by Steven Swaks
The once uniform village life gave up and created a marginalization only offering limited local jobs. It was the clerk at the village store, the health aid at the clinic, or the VPSO, sort of unarmed village law enforcement, all trying to make a living in a limited micro economy.
The material needs arose, but the income to sustain a modern lifestyle did not always follow in a scarce village job market. Work was in Bethel or Anchorage, away from the family and their history. The sandwich generation between a modern consuming society and autonomous traditional ancestors faced a challenge the Yupik had never faced before.
In an enclosed society who tried to find itself, alcohol came as a lubricant to ease the mutation and decimated the weakest. The numbing liquid was the unique solution for lost minds unable to deal with their new dynamic, the past was just behind, still alive in traditions among the elders, but the present was a leap forward too far away to be reached.
Even if the alcohol sale was illegal in Bethel, the booze plane -a Beach 1900-came daily and delivered its 5000 lbs. of beer and R&R, sort of a cheap and popular liquor barely good enough to increase the alcohol blood content of the consumer, and a step just above the Listerine mouth wash locked up in the supermarket.
To solve the problem, the uncultured legislators came and ruled. A wave of laws came by and drowned the ever increasing problem. The administration labeled Western Alaskan villages and towns like a farmer marked his cattle. Bethel became damp, people were allowed to bring a limited quantity of alcohol from out of town (i.e. Anchorage) for personal consumption. Just the idea of selling alcohol would have drawn the wrath of our brave Troopers and guaranteed a trip to jail, but then again, personal consumption became a very broad term for a few opportunists and self-made bootleggers willing to brave the law.
There were some not so subtle nuances around the damp idea. The dry label showed up in most villages where any alcohol was strictly prohibited. In case you wondered, any conventional liquor selling town was wet, like the cheeks of a crying mother for her son found dead on the shore of the Kuskokwim River or in the middle of the tundra. The alcohol & boating or snow machine combo had often been a recipe for an announced tragedy. Year long, the story repeated itself, and the body bags came back full.
The Fury
November
Jim entered dispatch with the fury of a psychopath on a rampage.
“DAMN!” His right fist went on hitting an invisible enemy in front of him, poor culprit object of his frustration.
Robert, Matt, and I, looked at each other surprised and wondered what was going on. Jeb and Ron were already behind the counter but stepped back even further in a futile move of self-preservation.
“Just got a call from Anchorage! Some idiot mechanic did a full power run up on a King Air*. RIGHT IN FRONT OF THE DAMN MAIL! Well guess what! That moron released the breaks and the plane went straight into the mail! Now both engines are toast! That’s two hundred grand a piece plus fifty grand for the props! The damn mail went flying all over the place and got shredded like damned snowflakes!”
Nobody moved a muscle, perhaps, if we stayed still he would not see us. That was our improvised survival reaction, freeze, and hope for the best. Do not move, maybe nod in approval, and wait for the storm to go away.
“Guys, BE CAREFUL, we cannot mess that one up! We CANNOT afford another accident! The insurance companies have our nuts on a platter, and I guarantee you, if we wreck again they’re going to squeeze us as hard as they can!”
Jim turned around and walked back upstairs. Dispatch was quiet. It took another minute for anybody to move.
A Plane, a Preflight, and a Whole lot of DeIcing!
November
I was in dispatch hunched over the counter alongside Robert and Toad, reluctantly staring at the Skyvan proudly standing on the icy ramp. Soon, I would have to go out there and climb atop the fuselage to sweep the wings and deice the plane for a training flight. I was dreading the process. Let’s face it; I have never been good at any sport. Among what seemed to be an ever extending list, gymnastics and any kind of agility sport were sitting enthroned high on top of the activities I should avoid, right beside bear hunting or base jumping.
Robert and Toad did not say it, they did not even look at me, but I knew what they were thinking, they wanted to stay there for a few minutes and enjoy my pathetic performance.
I reluctantly walked into the hangar, climbed on a stool, and looked for the deice broom hanging on the wall among so many other cleaning or brushing tools. That was roughly when a large snowball came crashing on the cabinet a foot from my head. I looked back commanded by a vengeful reflex but did not spot anybody. I peered through the hangar in a merciless search, one corner at a time, looking for anything that could betray the thrower. There was no activity. The only sign of life came from the large heater hanging from the ceiling on the other side of the room. After a few seconds, a large shape moved behind one of the 207s. The Eastern European Bear was skillfully slithering with the grace of a drunken man in a New York gourmet restaurant, his uncoordinated body crashing from table to table to the patrons’ great despair.
Roman gave up a vain attempt to hide and deployed his endless body before walking towards me with the lame smile of victory.
“Jerk!” I said with a twinkle in the eye.
“That was a pretty good shot! How’re you doing my Californian comrade?” His radiant smile spread across his face.
“I’m good… and don’t throw me that comrade deal!”
“You like it!”
“Yeah, as much as herpes!”
Roman laughed and paused as if ready to announce something significant. “You know, one of these days, we should fly together again.”
“Sure, that’d be fun. That would be like the good old days!”
His smile immediately faded away and morphed into a nauseated grin, “No… That was not the good old days…” His uplift was gone.
“Oh, come on, that was not so bad!”
His head highly planted on top of his 6’6” body bowed and a faint moan escaped from up there. “No…” he shook his head, “that was bad…”
There was a short silence. Our flights last May had been laborious, it had been the needling encounter of a by-the-book instructor and a seasoned Commercial Pilot, the meeting of a southerner and a great spirit buried behind a concrete wall and rows of barb wires. Even if there had been no open argument, the tension in the plane had been palpable.
Today was a new season, the tension was gone and camaraderie was flourishing. We had established our boundaries and learned to respect each other. The coming winter marked a truce, the beginning of a lasting friendship and the recognition of an extensive experience.
“Hey, by the way, where are the guys?” Roman asked.
“Matt got a job flying a Skyvan down in the Southeast, and Dax is in the lower 48 flying freighters.”
“What about Randolph? I did not see him on the schedule either.”
“He gave up, he was sick of waiting for the Skyvan. He’s flying for a regional in Fairbanks.”
“That makes you next in line for the Skyvan! I’m not even a contender, I don’t care and I’m not even there during the summer! How long has it been since you arrived here?”
“Six months.”
“207 to Skyvan in six months! Not bad!”
“I still don’t have enough night time to qualify, but I should build that up this winter with no problem.”
“So, when do you think you are going to be able to upgrade?”
“I should finish up the training and qualify around March, early April.”
“And after that?”
“After I’ll need to build up one thousand hours on that plane and I can apply for the majors.”
“One thousand hours? That’s about a year!
“I’m excited about it! Anyway, I got to go preflight the monstrosity outside, talk to you later.”
“Have fun!”
“You
got that right…” I sighed, and walked out with my de-ice broom.
Any flight was preceded by a preflight, but any winter flight (November definitely qualifies as winter in Alaska!) was also preceded by a thorough deicing if needed. The passenger accustomed to major airline service can easily picture the de-ice truck making its way around an airliner, with a brave worker hanging on in a small basket at the end of a boom, while spraying de-ice fluid with a powerful nozzle like a fireman fighting an invisible fire. In a few minutes the airliner taxied and left to an exotic destination, or so I hope for its passengers.
Well, Norton Aviation was not like that, the pilot did not comfortably sit on his captain chair and peek outside while sipping a freshly brewed Cappuccino during the deicing operation. In bush Alaska, the pilot was it. This morning, I was it. Robert was smart enough, or experienced enough, to know better and gladly sent me outside to attend our ride. In the meantime, he warmly stayed in dispatch and enjoyed the perks of being a company instructor.
The other side of dispatch’s window was another climate well below freezing with winds sneaking in every opening of my jacket. I felt like a cosmonaut, and looked like a terrorist version of the Michelin man with my black hooded jacket down to mid-thigh, thick gloves, and black bullet proof arctic overalls.
I looked up, the frost was up there, high on the back of the plane. There was no way around it, I had to climb on top of the fuselage and the wings.
I picked up the 12-foot aluminum ladder from the wall outside dispatch’s window, and carefully walked my way to the Skyvan. I gently nudged the ladder close to the cockpit and the incredibly expensive propellers. I stopped for an instant to take a deep breath. I looked up one more time, grabbed the side of the ladder, and proceeded to ascend. Each rung was bringing me closer to the frosted and slippery top.
Toad and Robert were hiding behind the window in dispatch, shaking their heads, laughing at my poor and awkward performance. Without looking at Toad, Robert chuckled.
“Looks like Steven is climbing Everest…,” Toad giggled enjoying the show.
While climbing, I held on the broom. I reached the top and carefully maneuvered the wooden stick onto the fuselage. I kneeled on top of the cockpit, cautiously stood up, and started to gently and methodically sweep off the frost from the top of the fuselage, the very large double vertical tails, and the wings which were long, particularly narrow, and curved (of course, they were wings!). I progressed with extreme caution, sweeping and holding my breath while staring at the ground a mile below. I walked very slowly, half a step at a time, using the broom as a subconscious cane. As I stepped further, the wing bounced to the rhythm of my strides. I did not really have a fear of heights, I was even a volunteer firefighter in a previous lifetime, but climbing a 90-foot aerial ladder was nothing compared to the 12 foot high wing. At least the truck’s ladder gave a strong hold I could grip on. I was in control. I was the rescuer coming to save the damsel. The icy wing did not give anything but a sense of uncertainty lying in front of me. The icy trap was somewhere there, hiding, ready to throw me overboard and send me crashing onto the concrete so far down below.
Later on, the hot de-ice fluid came to finish up the task, but the high dollar value swimming in the fluid promoted as much as possible to use cheaper operating techniques. The broom was king, and the red de-ice fluid often sat quietly inside the tank and waited for most of the work to be done manually. For twenty minutes, I played the tightrope walker, moving forward, ever so slowly. A fall would have bruised my flesh and my ego.
This time, everything went well. I cautiously climbed down the ladder, did not hit the expensive propeller blade and stepped away with the childish satisfaction of being done with a tricky task. For the next few months, Robert would take me once in a while on the Skyvan. Soon, I would build up the night experience I was lacking to qualify for the noisy beast, soon, it would be mine.
Just Another Day
November
Pilots did not only fly planes, like good crewmen, we argued with the mechanics and drank coffee. We boasted about our unbeatable skills and complained about air traffic controllers. Not that they were bad, but they were misunderstood hidden in their glass tower or windowless building, easy targets of our frustrations or our own blunders.
When the weather did not promote safe flying (and when Jim’s watchful eye was around), we found a new motivation to participate in the Norton Aviation’s terrestrial life. While some of us found a hiding spot, other bold ones decided to degrease their planes’ belly. My ride could stay greasy and rugged; I was much more interested in assisting dispatch and answering an occasional phone call.
The typical gang was behind dispatch’s counter, Ron and his wandering teeth, smirking Toad and Jeb, Chris and Annie were upstairs buried in a tedious filing chore. The phone rang. Jeb was scribbling a load to be flown out once the weather would improve, Ron was on another line, and Toad was staring at the phone wondering if the call was worth answering. A call might have meant an extra flight, a new charter, or maybe going the extra mile for a recurrent customer. Either way, a phone call could have meant an untold amount of dollars for Norton, but Toad did not care that much. On the third ring, an involuntary reflex commanded me to pick up the phone.
“Norton-Aviation-this-is-Steven.” I had announced this statement so many times; the words had become a conglomerate of syllables still surprisingly understandable.
“Hi, my name is David Brown, I’ve booked a charter from Bethel to Anvik next week. I just need to know the best way to Bethel from Anchorage?”
“You can fly in with Alaska Airlines.”
“Oh, no, no, I’d rather drive.”
“Sir, you cannot drive to Bethel.”
“I know it is about four hundred miles, but it’s ok, I don’t mind the road trip.”
“Sir, there’s no highway to Bethel.”
“I understand, but I just want to know the road number… which one am I supposed to take?”
I smiled. “Sir, there is no road going to Bethel, at all.” A silence carrying the heavy weight of incomprehension followed my bold but sadly realistic statement. “You have to fly to Bethel.”
“Oh… really? I’ll look into that… thanks. Oh, before I hang up, I am coming from Milwaukee, do you know if I need a passport to come to Alaska?”
Not unless you plan to go to Canada, you will only need a photo ID to travel with the airline.” I bit my tongue to stay professional and did not add a comment on the fact that it was a domestic flight.
“No, it is going to be through Minneapolis.”
“Then, you are going to be fine without a passport.”
“Thank you so much for your help.”
“You’re welcome.” I hung up. The short conversation carried the typical miscommunication associated with outsiders. Bethel was its own microcosm, so far away from anything else.
The phone rang again. I picked up again, “Norton-Aviation-this-is-Steven.”
“Good morning, this is Lavina from Eek, one of my cousins went missing yesterday evening. He was going to Quinhagak with a bunch of snow-gos. I’ve called the other airlines, and I’ve asked them if their pilots can look for him. Can you do the same thing?”
“Sure, I’ll pass the word around, you say Eek to Quinhagak, what’s the color of the snow machine?”
“Red.”
“It’s just one person? A man?” I was jotting down notes on a scratch paper.
“Yes, he’s just a boy, he’s eighteen.”
“What was he wearing?
“Black overalls, red jacket, and a red and white helmet.”
“I’ll talk to the pilots on that route, but right now the weather is pretty bad so we have no flights going out, but like I said, we’ll keep an eye on it as soon as we leave.”
“Thank you, bye.”
“What’s going on?” Dave, one of our main Yupik Eskimo ground crew asked visibly concerned.
I explained the situation before adding persona
l thoughts on the outcome. “He should be fine, he is well dressed, he should be able to wait for better weather.”
“If he did not find a shelter, he’s as good as dead,” Dave said as if it was a simple but devastating logic. His fifty or so years had shown him so many stories and losses, so many dramatic scenarios of friends and relatives lost in the tundra. Dave was short but rough, and his stocky frame could not hide his fear.
“Let’s not push it; I’m sure he can stay outside for a long time with good snow machine gear.” I shrugged.
“Dave’s right.” Ron commented with a raspy voice.
“Why?” I asked.
“Think about it, what was the weather yesterday?” Dave retorted.
“Yesterday? It was actually pretty warm, we even had some rain,” I said confidently, I was proving my irrefutable point.
“What’s the weather today?” Dave asked calmly.
“Well, it’s obviously not as good, it’s colder, but it is manageable.”
“What’s the temperature?”
“I don’t know, about five, something like that. Like I said, with his gear it’s really not that bad.”
“It rained yesterday, he got wet, the temperature dropped, the water on him is going to freeze. The poor kid is going to freeze to death,” Dave said calmly with a sad and designated look.
Chills ran down my spine. I did not know what to say, it was simple chemistry. Somebody was out there dying and there was nothing we could do about it.
Jeb shook his head. “This is awful. Steven, you have a flight to Sleetmute.”
Sleetmute… I was still saddened by the lost snow-machine rider. Sleetmute? I was back in Planet Norton. The assignment was stunning. On this late morning, the shy daylight was already there, but it only highlighted the misery of a snowy day. Bethel was down to a miserable 2 mile visibility, hardly enough time to react if I saw something in front of the plane, or to find a runway to land. The automatic weather reporting station at Sleetmute was down and the only weather report en route was a mere 50 miles away from my destination, by Aniak, at the entrance of a curvy and endless valley leading to Sleetmute. Aniak was the same as Bethel but with heavy snow showers and poor visibility. After that, I did not know, a lid of impenetrable clouds covered a maze of narrow valleys much too tight to turn around. The flight would be nothing short of a gamble, a high thrill game at the poker table with my own life on the green mat. There would be no chance of exit if the fog creeped up on me. I was appalled. Jeb knew the weather, the terrain and understood the numbers, yet, he threw the dice and played with my life. A life for a flight, that was the value of my existence.
