Bubba & Junior's High Flying Adventure
PART 2
When they arrived at Anchorage International they were met by a sixteen year old who drove the outfitters Suburban like he had a death wish. This NASCAR wannabe weaved in and out of traffic like an Olympic slalom ski racer. Bubba and Junior cat-napped on the way to Wasilla. The driver, who had never shaved, would awaken the hopeful hunters by his sudden stops and drag strip-like rapid starts.
A much needed restroom break at the outfitters small office building interrupted the last lap to the airstrip. Junior thought to himself the driver’s motto must be “The Checker or the Wrecker!” As the Suburban slid to a thankful stop, the pair could see the bright yellow, specially modified Super Cub sporting the High Adventure Outfitters logo which featured a soaring eagle over a snow-capped mountain.
Junior and Bubba shook hands with Charlie, their pilot and guide, and helped load the remaining gear the trio would need for a five-day hunt. The expertly packed aircraft taxied out onto the runway and was soon airborne.
At cruising altitude, Junior, seated in the front right seat, asked in a loud voice how Charlie got to be a pilot and licensed hunting guide? Over the welcomed roar of the single engine, Charlie explained that he was booted out of the Air Force at Elmendorf Air Force Base for starting a brawl at his squadron’s Christmas Party at the Officer’s Club when he attempted to place a brandy fueled, wet kiss on the squadron commander’s wife. Charlie said he was always a sucker for ladies who wore the curve revealing simple black dress. The O’club fight was just another in Charlie’s checkered flying and fighting career. His past behavior, coupled with the near destruction of the main ballroom, was enough for the JAG to find enough violations of the Uniformed Code of Military Justice to recommend a General Discharge. The squadron commander and wing commander heartedly concurred.
With the abrupt ending to what was otherwise a dream- fulfilling C-130 flying career, his personal life quickly picked up speed, but rapidly lost altitude. With genuine shame he recounted how he lost his wife and children, quickly burned through a secret cash stash, and became a regular patron of the infamous Fourth Street bars in Anchorage. Several fights and public intoxication arrests resulted in a court-ordered rehab where he met Mr. Howe who owned High Adventure Outfitters.
Charlie and Mr. Howe were a perfect fit: Both loved flying, both loved hunting, and both had to conquer their love for the Joy Juice. Mr. Howe gave Charlie a job and nicknamed him “Fourth Street” to remind him where he came from and where he could never return. Charlie didn’t object to the nickname and was proud of the fact both he and Mr. Howe received their ten year sobriety pin at last week’s AA meeting.
During the remainder of the 90 minute flight the boys were silent and caught a few more winks and were advised by Charlie to prepare for landing. The over-sized tires of the Super Cub bounced gently down the short and narrow make-shift grass airstrip. The aspen leaves were a bright yellow, fireweed had bloomed all the way to the top, and a nearby large mountain revealed its first white dusting of Termination Dust trumpeting the soon arrival of winter.
Unloading was orderly and took only 15 minutes. “Fourth Street” Charlie expertly assembled the two forest green tents, sorted the camping gear, and set the high calorie grub aside and put all of the guns and ammo in his tent.
The campfire yielded a tasty beef vegetable stew and a mouth watering apple cobbler which was cooked in an all-purpose Dutch oven. Serious jet lag was starting to hit Junior and Bubba but both snapped back to life when “Fourth Street” asked the boys to go to a crystal clear stream which joyfully bubbled near the campsite and wash the metal serving trays and the Dutch oven. The glacier fed water completed the task of awakening the anxious hunters.
Meanwhile, the experienced guide made some coffee and put a couple of large logs on the fire before hoisting the food supplies into a large tree about 20 yards away to minimize bear attacks.
Junior, Bubba and “Fourth Street” sipped the stout coffee and engaged in two parallel conversations at the same time. Junior and Bubba talked aloud about deer hunting, cave exploring, and lamented over the poor hunting skills of the younger generation.
At the same time “Fourth Street was wondering aloud how his 14 and 16 year old daughters were doing in Seattle where they lived with his ex-wife. Maybe they both had boyfriends or played sports or were honor students. Their obligatory annual school photo was all he had to gauge their progress.
Sometimes you can hear regret in a person’s voice. Sometimes you can read it on their face. For “Fourth Street” it was a double play. His slow determined speaking cadence echoed how he had ruined his marriage, career, life, and lost his two precious daughters. The flickering flames cast an occasional glow on “Fourth Street’s face which highlighted his squinting eyes and tightly pressed lips when he was not talking.
Before turning in for the night, “Fourth Street” outlined tomorrow’s plan of attack: Up at 6am, eat a quick breakfast, secure the camp gear, and start the long awaited hunt in a nearby patch of trees which was guarded by a natural fence of wild blue berries. The boys went to their tent and “Fourth Street” to his.
Bubba and Junior were like kids on Christmas Eve. It was past midnight, local time, before the gents from Rowe Bob’s barbershop simultaneously stopped talking and rolled over in their sleeping bags and journeyed into hunting dream land.
Before “Fourth Street” met the light of a crisp day and announced the wake up call, Bubba and Junior were fully dressed and standing with their backs to the still smoldering campfire.
As “Fourth Street” was getting breakfast ready the boys stole quietly into “Fourth Street’s” tent and tip-toed out with their big game rifles and a fist full of ammo. A controlled fast walk followed and the boys were well into the patch of trees before their absence was discovered.
Just as “Fourth Street” completed the second shout of their names, the unmistakable report of two big game rifles echoed in the nearby patch of trees.
What followed next looked like a scene out of a 1940’s B movie love story. The boys ran out of the trees toward camp and “Fourth Street” ,at full gate, ran from the camp toward the trees. The midway reunion was followed by all three excitedly speaking at once.
A garble of words came forth. Bubba and Junior shouted, “We each got a moose and are ready to go home!” At the same time the angry guide screamed, “What do you guys think you are doing?”
They didn’t answer the question posed by “Fourth Street.” They simply said, “Forget breakfast, let’s load the two mooses (they never liked Mayor Goodwin) up and get this puddle jumper in the air and start for home.”
“Fourth Street was beyond angry; he was livid and the veins in his sun-tanned neck were on full alert. He now spoke not as a guide but as a parent to a child, “You cannot take all of the moose back on the plane, only the racks.” He slowly calmed down and explained, “I planned the weight of the return flight to equal the racks in place of the five-day supply of food which we were to consume or left behind.”
Now it was Bubba and Junior’s turn to ignite the mad flame. Junior spoke for the pair of previously happy, but now increasingly upset, hunters when he said, “ Let me tell you something Mr. “Fourth Street”, when we were hunting moose in Alaska a couple of years ago our guide let us take the racks and as much of the moose meat as we could cram into the airplane!”
Sometimes rational people suspend rational judgment for a variety of irrational reasons: Sometimes it is booze; sometimes it is love, and sometimes it is greed. For “Fourth Street” it was a combination of greed and love that shut off his rational thinking.
He thought to himself, “If these guys have enough money to afford more than one Alaskan big game hunt they probably will give me a very large tip and I can finally fly down to Seattle to see my daughters.” He blurted out, “Get your knives out and let’s harvest the racks and all four hind quarters.” The trio went about their bloody task without saying a word.
The two mega-size racks and several hundred pounds of fresh moose meat were crammed into the rear section of the Super Cub. Next the guns and camping gear followed and Bubba was shoe horned between the tents and cooking equipment. The food sacks were quickly emptied and the sacks stuffed around Bubba’s legs. Junior sat silently in the front seat and “Fourth Street” started the grossly overloaded airplane for its hopeful flight back to Wasilla.
“Fourth Street” took the Super Cub to the absolute end of the natural landing strip and made a sharp 180 degree turn into the wind. He pushed the power control all the way to the firewall and the overloaded airplane lumbered down the grass strip. At the extreme other end “Fourth Street” pulled the stick as far back as possible into his nervous stomach. The left hand on the power pushed forward and the right hand on the stick pulled in the opposite direction looked like a frozen horizontal see-saw.
Miraculously the groaning airplane slowly lifted heavenward and barely brushed the top of an aspen tree with its huge tires. All aboard felt it was safe to exhale. But looming ahead was the large mountain that just a few minutes ago seemed so peaceful and serene. The Super Cub was slowly gaining altitude but the mountain grew even closer. Now the airplane windscreen completely framed the huge, menacing mountain.
It is strange how the frantic mind sometimes works. For a micro second, “Fourth Street” thought he could hear the off key singing of the late Don Meredith on Monday Night Football many years ago, “Turn out the lights, the party’s over and all good things must come to an end.”
The seriously overloaded airplane smacked the mountain just above the tree line with full force; thereby, ending the short, ill-fated flight. The engine and all of its hot attachments was surgically severed and catapulted several hundred feet uphill from the wreck. Moose meat, airplane fuel, camping gear, guns and ammo were strewn over several hundred yards in all directions on the unforgiving mountain.
“Fourth Street” was thrown clear of the carnage and was up on all fours slowly attempting to stand upright. He mumbled to himself, “I’m alive, I think.”
Out of the remaining section of the Super Cub crawled Junior and Bubba. Bubba was almost crying as he wiped a rivulet of blood from his forehead and childishly asked his best friend, “Junior, where in the world are we?”
Junior was holding his obviously broken left arm and slowly replied, “Bubba, as best as I can tell, we are about 500 feet higher up the mountain than where we crashed the last time we were here!”
Einstein must have had Bubba and Junior in mind when he defined Stupidity: “Doing the same thing over and over again and yet expecting different results.”
Glenn C. Peck, Shawnee, OK
No comments:
Post a Comment