Committing to the Crash

In the Peanuts comic strip, they have a Kite Eating Tree, in Kachemak Bay, we have a Plane Eating Runway. The FAA calls Nanwalek's airstrip at about 800 usable feet, but the pilots that operate there know to eek out extras from the ends. All flat-ish surface is stretched parallel to the beach in a curve, and a mountain of reckon-able size looms on one end. The strip is surrounded by water on three sides and a village at one end.  If the excellence in urban planning were not already apparent, a manhole cover sticks up about a foot above the gravel at one end, driving the obstacle course home. So, properly done, you have two options to get to Nanwalek: a steep turn on short final to avoid the mountain; or, from the other direction, landing on one wheel, in a turn, avoiding the manhole cover and stopping before the mountain.
Of course the prevailing wind is from a lagoon on the wrong side of the curve, constantly pushing aircraft towards a very cold ocean. In the winter, the gravel strip is covered with ice, snow, and slush. Any time of year there are dogs, children, and four-wheelers running across the strip.  Almost all supplies and passengers in and out of this small village go by small airplane.
On Thursday, three pilots were in Nanwalek in 206s, there was a lot of slush on the runway and a crosswind out of the lagoon. One of those 206s didn't make it out. Conditions were worse than "normal" and we could conjecture for hours on the how and why of the crash, but, the basics are: the airplane got off the ground, lost flying speed over the water, and went into the ocean with four souls on board.
The initial gossip was that the pilot "stalled into the water," but those of us who know what a stalling aircraft looks like can't reconcile that with how upright and gently that plane touched the cold ocean. All passengers were unscathed, and everyone climbed out of the aircraft and was able to swim safely to shore.
I had the privilege of talking to the pilot yesterday and I learned something: he said when he knew he was going to hit the water, he committed to the crash, pulled the power and flared. He landed that plane in the water. He didn't crash it. I was amazed. Why? Because I don't think I ever would have done that.
We all know I have a fear of commitment, and committing to crashing seems difficult indeed. But, it might have been what saved the passengers. My instinct would have been to keep trying to shove the power past the firewall, asking the airplane for just a little bit more than it had to give; to keep trying to save it beyond the point of hope; to ask the impossible from a piece of machinery. What beautiful grace: to accept that you are going to fall out of the sky, and be able to turn your attention to landing on your feet.

A Weekend in the "Wilderness"

The men of Talkeetna, AK (pop. 772) decided long ago that all an Alaskan male needs is "a woman and a truck, both that work." After slapping each other on the back, laughing uproariously, and ordering another round of beers, they hatched the idea for the 'Bachelor Auction & Wilderness Women Competition' to scour the Alaskan darkness for one of the two. 31 years later, the Talkeetna Bachelor's Society is still luring scores of single females to Talkeetna in the middle of winter to compete in a ridiculous obstacle course for their affections.
What a perfect venue for Homer Women's Nordic to see how tough they are. Four of us drove the 7 hours to Talkeetna and arrived just in time for the qualifying event: hauling water.  In a series of heats, women race 5-gallon buckets down the main street of town. For every inch of water spilled, 10 seconds is added to your time. The estimation of total contestants was around 45, but bachelors apparently aren't really big on numbers, so who can say for sure? The only qualifiers for the competition are that you be female and single. None of the events move you farther than whisper-distance from the bar, but all are designed to simulate something you would do as a homesteader in the Alaskan bush. Since most cabins in Talkeetna don't have running water, it's pretty normal to haul water from a creek nearby. The top five water haulers advanced, one of which was me.
The next two rounds were performed one at a time, and I had to go first, starting with making a sandwich and opening a beer and serving it to a bachelor as he lounges by the bonfire. Technically, 'serving' is defined as you have to 'get the sandwich TO the bachelor', so I chucked sandwich and beer at the lad as I ran past to throw a pile of firewood in the sled at the back of a snow machine. Then I had to pick up a handsaw and saw a board (surrounded by a group of bachelors all giving conflicting directions, increasing the authenticity of the event).
I jumped on the snow machine and hauled the load of wood around the park to drop it off at the appointed area. Timer stopped. I then got to stand by the bonfire in the building blizzard conditions to watch the other finalists perform the same tasks. One of them ran a handsaw like the proverbial hot knife through butter. I asked her later: "Any chance you built your own cabin?" Of course the answer was 'yes.' Alaskan chicks are tough. After Miss Saws-a-lot, I finished second on that round. The boys started setting up for round three.
The final round took a little more imagination to transport you from the center of town to a land of true 'survival skills.' The timer started when you were handed a casting rod and asked to catch a fish. Since you were still standing in front of the Fairview Inn, there was a velcro tennis ball at the end of the line, and strewn a ways down the snowy street were a handful of wooden 'fish' with velcro attached. The weight of casting a tennis ball is something to get used to, and the first girl managed to wrap the line around herself, one of the judges, and a parked vehicle all on the first cast. After a fish was caught, it needed to be put in a pack and the contestant had to don snowshoes to go to the next station. Next up in this hunting round was to kill a "Ptarmigan," a common Alaskan bird represented here by a balloon. After running on snowshoes with a pack, the girl was handed a BB gun and given as many rounds as needed to kill the bird. (I've been gun slinging lately, so it was a one-shot, clean kill).  Once fish and bird were 'dead,' the contestant continued on snowshoes to a tree at the top of which she needed to ring a bell. I couldn't get the snowshoes off fast enough, so I attempted to climb with them on, which is not very easy or graceful. Luckily, I am tall, and the bell wasn't really that high. I only had to get a few feet into the air to slap it and then fall to the snow below. One of the bachelors handed me a nerf handgun that I would then use to 'protect myself' from 'moose' on the trail. After shooting a bachelor in a moose costume at point blank range, I sprinted for the finish line and dove across, again only finishing second, impossibly behind the girl that, as far as we know, was still tangled in fishing line.

That's it. Then darkness sets in on town and everyone retires indoors for the bachelors to cloister themselves and do complicated math to determine which lady is the top Wilderness Woman in Alaska, or at least in Talkeetna, or at least at the bar that day.  The winner was announced at the Annual Bachelor Auction, at which dances and drinks with 36 single men were auctioned off to raise money for the local women and childrens' shelter. The girl that handsawed her own cabin won the prized fur hat of victory. I, normally completely biased for myself in competitions, would have voted for her as well. And then had her come to my house to do chores.
The boys raised tens of thousands of dollars. Everyone danced at the bar until morning. The next day, we woke up early and drove back south to start the season of ski racing, and I sleepily thought to myself: "Why would anyone wonder why people want to spend winters in Alaska? When left to our own devices, look what we get up to."