Alaska! Up North and to the Left

by Steven Swaks

  “Any tools? Anything special I should know about?” I asked.

  “Nope, typical stuff, few bags, that’s it.”

  A tall and well-built young man was standing next to me leaning on the dispatch counter. It was not that he was indeed young, if one considers mid-thirties a step away from youth, but his scruffy blond hair still gave a teenage look.

  “Somebody had a long day!” The young man said.

  “Tell me about it, the weather has been awful since this morning. It’s low clouds and rain all the way to the coast.”

  “That’s all right, I’m going to Fairbanks, it’s a lot better up there! Hey, I’m Dean by the way.” He extended his hand with a warm smile.

  “I’m Steven, nice to meet you.” I shook my head. “Do you fly with us?”

  “Yeah, I’m based over there. I just flew in with Alaska Airlines; I’m going to take Five One Hotel back up. Rob just gave me a checkride.”

  “Here it goes the second Skyvan… Randolph is going to throw a fit.” I said.

  “Why would I throw a fit?” Randolph walked in.

  “Too late…” I muttered. “You tell him,” I elbowed Dean.

  “So?” Randolph was standing in the middle of the small terminal, staring at us with his hands firmly anchored on his hips in an offensive stance.

  “Hey, how’re you doing Rand?” Dean smiled to relax the atmosphere.

  “Cut it! Don’t tell me, let me guess, they sent you to come pick up Five One Hotel?”

  “Hey, don’t shoot the messenger!” Dean waved one hand in defense of what could come.

  Randolph only shook his head. “Relax, I know you didn’t do anything. I got it a long time ago, they’re never going to upgrade me, and I knew that plane wouldn’t stay here. I’m done with this place anyway.” Randolph walked out into the hangar.

  “That was not so bad.” I told Dean.

  “I think I handled it pretty well,” Dean, said. “Was smooth, to the point.”

  “You did, good job,” I laughed.

  “Well, it was good chatting with you but I got to go back home.”

  “Yeah, and I have to fly to Kalskag and… what?” I glanced at Jeb.

  “Chuathbaluk,” Jeb chuckled.

  “Yeah, that one, I can’t even pronounce it.”

  “See you buddy,” Dean tapped me on the back and walked out.

  I was still hoping to skim through the edge of the precipitation and beat them to Kalskag. If the timing was right, I would manage to stay one step ahead of the system and come back to Bethel without too much exposure.

  Kalskag and Chuathbaluk still looked beautiful like Jeb would say, but who knew for how long? The green and yellow echo on the radar screen showed some precipitation just west of the Kuskokwim River running directly north south from Bethel to Kalskag. I was heading straight for a fight with an army of drenching clouds, but let’s not dramatize; even if I had to fly in the system, I knew it was not particularly strong. After all, it was just a collection of yellow and green echoes on the Doppler radar, without a mean red one. The echoes often accurately described the rain to come with the tiny drops of water merely wetting the plane as the green, while the dreaded red ones drowned the engine in a smothering flood. So far, with green and yellow echoes, my passengers might only see some rain and minor turbulence, just a discomfort, but nothing really affecting our safety.

  I launched out of Bethel and climbed out to the north. I often enjoyed the flights in this area, where the arctic coastal regions met the northern woods. I was approaching the Yukon River and its mystique, hundreds of lakes punctuating endless forests of conifers, the occasional moose standing in the middle of a pond, the bald eagles zooming by, all united to portray the Alaska I loved, wild and beautiful.

  I was racing the system just west of the river. The first occasional drops of rain appeared on the windshield, it was just light rain, not the devilish freezing rain, but small drops minding their own business. One by one, they tried to commit suicide on the windshield, only realizing it was not their time, they sluggishly streaked towards the tail section of the plane and attempted one more jump to a lake down below, joining another few trillions of their friends.

  There was nothing to be concerned about, the rain would not rob my wing lift and would not choke my engine, or at least I hoped it would not. I kept an educated eye on the situation and I dearly hoped that my passengers would be ready to embark as soon as I would be on the ground. The clouds were coming down, slowly, like a lazy giant descending on his prey.

  I reached my destination in 35 minutes and met my two technicians who were already there waiting for me. I knew one of them, Phillip, a nice and soft spoken young man. In the middle of bush country, Phillip did not fit the mold of the rugged worker coming out of the woods with an ax on his shoulder. Phillip was quiet and enjoyed joking with whoever was able to hear him. Conveniently flanked on both sides of his nose, his eyes told a lot about him, they were sharp and lively, always analyzing their surroundings and quick to assess a situation.

  I managed to have a fast turnaround. Unlike freight and boxes, passengers had the great ability to move about -most of the time-with great ease. Without delay, we headed northeast towards Chuathbaluk. We stayed over the river and watched the hills go by under our left wing. The weather was crippling behind us, annihilating my last hopes for a sweet and comfortable ride back home. A nice flying day was the exception, the appreciated break away from the normality. Often, lower 48 pilots came to Alaska ready to experience the legendary bush flying. They arrived in our state with pictures of sceneries and blue skies, maybe a mild frost in the morning and the friendly weather miraculously appearing on all the touristy advertisements. More than one arrived in Bethel and faced the beast as passengers stepping out of the Alaska Airlines jet. They merely caught a glimpse of the monster and ran away. The bold ones tried a few flights and gave up; the others stayed and hopefully did not crash in the first month of flying just like so many others did.

  We were approaching the village; the FAA approved procedure never really changed and I tediously broadcasted my intention in the blind for whoever was willing to listen, and called the village’s name at the beginning and end of each transmission. Looking closer at the exact name, I faced the distorted and unpronounceable Yupik nomenclature, Chuathbaluk. Other airports were challenging but manageable, in the hands of lower 48 pilots, Atmautluak turned into Atmau or Nunapitchuk into Nunap. Chuathbaluk, I didn’t know, hopefully nobody else was on the frequency as there was no need for air traffic control in small villages, and my broadcast was only destined to other potential traffic in the area. Hopefully, nobody would hear me slaughtering their home town.

  I did not want to sound like a touristy newcomer, so I tried my best in a losing battle against embarrassment. “Chuababluk traffic, Norton Five One Charlie, 10 miles southwest, over the river, inbound, Chuabaluk.”

  I would have to repeat the same twisted calls out on every leg of the traffic pattern. Worse come to worse, I was the entertainment of some old bush pilot, shaking his head and wondering who in the world was flying that plane.

  We landed without further embarrassment, or so I hoped. Chuathbaluk airport was an interesting little strip nudged between a small hill and a larger mountain right on the banks of the Kuskokwim River, a mile away from the village. I had never had a chance to land there let alone explore the village.

  “Do you want to come with us?” Phillip asked as he stepped out of the plane. “We have room for you on the four-wheeler.”

  Their offer was tempting, discovering a new village instead of waiting on a lonely airport ramp, but I knew better, I was not about to make that rookie mistake. I could already picture myself tossed around barely clinging on the baggage rack only to finish up covered with mud. I decided to pass on the occasion and stay on the dry ramp to enjoy the intimacy of the area.

  “I’d rather stay here, thanks. By the way, how long do you need?”

  “Oh, it sho
uld be a quick fix on an antenna, we’ll be back in no time.,” Phillip said.

  In no time was a very vague notion, was it a universal “in no time,” perhaps half an hour? Or was it a “in no time” for technicians losing track of time, frustrated with a stubborn and irreparable piece of equipment? I had faced such statements before, and I had sat on a lonely airplane ramp for the following four hours.

  “No pressure, but the weather is following us, so if you want to spend the night in Bethel, you better hustle up!” I said with a laugh.

  “Yes boss! We’ll do,” Phillip said with a grin.

  The four-wheelers left me and drove away with the two workers and their native driver holding on however they could.

  So many times, I had flirted with the prospect of the night out. Once, on my very first flight in Alaska, my return to Bethel had proved to be impossible and had turned into a night out in somebody’s house. There was often an acquaintance we knew, a friend, an agent, somebody’s family member ready to provide some kind of sleeping arrangement for the night. As a last resort, there was the school and a comfortable library. Except during the rare months above freezing, a night out might have been miserable to say the least. Everybody knew that. Flight crews were the villagers’ lifeline to Bethel, locals long ago understood that fact and often offered a helping hand to a stranded pilot.

  The small gravel ramp was finally mine. Even if I was giving up on my race against the weather, I was fully taking in the moment. I was a small pawn at the edge of the Alaskan forest. The low clouds loomed in different shades of gray and the mountains close by only added to the grandeur. I was humbly standing at the entrance of the woods. It was not a sequestered national park crawling under the assault of thousands of tourists, it was the real and unbounded Alaskan wilderness. I was standing at the end of a small man made presence and the beginning of a different world, a universe of spruce trees and wildlife, lakes and life where man was a rare sight. For hundreds of miles, there was nothing else but wilderness.

  I stepped forward and entered the unknown pristine nature. Man had hardly ventured there; any nature scavenger rapidly gave up and returned to more urbanized grounds leaving the area free of their ungrateful touch. I was walking on an endless life form, the moss spreading like corals, but the spongy moss was deep, each step was harder than the previous one and my feet were ever sinking deeper. I was stepping out of my element. I stopped and listened to hear the light wind skimming through the boughs and branches. The peace of the forest was upon me; I closed my eyes and became united with my surroundings. The inner wild was home.

  I reluctantly walked back to the gravel ramp, each step taking me closer to reality and our modernized world and away from this ephemera but unique experience. Even if I lived and flew in Alaska, I had not had a real chance to enjoy the area, nor to seize the opportunity to venture the local woods which mostly remained an unreachable sight passing under my wings. I constantly flew over them, but those few hundred feet to the ground often represented a barrier I could not transcend. My destinations were short stops, and I did not have the time to explore and satisfy my desire for terrestrial adventure. Flying was a business where each stop was the end of a money making machine for Norton Aviation and myself.

  For once, I had the chance to take it all in. Bethel was not like that, trees used to be there, but man’s need for lumber for heating and construction arose, raping the forest from its essence. Bethel was now a lost town in the middle of the tundra, and from lack of a reference, a large bush often became a magnificent tree. In my flight school days, I had even seen students from the coastal region flying to the Yukon area for the first time and marveling at the sights. Where presumably Spruce trees were mostly a concept, a fiction from books and pictures, they had experienced the majestic forest for the first time.

  55 minutes later, my two passengers were back, their job was done, mine was resuming. The easy flight back I was hoping for was long gone buried somewhere in a roadside ditch. It was time to face the opponent and turn my waiting game into yet another round. Here and there, large dark clouds were forming, they were the bullies I did not want to deal with in my giant courtyard. The rest of the area was a combination of grayness carrying its load of rain and occasional fog, but my passengers were used to it. In 45 minutes we would hopefully be back in Bethel, and we would all pack up and go home.

  The heavens were collapsing on us as the plane proceeded further south; the clouds were getting lower and lower, blending into each other in a grotesque scene. My altitude was fading away, I could not enter the clouds and join the mêlée, kingdom of illegality and blindness. The veil was descending on us, and so was my height above the ground. For safety, and backed up by the all too unforgiving regulations, I could not go below the anemic 500 feet above the ground. Reaching that height would have meant a diversion to an alternate, most likely a village behind us, and a forced stay on an aircraft ramp staring at each other while waiting for the conditions to improve.

  Another thirty miles to Bethel. My altitude was still bleeding out. I was slowly descending through 700 feet, my buffer melting away. Non-Alaskan pilots frowned, shook their heads, and wondered how we had turned into scud running lunatics, but it was a legal common practice. Not that we minded flying low, but we were often forced to. We were paid to perform a job and to get it done. Most of us were good at it, the others either realized their own limitations and wisely quit, or crashed before leaving.

  This was one of the particularities about flying in Alaska, the weather often came wrapped up in low ceiling and fog, but there was a very fine line between canceling a flight which was safely feasible and pushing the weather. We were tightrope walkers between legality and foolishness. If a particular situation felt uneasy, it was probably time to get back. So far, the philosophy had been working fairly well.

  Down to 500 feet, that was it, my limit was reached, there was no more leeway, no more buffers to play with. I had already passed my last alternate, and I could still turn around to fly back to my plan B, but Bethel was right there. 10 miles out, clinging on to my 500 feet, I called Bethel Tower and managed to get a clearance to enter their airspace. For once, I did not have to wait around and perform a giant race track in the sky along with other planes I could barely see at 500 feet off the deck. That was our unique SVFR* (Special Visual Flight Rules) procedure designed to keep planes outside Bethel airspace in poor weather to let the larger IFR traffic land before we did. We were the only ones in the U.S. stupid enough to hold with other planes so close to the ground in restricted visibility, but it was common practice in Bethel and the FAA had given its unconceivable blessing. Once the airspace became ours, up to fifteen planes rushed to a single runway around a foggy mess, but somehow it worked out.

  The sight of the runway followed by a smooth landing brought a sense of relief. As we taxied towards Norton’s ramp, Jeb did not bother to acknowledge my inbound call, not that I blamed him, he was most likely buried under piles of paperwork with two phones clinging on to his ears. I did have some flight time left before maxing out for the day, and I was hoping that he would have pity on my miserable condition and would release me. I had barely made it back and I really did not feel like facing the weather one more time. I parked the plane, shut down, helped my two passengers disembark, and picked up their gear.

  I walked into dispatch with the innocence of a simpleton, Jeb would be busy finishing up some mundane administrative task and would be preparing tomorrow’s flights. I opened dispatch’s door, this was roughly when I felt the punch in my stomach, the mechanical and devilish voice, the hideous “Chefornak, NEXT!” My hand on his neck, squeezing, the cervical spine snapping, the exquisite sound of a quiet Jeb, the melody of silence. The questions, the frustrations mixed with each other in a rotten cocktail. Why? Why do you want me to go back out there? I barely made it back! I did not know it yet, but the answer was in front of me, three people in their early twenties looking at me as if I was some kind of a messiah.
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  “What’s the flight for? You know what, it does not matter, the weather is terrible and I’ll get pretty close to my eight hours flight time if I go there.” I told Jeb quietly to stay somewhat professional in front of those strangers.

  I could feel the metallic taste of bitterness in my mouth. Any mail run could wait until tomorrow, I would not go to Chefornak tonight. I had decided, and nothing would change my mind.

  “Those guys are trying to go down there.” Jeb whispered.

  “Well, that’s too bad, they can go tomorrow, the village is still going to be there,” I muttered. I was not in the mood to play with the weather one more time. There were too many uncertainties and what I knew was grim. The weather and my meager flight time left were united to show me the way home.

  One of the passengers walked to me.

  “Hi, I’m Tristan, I’m with the Guards, I’m coming straight from Kuwait. I’ve been up for… I don’t know… twenty hours? All the flights are full and there are no charters available, you are the only one.” I did not care, I was still the one in charge and his story did not matter. He looked at me, “I haven’t seen my family in months. I’ll only be here for two weeks before I have to go back.” His voice was calm and exhausted.

  I looked down and saw a few packages, a large toy fire truck and a pair of dolls. There were other presents nicely wrapped and innocently waiting to be offered. I could say it, I knew I could, I was the pilot in command, the captain, I would refuse the flight with a nonchalant back stroke of my hand. The weather was barely legal, there was no real way to find out the conditions in route and my flight time would be very close to my daily limit. I was at the edge of legality, but I was only at the edge with my toes sticking out and gripping onto the ledge like a slave ready to be fed to the lions. I was teetering at the edge, but everything, from the weather to my flight time, was still swimming in legality.