Bush flying

My husband is a bush pilot, and so is his brother, Bill.  Luckily for both wives, our husbands are doing exactly what they were born to do.  Thank goodness, because being a bush pilot's wife is not for the faint of heart, to say the least.

When I met Ben, I had 7 or 8 years under my belt of being around and traveling in small aircraft- the preferred method of travel around much of Alaska's bush country.  So when he asked me to go flying with him in his 150hp Piper Super Cub, I didn't hesitate (after the requisite interrogation about his pilot resume).

I drove up to his brother's airstrip at the Matanuska Glacier in March of the year 2000, and I watched as he warmed up the airplane in lovely pre-spring weather.  We spent some time flying around the mountain valleys that day, and I got to see my homestead from the air for the first time.  Little did I know, that the antics of that memorable trip were to become a way of life for the family I hadn't dreamed up yet.

A month later, Ben asked me to fly in to his family's trapline in the heart of the Talkeetna Mountains- to help close down the cabins for the inbetween season while airstrips turned to mush, and to wrangle his Dad's Akita puppy on the flight out.

I made a quick mention to my parents about where I was going, and I told my closest neighbor, Bob, as well.  Its a good thing I did, because we planned to be gone only one night... but the trip turned into a week-and-a-half dance with bad weather and failing airstrips.  We had radio-phone communications with Ben's Gramma up at the Glacier, and she was able to relay messages to Bob- who kept my goats and dogteam well taken care of in my stead.

That trip was destined to be a milestone, a measure of trips to come and unknown circumstances to be managed.  That trip became a figure of speech... just one night.  Let's go in for just one night.  We're only going for one night.  Well, now we know the gamut of what can go wrong and what might change the best laid plans.  So we try to plan for the unplanned and cover all bases.

A few years later, after we were married, Ben was doing back-to-back flights into his Dad's main cabin to pull moose hunters out in the fall.  Each time I heard his airplane down at the strip powering up, I knew he was taking off for another flight.  A quick look at a clock to mark the time, and he should be back out in an hour thereabouts.

As the ETA comes and goes, a bush pilot's wife starts to consider all the possibilities.  A broken plane, a missing hunter, a mislaid satellite phone, a quick stop at another camp for something forgotten.  As the minutes or hours tick by, intuition comes into play.  Is there something wrong, or isn't there?  Do I initiate a rescue, or give him a few more minutes to buzz the cabin and set everything right?  The pit of the stomach points in a direction.

I picked up the phone and dialed Bill, my saving grace.  I told him "Ben's overdue and there's something wrong."  And while we were still on the line making a plan, Ben called Bill on the satellite phone and reported a broken axle on takeoff.  Everyone was safe and sound, but no one was going anywhere until parts were flown in.  And that was that... Bill saved the day.

Thank goodness for satellite phones.  They've brought my sick tummy to rest more than once. I couldn't really quantify just how many times they've set the record straight.  Usually its not an emergency, sometimes its a mishap, and often its a nothing deal.  Occasionally its not, its a direly emergent situation that must be dealt with on the fly... but those times deserve chapters of their own.

Airplanes are as much a part of our everyday life as cars are to Americans and bikes are to schoolkids.  Perhaps even more so, as the maintenance needs can't be met by just any streetcorner mechanic... and the annual cost far exceeds that of our home and family. 

All that money and angst is worth it though, as bush flying is one of the most exhilarating experiences imaginable.  And of course, its essential to our lifestyle and livelihoods.  I wouldn't want to trade it for anything.  There's just nothing like soaring over remote mountain valleys, pointing out sheep and goats, settling down on river bars and mountain tops... and just being able to get away.

Comments

[Scott]

What would it be like to trade my cozy suburban lifestyle for a float plane and a few lakeside acres? Your stories kindle the spirit of adventure!