The Logging Camp Chronicles
Episode Nine: A Wordy Conglomeration of My Alaskan Flight Experiences
A perfect pictorial representation of me on a plane
Flying wasn't really a necessity where I started my existence in Eastern Lewis County in Washington State. As the spawn of a logger in the valley between Mt. St. Helens, Mt. Adams, and Mt. Rainier, my primary mode of transportation was a four-wheel drive pick-up truck. The transition to Alaskan living added a marine mode of conveyance: The Alaska Marine Highway. The trip on a small cruise ship sized vessel sans any fun amenities was a capital B on the boring scale for an adolescent. I once read the entire collected works of John Steinbeck on the thirty-three hour trip from Bellingham, Washington to Ketchikan, Alaska. Scintillating stuff. Flying as a way of transportation came into my life as the opening act of moving to Icy Bay, our logging camp.
I was thirteen the first time that I flew on any type of plane. Nervous disposition was an apt descriptor for my demeanor when it came to traveling. I was constantly ruminating on all possible disaster and motion sickness outcomes. The proximity of every trash can and toilet stall was always on my radar, and I was really worried when I stepped onto the Boeing 737. Mom could not pull that aluminum tube over for me to spew my guts onto the side of the road, and the bathroom, to my despair was down an alleyway of PEOPLE behind us. This was not going to do.
Another interesting fact is that Ketchikan Alaska's airplane runway is on an island. Gravina Island to be precise. You have to ride a ferry across the channel to the airport. I must admit that I loved the ferry Captain's boat driving skills; he rammed the little commuter ferry off of the tire bedecked pilings with style. However, the first thing that I noticed was that the jets had to drive down one level of runway, and then take off from a second upper level of runway. This runway was not very long. I survived my initial jet trip and departed the jet in Juneau with the pallor of a nineteenth century arsenic imbiber. The trip from Juneau to Yakutat was much more eventful. Due to the proximity of a glacier, the jet, on take off must power down, drop a thousand feet, and bank sharply at the same time to avoid said glacier. That maneuver did not help build my affinity for flying.
Upon arrival in Yakutat, we departed the aircraft via stairs, and proceeded to board a smaller prop plane for the trip to camp. This plane was loud, small, and tossed around violently by the ocean and land wind shears. I could see out, however, and enjoyed looking at the glaciers, forest, and ocean that zipped by below. The feeling that I felt when our tundra tires landed on the gravel camp runway could only be described as sheer elation. Unfortunately, I knew that someday I would have to repeat the process again.
Here are a few of my unique flying experiences:
One time we were going to Anchorage, Alaska to visit my Aunt Barb for Christmas. The flight was called the Milk Run, as it landed like a house fly at many of the communities that dot the Southeast Alaskan panhandle. This flight is done everyday. You are in the air an average of twenty-eight minutes per jump. Our trajectory was Yakutat to Cordova, and Cordova to Anchorage. As we lifted off from Cordova, our pilot did his version of show and tell. We were right over town, and he flipped the plane sideways to the left. I still remember the pride in his voice as he said:
“That's my house down there! The one with the green roof”
This episode is also forever memorialized by a two inch scar on my left forearm. A bureaucrat in transition from Juneau to Anchorage was sitting next to me. When the plan tipped sharply to the left, her red acrylic nails were suddenly embedded into my arms as she screamed:
“WHAT'S HE DOING!”
When I lived on Prince of Wales Island, I played volleyball in high school. We had to travel for away games, and when I say travel; I mean fly. It was kind of fun being abandoned in the local high school a couple of islands away with our twenty-three year old coach. Mischief happened. The flights however, were in the dead of winter, and they were always a touch exhilarating. One time we went to Sitka, and the runway there is described as thus:
Safety hazards include boulders from the causeway washing onto the runway during storms, high winds because of its exposed location, and large flocks of birds that live very close to the airport. Due to these hazards, the airport is listed by airfarewatchdog.com as one of the ten most thrilling landing experiences in the world.
If you are lucky enough to have a window seat on a Sitka flight, you can see water coming closer and closer to the window, when suddenly rocks explode into view and you smash into the ground. Super fun. The trip home was even more exciting, as we flew into a blizzard. Nothing brings me more joy than people screaming that we are going to die. I'm pretty sure we landed in the middle of the Ketchikan runway because the application of the flaps to slow us down slammed me into the front seat with enough force to bust my lip. We still had to fly from Ketchikan to our home in Thorne Bay on Prince of Wales Island. As my team and I departed the jet and shakily walked down the ramp to the float plane dock; our pilot gave us a grim smile through his beard and said:
“We'll give her a try.”
Some of us cried right there. My blood pressure descended further as we loaded onto a 1939 Otter. The bolts rattled and let in light as we took off, and we all cried as we hit air pockets on the way home. The pilot even told us that he might have to turn around. I almost quit volleyball after that trip.
One of my early trips on a float plane happened after a visit to my aunt on Annette Island. My uncle is a member of the Tsimshian Native tribe, and an incredible fisherman. We usually took the ferry to our Aunt's, but for some reason we were taking the much shorter fifteen minute flight to Ketchikan from Metlakatla. My brother, being a giant, always gets to sit next to the pilot on a small plane. My aunt, mom, and I are all of a similar, smallish stature, and per usual, we were stuffed into the bench seat in the rear of the plane. That left two seats in front of us open. I peered out of the window and saw the dock was rocking back and forth violently. My gut, already churning with anti-aircraft anxiety, completely bottomed out when I saw that it was Mayonnaise and Mustard. I do not know the actual given names of these ladies, but they were, as my grandfather would say, four-forty field dressed. I'm pretty sure that my rear window was only a meager four inches above the water line after we got the stout ladies aboard. The pilot, bearded as every bush pilot I have ever seen, raised his left hirsute eyebrow towards the top of the plane, grunted, and revved that beast up. We made it to maximum taxiing speed, flying across the ocean for a good ways. I kept thinking we were going to ram a drift log or an errant orca; when in my headphones I heard the most creative swear words being dispatched from under the pilot's bushy mustache. Before I knew it, we had motored back to the dock, and he dryly uttered to Mayonnaise and Mustard:
“One of you will have to depart. I'll get you next trip.”
My mother's red face and embarrassment for the plight of our portly passengers was noted. My brother's mirth was as well. I just wanted to get to Ketchikan.
Recently, after a twenty year hiatus, I had the pleasure to fly again for an actual vacation. Up until then, I didn't realize that flying could be pleasant. Not once was I delayed for thousands of pounds of salmon to be loaded. I got to eat each time because of a lack of skipping scheduled airports due to storms or fog. Although, if I'm honest, the Christmas time flight that we played poker with the flight attendants because we couldn't stop in Juneau to pick up passengers and dinner was pretty awesome. They gave us all their peanuts; my back pack was full! An entire jet with just six people on it equals fun. When it comes to flying however, I can honestly say that I don't miss the old days. Give me a boring, predictable, and on time flight any day of the week!
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