no roads lead to bethel

so i completed my initial operating experience and have been re-released into the wild. i must now fend for myself unsupervised above the vast tundra steppes.

there are two major rivers that flow through this part of alaska that can help me navigate: first, the infamous yukon, which starts in the canadian province of british columbia, flows northwestward through its namesake territory and then across alaska, covering nearly 2,000 miles on its way to the bering sea near emmonak.

pissing in the yukon is one of three local requirements to qualify as a true alaskan. i look forward to unzipping and adding my own small verse to the song that never ends.

there is also the kuskokwim river which flows for over 700 alaskan miles before emptying into the bering sea after passing bethel. these two rivers are some of our most distinguishable landmarks in the otherwise-featureless moonscape.

because of these two defining waterways, this part of the state is referred to as the yukon-kuskokwim (or yk) delta. it is the second largest national wildlife refuge in the united states, and is also a major seasonal breeding ground for millions of ducks, geese, cranes, swans, and loons. it seems a lot of fellow aviators are doing a bit of the ol' in and out here on the slick slippery ky delta.


although the area is a wildlife refuge, the eskimos were here long before president carter designated the land as such. numerous small villages are scattered throughout the delta. these people truly live on the fringes of society; bethel is the largest town for hundreds of miles in any direction.

the villages are isolated outposts, each silently shimmering and asserting their lonely existence with the same delayed whispers as the polar stars twinkling above. the weather here is often freezing rain, snow, or ice fog. communities are locked up in a frozen expanse under a hoarfrost-grey overcast for most of the year.


the eskimos rely on aviation for everything: much of their food, all trips to the doctor, and the mail. there are no roads to connect them or bethel with syphilization. in summer, the rivers are navigable in boats; in winter, sometimes a hovercraft can trace the frozen waters to outlying villages. otherwise a fleet of aircraft and the hardy men and women who pilot them deliver the mail to those living in the banished wastes.

i rumble along, 1,000 feet above the icy yukon snaking its way to an eternal union with the salty sea. a quick glance at the gauges: everything in the green. i offer up thanks to our lady of teledyne continental for the 300-horsepower IO-520 engine she has bestowed upon this wandering wayward wayfarer.


what fills my mail sacks on this day, i wonder? perhaps a heartfelt letter sealed with a kiss? a simple envelope could be enough to keep a lover going, despite the immeasurable distance of this great divide..... or maybe a much-needed paycheck is finally arriving for a family with stretched-out finances?

i glance at my cargo manifest: 200 pounds of cool ranch doritos.

unfortunately, the natives have acquired a taste for our much-loved puffed fried stamped-out corn products with sprayed-on flavors. also for the syrupy sap of phosphoric acid, which obviously comes from the phosphoric tree (oh, sweet corrosive!). i believe it grows mostly along the banks of that nearly-congealed river in newark. and who could forget america's favorite calorific cache: high fructose corn syrup. i drink two glasses every day!

i'd like to take a moment to say 'thank you' to the sponsor of this blog, and of life in general: coca-cola. without your selfless marketing and corporate humanitarianism, the natives wouldn't have had the opportunity to become so westernized: obesity, type 2 diabetes and tooth decay are epidemics (along with vd) here in the ky delta.

[rant mode off]. i check in on the common traffic advisory frequency while descending towards the crushed rock and gravel strip at russian mission.


it's one of the cooler aerodromes i've been to, right on the mighty yukon river. all alone today, just me and my sweet bird, delivering the mail into the wilds.


i touch down deftly (as usual) in the stout crosswind and taxi in; pulling the mixture to cutoff as we coast to a stop on a deserted ramp. i hop out with my cargo....domino's pizza, delivering a million smiles a day....although the pizzas are cold after a two hour flight into the bush.


not even a tip. unbelievable.