flying in alaska: mother to daughter

i announce the last flight out to quinhagak (kwin-a-hawk) is departing. my sole passenger steps forward.

she is a young girl, maybe 17. wide-eyed and clueless. alone. she nervously holds her new baby girl.

i can't comprehend what it would be like to be in her situation. i open the terminal door and we walk out to my waiting aircraft and i strap them in. methodically flipping switches, bringing my bird to life.

the flight is uneventful. in quinhagak i help them deplane. gathering their bags, helping them load into the waiting van, sliding the door closed. a few seconds later a middle-aged woman gets out of the other side of the vehicle. she approaches and asks if i can fly her and her ailing elderly mother to bethel.

"we need your help to get her into the plane."

"of course."

the old woman is sitting in the front seat of the van. she appears to be well into her 80s. her skin is a deeply-tanned and wrinkled leather shell over the skeleton; hardly anything covering her frame. she slowly lifts an arm around my neck with much effort. i place one of my hands around her back and the other under her legs, lifting her like a small child. the pungent smell of rotten fish and seal oil rises out of her hair and clothing.

her condition reminds me of pictures of dachau or auschwitz prisoners. it makes me think of the starving sudanese i've seen in refugee camps. this woman is expiring. i can smell it: the stench of approaching death seeping from her pores. the toxins accumulating. she cries out in agonizing pain from the smallest shift in position. pangs of torture washing across her corrugated features; blue eyes searching wildly into an even bluer void above.

sometimes when you look at a person you know they don't have long to live. it makes you feel awful and guilty and dishonest and cheated and rotten.

i think of the final visit with my grandpa. in the deepest core of me i just knew it was going to be the last chance to shake hands. and i could tell by the look in his eyes that he knew it too. neither of us wanted to admit the unchangeable truth. nothing was said about this secret knowledge between us. our grip lingered longer than usual; the tick of a second stretched out to its breaking point. our minds unable to grasp the unavoidable loss barreling down upon us.

i am still haunted by his terminal wave goodbye out the front window of the house; his ghost image reflected in the glass, receding and compressed and rippling from the doppler effect as we slowly drove away down the street.

today is a warm, partly cloudy day like that one was. i summon all of my skill as a pilot to make this flight as smooth as possible. i ease the little 207 off of the gravel and into the crosswind, crabbing and clawing my way into the sky. climbing out; modulating control pressures to dampen the turbulence. trying to give a soft ride.

at cruise i leave a little extra power in to help my passengers get there quicker (get where quicker?). an overwhelming rush of inadequacy wells up from my intestines.

i turn around to check on my passengers: the daughter is holding her mother's hand, stoic and strong. a native understanding about the life cycle. the role of caretaker. she does honor to mothers, to daughters, to the female heart everywhere.

her mother is looking out onto the rolling tundra. i am witness to the excruciating agony. i see those eyes pleading and willing the end to come soon; to melt away into the numbing bliss.

cursing the turbulence, i stare out my window towards the west. the sun's slanting caramel rays are chasing me across the mosquito ponds. in all directions, waterways weaving aimlessly to nowhere.

the crushing bleakness of this landscape; the overwhelming grief and agony of a lifelong welfare existence here in the frozen wastes. and the warm whisky-colored light falling across my face; an eternally-steady ray of sunshine. the contrast is too intense, and i blink away hot salty tears.

i think of the young girl and baby i dropped off in quinhagak. i watched them get into one side of the van, and a few seconds later the middle-aged woman got out of the other. it was like a time warp of sorts. a whole lifetime compressed into the second it takes to open and close a car door: the girl gets into the van holding her newborn, and when she gets out she is old and in my arms; her baby daughter all grown up and caring for her.

this young girl, wide-eyed and overwhelmed with the prospect of caring for a new life. decades later a grown woman, equally confused and without answers, trying to care for her mom's final days.

i try to measure what i've witnessed, but cannot.