When the days get short I think of how difficult it must be to live up there in the cold season. And how gorgeous--imagine being able to see the Northern Lights over your backyard every night! But the extended darkness--I know I couldn't take that. I'm already getting mild Seasonal Affective Disorder at this much lower latitude and it's only November.
I love the Alaska mystery authors Dana Stabenow and Sue Henry. I watch a goodly portion of the reality TV shows set in the far north. Ice Road Truckers is probably my favorite, though I'm also partial to Flying Wild Alaska. Flying airplanes and driving over-the-road trucks is challenging enough without having to manage weather entirely hostile to both humans and machines while dodging wild animals.
I can't speak to the trucking experience, but I'm absolutely sure that the flying up there is not for the faint-of-heart, lower-forty-eight pilots among us. They fly by a different set of rules in Alaska--because they have to. Tool kits, survival gear, guns, and satellite phones go into the back seat of the airplane up there. Often a pilot is a very long way from her support network. The best of the best are called "bush pilots," and I stand in awe of them.
Actually, these civilian pilots have a counterpart for moxie in a group of pilots that hang out near where I live. Their gang is called the 109th Airlift Wing of the New York Air National Guard and these pilots know all about the dark and the extreme cold and vicious winds driving blinding snow. They divide their missions between the lovely climates of Antarctica and Greenland. Even winter in northern Alaska probably feels like a summer day to them.
My neighbor is one of these larger-than-life pilots. His wife is also part of the unit, though I don't know her job, since I've only spoken to them briefly. I did manage to call a couple questions across the street while we were all out shoveling snow last winter. I asked how you landed as big an airplane as an LC-130 on skis in a total whiteout. He just shrugged and said, "Oh, you get used to it." Uh-huh. I think I'll just stick to my sissy Gulfstream jet.
One late afternoon a couple years ago my flying partner and I were returning to Schenectady County Airport in the Gulfsteam III, a home airport we shared with the 109th, when the tower reported that the wet and partially snow-covered runway was freezing quickly below us. As we approached the airport with some trepidation, we learned that the 109th had an airplane in the traffic pattern happily shooting touch-and-go landings on the extremely slippery stuff. Dear Pilots, read, do not try that at home, unless you go to work in a green flight suit and have a ginormous four-engine turboprop on skis for an office.
Sympathetic to our discomfort, the tower controller decided to help provide us with some very current runway information as she herded the LC-130 around the traffic pattern like a sheepdog nipping at their heels, so they would land and thus be able to give us a braking action report before we had to make our final approach to a landing.
They happily complied and cheerfully reported that braking action was "poor," as they cleared the runway for our approach. Thanks to them and the helpful controller, we had the required report and decided to land, though it wasn't the prettiest landing and deceleration. Just a walk in the park for those guys and gals in the 109th, though.
As I mentioned, I haven't had a chance to get to know my Air Guard neighbors yet, but I have noticed that in this dark time of the year, when the husband debarks for Antarctica, his wife puts a little electric candle in the window every night until he returns. I bet he can see that light through the lashing snow at McMurdo Station just like Santa can see Rudolf's nose so bright at the North Pole.
Safe travels, 109th!
The quote today is from Jude Hayes Mysteries, Book 2, They Pull Me Back In:
The insidious sound of sleet falling on the metal hangar roof assailed us as Batch opened the door. He carried a small tray with two ceramic mugs bearing the Pierpont Industries logo.
“Kind of a nasty night out there, ladies. Glad I’m not the one delivering that airplane.”
“Oh, Batch, you big baby!” A.J.’s eyes tried for humor but the sparkle was only a glimmer.
Pretending not to notice, Batch pronounced amiably, “Yes, ma’am, I am. That’s airplane-killer stuff falling out there. In its immediate past, it was freezing rain at a higher altitude. Take an airplane down in minutes if you stay in it. Don’t want any part of it if I can manage it.”
A.J.’s expression sobered even further as she asked, “Any word from them yet?”
“Yeah, just had a radio call while I was brewing coffee. They should be almost on the approach now. If they make it in. Weather’s right at landing minimums and probably getting worse.”
“Where will they go if they can’t land here?”
“Denver, most likely. The weather’s actually better there than here, for once.”
“Do they know how to find us once they get on the ground, Batch?”
“Yes, ma’am. I told them where we are on the field. And the ground controller will direct them, if they need help. And like Motel 6, I left the light on for ‘em—so to speak—I opened the door on the maintenance hangar and it’s lit up like a Christmas tree. Jackie’s out there, now, too.”
“Good.” A.J. fidgeted a little and Batch pulled out a chair.
Taking a sip of coffee and eyeing me over the rim of his mug, he said, “So, Jude, you ready to jump back into this swamp full of alligators?”
A bit taken aback by his directness, I replied in kind, “I guess that’s what I’m here to find out, Batch.”
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