Clouddancer's Alaskan Chronicles

By CloudDancer

At a certified average of 1.2 belly laughs and two good chuckles per page, this book is a must read for flying and Alaska enthusiasts alike. Even non-aviators can comfortably follow along as drama and nail biting suspense usually result in knee slapping good, clean humor.

These are completely true Arctic adventure flying stories written by the central "character" himself CloudDancer.

This first-time author was literally raised at airports and on airliners by two parents who worked for major airlines since his birth. CloudDancer spent his formative years growing up in Fort Worth, Texas until running away to Alaska in 1973 to become a bush pilot at age 19.

Having taken his first flying lesson a week after his thirteenth birthday, his love affairs with one airplane after another have continued through today. He currently commands one of the world's most modern airliners for a major US airline.

But no matter where in the world he has flown, a large part of his heart and even greater part of his soul have remained attached and devoted to Alaska; the land and the people. He looks forward with anticipation to the day when he can retire, move back to Alaska, and once again spend time soaring over the wonders of the far north.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Nov 5, 2007
• ISBN: 9780595914289

CloudDancer

CloudDancer today flys for a U.S. Airline. Logging his first flying hours at age 13 in 1967, his 25,000+ hour logbooks include 12,000 flown in arctic Alaska. Those hours provided both the drama and the laughter contained herein. Since running away at 19 to Alaska, CloudDancer remains devoted to “the Great Land”

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CloudDancer’s Alaskan Chronicles

Gary J. Bakewell

iUniverse, Inc.

New York Lincoln Shanghai

CloudDancer’s Alaskan Chronicles

Copyright © 2007 by Gary J. Bakewell

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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ISBN: 978-0-595-47147-8 (pbk)

ISBN: 978-0-595-91428-9 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

Contents

Author’s Acknowledgments

Handy-Dandy List of Acronym Meanings

Hey Pilot! I Got to PEE!!

1

Balancing on a Pinhead

2

Blacker than Ol’ Haley’s 8—Ball

3

Oh Say Can You See?

4

When Ya GOTTA’ GO.…

5

Which Way is UP!!??

6

Better to Be Pissed OFF.…

Some Days You Get the Bear … Some Days.…

Prologue

1

So … How Was It For You??

2

Colder Than a Well Digger’s * * *!!

3

P.S. God.…

4

Oh LORD It’s Hard to Be Humble.…

5

Sweet Dreams

6

The Weinermobile

7

Has Anyone Seen My THINKING Cap.…

8

Say.… . Again?.… .Over!

9

Some Days You Get the Bear

Epilogue

Don’t Look At Me … I’M Not Touchin’ It!!

1

Flying Submarines??!!

2

Hold the Anchovies

3

Law & (Dis)order

4

The Shaky Mile

5

My Favorite Dionne Warwick Song

6

I LOVE Roller Coasters … Don’t You!!

7

A Pepto-Bismal Kinda’ Day

TundraTelagraph

1

Hello. Can You Hear Me NOW?

2

Blowing Snow For Days at a Time

3

This Looks Like Some BAD %#$@

4

Panties for Passage

5

It’s Always Happy Hour Somewhere!!

It’s DejaVu All Over Again.…

Prologue

1

How to Get a Pilot Job

2

Save Water, Shower With a Friend

3

The Best Laid Plans.…

4

Great Balls Afire!!

5

Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Kobuk

6

Preachers ’n Teachers ’n Airsheens

7

Use More.… WHAT?!

If You EVER Do THAT Again.…

1

I Came, I Saw, I Was Confounded

2

Hello. Mr. Bach I Presume??

3

Use.… More … FLAPS??!!

4

A God Amongst the Mere Mortals

5

If you EVER do that AGAIN …

Epilogue

A Good Day’s Work

1

Hey Buddy. Can You Spare a Spark Plug?

2

I HATE It When THAT Happens!!

3

Your Tax Dollars At Work

4

I’ll GLADLY Pay You Tomorrow For a …

5

There’s One Born Every Minute

6

Dan’s Favorite Words

7

Uh, Did You Want Fries With That Sir?

8

A Good Days Work

This book is dedicated to the real life men who shared with me all their hard earned knowledge of Arctic flying. Whether seated beside me at the controls, or hangar flying between flights or while winding down from a tough stretch of flying; it was their patient explanation and counsel that helped me live this long. Along with an occasional smack upside the head and a few boots in the posterior when I’d get to thinking I was a little hotter than I really was.

Don and Ray Ferguson, Leon Shellabarger, Sr., Warren Thompson, Buck Maxon and Roger Nordlum, all of Kotzebue along with Lee Staheli, Sr of Kiana and the late Tony Bernhardt of Kobuk are the men to whom I owe more than I can ever repay. Great pilots each and every one, with a long history in the Alaskan Arctic, I am still to this day somewhat humbled and in awe of all of them.

Thank you all gentlemen for your kindness, courtesies, and patience over the years.

CloudDancer

Author’s Acknowledgments

Ed and Jackie. No one else could come ahead of Momma CloudDancer and her lifelong love, my father. From Mom I inherited not only my burning love for flight, but my determination as well. I hope to someday learn to emulate her gifts of tolerance and forgiveness. And from my father I was blessed to be given what meager writing talent I possess, along with his sometimes extremely dry wit. I discovered his writing talent only after he had passed. He was a tremendous man, and I aspire to be at least half the man he was.

To Don Singsaas, long time Director of Operations at Arctic Circle Air, along with now retired Joe Cochran of Warbelow’s Air Ventures and Capt. Chris Diley of Northwest Airlines a special debt of gratitude is due. These three found me at the nadir of my early years, but yet had the faith give me the break that restarted a floundering flying career. Their support was unwavering, and they have remained lifelong friends.

And for keeping the faith with me over decades, through the trials and tribulations of both of our lives; and for sending me to the SuperCub.org website where this all started. My unending gratitude to the brother I never had, Capt. Raymond E. Street, Jr. of Federal Express.

Handy-Dandy List of Acronym Meanings

ADF—Automatic Direction Finder (a low frequency navigation radio)

AGL—Above Ground Level

ANC—Anchorage

A/S—Airspeed

BRW—Pt. Barrow

BS—Sometimes it means Blowing Snow

CDI—Course Deviation Indicator

CHT—(Engine) Cylinder Head(s) Temperature

DG—Directional Gyro (think electric or vacuum operated gyro compass)

FAI—Fairbanks

FED/FEDS—F.A.A. Flight or Maintenance Inspectors (O.K. guys.… mostly)

FSS—Flight Service Station (a division of the F.A.A.)

HF—High Frequency communications radio

IAS—indicated airspeed

IFR—Instrument Flight Rules

KIAS—indicated airspeed in knots

MAG/mag—Magneto (Think distributor on your car’s engine)

MAYDAY—International radio distress call

MSL—Mean (above) Sea Level

NM—Nautical Mile(s) (About 7/8’s of a regular mile)

NWS—National Weather Service

OAT—Outside Air Temperature

OME—Nome

OTZ—Kotzebue

RPM—Revolutions Per Minute

TAL—Tanana

SLED/sled—Sometimes Author’s disrespectful term for a Cessna 207

VFR—Visual Flight Rules

VHF—Very High Frequency

VOR—Very high Omni Range (a high frequency navigation radio)

Hey Pilot! I Got to PEE!!

1

Balancing on a Pinhead

Long after darkness falls the IO540 engine in the nose of the sled (Cessna 207) barks into life in the 3000 foot pierced steel planking airstrip of Kivalina.

It’s the mid 1970’s and the only way home to Kotzebue tonight is to follow the shoreline. The icing conditions are ripe, with two miles skies obscured at some (for now) unknown altitude in mist and fog. Fortunately the winds are light. Our intrepid part-time charter pilot/full time F.A.A. Flight Service specialist can taxi down to the other end of the steel planking, turn around and take off towards the lights of the village (pop. 300 or so). In this weather this is a much preferred alternative to taking off away from town; rotating, literally on the gauges, into the inky blackness from a no lights runway; and shortly then after having to reverse course 180 degrees on the gauges at some (as yet) still unknown altitude, probably below 500 feet out over the water of the Bering Seas. Makes it hard to stay VFR, ya’ know??

Damn! The weather wasn’t supposed to get this bad, but hey. It’s the Arctic in the 70’s. No weather satellites scanning our part of the word. By guess and by golly we live … or not sometimes. Fortunately for our central character in this little drama, the load is light. Half tanks of go-juice and only one middle aged nice, friendly Eskimo lady. Which is a blessing; considering many, if not most middle-aged nice Eskimo ladies tip the scales at 250 (+) pounds, as does this one.

Three hundred galloping ponies whinny their throaty defiance and tug at the harnesses gaining speed and the Sled defies gravity with the village rushing ever closer. Sliding slightly to the right and ascending to clear the clinic’s HF radio tower at 75ft. AGL suddenly the world disappears and the lights become a glow rushing at us. A quick check of the altimeter shows 220 feet!! No, I didn’t leave a zero off! The thought flashes through the pilot’s mind. Well, now doesn’t this suck!!

2

Blacker than Ol’ Haley’s 8—Ball

Instantly and cautiously relaxing back pressure our visibility challenged aviator eases the wheel forward a smidge, no more than an inch and is quickly rewarded with the last of the village lights leaping into view and sliding swiftly aft of the left wing. A quick glance down and back just as quickly replaced with the almost immediate inky darkness ahead of the windshield as he turns to analyze the road ahead. The transition to intense focus on the attitude indicator (artificial horizon) and altimeter is critical, but almost routine by now.

A decision must be made quickly. While only 63 nautical miles in a straight line to home, a straight line is not an option. The penlight flashlight shows OAT at 32–33 degrees and the height of the tops of the ice-laden clouds are unknown. Given that the Cessna 207 can’t carry enough ice to chill a decent cocktail, and the sole weaponry to fight with is limited to a heated pitot tube. Climbing into know icing without knowing the tops and with the bottoms so low is out of the question.

It’s either turn around now and carefully, or press on following the beach. Our hero notes 180 feet on the altimeter and dims the interior lights as low as they can go and still illuminate the instruments trying to get the maximum out of his eyeballs for night vision. A couple of minutes after the old peepers reset for dark mode he realizes he can see at least a good mile and a half or two. The foam of the waves breaking on the beach in a straight line ahead of him almost point the way home. A quick glance to the left wing tip and he also realizes his red navigation light is no longer glowing in moisture. Is there room to go up a little bit??

A small 1/16 of a turn on the elevator trim wheel eases the SkyWagon into a 50 foot per minute climb. 200.… 225 … 250.… .28.… OOPS! WHERE’D the world go again! A quick 1/8 of a turn on the elevator trim the other way and now it’s down at 50 FPM. AT 270 feet indicated good mile of breakers comes into view ahead, and the temp outside hanging right at 32 even. No ice building. The last sequence from Kotzebue over the Automatic Direction Finder right as I taxied out said nine hundred foot ceiling under the clouds and two miles visibility. A-l-l-l-l-RIGHT!! Damn near 300 feet of altitude, a good mile of visibility here. We’re headin’ for the barn.

3

Oh Say Can You See?

Having made the mental commitment, and feeling relatively comfortable with the decision to press on; Joe charter pilot now settles in for the 35 to 40 minutes of beach combing that lay ahead. 2300 RPM on the propellor and 23 inches of manifold pressure are set. Three full twists to the left on the mixture knob sets the perfect fuel flow and I slide the cowl flap handle down to the closed position. There. Should just keep getting easier from here on in … bit by bit. Let’s slide back je-e-e-est a little bit from the forward edge of the seat here.

Practiced hands repeat a drill done a thousand times unconsciously. Without a trace of fumbling, the right hand snakes first inside the jacket to the left breast pocket and snags a smoke. Insert between lips. Fishing in the right jacket pocket yields a Fire Chief wooden match. Steady.

Double check attitude and altitude! Raising the match almost to the end of the unlit cigarette our Sled driver simultaneously tightly squints his eyes shut and scrapes a jagged thumbnail edge across the phosphorous head of the match and is rewarded with the sound of ignition. Eyes shut for another second to allow the initial flare up to die down, then open quickly to light the smoke and shake the flame into darkness. The burnt matchstick finds it’s way into the sidewall mounted ashtray almost by itself. A good long draw on the cigarette, and at last my Low Nicotine Warning light flickers and goes dark. For the next ten to fifteen minutes I drift up and down between 350 and 250 feet as the fog permits. The farther I see ahead, the higher I drift upward, until the white foam line of the waves crashing on the beach starts to shorten in length.

I’ve been airborne for over 15 minutes now and I know I must start to slow down in preparation for an 80 to 90 degree turn to the left. Cape Krusenstern is off to my left in the distance somewhere and I have but a scant eight to ten miles or so before the beach makes a relatively hard turn to the east and the visibility is starting to worsen again. I find myself struggling to keep two hundred feet on the altimeter and the visibility is sinking back down to a mile or so. Hopefully I’ll have a good enough view of the lagoon on my left side (inside the beach) so that I can make a gradual sweeping angle across. Sort of like two gradual 45 degree turns instead of one hard 90 degree course change.

Leaning forward into the windscreen, I am intent on seeing the northwestern border of the huge lagoon so I can cut myself a break. Without any forethought or conscious intent, I have now butt-crawled my way to the forward portion of my seat again. My world has gotten very small and VERY focused, yet I am still calm as this is S.O.P. at most places I’ve been.

Then … IT.… happens. HEY!! PILOT!!!

4

When Ya GOTTA’ GO.…

Hey pilot. I got to pee I hear her say from behind me as I bore holes in the darkness ahead of my eyes, willing the lagoon to appear in front of me. It’s got to be getting close. I should start slowing down now. Back a half inch on the throttle, and I feel us slowing perceptibly. Two slow and gentle 1/2 cranks on the prop knob to the right and the blades take a bigger bite. A quick glance and the airspeed is down to 115 knots indicated. GOOD! One notch on the flaps now and bingo! we’re down to 100 knots. Great. Now I should be able to easily make even a (Hey … pilot?!) large course change safely.… and maybe if I just ignore … Pilot! I got to PEE! NOW!! accompanied by two skewer-like fingernails being jammed into my lower neck in the right rear!

GEE-JUZ CHRIST LADY! I scream as I recoil to the left front only to slam my forehead into the window post mounted night light! Ouch! For cryin’ out loud can’t you wait? We’re only 20 to 25 minutes out. (I’m lying, but desperate.) I’ve already been waiting ten minutes! she replies, as to indicate that should be sufficient explanation. Okay, okay. Hang on a minute and I’ll find a sick sack! Well, hurry then sez she as I think to myself … yeah.… yeah, like you really needed that last six pack of Olympia beer before we could leave.… .hey … is that the beginning of the lagoon coming into view!!?? … I know we have those nice airline-type white moisture proof sick sacks. We just gotta.

Height … 220 feet … airspeed … still 100 … wings level. Good. I carefully reach under the right side control yoke and slide my fingers under the ridge on the plastic door of the glove compartment. must be careful NOT to move the wheel in the slightest and tugging gently.… yes.… that is Krusenstern lagoon coming up..and the glove box door pops opens and (naturally) a buncha’ stuff cascades out onto the right side floor.

Okay. Wings still level and a quick glance down to the right and I see one Cessna Skywagon operators manual one book of National Oceanic Service approach charts, one Louis L’Amour paperback with a saloon girl on the cover and one … what the heck?! … back out the window … back down quickly and yes, it IS a Trojan condom … (got to be prepared for those nights you can’t get back to town, I guess.… .but no sic-sac. Damn!! Pilot Now almost whining in humiliation. Hang on, I say. I feel almost sorry for her. I mean … it’s not like I haven’t been there a couple of times myself.

Quickly, carefully, and even more desperately now, I reach under the front of the right hand seat, find the seat lock release, pull up and slide the seat as far forward as it goes. My right hand dives deep into the seat pocket on the back side of the right front seat and I fish out a huge wad of stuff and throw it on the seat beside me. I’ll need to start a gradual left turn in little more than a minute now.… Damn! half a dozen out of date sectional maps and an Alaska Supplement to the Airmans Information Manual.… .Once again. Good Ol’ Murphy’s Law has done jumped up ‘n bit me in the ass. Jeez I hate Ol’ Murph.… .Pilot … PLEASE!! Almost time to start the turn. Okay. Just one more second, hang on.

Sighing, shaking my head, and muttering curses I slowly slide both feet off the rudder pedals and backward, sliding my left foot under my right calf as I do so. Lifting my left foot, I slowly and carefully pull my mid-thigh high rubber wading boot off my foot, and reluctantly pass it over my shoulder. Time to ease into the turn as my feet slide forward to the rudders. WOW! That darn left pedal is cold!

5

Which Way is UP!!??

Having made, if not the ultimate sacrifice, at least a memorable one; our 1 boot on 1 boot off with the cold left piggies aviator can now focus on the important task at hand. The time is right, and we must start our gradual turn now. This will be completely an instrument maneuver. The lagoon is in the shape (roughly) of a huge inverted vee three miles on two legs forming the vee and a little over four miles or so on the upper/inland side. There is a low bluff no higher than 75 to a 100 feet running along the inland portion of the lagoon and we should stay well clear of that, given there is so little wind, and I’ve waited 30 to 40 seconds to initiate the turn.

Lessee here.… 130 degrees should do it. Just as I start to roll into a fifteen left bank I begin to sense movement behind me. Well, doesn’t matter I’m locked on the clocks. Airspeed slipping a little and I reach for the flaps. I intend to drop another 10 degrees to slow down further so I don’t have to swing out so far and so low over the water when I reach the other side. 85 to 90 on the airspeed will be just fine and we have 220 feet again on the altimeter and the flaps start mo.… wha.. the … HELL!

The airplane starts tipping this way then that as my entire payload(ed) begins thrashing about the tiny confines of the cabin. She is standing/turning/squatting half upright trying to.… JESUS!! WATCHTHEBANKWATCHTHEGODDAMNBANK!!!! … Grunting, belching, and god only knows what else escapes my now frantic passenger as she is apparently trying to uncover … Damn! Be careful! I scream, as her rather prominent and now partially bare posterior pushes the right seatback forward. I slap it backward (the seatback … not her.… oh, never mind) knocking her sprawling over the top of her folded down seat into the third row.

Now folks. Let’s take just a moment here to review a few facts. I’m on instruments rolling into a planned 15 degree left bank. I’m hoping to roll out on a 130 degree heading at the same fairly low altitude that I started at while also extending flaps to slow, changing elevator trim, and in the back of my mind wondering why my BIG toe on my left foot is colder than the little toe. Shouldn’t the little toe.… .when my passenger.… potential relief in hand so to speak … begins to frantically try to assume any position which will allow her to extinguish her Bladder Overpressure warning bells, lights and whistles without going all over herself. I fear by now, hitting the boot would simply be lucky. Let us also bear in mind, that this woman (wet or dry) represents well over 10% of the entire gross weight of this airborne cluster$%#& at this point!

Well, between the aftward shift of the center of gravity and me trimming up for a slower speed as the flaps extended, and leaning down and to the right to slide to front right seat backward so she can’t do that again.… I am HORRIFIED as I look back at the instrument panel to see a twenty-five degree left bank, the directional gyro passing 125 degrees and the altimeter passing 340 with the vertical speed indicator passing 250 feet per minute on the going UP side of the gauge. DAMMITDAMMITDAMMIT!! This will never do!

I can now fervently thank the gods that I used to beg my instrument instructor to give me more and more unusual attitude practice. Couldn’t get enough of it. So much fun.

Instantly and simultaneously I snap the right wing down to level and push the yoke forward while adding some manifold pressure, thus saving me from having to hear the stall warning horn, as I caught it at about 75 knots. Phew. Wings level, airspeed increasing again, vertical speed at zero, and only overshot the turn 10 degrees! Unfortunately, these same lightning quick responses had an unintended affect on Miss Kivalina who at the same time was struggling to return to some sort of an upright position and commence Operation Drainage. The laws of physics in these maneuvers therefore aided her upward motion, and, already half a bubble off laterally, caused her to become further unbalanced so she could now fall backward against MY seat. But I am ready. I’ve had enough of this Chinese Fire Drill!!

6

Better to Be Pissed OFF.…

Bracing my left arm against the glareshield I lock it and hold my back rigid so that my flailing human cargo cannot mash ME forward into my control yoke. She finally steadies herself and arrives at some sort of a workable position for I hear her heaving a big sigh of relief practically in my right ear followed by one of those long satisfying noisy exhales that routinely accompany the relieving of a major stress.

Satisfied that I am, at least for a few moments, safe from further assault; I quickly go about setting up a 200 fpm descent rate and swing the nose right ten degrees. Leveling out as the altimeter passes 200 feet, I strain to see anything ahead of me. Am I out of the clouds and fog? A glance at the left nav light confirms that I am but it’s blacker than black out there. Oh yeah. I’ve given up the surf line on the beach and the lagoon is dead calm in this little bit of wind. Nothing to see for a mile or two yet. But.… is that a light ahead? One dim light materializes dead ahead and begins to increase into a brighter glow.… Oh! This is good. With almost a mile ahead of me to the light I begin to discern the shape of the large canvas tent which enclose not just one, but probably three or so merrily (and noisily, I’m sure) blazing Coleman lanterns. It is the summer camp of one of the Williams families from Noatak. Located right at the eastern edge if the lagoon on the beach between the lagoon and the sea, I now know exactly where I am and begin another left bank to make my turn down the beach just inside the tent. Sure hope I don’t scare old Fred and Mabel too bad, but the kids are gonna’ love it!

As I am rolling through the turn to line up on the beach heading east I can already see the lights of the next cluster of campsites, which I know to be about three miles closer to town.… . Hey! It’s getting good out here. Quickly I tune

115.7 to get the 45 after the hour weather broadcast over the navigation radio. Ea-a-asy money now. Kotzebue’s weather is now up to 1000 ft. ceiling and three miles of visibility. I crawl up to six hundred feet before the world disappears and then slip back down to 550 where the lights ahead are clear. Meanwhile behind me, my fare lady has at last completed her ministrations. Now, with much less panicked motions, rather carefully in fact, she is in recovery mode. Even as I am relaxed now and actually could safely look around, I resist. I dunno’.… .would you? There’s nothing I need to see behind me at this point, so I happily slide my chair back a couple of notches, pick up the junk on the floor and add it to the pile on the right seat and contentedly reach for another smoke.

Then … from behind.… Ummmm … hey.… .pilot?? Oh fer’ cryin’ out loud.… as I turn to see what now. My passenger now extends outward her left hand, in which, with only a thumb and two fingers, she is holding onto the upper end of my (former) rubber boot. I say No Thanks … you keep it. To which she replies.… .Well, what am I going to do with it???!! I answered I don’t really care what the hell you do with it just don’t drop or SPILL it.

Tuning in 122 point 8 I call the owner at home where he’s watching TV in the living room and ask him to make sure there’s a cab at the airport on the hour. After assuring me he