As my Cessna Amphibian struggled up the canyon, I wondered what I'd find at the top. I kept kicking myself for getting into this situation, but hey, I was making more on this trip than I did in several weeks hauling old folks to see Glacier Bay. I couldn't complain, really. My little one man operation flying tourists out of Skagway, Alaska paid the bills. Of course, I only had two or three bills anyways - the payment on my plane, the insurance (which was almost as much), and rent, though the rent for my one room pad wasn't really enough to be considered a bill. The rain pelted against the newly replaced plexiglass around me and I reached down to adjust the mixture for the 675 horse Pratt & Whitney sitting a few feet ahead of me. Though my 18 year old Grand Amphibian was an excellent plane, you had to baby it a little - ensuring that the combination of fuel and oxygen was just right. And as the hand on the altimeter kept spinning clockwise, there was less oxygen to go around.
The engine whined as I increased the throttle a little more. I'd been up this canyon a few days before, but it had been in much better circumstances.
The cold wind and rain now coming down at me were making things a little interesting. In a way, I wished that I didn't have the floats on - they caused so much drag. Of course, I'd have a tough time landing in the icy lake up above without them. I just hoped the temperature didn't drop to freezing levels as I continued to gain altitude. I had been at sea level just 20 minutes before and I thought about how I'd hate for things to get iced over before I even got to the top. I had to admit that I hadn't flown in icy conditions very much. I spent most of the year ferrying people across Lake Powell in southern Utah and sometimes to Lake Mead, or wherever. For the last three years, I'd spent four months a year flying out of Skagway. It was a small town, but the people were nice enough. The population was 700 or so, but on any given day the population could reach up to 3,000 when the cruise ships were at port. That's how I spent my summers, flying two or three hops a day for those willing to pay the price - $40 an hour per person. It was a little less than some of the other pilots in town, but I had a bigger plane and I usually filled every seat. I paid a punk teenager named Ferris to man a booth on Main Street next to the old-bar-turned-museum-tourist-trap. He was from California and was seeking some liberating experience in the wilds of Alaska; but, he kept me busy and for $8 an hour, I didn't have to beat the streets myself.
It was at Lake Powell that I had met Jim Hensen. Yep, the guy had the same name as the Muppets guy, but you'd never dare tease him about it. He and his wife had booked a trip down into the Grand Canyon. I rarely took only two people on a hop, but he paid for all 5 seats, so I was obliged to take him anywhere he wanted. He, of course, wanted to land down on the Colorado. I was one of the few guys that dared (or knew how) to land on the River. It was a real slow portion that formed a little bay at the bottom of the canyon. You had to drop into the canyon several miles downstream so you could lose enough altitude to make the water landing.
The landing wasn't very difficult. There was rarely more than a breeze. The problem was that you had to nail the landing or you'd become a permanent fixture in the canyon wall that surrounded the small bay. I don't think any pilot had ever joined the Anasazi Indian markings in the granite, but then again, few had tried. It was always a little entertaining to see all these folks, who had spent hours hiking or riding horses down the nearly mile tall canyon walls, drop there jaws as I parked my Cessna next to the boat dock typically reserved for river rafts. Jim was visiting the little tourist lodge in the canyon to do business - I couldn't guess, nor did I care, what his business was. His wife was just along for the ride.
The older couple was a lot of fun to talk to as we made the hour long trip. They talked about their hunting lodge and guide business up in Alaska. "Brrrr," I had thought. Alaska must be a terrible place to live. Jim's wife agreed. She joked with us both that she'd never survive another winter up there - and she was right. I guess she just up and died at the first snow storm that fall. A few weeks later, Jim gave me a call. I'm not sure how he tracked me down, seeing as I only owned a cell phone (every pilot should have one) and only a few people had my number. He offered to pay for a ticket up there on Alaska Airlines to check out his operation. He wanted a pilot to fly hunters into remote areas and could promise me lots of business in nearby Skagway. I didn't take him up on the offer, but told him I'd fly up myself in May. I needed a change and I trusted that Jim would make it worth it. He did and I spent my time flying over the beautiful mountains...
glaciers...
and bays...
of Southeastern Alaska.
The contents of this story are © Jared "Smitty" Smith.
Read more of my stories and see screenshots at http://smithplanet.com/fs2004/