I don't know about you, but I've done things in aviation that I wouldn't dream of doing around the house. I've stuck my arm down a toilet, I've washed my hands in gasoline — and I'm proud of it. On the other hand, there are other things I've done that I hope no one ever finds out about. Not because they were illegal or something bad happened, but simply because they perpetuate the Greater Idiot Theory.
Why did I do that?
We were sitting in a corporate jet in Van Nuys, California, getting ready to shut down after a long trip when the flight attendant came up screaming about something blue and wet. Absent a cabin full of Smurfs and a water-balloon fight, blue and wet in a jet can only be bad. Think Tidy Bowl. As a responsible individual, and since the airplane was signed out to me, I ran back to the toilet and could not believe my eyes. It was like one of those champagne fountains you see at weddings where champagne is everywhere. Except that this was not a wedding and it wasn't champagne.
I had a vague recollection of a shut-off valve down in the bowels of the toilet and, without thinking, I stuck my arm through the flapper, searching for it. After a few seconds I found what I was looking for and Niagara suddenly dried up. All that was left now was the realization that I had stuck my arm down the toilet. I hadn't bothered to ask if anyone had flushed recently either — put that down for next time. I've found that when I stick my arm down a toilet some people look at me with a kind of Star Wars-type awe while others look at me like I've lost my mind. I can tell you that the wash-up job after that was anything but cursory. I also found that it's kind of hard to explain to the dry cleaner what the blue stain is on your sleeve. It's just better if he doesn't know.
Sometimes it's the cargo
Sometimes, dealing with the effluent (not to be confused with the affluent) does not result in stained shirts and Smurflike arms, but merely stories you are not willing to tell during happy hour. In certain areas of Alaska there is nowhere to put waste during the winter. Part of it is because the ground is completely frozen, so septic and sewer can be quite a challenge. It's kind of like when you backpack — you pack it in, you pack it out. Except that in Alaska they do things on a slightly larger scale. This can result in airplanes full of, well, you can only imagine. When the commanding officer threatened Tom Cruise in the movie Top Gun that he'd be flying rubber dog #*#* out of Hong Kong, I thought he was kidding. It's not rubber, it's real, and it's not Hong Kong, it's Alaska. I'm all for environmental stewardship as long as I'm not the steward who has to fly the stuff out of there.
Some air cargo outfits down at the airport were extremely professional, using new airplanes, organized unloading procedures, conveyor belts, and the like — and some weren't. British Bob came in every day at about 9 a.m. in a Beech 18 that had seen better days long before you or I was born. If the weather got bad enough, quite often Bob shot a Category I ILS approach down to Category III minimums. That's about the equivalent of getting to minimums, counting to 20, and then breaking out or going around. You always knew when he broke out because he shouted the British equivalent of "Yeeehaawww" on the radio when he saw the runway. Bob unloaded the back of the airplane just like he landed, in a very colorful manner. He would stand at the door of the airplane and heave the boxes as far as he could across the ramp toward the waiting truck. Words like fragile, this side up, and handle with care seemed to have no meaning to Bob.
Then there's the kind of cargo you can't easily toss across the ramp. One day while waiting to go at Centennial Airport in Denver we were availing ourselves of the entertainment on the ramp. Now, Centennial's a great airport to hang out at, what with the Denver Broncos training facility next door, good food nearby, and Jeppesen just across the field. But that day we had become fixated on this poor guy trying to get a large rectangular cardboard box into a Cessna 182. It looked like the box we used to keep our fake Christmas tree in when I was a little kid. The guy was very gentle with it at first, but as he got more and more frustrated he started banging things around. I was wondering why someone would go to so much trouble for a fake Christmas tree when we saw an arm pop out of the box. Arm? We watched with complete fascination as the guy took more and more liberties with "Fred" — the body of a very dead man. (After a while and given far too much free time, we named Fred and provided him with quite a colorful past.) After a while, the guy just dropped Fred on the ramp in complete disgust. We all cringed when Fred hit the deck, because by then we were getting close and we felt his pain. The pilot heard us, looked up, and was fairly embarrassed as he got some help from a line guy and dragged Fred back into the hangar. I don't know what happened to Fred, but I hope he didn't get the aerial equivalent of a burial at sea for his trouble.
Sometimes it's just bull
Then there's the kind of cargo that you can't toss at all; it will move when it's good and ready. Our friends Hoss and Little Joe flew cargo for Rattletrap Air (editorial license used on names) and were based at a Missouri airport named after an airplane that shall remain nameless. They came in late one Friday night and looked at the last available trip, flying a one-ton bull to Dallas in a Lockheed 12. Yesterday the cargo was 8,000 screaming little yellow things that could only say "chirp," so anything was an improvement.
A local veterinarian had sedated the bull and he was strapped down in every direction (the bull, not the veterinarian). Fueling, flight plan, and checklists out of the way, Hoss and Little Joe called the tower and reported ready to aviate. Holding for traffic, Little Joe heard something in the back go "pop, pop, pop." Hearing something go pop in the back of an airplane is akin to seeing blue liquid — it can pretty much only be bad. Apparently while the boys were ready to aviate, the bull was not. Just like Superman when they take the kryptonite away, the bull was on his way up and looking for satisfaction. Every time the bull moved, the plane shuddered. As the tower controller cleared them for takeoff, Little Joe, peering back through the bulkhead passage to see what the ruckus was, reported the situation succinctly over the radio ... "B-B-B-B-Bull!" The tower controller, not used to that kind of a response to a takeoff clearance, queried them as to their sanity level and intentions.
Hoss sized up the situation quickly, "Uh! Tower, Rattletrap 1, change in plan, negative on the aviating, we're evacuating." Then, using time-honored aviation technique, Hoss gunned the right engine and proceeded on to the grass, slammed on the brakes, pulled the mixtures, and managed to exit the plane — all in one move. Unfortunately, because of Hoss' shocking lack of cockpit resource management on the bailout, Little Joe's path of egress was now blocked by an east-west bull in a north-south cargo compartment. This standoff continued for what seemed like an entire episode of Bonanza, until Hoss and the local firefighters pried open the emergency bull exit and allowed the bull off the airplane.
Later investigation showed that the small-animal vet had given a gerbil-size sedative to a Godzilla-size bull, allowing the bull to cause enough interior damage to put the airplane out of service for four months. Hoss later went to work for Ozark Airlines, which eventually got swallowed up by TWA and then American. Little Joe also went to Ozark...Alabama to become a Methodist minister with a certain skittishness about large animals. The bull, which had a raging "what happened to the cow I met last night at the feedlot" hangover aggravated by head-butting the fuselage, caught the next airplane out of town.
Sometimes it's the place
There is a real hierarchy to flying in Alaska. Most things that you and I take for granted simply are not available through traditional means. Everything from food to the morning newspaper generally starts on an airliner and graduates to a series of successively smaller airplanes until it reaches its destination.
My friend Martin earned his wings the hard way. As soon as he had enough time he ventured to the Kuskokwim River Delta, near the Bering Sea in Alaska, to gain experience flying Cessna 206s and Piper Navajos out of Bethel. Flying airplanes there meant operating on short, unimproved (I mean really unimproved) dirt strips in stiff crosswinds with snow and ice everywhere. Mishaps were common; every time I listen to him talk about it I am amazed he is still around.
One beautiful VFR day, Martin took off from Bethel in a Piper Navajo full of cargo and supplies for a distant village. VFR at Bethel was as good as it got that day; the weather ahead went down faster than a tech stock. By the time he arrived, both his destination and alternate were socked in and he was running low on fuel, options, and ideas as he headed to his last alternate. He got there just in time to see it swallowed whole by ice fog, just like your allowance at the county fair.
Martin realized that his options were as limited as his dwindling fuel supply and the only input he had was where to meet the ground. He decided to let down through the ice fog to the airport and depend on his memory not to rearrange the countryside. He had been flying in the area enough that he had a very strong mental image of the airport and surrounding environs — he could visualize the antennas, the hills, the village, everything. As he described the approach to me years later I could see it in my mind just as if I was sitting next to him in the airplane. Suffice it to say, Martin has a good memory; he broke out just off the side of the runway, corrected, and landed.
Martin was lucky in Alaska; he gained the experience to go fly for an airline along with a healthy dose of hindsight. He was also lucky in a larger way — he met his wife, Tammy, in one of the tiny villages he flew to and they have a great life and family together.
I can see the want ad now: "Get flight time, a wife, and a life — all in Alaska!"
Part of the fun when a bunch of pilots get together — whether it be for happy hour after a day of flying, an afternoon of airplane-watching down at the hangar, or having lunch with a complete stranger at Oshkosh — is the stories that are told. Stories of pilots flying auto parts across the frozen Great Lakes on dark winter nights. Pilots who ferry light airplanes from California to Hawaii over thousands of miles of open water — where some light turbulence at 3 a.m. can remind you how alone you really are. Weather-avoidance technique that consists of following the airplane in front of you in hopes that the pilot's weather radar and common sense are working. Flight instructors who put their tickets (and sometimes more) on the line every time they take a student out — a student whose sole mission in life is to kill you, according to my friend Josh.
The list goes on and on. Some aviation jobs and experiences seem in retrospect like a death wish. For many pilots on their way to fame and fortune, these jobs are a rite of passage — hopefully a rite that doesn't involve passage. These folks provide valuable services for us, as well as valuable aviating experience for themselves. You never know who's done what.
The people sitting next to you at the hangar, the people you meet at AOPA Expo or Oshkosh, ask them about their backgrounds and prepare to be fascinated. The next time you are cruising along on your favorite airline, think about and wonder what your flight crew had to do to get there — and be careful shaking hands if you notice any blue streaks.
Marc K. Henegar, AOPA 1073441, of Bend, Oregon, is a pilot for Alaska Airlines.
