Shishmaref
I made it. And I have computer access. This is going to be a long one.
We left town in a break in the rain this morning about 9:00 am. Oddly enough, in the Bering Air lobby (a generous term at best) four out of the six people other than myself and Dr. Daniel were from Arizona. Weird. They were going to St. Michael, another village somewhere up here, approximately…I have no idea where it is, but within flying distance. Fishing was their main goal, along with avoiding the Arizona heat. Again, nice to be in the cold for a little while.
The three of us who were heading to Shishmaref followed our pilot out to the plane, a twin engine Navajo, and climbed in past boxes of “mail” and supplies that was being taken to the village. The inside of this thing is very similar to the inside of a VW Microbus without all of the headroom, leg room, and groovy vibrations. There are technically four rows of seats, two abreast. The nonhuman contents of our flight (labeled with “This End Up” arrows, pointing in every other conceivable direction) took up the entire left hand side of the plane, obscuring any view in that direction. Not that anything was really obscured. As we heading north from Nome, we flew straight into the clouds and stayed there for a remarkably long period of time. I found myself understanding how planes ran into mountains and buildings and tall people. The pilot didn’t even bother to look out the windows, instead staring straight down at his instruments.
Climbing to an altitude of 8000 feet and traveling at 170 knots, I began to feel my ears pop as the plane cabin was not pressurized. I wasn’t ready for the continued popping sounds when my ears had cleared. The pilot didn’t seem to flinch every time I heard a sharp “pop” coming from the left side of the plane. Before too long, I realized that sound was associated with the instant smell of potato chips, and looking at the “mail” next to me, I realized it was a Frito Lay shipment to the Native Store, and the popping was the bags opening one by one as the outside pressure decreased with out altitude.
Unfortunately most of the trip was cloudy, but they did give way as we reached the coast. Mountains went to low lying hills, then to soggy tundra, and finally the water below us opened into a bay. Off in the distance, a group of barrier islands not much more than a sand bar stretched across the mouth and beyond that, the Chukchi Sea. Are we approached Sarichef Island, one of the center most strips of sand, I could begin to see the rows of houses spanning the short gap between calm and open waters. Why did they pick this island for a home? People have lived on this patch of sand for 2000 years. They must have a reason.
We left town in a break in the rain this morning about 9:00 am. Oddly enough, in the Bering Air lobby (a generous term at best) four out of the six people other than myself and Dr. Daniel were from Arizona. Weird. They were going to St. Michael, another village somewhere up here, approximately…I have no idea where it is, but within flying distance. Fishing was their main goal, along with avoiding the Arizona heat. Again, nice to be in the cold for a little while.
The three of us who were heading to Shishmaref followed our pilot out to the plane, a twin engine Navajo, and climbed in past boxes of “mail” and supplies that was being taken to the village. The inside of this thing is very similar to the inside of a VW Microbus without all of the headroom, leg room, and groovy vibrations. There are technically four rows of seats, two abreast. The nonhuman contents of our flight (labeled with “This End Up” arrows, pointing in every other conceivable direction) took up the entire left hand side of the plane, obscuring any view in that direction. Not that anything was really obscured. As we heading north from Nome, we flew straight into the clouds and stayed there for a remarkably long period of time. I found myself understanding how planes ran into mountains and buildings and tall people. The pilot didn’t even bother to look out the windows, instead staring straight down at his instruments.
Climbing to an altitude of 8000 feet and traveling at 170 knots, I began to feel my ears pop as the plane cabin was not pressurized. I wasn’t ready for the continued popping sounds when my ears had cleared. The pilot didn’t seem to flinch every time I heard a sharp “pop” coming from the left side of the plane. Before too long, I realized that sound was associated with the instant smell of potato chips, and looking at the “mail” next to me, I realized it was a Frito Lay shipment to the Native Store, and the popping was the bags opening one by one as the outside pressure decreased with out altitude.
Unfortunately most of the trip was cloudy, but they did give way as we reached the coast. Mountains went to low lying hills, then to soggy tundra, and finally the water below us opened into a bay. Off in the distance, a group of barrier islands not much more than a sand bar stretched across the mouth and beyond that, the Chukchi Sea. Are we approached Sarichef Island, one of the center most strips of sand, I could begin to see the rows of houses spanning the short gap between calm and open waters. Why did they pick this island for a home? People have lived on this patch of sand for 2000 years. They must have a reason.
posted by rob at 11:24 PM
3 Comments:
I hope you're getting pictures of all of this. I expect a full slide show when you get back.
Har. I was driving up Mount Lemmon once, and this guyd had a truck full of Cheetos bags. He was giving them out at the shuttle stop because they were starting to pop.
I wonder if this happens enough that the nice folks at Frito-Lay have to make specific accomodations when shipping product.
Incidentally - little brudder is SUCH a trooper.
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