FAMED ALASKA BUSH PILOT, ELLEN PANEOK, DIES
Alaska aviation pioneer and author Ellen Evak Paneok, who used to chase polar bears off runways in the line of duty—among other exploits—has died. She was 48. Paneok succumbed to hepatitis C on March 2 at the Alaska Native Medical Center in Anchorage. She was recognized as the first Native woman bush pilot. In her 17 years as a commercial pilot in Alaska, she had ferried everything from dynamite to live wolverines, the U.S. mail, passengers, and medical patients. Read more on AOPA Online.
ELLEN PANEOK Another Headed West Into the Sunset
Fri Mar 14, 2008 1:23 pm
- M6RV6 offline
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Have as much Fun as is Safe, and Keep SMILIN! GT,
Fri Mar 14, 2008 3:46 pm
Hafast wrote:Hey Gump
Any chance that you know Wild Bill from Delta Junction? I know that he knew Ellen pretty well.
Might have. I've run across several "Wild Bills" and most were true to their names. DId he fly out of Barrow or Kotz?
Last time I saw Ellen was August '89 when I bugged out of Barrow and moved south to the frozen Arctic wastelands of Kotzebue. She was flying C207's for Barrow Air then.
Gump
Fri Mar 14, 2008 4:54 pm
Fri Mar 14, 2008 9:57 pm
Re: ELLEN PANEOK Another Headeed West Into the Sunset
M6RV6 wrote:FAMED ALASKA BUSH PILOT, ELLEN PANEOK, DIES
Alaska aviation pioneer and author Ellen Evak Paneok, who used to chase polar bears off runways in the line of duty—among other exploits—has died. She was 48. Paneok succumbed to hepatitis C on March 2 at the Alaska Native Medical Center in Anchorage. She was recognized as the first Native woman bush pilot. In her 17 years as a commercial pilot in Alaska, she had ferried everything from dynamite to live wolverines, the U.S. mail, passengers, and medical patients. Read more on AOPA Online.
For those in the Anchorage area, there will be a memorial potluck for Ellen at the Aviation Heritage Museum on Saturday (tomorrow) 3/15 at 7:00 p.m. Those of us that knew her will surely miss her knowledge, wit, and the sparkle in her eye when talking about flying in the bush.
1966 C182J
1960 C172 TD
1960 C172 TD
Sat Mar 15, 2008 1:27 am
R.I.P.
R.I.P., I wish I would have known her and learned from her experiences in the great state of AK.
WW
WW
- wagonwrench offline
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Sat Mar 15, 2008 8:50 am
WITH TRUSTING EYES BEHIND ME
WITH TRUSTING EYES BEHIND ME
Written by Ellen Paneok
February 1996
Barrow, December 21—winter solstice. It is 8 o’clock on an arctic morning swathed in darkness. Today we will have maybe two hours of twilight.
I am an Eskimo pilot from Kotzebue but have been flying out of here since 1987. I consider this my home. My people keep bringing me back.
At 27 degrees below zero my breath freezes to my eyelashes as I walk out to the airplane for my first flight of the day. I am headed for the village of Wainwright, 86 miles southwest.
Hoarfrost covers everything standing in the wind’s way. Every antenna on the Cessna 207 bristles with whiteness and the wings need to be swept clean of frost.
My flashlight bobs as I walk in the silent darkness. The wind sucks my breath away, whips my hair about my face. I wonder what brought me back to this cold, desolate place. Why would anyone settle here in the first place? Are humans that desperate for space? Then I think of the people here, my relatives, and realize that I am doing something for them, my aunt in Point Lay, my great-uncle in Wainwright, my great-uncle in Nuiqsut, my cousins in Barrow. They are the reason I put up with the cold and the harshness.
The village awakens, lights glow brightly from windows. In the darkness, the village generator hums, enabling work-a-day life to go on. Dogs let out for the morning bark greetings to each other. They know that with their protection, polar bears won’t trudge into the village. Cars startled to life grind their engine bones together to wake up.
The airport comes alive with activity, too, as the bush air taxis prepare for their daily mail and passenger runs. The airline forklift shuttles mail to the commuter carriers, a cloud of exhaust following it, pushed by the wind. The airport beacon signs its hello to open tundra; blackness answers.
I request the weather and turn over the engine. I have no passengers, just an airplane full of freight and mail. It takes awhile to thaw my trusty bird, even though it has been plugged into an engine heater all night. The engine pops to life grudgingly. My seat is hard from the cold. The instruments fog up, and it will take up to a minute before the oil pressure rises.
I do not touch the throttle or the control wheel with my bare hands, lest my fingers freeze. The ink in my pen has congealed in my pocket, forcing me to warm it with the palm of my hand before writing. I carry two flashlights to ward against the dark in case the cockpit lights fail.
After the engine is warm, I rev up, taxi and take off into the black sky, knowing that exhaust billows in my wake betray my flight path. I don’t expect to see any sign of human life for another half hour in this black Twilight Zone.
Soon enough I will have a little puff of heat down by the side of my knee, but the rest of the airplane will remain cold. Navigation needles direct my path. Occasionally, my flashlight searches the wings’ leading edges for ice buildup. I would have to return to Barrow if I saw any ice, for it adds weight and dangerously changes the wing shape.
In the many hours I’ve spent in the sky, I’ve often thought back to the days of exploration and the early period of aviation in Alaska. As in the 1930s, when Wiley Post and Will Rogers visited the Arctic, planes remain the main source of transportation and communication among the villages. But I was born too late for that era, when it seemed each day brought a new discovery.
Years ago, the fuselages of dusty airplanes were covered with notes and salutations roughly scribbled-out between people in the villages. I still carry envelopes containing love letters or deliver checks to wives for shopping money. Sometimes, by special request, I bake and deliver birthday cakes for my friends or relatives who live in other villages.
In the old days, when airplanes flew so slowly, women were proud to say that their children were born between destinations. People with broken bones or sickness were flown in and out of remote sites. All of that still goes on today, only with more sophisticated equipment and, of course, the planes now are much faster.
When aviation was young in Alaska, a whole village—the young, old, working and sick—would rush out to see the strange bird land as they anxiously awaited the pilot and cargo. Often the pilot would throw out candy to the children, which they scrambled over like ravens on a feast. Furs were carried out and love notes carried in. The airplanes were held together dubiously with putty and bailing wire from numerous unplanned contacts with the ground. Now the modern engine is so reliable it is rare to have any real trouble while flying.
The trust was great in the eyes of the Eskimos as they trundled onto these venerable birds for the next destination. I used to own and fly antique airplanes, and can imagine what nightmares it took to keep those airplanes running. Early pilots had to drain out the engine oil every night and figure out ways to heat their aircraft each morning. I must remember that every time I complain about the need to plug in the engine heater. I must remember to be more thankful.
Thirty-five minutes into the flight, I start looking for signs of human habitation. The only thing I expect to see is the faint glow of Wainwright’s lights in the far distance. Sometimes the ice fog blots out the lights until I am right over the village. In the blackness I click the microphone seven times, and a runway suddenly appears with ghostly, fuzzy lights directing my landing path. I feel powerful. I made those lights come on.
On final approach for landing, the bright lights flash past me in a whir as I feel for the ground. Watching the gauges and gauntlet of runway lights, I touch down. The hard-packed snow squeals in protest as the tires come to a halt. My temperature gauge reads 35 degrees below zero.
The welcoming committee consists of the village’s trucks and cars. They hunker down, headlights on, billowing exhaust caught in the ramp lights. As my engine ticks down to a stop the villagers drive up to my plane. I climb out into the cold in the blaze of their headlights. A truck backs up to the cargo doors, which I open with gloved hands.
Greetings are fast and frantic as I grip the frosted cargo net and slide it off. Dark shapes of people bustle around, boots squeaking as we hurriedly off-load mail onto the truck.
A glad cry exudes from the crowd. The fog is dense, and nobody expected any flights that day.
Baggage materializes, and I recognize it before I even see the passengers. I think to myself that I’ve been in the Arctic too long when I can distinguish one bag from the next. The airplane is unloaded and hands extend greetings—gloveless, as is the custom around here. Then everyone climbs into my plane and the gloves snap back onto cold hands in a hurry.
An old Eskimo couple is going to Barrow for the week’s shopping. There will be bright city lights and shopping treasures—fresh fruits and vegetables and presents for grandchildren—that aren’t available in the villages. Another Eskimo lady who I have known for years journeys to Barrow for her weekly chemotherapy. I have been taking her there every Friday for two months now. She is doing fine and improving. It looks hopeful that she will win over the cancer.
A man approaches importantly, expecting his company’s paychecks. I wonder where in this village they could be spending it. Another awaits a little box of snow machine parts. He has been on foot for a month and he grins in anticipation of having transportation again. His snow machine broke down 40 miles out on the tundra, and he’d had to walk back to the village, the aurora lighting his way.
Another box holds Caterpillar road grader repair parts, so the runway can be properly cleared of drifting snow. His beard and mustache are caked with frost, but he doesn’t seem to notice or care because he is thinking about the parts. An old, old Eskimo man comes up to me and tells me I have owl eyes, meaning I can see in the dark. The young Eskimo men furtively glance in my direction when they step up with their baggage, not saying a word. A little girl, barely 2 years old, knows my name and wants to be a pilot when she grows up. Her mother smiles. Another woman brings me a bag full of whale muktuk to take home. Here, the skin and fat is considered a delicacy. I hug her and tuck it away in my bag to eat later.
I am numbed with cold as I load up the passengers and instruct them on the safety features of the airplane. A passenger tells me that my cheeks are turning white—the onset of frostbite. I tighten my face cover and still feel the stinging bite of the frost. I turn back in my seat to face my passengers, and to make sure that they are comfortable and seat-belted. I see faces like my mother’s. She was born here in Wainwright. We gossip and joke, despite the freezing air.
I can see the trust in the silent eyes shining in the darkness, the same trust given to pilots before me. I have seen this trust before, even as I’ve struggled to land on snowblown village runways with only a little visibility and a lot of luck. And yet the passengers always eye me in mute certainty that I will get them to their destinations.
Cold steam emanates from everybody, the windows frost up, and as I crank up the engine, another arctic sojourn begins, the black morning sky before me, the trusting eyes behind me.
Written by Ellen Paneok
February 1996
Barrow, December 21—winter solstice. It is 8 o’clock on an arctic morning swathed in darkness. Today we will have maybe two hours of twilight.
I am an Eskimo pilot from Kotzebue but have been flying out of here since 1987. I consider this my home. My people keep bringing me back.
At 27 degrees below zero my breath freezes to my eyelashes as I walk out to the airplane for my first flight of the day. I am headed for the village of Wainwright, 86 miles southwest.
Hoarfrost covers everything standing in the wind’s way. Every antenna on the Cessna 207 bristles with whiteness and the wings need to be swept clean of frost.
My flashlight bobs as I walk in the silent darkness. The wind sucks my breath away, whips my hair about my face. I wonder what brought me back to this cold, desolate place. Why would anyone settle here in the first place? Are humans that desperate for space? Then I think of the people here, my relatives, and realize that I am doing something for them, my aunt in Point Lay, my great-uncle in Wainwright, my great-uncle in Nuiqsut, my cousins in Barrow. They are the reason I put up with the cold and the harshness.
The village awakens, lights glow brightly from windows. In the darkness, the village generator hums, enabling work-a-day life to go on. Dogs let out for the morning bark greetings to each other. They know that with their protection, polar bears won’t trudge into the village. Cars startled to life grind their engine bones together to wake up.
The airport comes alive with activity, too, as the bush air taxis prepare for their daily mail and passenger runs. The airline forklift shuttles mail to the commuter carriers, a cloud of exhaust following it, pushed by the wind. The airport beacon signs its hello to open tundra; blackness answers.
I request the weather and turn over the engine. I have no passengers, just an airplane full of freight and mail. It takes awhile to thaw my trusty bird, even though it has been plugged into an engine heater all night. The engine pops to life grudgingly. My seat is hard from the cold. The instruments fog up, and it will take up to a minute before the oil pressure rises.
I do not touch the throttle or the control wheel with my bare hands, lest my fingers freeze. The ink in my pen has congealed in my pocket, forcing me to warm it with the palm of my hand before writing. I carry two flashlights to ward against the dark in case the cockpit lights fail.
After the engine is warm, I rev up, taxi and take off into the black sky, knowing that exhaust billows in my wake betray my flight path. I don’t expect to see any sign of human life for another half hour in this black Twilight Zone.
Soon enough I will have a little puff of heat down by the side of my knee, but the rest of the airplane will remain cold. Navigation needles direct my path. Occasionally, my flashlight searches the wings’ leading edges for ice buildup. I would have to return to Barrow if I saw any ice, for it adds weight and dangerously changes the wing shape.
In the many hours I’ve spent in the sky, I’ve often thought back to the days of exploration and the early period of aviation in Alaska. As in the 1930s, when Wiley Post and Will Rogers visited the Arctic, planes remain the main source of transportation and communication among the villages. But I was born too late for that era, when it seemed each day brought a new discovery.
Years ago, the fuselages of dusty airplanes were covered with notes and salutations roughly scribbled-out between people in the villages. I still carry envelopes containing love letters or deliver checks to wives for shopping money. Sometimes, by special request, I bake and deliver birthday cakes for my friends or relatives who live in other villages.
In the old days, when airplanes flew so slowly, women were proud to say that their children were born between destinations. People with broken bones or sickness were flown in and out of remote sites. All of that still goes on today, only with more sophisticated equipment and, of course, the planes now are much faster.
When aviation was young in Alaska, a whole village—the young, old, working and sick—would rush out to see the strange bird land as they anxiously awaited the pilot and cargo. Often the pilot would throw out candy to the children, which they scrambled over like ravens on a feast. Furs were carried out and love notes carried in. The airplanes were held together dubiously with putty and bailing wire from numerous unplanned contacts with the ground. Now the modern engine is so reliable it is rare to have any real trouble while flying.
The trust was great in the eyes of the Eskimos as they trundled onto these venerable birds for the next destination. I used to own and fly antique airplanes, and can imagine what nightmares it took to keep those airplanes running. Early pilots had to drain out the engine oil every night and figure out ways to heat their aircraft each morning. I must remember that every time I complain about the need to plug in the engine heater. I must remember to be more thankful.
Thirty-five minutes into the flight, I start looking for signs of human habitation. The only thing I expect to see is the faint glow of Wainwright’s lights in the far distance. Sometimes the ice fog blots out the lights until I am right over the village. In the blackness I click the microphone seven times, and a runway suddenly appears with ghostly, fuzzy lights directing my landing path. I feel powerful. I made those lights come on.
On final approach for landing, the bright lights flash past me in a whir as I feel for the ground. Watching the gauges and gauntlet of runway lights, I touch down. The hard-packed snow squeals in protest as the tires come to a halt. My temperature gauge reads 35 degrees below zero.
The welcoming committee consists of the village’s trucks and cars. They hunker down, headlights on, billowing exhaust caught in the ramp lights. As my engine ticks down to a stop the villagers drive up to my plane. I climb out into the cold in the blaze of their headlights. A truck backs up to the cargo doors, which I open with gloved hands.
Greetings are fast and frantic as I grip the frosted cargo net and slide it off. Dark shapes of people bustle around, boots squeaking as we hurriedly off-load mail onto the truck.
A glad cry exudes from the crowd. The fog is dense, and nobody expected any flights that day.
Baggage materializes, and I recognize it before I even see the passengers. I think to myself that I’ve been in the Arctic too long when I can distinguish one bag from the next. The airplane is unloaded and hands extend greetings—gloveless, as is the custom around here. Then everyone climbs into my plane and the gloves snap back onto cold hands in a hurry.
An old Eskimo couple is going to Barrow for the week’s shopping. There will be bright city lights and shopping treasures—fresh fruits and vegetables and presents for grandchildren—that aren’t available in the villages. Another Eskimo lady who I have known for years journeys to Barrow for her weekly chemotherapy. I have been taking her there every Friday for two months now. She is doing fine and improving. It looks hopeful that she will win over the cancer.
A man approaches importantly, expecting his company’s paychecks. I wonder where in this village they could be spending it. Another awaits a little box of snow machine parts. He has been on foot for a month and he grins in anticipation of having transportation again. His snow machine broke down 40 miles out on the tundra, and he’d had to walk back to the village, the aurora lighting his way.
Another box holds Caterpillar road grader repair parts, so the runway can be properly cleared of drifting snow. His beard and mustache are caked with frost, but he doesn’t seem to notice or care because he is thinking about the parts. An old, old Eskimo man comes up to me and tells me I have owl eyes, meaning I can see in the dark. The young Eskimo men furtively glance in my direction when they step up with their baggage, not saying a word. A little girl, barely 2 years old, knows my name and wants to be a pilot when she grows up. Her mother smiles. Another woman brings me a bag full of whale muktuk to take home. Here, the skin and fat is considered a delicacy. I hug her and tuck it away in my bag to eat later.
I am numbed with cold as I load up the passengers and instruct them on the safety features of the airplane. A passenger tells me that my cheeks are turning white—the onset of frostbite. I tighten my face cover and still feel the stinging bite of the frost. I turn back in my seat to face my passengers, and to make sure that they are comfortable and seat-belted. I see faces like my mother’s. She was born here in Wainwright. We gossip and joke, despite the freezing air.
I can see the trust in the silent eyes shining in the darkness, the same trust given to pilots before me. I have seen this trust before, even as I’ve struggled to land on snowblown village runways with only a little visibility and a lot of luck. And yet the passengers always eye me in mute certainty that I will get them to their destinations.
Cold steam emanates from everybody, the windows frost up, and as I crank up the engine, another arctic sojourn begins, the black morning sky before me, the trusting eyes behind me.
Sat Mar 15, 2008 9:55 am
- soaringhiggy offline
- Posts: 711
- Joined: Tue Dec 13, 2005 8:22 pm
- Location: Kimberly, ID
48 Stinson 108-3
Sat Mar 15, 2008 12:42 pm
Hey Gump, did you know a crusty old man who flew out of Snowshoe Lake near Glenallen? He used to fly a beaver and then a 180 that he crashed in the lake, then the helicopter that came to rescue him crashed in the lake.
I can't remember his name just now but I flew with him several times, damn good pilot and a nice guy.
Shane
I can't remember his name just now but I flew with him several times, damn good pilot and a nice guy.
Shane
Mon Mar 17, 2008 9:51 pm
shorton wrote:Hey Gump, did you know a crusty old man who flew out of Snowshoe Lake near Glenallen?
Could that have been Bob Lee? Lee lived about 20 miles west of Glenallen.
BTW, I went to the potluck for Ellen Saturday night......standing room only. It was a great remembrance. The author that recently included Ellen in her book about women pilots in Alaska, Sandy Sumner, even flew up from Colorado for the potluck. I learned quite a few more things about Ellen that I never knew. And Lisa Murkowski read a tribute to Ellen into the Congressional record in Washington apparently.
1966 C182J
1960 C172 TD
1960 C172 TD
Mon Mar 17, 2008 10:47 pm
Tue Mar 18, 2008 2:05 pm
AKGrouch wrote:
Could that have been Bob Lee? Lee lived about 20 miles west of Glenallen.
I had a brain cell apparently in a spin. The name I meant was Al Lee. He was an old time bush pilot that I flew with in the late '70's. At that time he had a stripped down pacer on floats with only minimum vfr instruments in the panel......and many empty holes in the panel where the radio, etc. belonged. He said he took it all out because it weighed too much and he wanted all the weight allowance he could get with moose hunters. He didn't even have a starter....strictly hand propping.
1966 C182J
1960 C172 TD
1960 C172 TD
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