I was heading for Baimuru, on the South coast of Papua New Guinea. I was out of Goroka, in the highlands. Goroka was paradise for sure .... The Bena Bena River ran close by as it meandered down the valley which itself was 5000 feet above sea level.
Even the airport was beautiful as the wild tropical highland flowers bathed us in a sweet scent.
Ninety percent of the population still wore traditional dress ... arse grass skirts, bone in the nose and carrying spears and bows. Strange arrows though.... no flights on the shaft.. But holy mackerel, they sure went straight.
Baimuru, on the other hand, lacked the beauty but certainly had a perverse charm.
More on that later.
I fly out of the valley towards Karimui, an airstrip carved into the side of a volcano ... very familiar to me ...I buy coffee there and stock the trade store.
The mountain range ahead jags up to ten thousand feet so I stoke the Cessna 182 and get a measily nineteen inches of boost.,.. I have to make it through the pass.
The load is light .... some fresh bread and vegies for the owners of the "hotel"
Fresh bread ... sure smells nice ...I rip into the bag and feast.
The weather is always nice here ... up until two PM every day that is ...and then the massive cumulous clouds boil upwards... up to fifty thousand .. the passes become clogged and you are pooched.
AAAAHHH! The warm sun in the cockpit ... fresh air vent howling... fresh bread.
Through the pass and the thick jungle slopes plummet down onto the the jewel of Papua...Lake Kutubu... a plateau a couple of thousand feet above sea level. Then jagged limestone pinnicles stab upward through the jungle... menacing sight.
The Continental drones away... Thank God!
Descending now towards the flat South coast.
Sh#t! An overcast ahead ... better duck under.I wander off heading as I dodge rags hanging in the last of the hills. Low, I fly now... sometimes heavy rain... looks lighter over there, so I go over there. Three, maybe four hundred feet... forty five minutes to go, over a green inpenetrable canopy. Any rivers that would be an aid to navigation are overgrown with canopy ... nothing... I am alone.
There are natives down there ... somewhere .
They would be running through the jungle, scuffing up their feet ...killing supper.
Crocidiles everywhere down there.. in the many swamps buzzing with mosquitos.
The wild beauty offers little solace.... the Continental drones on.....
Around a few more heavy rain showers...sometimes East... sometimes West.
I am heading for a dot on the coast ...poor vis..nose pressed up against the glass.
Anxious ... that's what I am. Up ahead ... the coast .. whew! I have the coast.
Upon arrival at the coast, there is no Baimuru .
Do I turn left or right... back over the swamps, did I favour left of course ... or right..Dunno!
I turn right and fly East.... searching.
Decision time... fuel .. how much? Fifteen minutes East means retracing flightpath and then maybe fifteen minutes West. Thirty minutes more to what? A maybe ... maybe Baimuru ... maybe not.
A cold chill in the hot, steamy cockpit.
I look down at my chances in the swampy, croc infested jungle.
I will never make this mistake again.
On future flights, I swear I will make a POSITIVE ERROR and intentionally fly either too far East , or too far West ... it doesn't matter.
At least when I get to the coast I will know which way to turn.
POSITIVE ERROR!
But then you young'uns have GPS ... and they never fail.
The Continental droned on.
I found Baimuru , luckilly... on the fourth sweep... back and forth.
Now the adventure really starts.