Then This Happened...

First, Lithus is fine. His instincts are good.

However! Last week, he saw something (he could tell you what and he told me, but I don't understand it enough to tell you) that made him ask J, the mechanic (a good guy, very qualified, very solid), to check out the tail boom attachment. J looked it over that night and said it was fine. The next morning, though, Lithus still felt uncomfortable, so checked it himself and couldn't find anything. So, he had J look inside again. Still nothing. But Lithus looked inside himself again. Yep. Tail boom attachment was broken. This is a nonsurvivable situation from the air. Had he gotten up, which he could have in spite of this, he would've died that day.

We pretend that what he does isn't dangerous. And the vast majority of the time, we succeed in forgetting. Then, something like this happens. It's good to be lucky. It's better to be skilled. It's best to be both.

The Brooks Range

The Brooks Range is the northern-most mountain range on the continent. We flew over it. :)

There are 2 little dots about 5 o'clock. They are bears. :)

Then there is the view of the helicopter, from the helicopter:

With apologies, this is a little more obscene than I'd intended.

Looking down from my seat

Lithus being all studly. Most pilots use white helmets. I like that he wears a yellow one; I know him when I see him.

"See You In a Bit..."

Earlier this week, Lithus had two days off. His schedule is he works for 12 days, then gets 2 off. By Monday night, we were in Fairbanks (never underestimate the joy of really, really clean sheets, a bathroom you don't have to share, or a tub). By Thursday, we were heading back to Galena. The BLM had him back here by about 11:30. By noon, he was back up in the air, taking a crew out to the tundra for a fire. While he wasn't 100% sure he'd get back that evening, they were confident enough he would that his mechanic was told to stay here.

It's now 17:00 on Saturday and I haven't seen him since. Before anyone asks, no, I'm not the least bit worried about him. Here in Alaska, flight crew checks in with dispatch via radio or satellite phone every 30 minutes. The place is too big and things can go too bad too quickly. So, I know he's fine. It's a small base. Word would've gotten around. Nope, he's just stuck on the fire, out in the tundra.

                                                                                    
Today, the mechanic insisted that either a) Lithus and the aircraft come back to Galena or b) the mechanic be flown up to the aircraft. There is, after all, a reason each helicopter travels with its own mechanic. The BLM has sent the mechanic to the tundra, the helicopter, and Lithus. This doesn't bode well for a return this evening. Or tomorrow evening, for that matter.

It did, however, give me a chance to put together a care package:

• toilet paper (shit tickets, as it's called in the field)
• bug spray (bug dope)
• nicotine lozenges (he's quitting smoking and they frown on pilots committing homicide)
• toothpaste
• a change of clothes
• a book
• allergy meds                                                        
• alcohol wipes
• snacks                                                        
• baby powder                                              
• love letter                                                                          

The only thing I couldn't figure out how to get to him was booze. We have rum. We even have an empty mouthwash bottle, so I thought about the old military trick of putting the booze in the mouthwash. Unfortunately, we only have spiced (brown) rum and the mouthwash was mint. Even if I had rinsed the bottle well, I don't think anyone would believe brown mint mouthwash. Ah well. Still, for my first Alaskan tundra care package, on very short notice, I think I did okay. I'll let you know what he says. Whenever I see him again to ask. 


Note: the photo is of Dave, our mechanic, with the care package under his bag in the basket.