LAZYB
Time wounds all heels.
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AK Bush pilot story - LA Times
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mar
Remember this one?
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Outstanding Story! Here's part I
By Thomas Curwen, Times Staff Writer
Bethel, Alaska — To find the young pilots who will take you flying early the next morning, step through the mud that mires two trashed Ford pickups and stomp up the stairs of a drafty house just east of the airport.
It's dark. Mongrels scavenge in a vacant lot next door. The temperature is dropping fast below freezing, and there's no mistaking where the party is.
Tupac's taken over the CD player where the Stones left off. Eight guys crowd the living room, gawking as air traffic controllers blast the window from the tower with a lightgun. In the kitchen, a couple are pushing people aside as they spin each other to the music and there's this kid screaming ecstatically as he holds an empty beer keg over his head as if it were some wild game trophy.
Let it never be said that the men and women who work the most dangerous job in Alaska don't know how to blow off steam.
Or how to tell stories.
They say the best pilot in Alaska — a career that kills at a rate 100 times higher than the average job in the United States — is the one who's still alive, and after many beers and many shots of whiskey chased with Mountain Dew, these bush pilots seem to think it's a part of their continuing education to celebrate survival by flaunting their skirmishes with death.
"We had packed the plane with half-gallon bottles of whiskey and gin and as much beer as we could fit in," begins one young pilot, Corona in hand.
"But it was too heavy to take off," pause for dramatic effect, "so we drained the fuel. When we landed in Bethel and the tail set down, the gas gauge turned up empty."
Even as heads are still bobbing over "Anchorage Beer Run," another pilot (who requests anonymity out of consideration for anxious insurance and FAA types) launches into "The Fired Mechanic."
"I was just out of Hooper Bay. Smoke started pouring into the cockpit," he says, eyes widening. "I grabbed the extinguisher, shoved the nozzle into the dash and pulled the trigger. That seemed to do it, but I had to fly home with only the compass, altimeter and wind-speed indicator."
Yarn after gripping yarn, including "Spiraling Vortex of Death" — "We were pointed straight down … all I could see was the ground … " — pour forth before the Monday night party peters out unceremoniously.
The fun of flying
The late fall sunrise is a frosty Popsicle that pokes with sadistic glee at the previous evening's enthusiasms. Around 8 a.m., the crew starts drifting into Arctic Circle Air, one of about 10 carriers in the Bethel area. Founded in 1885 by Moravian missionaries, Bethel is 2,285 miles from Los Angeles (as the crow flies), 400 miles from Anchorage and 80 miles from the Bering Sea. It is a lonely, treeless burg built on permafrost in Alaska's southwestern corner and home to the state's second busiest airport.
The iconic bush pilot — grizzly guy in caribou coat and beaver hat — still exists. So does his mythic plane. But skimming on mountain lakes and glissading on glaciers is mostly summer work, paid for by hunters, anglers and tourists. The pilots who fly year-round tend to be younger and more transient, arriving in Alaska in search of adventure, hours in the air and whatever else it is that draws a young person to wild, raw places.
At the moment, Jimmy Christensen, 22, is pushing a Cessna 207 into the hangar. He takes a broom to a layer of frost clinging to the wings and prop. Wearing a Yankee cap, he's the kid they tease for not being able to grow facial hair. He was busted for marijuana possession two days before high school graduation. His uncle sent him to flight school in Arizona for a year. He arrived in Alaska four years ago.
Aaron Stinson, 27, was born in Victoria, Texas, but only after he's had a few drinks does his accent leak through. He's sipping coffee now. Outside, the Herman-Nelson heater is blasting hot air into his plane, warming the solenoids and liquid crystal circuitry. Degreed in international finance, he became a pilot as a way to meet women. He flew out of Jamaica for a year before heading north.
Matt Warrick's a month younger than Christensen. He's got the week off, but stopped by anyway. Farm boy and Eagle Scout from Nebraska. He started flying in junior high and never stopped.
Warrick's the only pilot here who doesn't drink, but if the others look a little hung over, fear not: The FAA requires eight hours of abstinence before flying — bottle-to-throttle, they say — and these pilots love getting in the air so much, they're scrupulous in timing their other indulgences.
As for the rest of the rules, most of them have been bent, if not broken altogether. Alaska is its own world: When the Civil Aeronautics Authority first visited the territory in 1934 and tried to bring order to the skies, the pilots rebelled. Flying by the book was both unprofitable and foolish. Not much has changed since.
What really stinks is when a pilot dies following the rules, says Stinson, who's on his first flight of the day, taking three engineers from the local telecom company to St. Mary's, a small village 110 miles northwest of Bethel. They'll spend a week out there upgrading the community's satellite connection so residents can access the Internet with a local call instead of long-distance.
The plane, a single turboprop workhorse known as a Caravan, is cruising at 1,500 feet, packed to the headliner with duffle bags, sealed boxes, an ATV, a gun case and circuit boards that look like something out of "The X-Files."
Below, the enormous flood plain of Yukon and Kuskokwim rivers sprawls in a beautiful maze, some 100,000 square miles of meandering streams, oxbows, ponds, tidal sloughs and swamps, separated by hummocks and tundra, soft as a sponge in summer, a frozen white sheet in winter. Today the small lakes and channels look like pools of mercury splattered across a vast open floor. High overhead, jets, following the polar routes to Asia, leave contrails in the pale sky.
The Yupik people believed Raven formed the Kuskokwim River and its tributaries out of the tundra with his claws. Primary residents of the delta, the Yupik live throughout the region in nearly 60 villages accessed by boat, snowmobile and mostly by plane. Because there are no roads in this part of the state, the bread-and-butter work for carriers such as Arctic Circle Air is the federally subsidized mail deliveries — "pop and Pampers" runs, as the pilots refer to them — and special charters.
The delta is a landscape without landmarks or a radar system. Pilots navigate mostly using VFR (Visual Flying Rules) but joke about two other systems: IFR (I Follow River) and the ever faithful Eskimo Direction Device, in which you fly in the direction your passengers' heads turn. Knowledge of this region is in the blood of the Yupik natives, but in a state where every region throws up its own challenges, pilots say that the delta is the most challenging. Flying here in bad weather is like slogging through a bottle of milk. Flying here at night is like swimming in an inkpot.
As Stinson approaches St. Mary's, a scattering of homes on the bluffs above the Yukon River, the Caravan bounces on the winds rushing off the hills. Nothing to be concerned about, he says. Now, if it were a flutter that would be different. "That means you're fixing to jettison your tail, and if you do that, you'll lawn dart into the tundra."
It's a common expression that, in Alaska, you start flying with a full bag of luck and an empty bag of experience. The trick is to be able to fill your bag of experience before you empty your bag of luck.
Continued...
By Thomas Curwen, Times Staff Writer
Bethel, Alaska — To find the young pilots who will take you flying early the next morning, step through the mud that mires two trashed Ford pickups and stomp up the stairs of a drafty house just east of the airport.
It's dark. Mongrels scavenge in a vacant lot next door. The temperature is dropping fast below freezing, and there's no mistaking where the party is.
Tupac's taken over the CD player where the Stones left off. Eight guys crowd the living room, gawking as air traffic controllers blast the window from the tower with a lightgun. In the kitchen, a couple are pushing people aside as they spin each other to the music and there's this kid screaming ecstatically as he holds an empty beer keg over his head as if it were some wild game trophy.
Let it never be said that the men and women who work the most dangerous job in Alaska don't know how to blow off steam.
Or how to tell stories.
They say the best pilot in Alaska — a career that kills at a rate 100 times higher than the average job in the United States — is the one who's still alive, and after many beers and many shots of whiskey chased with Mountain Dew, these bush pilots seem to think it's a part of their continuing education to celebrate survival by flaunting their skirmishes with death.
"We had packed the plane with half-gallon bottles of whiskey and gin and as much beer as we could fit in," begins one young pilot, Corona in hand.
"But it was too heavy to take off," pause for dramatic effect, "so we drained the fuel. When we landed in Bethel and the tail set down, the gas gauge turned up empty."
Even as heads are still bobbing over "Anchorage Beer Run," another pilot (who requests anonymity out of consideration for anxious insurance and FAA types) launches into "The Fired Mechanic."
"I was just out of Hooper Bay. Smoke started pouring into the cockpit," he says, eyes widening. "I grabbed the extinguisher, shoved the nozzle into the dash and pulled the trigger. That seemed to do it, but I had to fly home with only the compass, altimeter and wind-speed indicator."
Yarn after gripping yarn, including "Spiraling Vortex of Death" — "We were pointed straight down … all I could see was the ground … " — pour forth before the Monday night party peters out unceremoniously.
The fun of flying
The late fall sunrise is a frosty Popsicle that pokes with sadistic glee at the previous evening's enthusiasms. Around 8 a.m., the crew starts drifting into Arctic Circle Air, one of about 10 carriers in the Bethel area. Founded in 1885 by Moravian missionaries, Bethel is 2,285 miles from Los Angeles (as the crow flies), 400 miles from Anchorage and 80 miles from the Bering Sea. It is a lonely, treeless burg built on permafrost in Alaska's southwestern corner and home to the state's second busiest airport.
The iconic bush pilot — grizzly guy in caribou coat and beaver hat — still exists. So does his mythic plane. But skimming on mountain lakes and glissading on glaciers is mostly summer work, paid for by hunters, anglers and tourists. The pilots who fly year-round tend to be younger and more transient, arriving in Alaska in search of adventure, hours in the air and whatever else it is that draws a young person to wild, raw places.
At the moment, Jimmy Christensen, 22, is pushing a Cessna 207 into the hangar. He takes a broom to a layer of frost clinging to the wings and prop. Wearing a Yankee cap, he's the kid they tease for not being able to grow facial hair. He was busted for marijuana possession two days before high school graduation. His uncle sent him to flight school in Arizona for a year. He arrived in Alaska four years ago.
Aaron Stinson, 27, was born in Victoria, Texas, but only after he's had a few drinks does his accent leak through. He's sipping coffee now. Outside, the Herman-Nelson heater is blasting hot air into his plane, warming the solenoids and liquid crystal circuitry. Degreed in international finance, he became a pilot as a way to meet women. He flew out of Jamaica for a year before heading north.
Matt Warrick's a month younger than Christensen. He's got the week off, but stopped by anyway. Farm boy and Eagle Scout from Nebraska. He started flying in junior high and never stopped.
Warrick's the only pilot here who doesn't drink, but if the others look a little hung over, fear not: The FAA requires eight hours of abstinence before flying — bottle-to-throttle, they say — and these pilots love getting in the air so much, they're scrupulous in timing their other indulgences.
As for the rest of the rules, most of them have been bent, if not broken altogether. Alaska is its own world: When the Civil Aeronautics Authority first visited the territory in 1934 and tried to bring order to the skies, the pilots rebelled. Flying by the book was both unprofitable and foolish. Not much has changed since.
What really stinks is when a pilot dies following the rules, says Stinson, who's on his first flight of the day, taking three engineers from the local telecom company to St. Mary's, a small village 110 miles northwest of Bethel. They'll spend a week out there upgrading the community's satellite connection so residents can access the Internet with a local call instead of long-distance.
The plane, a single turboprop workhorse known as a Caravan, is cruising at 1,500 feet, packed to the headliner with duffle bags, sealed boxes, an ATV, a gun case and circuit boards that look like something out of "The X-Files."
Below, the enormous flood plain of Yukon and Kuskokwim rivers sprawls in a beautiful maze, some 100,000 square miles of meandering streams, oxbows, ponds, tidal sloughs and swamps, separated by hummocks and tundra, soft as a sponge in summer, a frozen white sheet in winter. Today the small lakes and channels look like pools of mercury splattered across a vast open floor. High overhead, jets, following the polar routes to Asia, leave contrails in the pale sky.
The Yupik people believed Raven formed the Kuskokwim River and its tributaries out of the tundra with his claws. Primary residents of the delta, the Yupik live throughout the region in nearly 60 villages accessed by boat, snowmobile and mostly by plane. Because there are no roads in this part of the state, the bread-and-butter work for carriers such as Arctic Circle Air is the federally subsidized mail deliveries — "pop and Pampers" runs, as the pilots refer to them — and special charters.
The delta is a landscape without landmarks or a radar system. Pilots navigate mostly using VFR (Visual Flying Rules) but joke about two other systems: IFR (I Follow River) and the ever faithful Eskimo Direction Device, in which you fly in the direction your passengers' heads turn. Knowledge of this region is in the blood of the Yupik natives, but in a state where every region throws up its own challenges, pilots say that the delta is the most challenging. Flying here in bad weather is like slogging through a bottle of milk. Flying here at night is like swimming in an inkpot.
As Stinson approaches St. Mary's, a scattering of homes on the bluffs above the Yukon River, the Caravan bounces on the winds rushing off the hills. Nothing to be concerned about, he says. Now, if it were a flutter that would be different. "That means you're fixing to jettison your tail, and if you do that, you'll lawn dart into the tundra."
It's a common expression that, in Alaska, you start flying with a full bag of luck and an empty bag of experience. The trick is to be able to fill your bag of experience before you empty your bag of luck.
Continued...
mar
Remember this one?
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Part II
"When we think about crashes, we typically think of them as a chain of events," says Frank Neitz, station manager for Arctic Circle Air. Neitz, 43, sits in his office on the second floor, surrounded by 8-by-10s of his hunting and fishing trips. A window overlooks the runway. Led Zeppelin's "Hangman" plays on the computer.
"They usually begin with a bad start," he explains, "a hangover from the night before, a fight with the old lady. Then you get to work, and your airplane won't start. Or you kick out a plug walking around it in the dark. Or the plane is loaded too far aft. Or you spill gas on your hands. All these things add up. These are the trigger mechanisms. And if you're not careful, they can be catastrophic."
That said, Neitz acknowledges that the bush is safer than it used to be. In 1989, when he arrived in Bethel, there was probably a wreck a month. Now it's tapered off quite a bit. Runways have been upgraded and widened. Capstone, a razzle-dazzle navigation device that plays off global positioning system technology, has nearly eliminated midair collisions, and insurance companies, perhaps more than the Federal Aviation Administration, are clamping down on extravagant risk-taking, the stock in trade of yesterday's bush pilot.
"It's havoc around here if you're not flying straight, and the guys wrecking the planes are out of business. Slide off the runway once and you're gone," says Neitz. "That's why most accidents are turned into incidents."
The real bush may be out there, he acknowledges, but it's getting harder to find and few commercial pilots fly there. Nor do they carry a roll of pink toilet paper to throw out the window to see where the sky ends and the snow begins.
Buzzing with Jimmy
Jimmy CHRISTENSEN eases back on the stick and the Cessna jumps to 1,000 feet. The delta shimmers like crinkled foil. On the eastern horizon, the Kilbuck Mountains are snowcapped and haloed by clouds. To the south is the mouth of the Kuskokwim River, the shallows of the Bering Sea and a wide beach that leads to the shantytown of Platinum, located on Goodnews Bay. Once center of operations for the world's largest platinum mine, it is now a gravel pit.
It's the end of the season, and Christensen's giving a lift to a tugboat pilot who's about to make the long trip south to Seattle. The Cessna scoots along with a tail wind. Christensen reads the gusts from the ripples on the ponds below. He passes over the village of Quinhagak and the Kanektok River. "Best unknown salmon river in the state," he says, dropping to 300 feet. Outside, it's 45 degrees. A light rain has started to fall.
Christensen sets the plane down lightly on a dirt road, no wider than the wings and mercifully smooth. Three quarry men, who've been working here on and off since January, appear. The place seems to have rearranged their dirt-smudged, cold-creased faces. It's hard not to contrast them to Christensen's youthful features.
"You have to realize," he says as he heads home, "that we're just kids out here having fun."
Earlier in the day, Stinson said something similar: "I think that for most of the people out here, Bethel is a place to stay while they figure out what they want from life."
Christensen flies up the valley just east of the Kilbuck Mountains. The tundra below is rust, brown, gold and moss green. The treetops are silver with autumn leaves not yet fallen. The Goodnews River pours white over stones and boulders. Christensen chases a herd of caribou with two huge antlered bucks. He circles over a brown bear sitting on its rump in a clearing. He drops to 100 feet and clips along at 140 knots. This is what he loves most: flying fast and low. "Alaska has a brutal way of weeding out the average," he says.
One month after he first arrived in the state, his roommate flew some hunters to their camp and the weather trapped him there. When he didn't return, Christensen flew out to look for him but found nothing. A plane with radar joined the search and finally spotted the wreckage. "Scattered on the side of a mountain," Christensen says.
The pilot, he adds, made one bad decision at just the wrong time. "Like when you turn away from a dog and the dog bites you." His words sound like the disclaimer people tell themselves to avoid acknowledging that luck and fate can unexpectedly grab life's throttle.
The plane growls over the mountain and Christensen drops his story to adjust the red, fuel-mixture control knob.
"When we think about crashes, we typically think of them as a chain of events," says Frank Neitz, station manager for Arctic Circle Air. Neitz, 43, sits in his office on the second floor, surrounded by 8-by-10s of his hunting and fishing trips. A window overlooks the runway. Led Zeppelin's "Hangman" plays on the computer.
"They usually begin with a bad start," he explains, "a hangover from the night before, a fight with the old lady. Then you get to work, and your airplane won't start. Or you kick out a plug walking around it in the dark. Or the plane is loaded too far aft. Or you spill gas on your hands. All these things add up. These are the trigger mechanisms. And if you're not careful, they can be catastrophic."
That said, Neitz acknowledges that the bush is safer than it used to be. In 1989, when he arrived in Bethel, there was probably a wreck a month. Now it's tapered off quite a bit. Runways have been upgraded and widened. Capstone, a razzle-dazzle navigation device that plays off global positioning system technology, has nearly eliminated midair collisions, and insurance companies, perhaps more than the Federal Aviation Administration, are clamping down on extravagant risk-taking, the stock in trade of yesterday's bush pilot.
"It's havoc around here if you're not flying straight, and the guys wrecking the planes are out of business. Slide off the runway once and you're gone," says Neitz. "That's why most accidents are turned into incidents."
The real bush may be out there, he acknowledges, but it's getting harder to find and few commercial pilots fly there. Nor do they carry a roll of pink toilet paper to throw out the window to see where the sky ends and the snow begins.
Buzzing with Jimmy
Jimmy CHRISTENSEN eases back on the stick and the Cessna jumps to 1,000 feet. The delta shimmers like crinkled foil. On the eastern horizon, the Kilbuck Mountains are snowcapped and haloed by clouds. To the south is the mouth of the Kuskokwim River, the shallows of the Bering Sea and a wide beach that leads to the shantytown of Platinum, located on Goodnews Bay. Once center of operations for the world's largest platinum mine, it is now a gravel pit.
It's the end of the season, and Christensen's giving a lift to a tugboat pilot who's about to make the long trip south to Seattle. The Cessna scoots along with a tail wind. Christensen reads the gusts from the ripples on the ponds below. He passes over the village of Quinhagak and the Kanektok River. "Best unknown salmon river in the state," he says, dropping to 300 feet. Outside, it's 45 degrees. A light rain has started to fall.
Christensen sets the plane down lightly on a dirt road, no wider than the wings and mercifully smooth. Three quarry men, who've been working here on and off since January, appear. The place seems to have rearranged their dirt-smudged, cold-creased faces. It's hard not to contrast them to Christensen's youthful features.
"You have to realize," he says as he heads home, "that we're just kids out here having fun."
Earlier in the day, Stinson said something similar: "I think that for most of the people out here, Bethel is a place to stay while they figure out what they want from life."
Christensen flies up the valley just east of the Kilbuck Mountains. The tundra below is rust, brown, gold and moss green. The treetops are silver with autumn leaves not yet fallen. The Goodnews River pours white over stones and boulders. Christensen chases a herd of caribou with two huge antlered bucks. He circles over a brown bear sitting on its rump in a clearing. He drops to 100 feet and clips along at 140 knots. This is what he loves most: flying fast and low. "Alaska has a brutal way of weeding out the average," he says.
One month after he first arrived in the state, his roommate flew some hunters to their camp and the weather trapped him there. When he didn't return, Christensen flew out to look for him but found nothing. A plane with radar joined the search and finally spotted the wreckage. "Scattered on the side of a mountain," Christensen says.
The pilot, he adds, made one bad decision at just the wrong time. "Like when you turn away from a dog and the dog bites you." His words sound like the disclaimer people tell themselves to avoid acknowledging that luck and fate can unexpectedly grab life's throttle.
The plane growls over the mountain and Christensen drops his story to adjust the red, fuel-mixture control knob.
mar
Remember this one?
- Joined
- Nov 27, 2001
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Finally an accurate story about the Bush
I was pretty skeptical to read what the LA Times, my hometown newspaper, had to say about flying in Bush Alaska...
...but they got it right.
I thought for sure it would be another fluff story about the Bush Pilots of Alaska that fly shiney airplanes in the summer season with rich tourists onto glaciers or into beautiful lakes.
Nobody ever writes about the guys out there doing the dirty work all year round in the dark, in the snow, in the rain. Near impossible loads, near impossible runway conditions, near impossible bosses.
No disrespect to Frank Neitz and Arctic Circle Air. I worked for them for about a year and a half. I can't believe any of Frank's quotes in the article didn't contain *at least* 10 f-words!!
God-dang, I used to go fly in the worst weather just to get out of the office and away from all of the cussing!
That was a great story, Thanks LazyB for finding it.
I was pretty skeptical to read what the LA Times, my hometown newspaper, had to say about flying in Bush Alaska...
...but they got it right.
I thought for sure it would be another fluff story about the Bush Pilots of Alaska that fly shiney airplanes in the summer season with rich tourists onto glaciers or into beautiful lakes.
Nobody ever writes about the guys out there doing the dirty work all year round in the dark, in the snow, in the rain. Near impossible loads, near impossible runway conditions, near impossible bosses.
No disrespect to Frank Neitz and Arctic Circle Air. I worked for them for about a year and a half. I can't believe any of Frank's quotes in the article didn't contain *at least* 10 f-words!!
God-dang, I used to go fly in the worst weather just to get out of the office and away from all of the cussing!
That was a great story, Thanks LazyB for finding it.
LAZYB
Time wounds all heels.
- Joined
- Dec 6, 2001
- Posts
- 1,117
You're welcome
I flew shy of one year for KWA. Affectionately known as "Death Western" by the locals/locos. It was in the early 80s. We "lost" 3 pilots in that short time.
Had fun in DLG - lived in the same complex as the FSS folks and got to sample their Baskin & Robbins and other fresh groceries. All their food was flown in. I was the lone company pilot in AKN, but the dispatcher's husband could get us into the officer's club for cheap steaks. Drinking was an ongoing endeavor.
I flew shy of one year for KWA. Affectionately known as "Death Western" by the locals/locos. It was in the early 80s. We "lost" 3 pilots in that short time.
Had fun in DLG - lived in the same complex as the FSS folks and got to sample their Baskin & Robbins and other fresh groceries. All their food was flown in. I was the lone company pilot in AKN, but the dispatcher's husband could get us into the officer's club for cheap steaks. Drinking was an ongoing endeavor.
mar
Remember this one?
- Joined
- Nov 27, 2001
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By RACHEL D'ORO
The Associated Press
(Published: November 19, 2003)
Air travel in Alaska is getting safer, according to the latest statistics released by the Federal Aviation Administration.
Private and commercial planes were involved in a total of 106 accidents between January and October, the lowest number for the same period in more than a decade.
"We're hoping to continue that way for the rest of the year," said Joette Storm, FAA spokeswoman in Anchorage.
FAA officials credit increasingly intensive safety programs launched since the early 1980s. At that time, commercial air carriers alone accounted for an annual average of 62 accidents. Now the five-year average is 32, according to FAA figures released in an October accident review.
So far this year, commercial air carriers have logged only 21 crashes while private planes have been involved in 85 accidents.
Statistics show a general decrease in total accidents since 1992 and 1993. Planes were involved in 162 accidents during the first 10 months of each of those years.
Despite the decrease in crashes, however, fatalities are up. Between January and October, 29 people were killed in a total of 10 crashes. That's more than the people killed in the same period in the past several years, although additional fatalities bumped the numbers up by the end of most years. But it's far below the 44 deaths reported in 1995.
One accident can account for numerous deaths, which can dramatically skew the numbers, Storm pointed out.
Such was the case in July, when 10 deaths were reported. Just one crash accounted for half that amount. Five Colorado residents were killed when their twin-engine Cessna went down near Sitka after the pilot reported a problem with an exterior cargo door. Later that month, two people were killed when their Super Cub crashed near Mount McKinley while they were viewing moose hunting sites.
Overall, FAA officials are encouraged by the shrinking number of accidents themselves. They said efforts by carriers -- and more recently passengers -- are paying off since a 1980 study by the National Transportation Safety Board found three major factors for the high number of accidents in Alaska.
The study noted one factor was the "Bush syndrome," or Alaskans' tolerance for risk. Another was inadequate airfield facilities and communications. The third was deficient weather observations and navigation tools.
Improvements since then include such innovations as portable runway lighting for small airports and weather-monitoring cameras in 30 locations around the state. But people have taken a much larger role in flight safety.
"Safety is a day in, day out exercise," Storm said. "People have to make good decisions every day, look at their equipment every day, look at the weather every day."
The challenge now is to reduce aviation accidents in Alaska by 20 percent over the next five years, according to John Duncan, manager of the FAA's flight standards division in Alaska.
"Over time the accident rate in Alaska has gotten better," Duncan said. "Lowering any more takes new approaches."
Recently created safety programs involving all players, even passengers, could help the agency reach that 20 percent goal.
Among the newest efforts is the Medallion Foundation, an FAA-funded voluntary program established last year that focuses on establishing standards that are higher than federal regulatory minimums. Participating air carriers are granted "Medallion status" after one-year compliance with the program's five-star standard.
The FAA also has created the "Circle of Safety" program to educate major customers of rural carriers such as school districts, remote municipalities and Native corporations. The idea is for those groups to set strict safety standards and to guide traveling employees on what questions to ask before flying, and how to address safety problems they might encounter.
Next, the FAA is looking at ways to improve training for private pilots. The agency is beginning to develop a program with flight instructors, as it has in Fairbanks for several years. Such a program statewide would have wide-reaching impact since some private pilots end up transferring their skills to commercial aviation, Duncan said.
"If we can improve the level of flight instruction, we can probably improve accident rates for commercial carriers as well," Duncan said. "It can make them better pilots overall, whether they jump in a plane to go moose hunting or crawl into a plane every day to fly passengers."
FAA says air travel safer across state
The Associated Press
(Published: November 19, 2003)
Air travel in Alaska is getting safer, according to the latest statistics released by the Federal Aviation Administration.
Private and commercial planes were involved in a total of 106 accidents between January and October, the lowest number for the same period in more than a decade.
"We're hoping to continue that way for the rest of the year," said Joette Storm, FAA spokeswoman in Anchorage.
FAA officials credit increasingly intensive safety programs launched since the early 1980s. At that time, commercial air carriers alone accounted for an annual average of 62 accidents. Now the five-year average is 32, according to FAA figures released in an October accident review.
So far this year, commercial air carriers have logged only 21 crashes while private planes have been involved in 85 accidents.
Statistics show a general decrease in total accidents since 1992 and 1993. Planes were involved in 162 accidents during the first 10 months of each of those years.
Despite the decrease in crashes, however, fatalities are up. Between January and October, 29 people were killed in a total of 10 crashes. That's more than the people killed in the same period in the past several years, although additional fatalities bumped the numbers up by the end of most years. But it's far below the 44 deaths reported in 1995.
One accident can account for numerous deaths, which can dramatically skew the numbers, Storm pointed out.
Such was the case in July, when 10 deaths were reported. Just one crash accounted for half that amount. Five Colorado residents were killed when their twin-engine Cessna went down near Sitka after the pilot reported a problem with an exterior cargo door. Later that month, two people were killed when their Super Cub crashed near Mount McKinley while they were viewing moose hunting sites.
Overall, FAA officials are encouraged by the shrinking number of accidents themselves. They said efforts by carriers -- and more recently passengers -- are paying off since a 1980 study by the National Transportation Safety Board found three major factors for the high number of accidents in Alaska.
The study noted one factor was the "Bush syndrome," or Alaskans' tolerance for risk. Another was inadequate airfield facilities and communications. The third was deficient weather observations and navigation tools.
Improvements since then include such innovations as portable runway lighting for small airports and weather-monitoring cameras in 30 locations around the state. But people have taken a much larger role in flight safety.
"Safety is a day in, day out exercise," Storm said. "People have to make good decisions every day, look at their equipment every day, look at the weather every day."
The challenge now is to reduce aviation accidents in Alaska by 20 percent over the next five years, according to John Duncan, manager of the FAA's flight standards division in Alaska.
"Over time the accident rate in Alaska has gotten better," Duncan said. "Lowering any more takes new approaches."
Recently created safety programs involving all players, even passengers, could help the agency reach that 20 percent goal.
Among the newest efforts is the Medallion Foundation, an FAA-funded voluntary program established last year that focuses on establishing standards that are higher than federal regulatory minimums. Participating air carriers are granted "Medallion status" after one-year compliance with the program's five-star standard.
The FAA also has created the "Circle of Safety" program to educate major customers of rural carriers such as school districts, remote municipalities and Native corporations. The idea is for those groups to set strict safety standards and to guide traveling employees on what questions to ask before flying, and how to address safety problems they might encounter.
Next, the FAA is looking at ways to improve training for private pilots. The agency is beginning to develop a program with flight instructors, as it has in Fairbanks for several years. Such a program statewide would have wide-reaching impact since some private pilots end up transferring their skills to commercial aviation, Duncan said.
"If we can improve the level of flight instruction, we can probably improve accident rates for commercial carriers as well," Duncan said. "It can make them better pilots overall, whether they jump in a plane to go moose hunting or crawl into a plane every day to fly passengers."
FAA says air travel safer across state
They didn't say anything about the honey buckets in Bethel. I flew in Alaska 80,81,82,83. These guys are making me feel like an old man. Country hasn't changed, a year ago I flew the 738 from ANC to CDB. I still knew the names of every river mountain, and town.(not that there are that many) I think I still saw the tire tracks of my 206 along the Cinder river where I used to fish.....................
In The Know2
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What a fun read...Thanks for posting it. I was a flight medic in Fairbanks for 3 years and I got to fly with best pilots in the world IMO. There were a few flights that really scared the s*** out of me and one time, my wife (also a flight medic) actually called me during one of her flights and left a message on the machine telling me they had a mechanical problem and she loved me very much as she thought they would crash (they didn't). I was fortunate to fly in some of the most beautiful country and land at the most remote places. Ever had your "runway" lit up by snowmachines in a snowstorm? It's stressful to say the least but also an awesome experience. I would recommend to everyone to use your pass agreements and go take a ride up there. Cheers!!
LivingToFly
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A Squared
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LivingToFly said:
Well, i'd have to agree that at least *some* of the people in Behtel are idiots.
BETHEL: Off-the-cuff question nets an arrest.
By JOEL GAY
Anchorage Daily News
(Published: November 26, 2003)
A Bethel cop saw an opportunity, took a wild chance and scored Saturday when he talked a local man
into selling him an illegal bottle of vodka.
The bust wouldn't be quite so remarkable except Sgt. Roger Vercelline was in full uniform and driving
his patrol car when the bootlegger agreed to the sale.
"I was dumbfounded," Vercelline said. "I've been doing this (policing) for quite a while and I've never
seen anything like it."
Vercelline was coming out of Bethel's grocery store Saturday evening when he spotted a group of
men loitering outside. Just for the heck of it, the officer walked over and asked if anyone knew where
he might buy a bottle of booze.
"It was a spur-of-the-moment thing," Vercelline said. "We ask everyone if they have information
about bootlegging," which is illegal in Bethel. The community is damp, which makes it legal to import
liquor and possess it, but not to sell it.
To his amazement, Vercelline said, one of the men, Eugene Ayuluk, 44, said he could get what the
officer wanted.
Vercelline couldn't believe his luck, he said. "I'm thinking to myself, 'All right, what do I do now?' "
The officer told Ayuluk to wait, that he would be right back with $80. It took 20 minutes to get the
cash, make copies of the serial numbers on the bills and get back to the store. "He was still there,
which astounded me."
Ayuluk said he would meet Vercelline in 20 minutes with the booze at a designated rendezvous. He
even told the officer to ditch the uniform and cop car, because he was afraid what his friends might
think.
Once again, Vercelline thought he might lose the fish he had hooked on the thinnest of line. "I thought
this guy was going to rip me off. I didn't think he would come back with the jug." But Ayuluk showed
up with a bottle of Monarch vodka, then wanted to go party with the now plainclothes cop.
The party didn't last long. Their first stop was to pick up a member of the Western Alaska Alcohol and
Narcotics Team, who was waiting on the road. "Here's a friend of mine," Vercelline told Ayuluk. "He
wants to go with us."
The second stop was the Alaska State Troopers' office, where the two cops announced the bad news.
"We told him, 'We tricked you. Now you're going to jail,' " Vercelline said. "He turned ghost white. He
just couldn't believe it."
Ayuluk was charged with selling alcohol without a license, a felony.
The last stop of the night was Yukon-Kuskokwim Correctional Center, where Ayuluk was lodged.
Bethel Police Chief Howard Morris said he was tickled to hear about his quick-thinking officer.
"I've been in law enforcement for 27 years and this is probably only the second time I've ever heard of it happening," he said.
mar
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Smelly sleds!
Wow. That's pretty impressive.
I'm guessing you didn't depart the 900' Togiak Cannery strip but used the 4000' Togiak International runway...???...or at least *most* of it.
One thing I don't miss is the smell of fish slime and rotten condensed milk soaked into the floor of those smelly sleds.
Wow. That's pretty impressive.
I'm guessing you didn't depart the 900' Togiak Cannery strip but used the 4000' Togiak International runway...???...or at least *most* of it.
One thing I don't miss is the smell of fish slime and rotten condensed milk soaked into the floor of those smelly sleds.
Singlecoil
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mar
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The Rosey Path
TurboS7--Sorry man, I think I confused you. I know it's been 20 years since you've been out there but the Cannery strip is across the bay from the village and probably a different strip than the one you used.
In fact you probably used what's now considered the cross strip to the 4000 nice runway.
At any rate, I've also witnessed some pretty excellent flying by Bo but he was flying a single Otter when I was based in Dillingburg.
Take care. Fly safe.
TurboS7--Sorry man, I think I confused you. I know it's been 20 years since you've been out there but the Cannery strip is across the bay from the village and probably a different strip than the one you used.
In fact you probably used what's now considered the cross strip to the 4000 nice runway.
At any rate, I've also witnessed some pretty excellent flying by Bo but he was flying a single Otter when I was based in Dillingburg.
Take care. Fly safe.
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