22 YEAR OLD BUSH PILOT IN THE ARCTIC

It’s enjoyable thinking about experiencing some of the same sorts of adventures that my father did while he was here in Barrow.  In talking with him, things have changed quite a bit over the years and I imagine that it might feel like a bit of a metropolis to him now compared to the very small village it was when he was here.  He and Mom took a trip around the world earlier this year and I found myself wishing that their ship was following a northern route and about how interesting it would be to experience Barrow together after all these years.  Dad, with a hearty laugh on the telephone, assured me that they were seeking much warmer temperatures than can be found here at any time of year.    

Dad learned to fly airplanes when he was a young man growing up in southern California.  He was fascinated with flying as a small boy and being driven, even then, to reach his goals, was a constant presence at the local airport.  He and another young friend were put to work doing odd jobs by the pilots there and were eventually taken up for flights in their small planes.  His and his friend’s parents didn't know what was taking place, thinking that they spent their time playing somewhere nearby.

Dad joined the Navy as soon as he was able, younger than many, requiring his father’s signature on his application and standing at the water fountain, drinking deeply, until he reached the requisite weight to join up.  I think he mentioned something about eating quite a few bananas before his appointment as well, but needing to tip the scales a bit more with water.  A cousin had lived in Alaska and had shared stories of his adventures there, so Dad’s assignment as a radio man there was welcome news. 

After his tour in the Navy ended, his flying career began.  He was based out of Fairbanks, flying to Barrow and other Alaskan villages for Wien Airlines by the time he was 22.  In 1951, news of the deaths of two bush pilots assigned to Barrow lead to Dad’s being stationed here.  He was reluctant as it wasn’t his first choice, wanting to build a home and start a family in Fairbanks.  The chief pilot said that he’d search for a permanent replacement for the route, but until then, Dad was next in line.   Dad would fly bush planes out of Barrow, taking medical supplies as well as mail, to the surrounding villages for the next year.

The small planes he flew didn’t have instruments at first, so he relied on sight in order to navigate his routes along the Chukchi and Beaufort Seas as well flights inland.  He insisted that instruments be installed during a routine maintenance visit to Fairbanks, and felt safer afterwards.  I love hearing Dad’s stories and marvel at his courage when meeting the challenges of living and flying in the Arctic as well as negotiating without any plan of backing down on something as important as needed equipment for his plane.  He landed on skis on the lagoon in the winter and with large tires on the beach in the summer.  

Very few white people lived in Barrow at that time.  He remembers besides himself, the post mistress’s husband, a man who worked for the weather bureau and a nurse named Ann who worked at the hospital.  Other non-native people lived and worked at Petroleum Reserve #4 and the Naval Arctic Research Lab, east of the village.  Nearby, Quonset huts were lined up in two rows with a cat trail running down the middle.  When based out of Fairbanks, Dad and other pilots landed DC3’s, C46’s, DC4’s and F27’s on a steal mat further east of the huts.  Drums of fuel sat between the steel landing strip and the ocean.  Today some of the same Quonset huts house programs of the State of Alaska’s only tribal college, Ilisagvik, and scientific research of all kinds is conducted in and around a building that used to house the Barrow Arctic Science Consortium, now run by UIC, Ukpeagvik Inupiat Corporation.  

I’m sure we all think about the beginnings of our lives and how circumstances line up to have created our coming into the world.  Dad’s year-long bush flying assignment in Barrow was the precursor to my older brother, Don’s, and my existences.  Dad has often told me stories about meeting Ann, the nurse who worked at the hospital here.  She was from Texas and had accepted a position working with the Inupiaq people here.  He said that she enjoyed her work, had compassion for the people she cared for and lobbied with the legislature for their rights.

During a life-threatening outbreak of the flu at Point Lay, a village to the east of Barrow, Ann was able to commission Dad to fly her there with medications.  She took and administered the current ones to the villagers and asked Dad to administer the expired ones to the sled dogs, believing that they would still have a positive effect.  To lose dogs to sickness could be devastating to a community.  The villagers as well as the sled dogs lived and the woman they medevac’d together in the small plane back to the hospital in Barrow did as well.  I always love hearing this story thinking of them both as courageous and compassionate.

Dad and Ann were married in Barrow at the Presbyterian Church that still stands near the lagoon.  They moved shortly afterwards to a homestead in Fairbanks when Dad’s year here was up.  Ann died when both Don and I were young, so I don’t remember very much about her but always marvel at how she found her way here from Texas and how she kept warm in this place so different from her home.