In Remote Alaska, Fear Of Flying Is Not Allowed

The following appears in the July issue of Alaska Sporting Journal:

FIRST OF TWO PARTS

BY SCOTT HAUGEN

Darkness loomed on the remote Alaskan tundra. Skies to the west were much darker than five hours prior. It was comforting to finally hear the distant buzz of a bush plane’s engine that Pat, Tim and I had been anxiously awaiting all afternoon.

Earlier that day we’d checked in with the bush plane service in Kotzebue via satellite phone. A big storm was approaching and they were making efforts to gather hunters they’d dropped off in remote camps and get them back to safety in town. The storm was forecast to last nearly a week, drop several feet of snow and create severe winds.

We were less than halfway into a 10-day moose hunt, and they’d planned on picking us up in the middle of the afternoon. It was going to take two trips to haul us, our camping gear, a raft, a grizzly bear hide and meat we’d harvested back to town.

Pat was a resident and had filled the only tag of the trip with a nice tundra grizzly on the first afternoon of the hunt. The berry-fed bruin was plump and its backstraps were delicious when cooked over an open fire.

It was nearly 7 p.m. above the Arctic Circle when we heard the plane approaching. We were quickly losing daylight, and Pat, Tim and I knew there wouldn’t be time to make two trips before darkness closed in. As we pondered what to do, we saw another plane approaching. It was a smart move by the bush plane service, sending two aircraft with the dwindling light. Now we were assured of getting out along with all our gear.

As the Cessna 180 circled for a landing, I was taken aback by how easily the plane was tossed around. The winds were much more intense up higher than where we stood on a river bottom gravel bar. As the Cessna dropped closer, its landing gear 50 feet from touching down, a wind shear rocked it and nearly slammed it to the ground. The pilot powered out of it and was able to recover, clear a tall stand of alders and bank around for another landing attempt.

This time the pilot approached at a faster speed, quickly dropping in the final seconds to try and stick the landing. Right at the time of impact, a wind shear again caught the plane – this time from directly above.

The gust of wind pushed the wings down, slamming the plane hard onto the rocks. The pilot was able to keep the nose up and control the landing. I was impressed that the landing gear didn’t break and the wing struts held strong. The big, soft tundra tires obviously helped absorb some of the shock.

We were hunting over 100 miles north of Kotzebue and had camped along the banks of the upper Wulik River, a place Pat had hunted many times. We saw some small bull moose, but nothing legal. When the storm appeared, our plans quickly changed. We figured we might get dropped somewhere outside the scope of the storm, maybe getting two or three more days of moose hunting in.

The 206 landed more smoothly behind the 180. Things were looking good.

HAVING LIVED IN THE Alaskan high Arctic for most of the 1990s, and traveled much of the state numerous times over the past 35 years, I knew how condemning Arctic storms could be, especially when flying is involved.

My wife Tiffany and I were schoolteachers in two remote Arctic villages in the 1990s, where we lived a semi-subsistence life. Our home, Point Lay, is an Iñupiat village situated on the northwest Arctic coast between Barrow, now known as Utqiagvik, and Point Hope. There were fewer than 100 residents when we lived there. Being on the coast it was common to not see bush planes for two weeks or more due to severe storms.

The other village we called home for four years was Anaktuvuk Pass, also situated on the North Slope. Point Lay was flat. Anaktuvuk Pass was nestled into the northern Brooks Range and surrounded by towering peaks that turn south in Canada and become the Rocky Mountains in the Lower 48.

I coached cross country, basketball and volleyball in both villages. All our travel was done by bush plane. None of the remote villages have roads leading to them, so air travel is the only means of getting in and out.

When returning to Point Lay from a volleyball tournament in Point Hope one spring, the autopilot stuck. The pilot couldn’t regain full control of the plane. It was scary. The plane would go into a nosedive, then the pilot would regain partial control. Then it would go almost vertical, and the pilot again struggled for control before the engine bottomed out. This went on for several minutes. Had it not been for seatbelts, bodies would have been tossed about inside the plane. Most of the kids threw up. They were crying and in fear. We all thought it was the end. Fortunately, the pilot regained control of the Navajo and kept control until we safely landed.

I COACHED BOYS’ AND girls’ basketball in Anaktuvuk Pass. One season the girls played for the state championship. They were tough, the most dedicated kids I’d ever coached. Our travel budget was astronomical and we flew to several weekend tournaments over the winter season.

One stint we were gone for three weeks because severe weather prevented us from leaving the villages we were in, or from landing at home. We balled on Friday, Saturday and Sunday, and I taught classes in the host school’s library Monday through Thursday. That was easy; I was also the high school teacher.

Because we couldn’t travel across the state, I scheduled tournaments to play close to where we were. It wasn’t ideal, but it worked. It had to. In remote Alaska, the weather makes the rules. Defy them and you might pay the price.

One time when the boys’ team was returning to Anaktuvuk Pass, we got caught in high winds. Oddly, it was smooth. We couldn’t feel the turbulence. But our fuel level was quickly running low and the pilot was forced to drop in elevation in order to get out of the wind and make headway. It was nearly dark, and more than once the imposing mountain peaks appeared mere yards from our wing tips.

On another return trip to Anaktuvuk Pass from a girls’ game, the plane left Fairbanks, made one stop at a mining camp to drop off tools, then headed to Anaktuvuk Pass. The afternoon was clear and calm … until we hit the northern Brooks Range not far from the village.

The clouds were thick and unmoving in the stagnant air. A few peaks poked above the dense cover, but I didn’t recognize them. I was sitting in the copilot seat. We circled and flew up and down valleys but couldn’t see the village or any land. The pilot didn’t trust his primitive radar at the time, not amid the confined peaks.

“Listen closely,” he said on the headphones. “We’ve circled the area so much; I don’t have enough fuel to get us back to Fairbanks or even the nearest landing strip. I need you to look closely through any holes in the clouds and see if you can recognize any landmarks below. If you do, tell me and we’ll shoot through it. We have about 30 minutes of fuel left.”

Ten minutes into the search there was a hole in the clouds about the size of a football field. I didn’t recognize the tundra below. The pilot circled back over it, dipping lower this time. That’s when I saw an Argo trail with snow in the tracks. I’d hunted Dall sheep off this trail and knew exactly where we were. I confidently relayed this to the pilot.

“How much room do you think we’ll have once we get below the ceiling?” he asked.

“Facing north, you’ll have mountains 50 yards to the east, right on the edge of the trail … keep left!” I said. “The west side is wide open all the way to the village.”

Instantly, the pilot put the plane into a tight spin. Never have I lost elevation so fast, so abruptly and at such a steep angle, in a bush plane. Then g-forces in the little plane caught me off guard.

As we spiraled down through the seemingly tiny hole in the dense clouds, the ceiling was less than 200 feet. The pilot nailed it and we skimmed the bottom of the clouds all the way to the village. I was petrified. The girls, all of whom were born and raised in Anaktuvuk Pass, didn’t bat an eye. “That happens all the time,” shared one girl. “It’s just part of living up here.”

They didn’t understand the severity of the moment.

Before we’d move to Anaktuvuk Pass and after we’d left, there were two devastating bush plane crashes in the Brooks Range. It can happen anytime, anywhere.

LIVE IN AND TRAVEL through remote Alaska long enough and bush plane mishaps will happen. You just hope to come out on the winning end. I’ve been on hundreds of bush planes over the decades, and while most flights are safe and enjoyable, the fact it only takes one experience to lose a life, always looms. Always. Too many friends and people I’ve met have incurred such devastation to think otherwise. ASJ

Editor’s note: Next month, we’ll look at more harrowing flight stories in remote Alaska. For personally signed copies of Scott Haugen’s best-selling book, Hunting The Alaskan High Arctic, visit scotthaugen.com.