See what happens when you give them the vote!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XVGFsJ1m5Lw

Deja vu!

Sorry, didn't see that it was posted before.

Great post! I will make sure my daughter sees this.

SMOKIN!!!

It'll be nice when the day comes where it's just considered normal rather than unique. To paraphrase the final comment and maybe expand a little, one of them makes a good point that in much of the world being any kind of pilot (bush or otherwise) wouldn't be possible.

One of the best bush pilots I've known was Ellen Paneok who passed away about 2 years ago. She was awesome and I bet Gump knew her too.

I flew with Ellen at Barrow Air in 1988. A wonderful gal, great pilot,and gifted writer. I miss her a lot. Booze just goes through that population like wildfire, and snuffed out a very special life. If you guys ever get the chance, Google some of her articles and short stories. She captures the Alaska pilot's life just perfectly.

Gump

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.

For thse that don't know, Ellen was the first Eskimo woman bush pilot. She is also featured in Sandi Sumner's book on women in Alaska aviation. She also had recognition at the Smithsonian years ago for her contribution. I never knew anyone with a better sense of humor either. Yeah Gump, you are right. Booze goes through that population like noone would believe... Last time I saw Ellen was 3 years ago at the annual Palmer pancake flyin. She was in a wheel chair at the time. The turnout for her remembrance at the Aviation Heritage Museum was huge and standing room only....very fitting for a well liked member of the Alaska aviation community.

Two threads, exactly the same, posted within a few hours of each other. One uses "girl" in the subject, while the other uses "women."

"Girl" = 435 views
"Women" = 233 views

I guess that's why the nudie bars don't flash neon signs that say "WOMEN WOMEN WOMEN."

When I was flying floats in Ketchikan, a talented pilot named Julie got fired as the chief pilot figured she was too "little" to handle the Beaver in a wind. Lost track of her for 20 years.... but recently heard she retired from the Alaska State Troopers. She flew just about everything. By the way, her retirement was celebrated by many.... for she was the commander of the Troopers. Guess she showed the chief pilot from way back the error of his thinking. (wonder if she ever got the chance to pull him over on the highway!?!?!)

Girls & women and "beavers in the wind!" I'm getting out of this thread before my wife looks over my shoulder!

Gump,
thanks for posting that, it was a great read!

My first instructor was a girl pilot by the name of Suzanne Asbury, she has been a sky writer for coke? I think for many years. She was small enough to fit in my pocket and I asked her what she would do if I froze up on the controls on our first flight. She looked me right in the eye and said "I will hit you in the balls so hard your eyes will pop out and you will let go of the controls" Fortunately never had to test that idea.

Another girl pilot I know of took off from the airport with a full load of pax, had an inflight fire, did a wheel landing in salt water up to a beach on an island so the pax could step out without getting more than their feet wet. That my fine feathered friends was some pretty fine flying.

flightlogic wrote:...she was too "little" to handle the Beaver in a wind.

At risk of tarnishing my reputation with our lovely female members, I'll merely quote these profound words for posterity's sake, though TomKatz' eye seems to be more keen than mine.

Cool article on Melissa Pemberton in this month's Nectar:

http://www.nectarmagazine.com/issues/issue03/index.html

1SeventyZ wrote:Cool article on Melissa Pemberton in this month's Nectar:

http://www.nectarmagazine.com/issues/issue03/index.html

Jeez. Way too pretty and "has her stuff together" for any of the folks here on BCP

Relevant, and not far from home. These girls served without even the expectation of recognition for what they did. Good job.
http://www.aberdeennews.com/apps/pbcs.d ... GE/3110353