I arrived in Alaska in 1976, courtesy of the USAF (United States Air Force). Destination: Elmendorf AFB, outside of Anchorage. My first experience in this faraway land was in December. Talk about being thrown into the frying pan; hours earlier, I was basking in 70-degree temps in Florida, my then-home base.

Always seemingly up for an adventure, I jumped in with both feet. It’s a good thing the military saw fit to clothe me adequately for this new weather because this young lad from Florida was unprepared.

Alaska, mainly the Anchorage area, would become my home for nearly thirty years. Who knew? But that is another story for the ages. This accounting will share how I became a bonafide Alaskan Bush Pilot.

My military work experience in the USAF centered around aviation. Specifically flying squadrons attached to wings attached to groups. Just offices attached to companies attached to corporations for you civilians.Same thing.

My job involved air operations. Though called a “specialist,” I was a clerk, a paper pusher. But what hooked me into the actual flying part of this world were the real heroes, the pilots. In this case, fighter pilots, a number of them with Vietnam War combat experience.

Could a young, impressionable, anxious to taste the world outside a small Southern US town, land in a more target-rich environment? No way! I was in love or at least lust! Wow!

Hanging with these larger-than-life personas every day, seeing what they do, and discovering what they do and did makes an impression.

Because I was an enlisted member and they were officers, I would not, even if inclined, be one of them. It was possible, but my first step would have been college, and I had decided that wasn't me for different reasons at the time.

But what was me was taking in their encouragement to pursue aviation in general. The fire was lit.

One of the perks or benefits of being in the US military is having access to the GI Bill. It allows you to follow educational curriculums while on active duty; one was flight instruction. Elmendorf AFB had a flying club.

I promptly became a member. In about two years, flying part-time, I gained enough instruction and training to become a commercial-rated pilot. Taking full advantage of the benefits, I added other ratings and certificates, such as instrument flying, multi-engine, and flying with floats and skis.

Alaska has a worldwide reputation regarding general aviation. By nature, aviation is king. Geography, even today, prioritizes this mode of transportation to navigate the state. If you’re curious, look at how big the state is versus how much of a highway system it has.

In 1981, knowing I would be voluntarily ending my enlistment in the military, I decided to pursue aviation as my next vocation. Specifically, bush or remote flying. Outside of the two biggest cities in Alaska, Anchorage and Fairbanks. Bush flying still gets the job done today.

I had heard through the grapevine, within my fellow pilot’s network, that a small air taxi operation in Sleetmute might be hiring. It is a tiny village located on the Kuskokwim River in Western Alaska. I contacted the owner, Nick (Nixie) Mellick, who agreed to meet me in Anchorage.

Either he was desperate for a “pilot,” or this cheechako said the right things; he hired me on the spot. The following week, I arrived at the short gravel runway across the river from the cabin I would call home for three months: no electricity or running water. I was fired up!

After a couple of orientation flights with Nick to survey the area, he scheduled a check ride with an instructor pilot from Bethel. I must have pulled the wool sufficiently over his eyes because he signed off on me that day. Again, desperation to get a working pilot on the payroll was greasing the skids.

The Sleetmute airport had one runway, three thousand feet long. This would be ample for the bird I would fly, a Cessna 206 Stationair. tail number N35912, a six-seat, single-engine, high-winged airplane. Now, I was really in love!

Speed: 150 knots or 170 mph. Short field capable, 2,000 feet or less. Gravel, sand, grass surface — no problem. One of the legendary workhorses in Alaska at the time.

Intimacy with one’s airplane or bird is paramount to flying in the bush. I mentioned the general performance parameters above for this particular model. The “getting to know her,” with experience, part allows you to fully realize what you can get away with. And, unfortunately for some (no old, bold pilots exist), there is a lot of this behavior. It comes with the territory, literally.

Here is a short, sometimes hair-raising list of skills I had to develop. Quickly, to not only make money for the said employer (look up the history of Nixie Mellick, big shoes to fill for any pilot) but to get the job done every day.

It’s like driving a truck; money is not being made if the prop is not spinning or the wheels aren’t turning. I made $35 per flight hour — nothing for sitting on the ground. You want to eat, fly!

Fuel hauling (interior tank filled the areas after seats were removed), low-level flying (50 to 100' above the ground), river navigation, weather reading, mountain pass flying, out of CG (center of gravity) flying, flying with inebriated passengers, in the dark flying with moonlight for reference, crosswinds, departing and landing on short, unimproved runways with obstacles, downhill and uphill landing strips, beach landings. I’m sure I have forgotten a few others. Do I have your attention yet?

The above is seat of your pants stuff on many days. It becomes rote after a while; it has, too; preservation of life demands it. It’s also humbling if you’re real. The fighter pilots I knew were also this way. There is no loud bravado, just quietly confident individuals doing their job.

There were more than a handful of memorable events during my experience, but two are the most recallable. One involves a sick baby, and the other a drunk native or indigenous individual in the proper language of today.

Let’s start with the imbibed gentleman. On numerous occasions, and typically around the time government welfare checks would arrive in the villages, I and trusty steed would be chartered to fly from point A to B. The purpose of the charter would be booze runs, simply put.

On one flight, the most inebriated passenger of the 5 climbed into the seat next to me. Little did I know until takeoff just how “influenced” he was.

Shortly after takeoff, he became insistent on being my copilot. I don’t recall asking for assistance with this duty. So, after numerous admonishments on my part to remove his hands from the controls of my PIC (pilot in command) bird, I produced the great “equalizer.”

A fish bully. It is a small, bat-shaped stick, about 10" long, with enough weight and girth to inflict attention if aptly applied. I did, across his knuckles. The competition for piloting ended. The other, less physical method of silencing this type of behavior was altitude; the higher you climbed, the more passive some passengers became. Hypoxia was my friend.

The second telling was this. And I was not informed of the outcome until the following year. I was resting in my cabin one early evening when one of the boss’s kids knocked on the door.

Hey, Dad needs to meet with you. Nick proceeded to tell me about a sick baby in another village, 60 miles away, that needed transporting to McGrath, which was 110 miles the opposite way. He ended the account by saying: “I wouldn’t take the charter; it’s almost dark.” I left, pre-flighted the plane, and took off toward Lime Village.

As grace would have it (God/copilot), the moonlight provided enough illumination of the river and terrain to fly the trip. At no more than 100' above the river, I flew toward my destination carefully, using pilotage (landmark sighting). I landed on the village strip an hour later.

It was around 8 or 9 pm by then. I was met at the strip by the village nurse and child’s mother, and off we went toward the nearest clinic, 2–3 hours away by the river, McGrath.

To say I wasn’t a little intimidated by this charter would be an understatement. But the same methods used to complete the first leg of the trip, fortunately, worked out for the final leg. Pilotage all the way, low altitude, and fighting darkness. My passengers were as anxious as I was. But here’s a tip.

If you want to be successful as a pilot. Mask the bad and quietly lead with the good. No fear, at least visible!

We landed in McGrath around midnight. We were met at the landing strip by clinic personnel. They took the baby from Mom and whisked it away. I was relieved, thankful to have made the flight, and emotionally and physically exhausted. I fell asleep on the plane and returned to Sleetmute the following day.

After I left the bush, I went to work for Valdez Airlines, flying right seat (co-pilot) on small twin-engine birds. It was a job. I was bored. I missed the “rush,” if you know what I mean. I was standing at the ticket counter one day, and a woman walked up and asked if I was the pilot from the sick baby charter.? I said yes; why?

She was the nurse in McGrath who met the plane after I landed. She then said: “If you had not done that flight, the baby, six months of age at the time, would have died.” She told me the little girl was suffering from severe respiratory distress. I was noticeably shocked and visibly shaken. Pride and humility soon followed.

I have been asked a few times how good I was to have been a bush pilot in Alaska. My answer is this. I am writing the story.

Thanks for reading, dear friends.

A version of this article was originally published in November 2023.