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The customs guys in Wrangell were a decent bunch and there was a trust built up between the Snip Mine people and the US government. It was a trust that not one of our pilots was willing to barter. Generally , loading and unloading went smoothly , that is until we rookies showed up.
Roller trays with a 3000 lb load going sideways , leaking vents on our diesel tanks and that overheated brake ...these problems paled in comparison to the worsening weather.
Because our diesel tank leaked it was not feasible to carry fuel so we got to hand-bomb about eight thousand pounds of groceries needed desperately by the cooking staff.
We sweat as we slip on the stinking diesel spilled on the floor... uphill , four tons we strap down.We take on fuel for about four trips and resort to furious weight and balance calculations. Refuelling is a hazardous task atop a trembling wing blasted with wet Pacific air.
The Bristol has gone ... we must hurry.
The right brake sticks a little but seems to be less effective on take off .... just when I need it to counteract the hammering croswind from the left.
The heavilly laden beast is pinned on with forward control column pressure , tail level , she fights me ... wanting to turn her snout into the wind , where she would be more comfortable. The dark , wet runway determines our required track , the bich fights me but I get my way .. tracking the centreline ... dead straight.
I tug slightly and she unsticks .. and gets her way as I let her nose swing into the wind as we claw our way to fifteen hundred feet.
Through horizontal rain we fly toward the mouth of the Stikine and our bout with turbulence which shakes the cargo down under ever loosening straps. Rob lurches from side to side trying to tighten the Herc straps. I need him up front .. lower I fly .. now the soft sleet slips by .. shrouding the two protruding ridges through which I must aviate. I need Rob up here , to peer into the lowering visibility , to follow our progres on the map , to operate the GPS that I stab repeatedly and missing the buttons in the rough air. He has to do our landing calculations , finish the weight and balance and fill out the logbook from the last trip.... after all he was too busy in Wrangell.
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And return , he does , laden with Snickers bars , fresh peaches and smoked oysters.
Perhaps five hundred feet now but our speed over the ground slows , as we encounter the cold moaning winds from up on the plateau.
We stuff food into our hungry mouths , missing the hole more often than not in the turbulence , as we rumble by the ridges with not a lot of room. A left turn , then a right takes us up the Iskut , leaving the Stikine coursing northward.
Snow showers now but some blue holes above.
Colder. No heater... chilly , the moisture from our sweat now driving into the body , and anywhere that there was wetness ... now frost .. then ice. Inside the arplane that is.
Rob calls camp at Hoodoo , the glacier now visible atop the steep draw .. spectacular! And the fishcamp .. through the narrows where we catch our first glimpse of the strip upon which we must alight.
What a trip , sixty miles each way.
We labouriously unload the cargo.
The Cat966 loader appears at the lobby ... with a bag of concentrate on the forks.
"The Bristol crew think they can get three more trips in" he says.
We are veterans now
Last edited by Duke Elegant; 15th Mar 2004 at 00:42.