply made for Frisbee.)
Finally launched into horizon-to-horizon crystal clear blue sky, settled down on course for Bering Strait, tiny seaside community of Wales.
Once again, Alaskan vistas simply breath-taking: Air so clear, snow-capped Mount McKinley & Associates in sight for over an hour; from shortly after takeoff to well after passed abeam, receded astern. Much gorgeous mountainscape to admire.
Thereafter, terrain began to descend, level, transition to endless expanses of solid forest, speckled with hundreds of lakes, multiple traceries of rive
rs.
By focusing attention narrowly (i.e., ignoring virtual nonexistence of safe potential emergency landing opportunities for non-floatplanes), one could regard landscape as very pretty indeed.
Now, technically speaking, turbines’ strictly rotary components don't actually beat. Addressing issue metaphorically, however, Stallion never missed one. Leveled off at optimum 13,000-foot cruising altitude. Airspeed edged up to 188 knots, though GPS true-speed readings showed Arctic Circle tradewinds cutting into groundspeed by nearly 35 knots, making trip take longer, use more fuel.
Still, well within flightplanning reserves as exited from tip of peninsula dividing Norton Sound from Norton Bay. Actual over-water flight no biggie; hardly twenty miles. From altitude, could have glided to dry landing from any point in crossing.
Comparable, in fact, to contemplated Bering Strait passage: Two potentially wet-feet legs of 24, 22 miles respectively, with pair of small islands, Diomedes, at halfway point. Followed by official Siberian Welcome Station: “All the seal blubber you can eat....” (Okay, yes, made that last part up.)
Anyway, barely an hour later found us circling Wales area at low altitude, admiring ramshackle collection of small buildings comprising pair of adjacent colorful (in desolate, barren, seashore-tundra sort of way) northern Alaskan small towns (Wales, Kingegan), cute little landlocked lagoon, tidy little airstrip...
(Oh, all right! Yes, scouting for polar bears. Happy now...?)
Landing uneventful, apart from Maggie's demonstration of how observant she is; how quickly picks up on even subtlest details of Life On (airborne) Road: Fuzzy sister dozed in back as I spent final half hour gradually letting down from 13,000-foot cruise to 500-foot height-above-ground altitude for local wildlife survey prior to landing.
But very moment decided to initiate approach, reached for flaps, trim controls to set up approach, canine cohort returned to copilot seat in single bound; then, without coaching, settled tush on cushion, leaned against seat back, thereby assuming position for convenient harness reattachment.
Analog SFF, July-August 2008 Page 8
