In For A Ride . . .

The pilot turns to me and advises we're in for a 'bumpy' ride. Hmmm?!?

January 21, 2025

Clouds close in behind us as we land along the western coast of Alaska. We disembark and unload the Airvan. The pilot chocks the wheels, digs out the cowling blanket from inside the fuselage, attempts to drape it over the engine as it flutters and billows in the storm and then climbs into the back of our truck declaring he's not flying back into the turbulence he just flew us through. All of us are shaken! But . . . considering the pilot is unnerved, we can't help but wonder what in the world we were doing in the sky.
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Just past Quinhagak, a village south of Bethel situated adjacent the Bering Sea, the pilot looks over at me, visually inspects my four point seat belt to ensure it is secure and advises we are in for a bumpy ride. I inquire how he's determined this and he explains as he points to the cloud formations swirling over the mountain range. I snap a photo of the sky for my own reference and I settle back in my seat trusting he is capable of navigating whatever we encounter. 

Sitting in the co-pilot seat, I've a unique vantage point. I take pictures of the views paying little attention to the bumps we encounter along the flight. But . . . soon we fly into some seriously rough air. I note the pilot flies away from the shoreline, that he’s been following since we launched, and heads out over open water - distancing us from the mountains. He climbs higher in search of calmer currents . . . chancing he'll not ice over the plane. 

And then . . . the Cessna drops and tremors. I quickly jam my camera into my coat pocket, grab hold of the bottom of my seat and secure my feet against a metal rib on the floor in front of me so I’ll not inadvertently step on the rudder pedals in an attempt to keep from flailing around in the cockpit. The plane drops and shutters again - with such force it triggers an alarm. In my periphery - the pilot works the control panel as he maintains a death grip on the yoke.

With no time to gather our bearings between gusts, we lurch sideways and the wind shakes us so hard, I close my eyes against vertigo. The plane drops again, the alarm blares and the thought crosses my mind, “This plane is going to pummel into the sea and . . . it’s gonna hurt!” Instinctively I pray, “Help him to safely fly us and give him peace.”   

Turbulence throws us around the sky . . . for what feels . . . interminable. I look out the window and see nothing but white. I fix my eyes on the c-map on the panel in front of me willing us closer to our destination. As the pilot slowly descends our 1200' elevation, I glimpse the churning, white-capped water below and a light fog hovering the shoreline. I pray we're able to land for the thought of flying back to Bethel - Uh, No! Please, no . . .

As we near our approach, we've no visual of the surrounding mountains nor of camp, but the PAPIs provide a line of site at the head of the runway. Beyond grateful when the wheels touch down, I thank God and the pilot for a safe arrival. Our harrowing flight is the prevailing topic of conversation throughout our day . . .

. . . And has played on my thoughts since. At present I do not relish the thought of boarding a plane. But as flying is my sole mode of transportation commuting to and from work, no alternative exists. Recently a loved one and I discussed our ability to “do hard things.” My affirmation was meant to encourage a situation that must be faced and worked through. And I stand by this fact. But Friedrich Nietzsche's admonition that, “what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger” takes my reality to a whole other level.

Life is good even in the midst of fear and the inescapable truth of mortality. Life is good even when pressed to dig deeper within and life is good even when incited to reach beyond one’s self for strength to help power through whatever must be faced. Life is good, we can . . . do hard things.