bethelpalooza

rob has been a little frustrated from the lack of romantic progress in bethel. the nurse he was working on (the one with the sweet milk-makers) continues playing games; a bit of the ol' hot-cold on-off mindreading that ladies have been famous for since prehistoric times.

rob was caught in those awful horse latitudes of male-female relations first discovered by one e. abbey. down in the dumps, drifting in the doldrums, skimming that sargasso sea of sexuality.

we decided to actively improve our station in life. as plato once said, "you may get more flies with honey than vinegar, but nothing attracts the local talent like raspberry wheat ale." we surmised to hold the first-ever bethelpalooza at the dump.

in the tradition of all great festivals (such as burning man in nevada, or the testicle festival in montana), rob and i decided to hold something waaaay off the grid. something that isn't commercialized and sold-out and sponsored, but a true celebration of the human spirit. and all that.

we thought it could be a fun summer gig in the land of the midnight sun. a chance to break up the monotony of work a bit. we arranged for a couple kegs of moose's tooth beer to be flown out from anchorage, and figured on grilling up some fresh kings or tube-shaped pork products.

first off to work. i walk into grant's warehouse, which is full of cargo for quinhagak. most of the pilots, including myself, are assigned freighters for the extra large batch of bypass mail today. in addition to the soda pop, we will all be doing a double rotation in support of an outfitter. they are hauling an entire summer's worth of gear and food down to a guided fish camp.

there are 2 caravans, 2 navajos, and about 5 or 6 of us in the sleds. all launching within minutes of each other; an aerial train delivering more than 30,000 pounds to this world-famous fishing village 80 miles south of bethel. after we are out from the watchful eyes of the tower, a few of the guys switch over to lima, a discreet frequency that we can talk to each other on.

"six two charlie, zero eight mike over."

"hey paddy," rob says. "i'm 4 minutes behind you."

another voice calls me: "zero eight mike, you up?"

"hey brent. how's it hanging?"

"isn't this ridiculous paddy? i've got like 2,000 pounds of soda pop."

"i know. i have 1,100 myself."

"i guess the tooth fairy is coming to quinhagak tonight."

awhile ago i bumped into a dentist in bethel. he has been practicing for 30 years in the developing world, from nepal to africa to southwest alaska. never, he said, has he seen teeth as bad as in the yk delta. he tells me about a grant flight he and another dentist chartered out to a village. 100 pounds of dental equipment was bumped to make room for corrosive soda. we both laughed at that irony.

we discussed the need for education. mothers are putting coca-cola into baby bottles, virtually guaranteeing their children's teeth will rot out of their head.

aaron checks in on lima. "hey guys, take a picture. this date will live in infamy. it's the great quinhagak airlift of 2010."

"similar to the great berlin airlift of '48 and '49," i add, "only instead of life-saving rations, it's shasta cola."


"i wonder if the children of tomorrow will read about this in history books?" asks brent.

i unload. fly back. reload. this time it's all gear for the fish camp. head south again. an army of friendly, muscular, not-too-bright texans greet my ship as i taxi in to quinhagak. all appear to have been given the growth hormone creatine at the feedlot. they begin unloading my ship immediately after shutdown. we transfer the gear to a waiting truck, which will take them to the dock in town where everything will be piled into boats before heading upriver to camp.

a solitary, tall, weed-thin, immaculately-dressed, impeccably-groomed gentleman stands at a distance watching us work (where is he from, i wonder?). looks like a rich texas oilman or corporate welfare rancher from new york. he wears a glossy black leather cowboy hat (straight out of manhattan?). huh. well, it matches the black faux-beard. an overcompensatingly-large polished gold belt buckle trumpets his fun-sized penis to the world (texas for sure). his pressed blue jeans exceed the tightness limitations set forth by the geneva convention (greenwich village?) embroidered hot-green and tan flames lick at the sides of his spotless knee-high cowboy boots (the moon?).

ok, time to go. i pick up a couple unaccompanied minors for a trip up to eek, which is on the way back to bethel. they are polite, friendly, and happy to be in an airplane. cute kids. like all kids, they are even cuter when they go home with someone else at the end of the day.


departing eek, i am on my last leg. nearly home to the two kegs of moose's tooth waiting at the dump. relax, captain. almost there.

i return triumphantly to bethel: another day of flying, and not even any crying babies or puking grandmothers to show for it. captain america.

waiting for me at the tie downs is a woman with a briefcase and id badge hanging around her neck. it has some rounded swastika symbols on it and says federal aviation administration. she wants to ramp check me.



our benevolent overmasters, the faa, have the privilege of stopping aviators anywhere they please to make sure that pilots and their aircraft always have all required documentation to be legal. this is far more extensive than you imagine. a responsible pilot can be hung out to dry for the smallest iota of paperwork discrepancy out of his hands. certificate action can bring suspensions, revocations, or deportation, and we take this very seriously.

many faa inspectors have bad reputations and of course there are lots of urban legends about them screwing pilots over. like the alien-abduction-sexual-experimentation tales about ufos, most of it is probably embellished horseshit, but the victims can be convincing enough to keep you on your toes.

i hope this will not take long. surely she understands that tonight is bethelpalooza.

she wants to see my pilot's license. i ask her if a student certificate is ok. she doesn't think this is funny. medical? charts? aircraft documents? mel? ops specs? normally, the motto of the faa is "we're not happy until you're not happy." she finishes the rest of the prostate exam and finds no questionable polyps. all my papers are in order.

finally, released into the wild, i return home to the dump. rob is waiting for me, and we ceremoniously tap the keg and toast the evening's prospects. mike's and rob's airplanes had broken down earlier, so they took the liberty of going fishing. they have slayed an enormous kuskokwim king salmon. currently 6 huge fillets are marinating; each one seasoned differently. i smell garlic, red wine, brown sugar and soy.

thirsty pilots and mechanics soon navigate their way to the watering hole. a fire is started. refreshing adult beverages are consumed. many lies are told. after awhile, the fish goes on the grill. mosquitos start harassing us. a few females have made it out and are immediately surrounded by 20 horny dorks trying to get laid. we pull the foil-wrapped king fillets off of the grill. the flesh falls off the bone.

rob and i survey the 40 strong crowd. salute each other's brilliance and rugged good looks. clink our vessels together for the good time being had by all. like a sore peter, it can't be beat.

at 3 am, the kegs dead or dying, i hide away in my room. throwing in earplugs and locking the door. a single blood-sucking insect hovers above my pillow. i slap her into the great coming oblivion; leaving another smashed mosquito fossil on the drywall for future archaeologists to ponder.