Inuvik, Northwest Territories, Canada
(Inuvik is located on the Mackenzie Delta, north of the Arctic Circle and just south of the Beaufort Sea)
August 28, 2001

When I was a young girl I built model airplanes and hung them from my bedroom ceiling, suspending them in perpetual flight. Like many boys of my age, mine was a world cluttered with Corsairs whose wingmen were in Hawker Hurricanes and Stukas that screamed in final, diving attacks.

Using a gas-powered plastic plane tethered to my hand with cables, I was introduced by my uncle Paul to a more three-dimensional world of flying: the growling vibration of an engine, the smell of aviation fuel, the cause and effect of non-level flight. Without complaint, he patched the plane together again and again after every crash-landing that I made.

I dreamed of someday flying radio-controlled planes. Free from the constraints of wires, they would take me with them into the skies. But the years went by and so I made up the time by skipping a few grades. I enrolled in night classes at an aviation ground school. I graduated with a fuller understanding of what had already become a part of me. In flight simulators I learned how to finesse my turns by "stepping on the ball" or using the correct rudder pedal guided by the turn and bank coordinator on the instrument panel.

All the while I was reading stories of bush pilots skirting the tops of trees, squeezing through narrow canyons, flying in impossible conditions: snowstorms, deadstick landings, ferocious crosswinds. They did these things in exotic and romantic places with names such as the Yukon or Northwest Territories. I longed to be at the controls of a floatplane like theirs that could land on water. I wanted to taxi in from a dock, make my final approach based on the winds and waves below me. I would ferry people in and out of remote
places inhabited by timberwolves and grizzlies, where a small lake becomes your only runway.

I took my first and, to date, only flight lesson in a 4-seat Cessna 182. It seemed my entire life had led up to that day. It's true I was terrified of killing myself, the instructor and those below us. But I was even more scared of something else-- of not being a natural pilot, of not taking to flight as if I was born to it. My fear of fear paralyzed me.

I didn't realize until I was strapped into the pilot's seat that I was my instructor's very first student. English was not his first language and most of what he said I couldn't understand. He tried to calm me, but he was as nervous as I was, and he hid it badly. At 5' 1" tall, I couldn't simultaneously reach the rudder pedals and see over the nose of the plane. Because I had to fly blindly, I immediately felt out of control.

Takeoffs and landings are the most dangerous moments of flying, and unintentional stalls can be deadly. When we were taking off, I started pulling back on the yoke, or stick, too soon. He panicked, shouting at me to hold off, to gain more speed before pulling back. To my surprise, on his cue a moment later, I lifted us above the runway. We were aloft, and I was the pilot.

Banking away from the jets of Denver International Airport immediately adjacent to us, I took the Cessna to a few thousand feet and followed the course of Interstate 70 as it headed east.

I looked out my side window at the ground below us. I saw the tiny cars driven by people who were going to die when I crashed into them. There was no joyous wonder at the miracle of flight-- everything I knew about lift, drag and thrust was forgotten. All I could think was, "What the hell's going to keep this little thing in the air?"

I wasn't a natural pilot. This shamed me and I felt devastated. Things weren't working out the way I'd planned from the time I was a child. I wanted to burst into tears, but somehow didn't.

My eyes stayed glued to the instruments. I watched each one in turn, anticipating an indication of our impending plunge to Earth. But everything read normal: oil pressure was fine, engine temperature, vertical speed. Everything was as it should be and I was keeping us perfectly level.

When we reached the town of Limon, I knew that even more people were going to die when we crashed. I was anxious to head back. As I made the turn I stepped on the left rudder pedal which made the bubble level stay in the middle of the turn and bank coordinator. I was properly "stepping on the ball". Lifting the nose slightly during the turn, I kept her level then straightened out and headed for home.

Unable to see the runway while using the rudder pedals, I requested of my instructor that I not try to land the plane. He agreed. No longer the pilot, relief swept over me. As he banked sharply for final approach, I experienced the familiar joy of flying.

He phoned me several times after that, always leaving a message on my machine asking if I wanted additional flight lessons. I never returned his calls.

I continued my personal studies, however, reading among others, Dick Turner's accounts of being a bush pilot in the Northwest Territories. I imagined myself as his copilot, following meandering streams in narrow canyons whose downdrafts can slap a plane against its walls in an instant. I knew it was a dangerous type of flying, but he was good at it.

I read many stories by men whose prospecting and trapping were merely excuses for flying small planes in tight situations. I learned to fear the surface of a river such as the "Mighty" Mackenzie when it only appears to have frozen thick enough to land on, and of how to burn firepots beneath an engine in a dark winter of the far north so that you can start it again.

Recently I learned about a place called Herschel Island that was used as a base port for whalers at the turn of the century. Located northwest of Inuvik in the Beaufort Sea, it's now a Parks Canada preservation site.

I was told I could charter a floatplane to take me there. Two women campers were trapped on the island because it had been too foggy to get a plane in. I could go on the floatplane sent to get them out, but there was no guarantee we would make it in or be able to land. I didn't hesitate, agreeing immediately to their conditions.

I would like it that when I'm much older I'll say to someone, "I took my first floatplane ride in a Cessna 206. That was before I started flying 'em, of course. Hell, I still lived in the States." I'll chuckle a bit then add, "I didn't even know what the real bush was like. Course, I thought I did." Whomever I'm talking to will nod, having heard the story a dozen times already. In their mind they'll lip sync along but in my mind it'll be as if I'm riding that 206 floatplane for the first time.

I was given the copilot's seat. A husband and wife who were staying at the same bed and breakfast that I was, sat immediately behind us, leaving the two rear seats open. The pilot, in his early thirties, tall and unshaven, put his headphones on, adjusting the microphone so that it rested against his lips. He spoke so softly that above the noise of the engine I could only hear parts of what he said. Something, something, then, "Cessna 206, Roger."

My eyes swam from one instrument gauge to another. I was back in that other Cessna four years ago, but like a dream in which you have to run through water, I was suddenly helpless to remember how to fly the plane. The yoke hung above my lap, inches from my hands. The rudder pedals poked through the floor, waiting, staring at me. I planted my feet firmly on the floor away from them and held my camera with both hands to keep them from wandering. I was waging an inner war between my fear of flying and my passion for it. But the war was won when I realized I'd only be a passenger and a huge dream was about to come true: I was taking my first ride in a floatplane and it happened to be in The Northwest Territories.

The pilot surprised me when he then said, "Here's your first task. Pull back on that a bit," indicating the yoke. A little too quickly I let go of the camera and gripped the yoke, pulling it back slightly while trying to look casual.

"Like this?" I asked innocently.

"Yeah, like that. If you don't keep the nose up, then the forward motion will push us into the water and we'll flip over." He spread out an aviation map in the cramped space around him, tracing nonexistent lines with his finger, memorizing the one-dimensional topography.

From behind us I heard the woman say, "Oh, Copilot? Copilot, there's a canoe in front of us." Then, more frantically she said, "Copilot?"

When you're not in the air, you have to use the rudder pedals to steer since the yoke hasn't any effect. But over my shoulder all I told her was, "I don't have the rudders." Meaning, though I had my own set, I hadn't been given permission by the pilot to use them. And then there was still that other little problem I had: I was too short to see anything over the nose of the plane. "It's all right," the pilot said. "I've got the rudder pedals. I see the canoe."

After warming up, we were ready to go. Seat belts were tightened, the check list completed. Water sprayed up under the wings as we raced down the lake, then we were up and away. I was flying in a floatplane over the delta of the Mackenzie River, heading from the Northwest Territories into Yukon to bring out two women stranded on a remote island in the Beaufort Sea. Pure joy spread through me, producing a huge grin on my face: it just doesn't get any better than this.

I was eager to see the northernmost edge of North America, to glimpse the end of this massive continent. I wanted to view for myself the Beaufort Sea, a stretch of water Victoria Jason, alone in her kayak, had come to know intimately. Would I see icebergs? Wild animals on the tundra? Herschel Island, even. Or would it be impenetrable through the fog? Something deep inside me whispered that the fog would not keep us away.

The pilot motioned toward my window. I looked out: at least a thousand caribou were spread below. A Japanese film crew staying at the bed and breakfast had spent many days and a lot of money chartering planes and helicopters to find these animals. They were documenting the annual caribou migration, except they couldn't find them. But there they were, two hundred feet beneath us.

It wasn't long after that that we spotted a solitary musk ox. I watched in awe as this massive and prehistoric-looking animal with long hair flowing over his shoulders crossed the tundra.

We entered the Richardson Mountains. Dropping into a canyon, we followed the course of a river. The walls rose up on either side of us; far enough away that we could turn if necessary, but close enough that I became Dick Turner's copilot once more. I watched the gauges. Altitude: 214 feet. Manifold pressure: good. Vertical speed: zero. It was all coming back to me.

All too soon, like a Phoenix from the flames, we rose out of the canyon and banked north to head for the Beaufort Sea, crossing first into the Yukon Territory.

I couldn't stop grinning.

On a cliff overlooking another river was a grizzly bear. Huge with winter stores of fat, he lumbered away from the sound of our engine, the rolls of his hairy flesh undulating in waves.

When Herschel Island was still just on the horizon, the pilot said, "Look, you can see it's still fogged in." He paused then said, "We'll take a closer look anyway."

I wasn't concerned. I knew we were going in.

We flew over the Beaufort Sea. It was hidden beneath the carpet of fog. I was glancing at the instruments when I heard him say, astonished, "Look at that!"

I looked up and out the window. The Island was completely obliterated by fog. Except for one little area in which a window had been carved out of the whiteness.

"That's the harbor," he said, amazed. "That's where we have to go in." I smiled, saying nothing.

We had fifteen minutes to look around the Island. While one of the two rangers stationed there gave us a Cliff Notes version of what's usually a two-hour talk and visit, the women who'd been stranded loaded their gear into the plane.

One of the reasons I'd wanted to visit Herschel Island was to see polar bears. However, I was told just before I signed up that the polar bears were located to the east. I didn't mention this, but the ranger told me casually, "A polar bear was here yesterday." That morning a bowhead whale had swum into the bay where the rangers' boat is moored. And while I was there, a seal popped his head in and out of the water, watching us.

The women were in good spirits with excellent attitudes regarding their delay in getting off the Island. Grizzly bear visits had forced the rangers to move the women from the outdoor shelter to one of the original whaling buildings. Herschel Island's lone musk ox had also come calling. We saw its tracks in the sand along the water's edge.

It was cold and windy, the fog was closing in around us. We needed to leave immediately.

Being the smallest passenger, I was instructed to take the rearmost seat of the plane. To get to it, I had to step on the pilot's side pontoon beside the dock. Then, while grasping the propeller, I walked along a narrow wire suspended between the two pontoons above the icy water. Once across, I shuffled along the passenger side pontoon to the back door where I climbed into the cramped seat.

I was not the pilot, nor even the pretend copilot anymore, but I was still excited as we lifted off the water. I was in a floatplane that had just rescued two women from a remote Island in the Beaufort Sea, heading back to the Northwest Territories.

I looked out my window. Down below, the fog had parted. I was staring at the Beaufort Sea. Off to the right I could see the northernmost edge of North America.

Yep, I thought, it just doesn't get any better than this.

Herschel Island