I looked downstream, towards the sea that, in the distance, shimmered in the dank humidity. I walked past the posts upon which the huge sawsharks were bled prior to filleting. If this wasn't done correctly the product stunk of ammonia and spoiled any other cargo aboard. A pile of croc skins soaked in formaldahide and some were salted and rolled up ready for the Asian buyers on the North Coast.
Through the shimmering heat I saw a shape rounding the point ... couldn't be! Gadzooks! It was ... it was Fred on the barge and he was a day early. I immediately started playing stupid games with the kids ... "I was outa here!" thinks I.
But wait ... my mind flashed back to the 10,000 foot pass ... It was after 1400hrs. The cumulous would be starting to plug all the holes ... you could usually watch the tops boiling upwards into the blue. Then at 1600hrs , the 50,000 foot monsters would drop their guts in tropical downpours. We were usually breasted up to the bar at this point as flying was usually over for the day.
I had to weigh the safety issue . If I got to the pass late and I had to come back, it would be dark. Black is black in the tropics and Baimuru was hard enough to find in the daytime.
I made the safest choice ... I would go flying ... the alternative was frightening.... jungle princesses , the Crab , Mutt ... I wasn't prepared to pay that price. I'll take on the weather.
It took an hour for the barge to motor upstream and soon it docked with an accompanying merriment hithertoo unimagined. The nine boys on the barge waved frantically at their equally boistrious family ashore.
A tall, gaunt scary figure towered and glowered over all around ... Fred. Dressed in jungle fatigues, thick heavilly rimmed glasses and army boots, he barked orders in pidgin, a language that I still can speak today. He said nothing to me. He never did.
The Crab came down and we inspected the hold. Four thousand pounds of whole Barramundi. And maybe four loads of croc skins. A weeks flying at least. A full load (delete "load" .. insert "overload" ) was quickly portered to the Cessna parked on the track and packed in with a tribesman holding up the tail till I climbed in .The nearest weigh scales were in Port Morsbey, two hundred miles away... Oh well!.. I hurredly started the engine with one hand whilst holding the door open to try to deflect some air. I taxied through the mud, still holding the door as I fiddled with the HF to pass my flight plan to Port Moresby. It was full radio reporting in this country .. you didn't take off till you had contact and passed a plan. The HF crackled an acknowledgement. I taxied to the bog , closed the door and opened the throttle. Bloody hot! Sweating .. eyes stinging... the aircraft went nowhere .. nearly down to the axles. I sawed back and forth on the elevator to lighten the nosewheel ....and it inched forward ... roaring .. lurching. It inched out of the bog and by the time I arrived at the hump I had a good five knots. I dragged this measilly five knots to the top and slowly accelerated downhill .. towards the other bog. HOT! Steamy! I sweated. The fresh air vent (delete "fresh" insert "stink") .. well it moaned and sucked and rattled .. it did ****** all. A final tug just before the bog and it sagged into the air ...and went nowhere .. the rough stinking air swatted me forever down. Wow! Thinks I. Am I now at the pinnicle of my three year old aviation career?
It was now uphill, all the way.
Lake Kutubu , the jewel of New Guinea was visible ahead. It was backdropped by a menacing black giant with a green tinge indicating heavy rain. I could see through the Eastern fringe .. so I flew there.
Below , the thick , tangled jungle went by far too slowly.
I thinks ... things should start to get interesting ... right about now. Crack!!!! Lightning ... turbulence.. the airplane bucks and wallows .. the vent hissing, then sucking. I am flying into rising ground.
We were well schooled at low level flying in the Army, so I angle off the slope so I am not at ninety degrees .. so I can fall off .. I have somewhere to go. I struggle up.. around another limestone pinnicle.... up to five thousand ... mountains ahead ... five thousand to go. The Continental drones on.