sonora2sonoma

When we awoke the following morning, it was the second of October and snow was falling. A storm had set in overnight that would extend our stopover an extra two days. Such is Alaska, I was told.

On the third day, a break in the weather encouraged Dave to attempt resumption of our journey.

We took off in a light rain, heading up a long valley that soon rose up, narrowing until the ridge that bordered its end made clear we were flying up a box canyon. Dave had just finished telling me how, if we didn’t achieve sufficient altitude before long, we’d have to turn back in order to avoid crashing into the ground rising rapidly before us.

As we climbed onward attempting  to achieve the height necessary to clear the ridge, icy rain began to accumulate on the windshield, obscuring the view. At this point, Dave slid open the window on his side of the craft, reached around with his long arms, and began to claw the ice off the windshield with his fingernails.

While Dave’s knuckles were close to turning blue from exposure to the bitter cold outside the craft, my own knuckles were turning white in terror from picturing our impending doom in a fiery crash into the mountain.

Visibility diminished noticeably as the ice thickened on the windshield faster than Dave could remove it with his improvised ice-scrapers; all the while the mountain drew ever closer. Finally, he gave up on the windshield, turned the plane around and we headed back to McGrath.

The following morning, the storm had passed and we resumed our journey toward Nome with clear skies and sunshine lighting the way.

About midday, we reached Unalakleet (pronounced Unakleet), a small Eskimo village bordering Norton Sound.

***

From here, we would embark on the final leg of our journey,  but not until we first stopped by for a quick visit with another of Dave’s friends, Jeannie, who treated us to a great lunch featuring her home-made reindeer stew. The meal was delicious, and Jeannie was extremely gracious and welcoming.

After thanking Jeannie for her hospitality, we were once again airborne, heading out across Norton Sound, the 35-mile stretch of water separating us from our destination further up the Norton Peninsula.

Still not accustomed to the adrenalin rush that seemed a natural part of living life on the edge in these new and uncertain surroundings, my imagination set about calculating our odds of surviving should the plane’s single engine fail during our crossing.

Dave, sensing my unease, attempted to ameliorate my concerns in his customarily unadorned fashion. Yes, in a worst-case scenario, we would need to make an ocean splash-down, he confirmed. No, there were no life jackets on board, he added. But, on the bright side, he mused, life jackets would be of no use anyway because we would be dead from hypothermia within minutes of splashing down.

The bright spot in his dark analysis, Dave explained, was that he was following a procedure designed for just such occasions. We would climb continuously until we reached the half-way point, where we would then begin a gradual descent until we reached the other shore. By this means, we would ‘theoretically’ retain the ability to glide back to land in the event of engine failure. Whether that was actually true, or merely some baloney he made up to ease my concerns, I didn’t question. I just seized on the information as if I were Linus tightly gripping my security blanket.

In any event, the plane’s engine performed flawlessly and we made the crossing without incident. All that then remained was to follow the coastline westward toward our final destination, Nome.

Tim Konrad

(To be continued)