#Blogformation - My Most Memorable Flight

#avgeek #blog #aviation #airline

"Launch my career or die?
What the F*&%$ did I just get myself into?"
—————

Blogging in Formation Week!

This month's theme: "My Most Memorable Flight"

 For my most memorable flight, I am reposting a story about the most hair-raising flight of my life . . . which turned out to be a watershed moment in my career.  A fictional account of this incident appears in my novel, The Last Bush Pilots, and serves as the crux of the story for DC Alva, a young cheechacko (greenhorn) bush pilot.

**DEDICATED TO THE MEMORY OF MY GOOD FRIEND STEVE WILSON,
A CAREER ALASKA BUSH PILOT.**

Steve Wilson fuels his trusty Luscomb for a little playtime.

Steve, you taught me so much about flying the bush, and about the simple joys in life.
You will be sorely missed.

THE SKY FELL

The sky fell.  There’s no other way to describe it.  The sky just . . . fell. 

My fellow Alaska bush pilots had described it to me once.  At the time I had only half-believed them.  Surely they were spinning yarns, telling tall tales.  Ghost stories over Chinook beers at the Red Dog Saloon in downtown Juneau, to spook the gullible Alaska cheechacko.

A boy and his plane.  My AZ neighbors visit.

But there I wuz, ripe old age of 25, with a “whopping” 2,200 flight hours,* driving a single engine, 6-passenger Cessna 207 prop plane  to Tlingit Indian villages and logging camps, laden with frozen freight, frozen fish and frozen locals, through the perpetually soggy skies of Southeastern Alaska, when it happened.

—————
Launch my career or die?
What the F*&%$ did I just get myself into?

—————

Born, raised and flight trained in the “severe clear” sunny skies of Arizona, this wet world was as alien to me as Planet Pandora.  I might as well have been beamed there to fly dragons.

“Dude, get up here now!  They need pilots yesterday!” my buddy Kevin had exclaimed over the scratchy phone line only a few weeks earlier, calling from Planet Alaska.  “I’m flying for Wings of Alaska,* a great charter company out of Juneau.”

Steve touches down on a beach.

Staring out the window into yet another sunny, 100-degree day in Phoenix, my brain could not begin to fathom the perils of his offer.   Having just lost two jobs and my “First Big Break” in a poker game,*  I was desperate for employment.

—————

And then comes the wettest month on Juneau’s record.

—————

Moreover, I needed something exceptional to push me to the next rung on the aviation ladder.  Something to make a prospective employer say, “Wow!”

Something to bag me that Holy Grail of aviation, the Major Airline.

Fueler Gary and trusty sidekick Dozer.

“I’m there,” I replied, and hung up.  This, I had decided in a microsecond, was the “Wow” I was looking for.

Alaska bush pilot: the most hazardous job in aviation.   Scud running (flying visually, dodging low clouds, rain, fog and “cumulogranite”—mountains lurking inside clouds) to remote villages, fishing canneries and logging camps.

Between the utter lack of instrument nav systems and extreme mountainous terrain, there was no other way to get the job done.

I would either launch my career or die.

Hanging up the phone, the butterflies hit.  Launch my career or die?  What the F*&%$ did I just get myself into?

A very, VERY good day for flying up the Icy Strait.

As a cheechacko, you had to quickly learn the gig: fly along the pine tree-walled shoreline; navigate by "pilotage"—matching coast, mountains and landmarks to the VFR Sectional chart in your lap; cross ocean channels at high enough altitude to glide to shore, in case of engine failure.

—————

Three miles visibility in rain and fog is a good day.
—————

For that was your only hope:  land on one of the scant few, bolder-strewn beaches or sand bars.   Or crash into the carpet-thick forest, frigid ocean channel, or cumulogranite.

Racing a cruise ship up the Lynn Canal to Skagway.

Your destination was always a short runway or dirt strip carved out of the forest or mountainside.  Buzz the field to chase away the bears, moose and other varmints, circle back and land.

Oh yeah, and did I mention weather?  In Alaska, it’s all about weather.  A 1-degree spread between temperature and dew point (the temp at which air turns to cloud) is a good day.  A 1,000-foot overcast with three miles visibility in rain and fog, spectacular.

—————
“Pucker Factor 10.”  I now know exactly what that means.
—————

Despite lucking out and experiencing such “spectacular” conditions for my first few weeks in AK, the low overcast and fog constantly provoked claustrophobia.  About “Pucker Factor 3,” according to Kevin—referring to how tight one’s sphincter got during the flight.  On a scale of 1-10, of course.

A black bear runs for cover as I touch down in Kake.

And then comes the wettest month on Juneau’s record . . .

The Road to Kake . . .

. . . Pressing down the coast of Admiralty Island at 800 feet agl from JNU (Juneau) to AFE (Kake, pronounced "cake", a Tlingit village,)* I am steadily forced lower and slower by the slate grey overcast and fuzzy fog .

Whitecaps appear on the water; the wind’s picked up.  Light turbulence kicks in.  My passengers and I bounce along as if driving down a dirt road.

Power back.  Slow from 115 knots to 90.  First notch of flaps out . . . 2nd notch.  Pitch over and ease lower.  750 feet . . . 700 . . .

Pucker Factor doubles, to 6.

The sky fell.

Ocean spray; the wind’s really whipping.  Moderate turbulence.  We’re slammed against our seatbelts.  4-wheelin’ now.

Pucker Factor 8, Mr. Sulu.

Squinting through my Serengeti sunglasses, I can just make out the turn of the coastline a mere half mile ahead.  Barely time to glance at the Sectional chart.  At least by now I’ve memorized the route and terrain, which helps immensely.

—————
But then it happens.  The sky falls.
—————

But then it happens.  The sky falls.

The rain turns to fog, which turns to cloud, which turns to rain, which turns to . . .

Like a water balloon bursting in slo mo, the black bottom disgorges from the cloud base.

600 . . . 500 . . . I push the yoke forward and dive, desperate to stay clear.  My scant 1/2 mile visibility, myopic only seconds before, now seems a decadent luxury.

Dropping full flaps and slowing to 60 knots—the slowest I dare go in this turbulence—I yank and bank along the curving coastline.  Treetops whiz by.  No time for even a glance at the Sectional.  

450 . . . 400 . . . the black forces me lower.  I’m now level with  the pines, blazing by to my right.  A startled eagle takes flight from his nest—above me.  A brown bear swipes at me yards below, his angry yellow eyes forever searing into my memory.

A startled eagle takes flight—from above me.

The engine screams.  The landscape blurs.  The turbulence pummels.  My brain overloads with the maddening cacophony of sight, sense and sound.

Pucker Factor 10:  I now know just exactly what that means.

Sweat trickles down my side.  My eyes cloud over.  Gripping white on the yoke, my hands shake.  I begin to hyperventilate.

—————

So this is how I'm gonna go.

And take a few innocent locals with me.

—————

So this is it.  This is how I’m gonna go.  And take a few innocent, trusting locals with me.

Launch my career or die—how stupid could I be?  Stupid enough to kill myself and a few others, apparently.

My family will be devastated, I think.  Comfort each other with lines like, He died doing what he loved best.   My fellow pilots would be equally devastated.  But secretly think to themselves, I wouldn’t have been that stupid. Silently thank the sky gods it wasn’t them.  This time.

Cook Inlet, west of JNU.

“My family hunts down there.”

The voice jars me.  I shake my head, take a long moment to process its meaning.  I chance a glance at the Tlingit passenger sitting next to me.

"Huh?" I manage.

He smiles back at me.  “My family hunts down there,” he says brightly, pointing down at the absurdly rugged terrain racing by in a green blur.  “I got my first brown bear right . . . there!”

Is he frickin’ kidding me?  We’re about to die, and he's sightseeing?

Startled back to reality, I let out a nervous, confused chuckle, and bank slightly to let him see his "Happy Hunting Grounds."

Rainbow falls on Eldred Island Lighthouse, Chilkat Channel.

That’s when revelation hits.

To this local, I realize, this is nothing.  To him, this isn’t a one-way flight to hell, it’s a jaunt down memory lane.

To him, Alaska is home.

Inexplicably, fear and panic evaporate.  The shakes disappear.  My breath slows to Yoga-calm.  It’s like Obi Wan Kenobi has whispered in my ear, “Use The Force, Luke.  Let go!”

And I do.

—————

I am a Jedi.  Like my friend before me.

—————

Elation washes over me as I realize:  it's not a maddening cacophony, it's a beautiful symphony!

And I see, hear,  feel it all.

I am a Jedi.  Like my friend before me.

I deftly bank along sea and shore, earth and sky, dancing with Mother Nature to the symphony of water and air that She conducts.

Wings of Alaska Beaver on approach to JNU.

And, all of a sudden, She relents.

At 300 feet above the ground, the sky stops.  Reverses course.  Turns from black to grey to white to . . . blue.

Climbing with the base, I see all the way across Frederick Sound to Kake.

With a knowing smile, She has lifted the veil, and for the first time, with new eyes—with bush pilot eyes—I gaze upon my beautiful mistress named Alaska.

And I know I am in madly, deeply, hopelessly, in love.

Turning final to Kake--after buzzing the bears away.

To this day, I wonder whether my native passenger had made his statement out of complete innocence.  After all, Alaska was as much a part of him as the black braids of his hair.

Or, did he sense my panic and do his best to save me . . . to save us?

I can certainly, unequivocally, say that he did.

Either way, I know it was Mother Nature herself who decided, “You know, cheechacko, I think I’ll let you live.  For now.”

The Juneau Icefield.

When I left Alaska after that brief summer to fly Twin Otters in the Virgin Islands, I left a big chunk of my heart behind.

And took with me a healthy new respect for Mother Nature.

To this day, my buddy Kevin still plies
the Southeast Alaskan skies.

— — — —
BEFORE YOU GO, TELL US ABOUT YOUR MOST MEMORABLE FLIGHT!

PLEASE COMMENT BELOW!
— — — — 

This Week's Other Blogging in Formation Posts:

• 06.04.13 Flight to Success - Karlene Petitt http://goo.gl/Gb9uQ

• 06.06.13 House of Rapp - Ron Rapp http://www.rapp.org/archives/2013/06/taming-the-beast/

• 06.07.13 Airplanista - Dan Pimentel http://bit.ly/15SJu7m

• 06.08.13 Smart Flight Training - Andrew Hartley http://smartflighttraining.com/my-most-memorable-flight

• 06.09.13 iFLYblog - Brent Owens http://wp.me/p2OBr0-1mt

RELATED POSTS

• "Blogging in Formation 1: How I was Brought to Flying" (http://capnaux.blogspot.com/2013/05/blogging-in-formation.html)
• 2012 Recap: The Best of Cap'n Aux! (http://capnaux.blogspot.com/2013/01/2012-recaptop-capn-aux-posts.html)
• "The Poker Game That Launched My Career" (http://capnaux.blogspot.com/2012/01/poker-game-that-launched-my-career-its.html)
• "Mayday, I'm going down!" (http://capnaux.blogspot.com/2012/11/mayday-mayday-im-going-down.html)
• The Last Bush Pilots (http://www.lastbushpilots.com/)

——————————

STORY NOTES

*I'm now twice that age, with nearly 10x the flight hours.  So it doesn’t seem so much any more!

*See Wings of Alaska website

* See my post, “The Poker Game that Launched My Career.”

*Kake, AK (AFE) is now a thriving paved runway, with lights and everything—oh, the luxury!

Kake strip: now a thriving, paved, lighted runway.  But the ATIS still reports, "Bears in vicinity of airport."

——————————

NEXT UP:
Posting June 16:
A Special Father's Day VLOG & Essay

"Of Dreams, Dared and Dashed, and Death"

——————————————————

Posting June 26 @ 11:00 PHX:

"Around the World in 80 Jumpseats"

A Pilot's Eye View of the World from the Cockpit Jumpseat!

———————

           

FACEBOOK http://www.facebook.com/CapnAux

TWITTER (@capnaux)  http://twitter.com/capnaux

YOUTUBE http://www.youtube.com/user/capnauxblog

AMAZON  http://goo.gl/yVHJV 

THE LAST BUSH PILOTS http://lastbushpilots.com

INDIE AUTHOR NETWORK http://www.independentauthornetwork.com/eric-auxier.html  

100% OF ALL PROCEEDS FROM CODE NAME: DODGER, AND 50% FROM THE LAST BUSH PILOTS ARE DONATED TO CHARITY