2525 Zulu

Two Five - Two Five Zulu

2525 Zulu, astride her floats, was idling at the dock in front of the Silvertip Lodge. Bob Johnson, the lodge manager, was holding my plane by its right wing strut, waiting for Pinky to release her seat belt. My two sons were out and already stationed at the shoreline, doing their job...skipping rocks. Pinky passed boxes of groceries out of the plane, and Bob stacked them on the dock.
Judd Lake, a deep blue wilderness lake, nestled beneath Mount Gerdine, in the Alaska Range. On this April afternoon in 1974, it was home to many bears and two people, the Johnsons, the first recent human kind to brave the lake's winter. The snow-covered peak of the mountain was perfectly reflected on the mirror of still water. Our city tensions began to slip away into wonder at this mountain presiding over its valleys and lakes, its scale in size and time stretching consciousness gently into imagination. I was off call. I sat in my cherished place, the left seat of my Cessna 185. My avocation had become more like a second job, flying supplies for Silvertip Lodge. I liked this work, any excuse to fly.
I planned to leave my family for the spring opening of the lodge, a dry run to pave the way for paying guests. Our boys had disappeared. After extracting her small duffel, Pinky put her knee on the passenger seat, leaned across, and kissed me good bye. They were staying two nights at the lodge, and I was returning to Anchorage. I had to work in the morning.
"Bye," she said. "Don't forget to put Millie out in the morning and lock the dog door before you leave. I don't want her in the house all day."
"Right," I said as she turned and walked up the ramp.
Bob appeared with two Hefty Bags full of garbage. They had done it again. One of the bags was leaking.
Bob put his head in the door and asked with a grin, "You got room for a couple of passengers?"
"Not until you re-bag that leaky one in your right hand," I grumbled. The other pilots hauled the people. I hauled the garbage...in leaking bags. I had recommended it to my partners. I wanted to prevent establishment of a dump that would attract the grizzlies. "What a good idea," they said. Then they waited in deafening silence. So I took this onerous task as my contribution to safety. For my trouble I had become the butt of unkind jokes.
Bob had sprinted, and now returned with a fresh bag. He slid the leaky bag into a new one, put a twist tie on it, and hefted it into the back seat putting the second in the passenger seat next to me. "Thanks," he said.
I just nodded and said, "No see-wet, GI." in Vietnamese pidgin, our veteran’s camaraderie.
"Really," he said getting eye contact. "We appreciate it." He closed the door.
I smiled, and it didn't feel so bad to haul their garbage.
I put my index finger on the fire wall and eased the throttle in with the heel of my hand and Two Five Zulu eased away from the dock. I taxied downwind to the inlet of the lake.
Two days previously, I had hauled in a load of two by fours for the deck railing. My approach had been too high and my touch down too long. I had nearly run up the bank into the willows. Archer had seen this landing from the lodge. He was the kingpin entrepreneur, the directing partner in Silvertip Lodge. He also had logged 1000 hours flying in the Alaska bush, and he was waiting at the dock when I pulled up with the load of lumber.
"Way too high," he muttered, his forehead deeply wrinkled with a disapproving frown.
"I know. I was almost in the weeds when she finally settled."
"You touched down at the middle of the lake. You wasted half your runway."
"I did a gradual descent because of the mirror surface on the lake," I said in defense.
"Fine. But start from fifty feet above the trees at the shore...not a hundred and fifty. Then pull the nose up for your slow descent. Otherwise you're going to be driving around in the rocks up at the inlet."
"I couldn't tell if I was ten feet above the water...or fifty."
"So start lower. Float planes live in the water," he said laughing as he tugged on the bill of my hat.
I wanted to use the remaining three hours of daylight and the return trip to Anchorage was only 45 minutes. I had some practice time. The plane with almost no load would really perform. It seemed a perfect time to shoot a few touch and go landings on the lake, to get my approach down a little lower at the tree line.
I pushed the throttle slowly to the firewall. The plane jumped on to the step, then out of the water. It was exhilarating. I began climbing out at eight hundred feet per minute. Damn, it was fun.
"I might as well get up to a cruising altitude and simulate an inbound approach to the lake from Anchorage," I thought.
I leveled out at 1200 feet and headed for Beluga Lake as a landmark for my turnaround back toward Judd Lake. I had about ten minutes to relax and daydream a little.
A year and a half before, Pinky and I had done a week of baby sitting for the Mabrys. I had grown up with John, roomed with him in medical school. We interned in San Francisco, and served in Viet Nam together in 1968 and 69. In 1973, we were about to finish our Radiology training, John in Denver and I in Seattle.
John and Lynne left their son with us in Seattle for the week while he did a locum tenens job at the Alaska Clinic. The clinic was also recruiting for a full time radiologist, but John already had a permanent job lined up in Wyoming. When they returned, John had decided to change his plans and take the permanent job in Anchorage. He was excited. "It is a twelve man clinic with family practice, OB-Gyn, internal medicine, surgery, pediatrics, pathology. They lost their rad a year and a half ago, and they've been using locums coverage."
"That's a long time for a hospital to be without a radiologist. How come?" I asked.
The GP's owned the hospital and the clinic, they kept the radiologist on a salary and milked the radiology cash cow," John said.
"Is that what you signed up for?"
"No. The old guard sold the hospital to the teamsters at a handsome profit. They reorganized the clinic to multi-specialty format with some pay differential to keep pay for the specialists closer to independent guys at Providence, the larger hospital in town. They have contracted with the teamsters to do the care for the Teamsters Health Plan and to design a new hospital and clinic building - a new radiology department with all new equipment. The teamsters say they want the best. I’m going to do it."
"So how did you sell the winter weather to Lynne?"
"It's not too bad," Lynne answered for him. "It can get cold but it is not too different than the coldest winter we had in Denver. I'm excited about it." She looked at John, and laughed. "When we landed, Dick Curtis, one of the doctors picked John up in his super-cub on skis and took him ice fishing across Cook Inlet. John calls him RC. RC hooked John … on the first cast."
"Me and my RC," John said.
"You should go up there and do a week," he said to me.
"The Alaska Clinic?"
"They need two," he held up two meaty fingers.
"They need two radiologists?" I asked.
John nodded, “yes”.
Pinky was frowning. There was a little too much enthusiasm in the conversation.
"You could use your pilot's license. Seven of the twelve doctors have planes."
Now we were talking.
"They want you to come look," he said. He handed me a business card. "This is the administrator."
"I’ll call tomorrow," I said.
There were too many opportunities to pass up. We had to go to the frontier.
We arrived in Anchorage in June, and immediately were immersed in organizing the department and planning the new facility. It was early August. Our morning's work temporarily done, John and I were in our office quizzing each other, preparing for board examinations in December.
Archer, the renegade cardiologist-entrepreneur from intensive care barged through our office door with a flourish.
"It's too late to learn...too early to cram. Stow the books," he began the banter.
"So, how's the radio controlled Expensive Care Unit," I returned. "Be nice. We might take the money for our computers in the ICU from the x-ray budget. Maybe my emergency radio system too."
We ignored his threat.
"That Swan placement looked okay. It’s in the right PA," John said getting to business.
"Big heart attack. I'll save him though. Cardiac shock, just like Al Gossett, he’s the disaster that came to the unit just after you guys got here in June."
"A survivor is a satisfied customer. Unscathed by complications I hope."
"Yep. He loves me. I really saved his bacon you know," Archer said. "I can tell you that he was in plenty fine health at last call in the bar of the Captain Cook Hotel at two this morning." He paused and continued, "Al is retiring, going back "outside"...selling out. I had a few glasses of wine. He got roaring drunk. Women, airplanes, fish, hard times. We covered it all -- earthquake to pipeline."
By two this morning, he was blubbering ...wanted me to have his place at the outlet of Judd Lake... two hundred feet on the lake and two hundred feet on the Talchulitna River. It's pristine wilderness...fly in only."
"A gift?"
"Hardly. It's one of the most famous king salmon rivers in all of Alaska. Even drunk, he would never give it away. But he wanted me to have it. Twelve thousand five hundred...cash...in twenty four hours," Archer said. He was animated now.
"And...?" John asked.
"I bought it...on a handshake."
"A handshake Al may not remember," I murmured skeptically.
"To the old timers, that kind of deal is sacred. I’ll have the title tonight."
We mulled this over in brief silence.
"It is a perfect site for a Lodge. My brother could organize tours through our travel agency for JAL."
"JAL?"
"Japan Airline. The Nips are wild for tours in Alaska right now. If we build a lodge and it goes bust, worst case, we'd own the world's nicest fly in cabin. Can't lose." A beautific smile spread across his face as Archer resumed. "I thought of you guys. I'd like for us to do something together."
"What kind of money do you think it will take to build a lodge?" I asked.
"I have a crew of four kids who will work for room, board, and jobs as guides when the lodge starts running. We can get a building up for about thirty thousand."
"Divided by three?" I asked.
" Four. It would be you and John, me and my brother. Interested?" Archer, entrepreneur-cardiologist-travel center owner, was fast company for us, but...we were entranced.
John stretched and looked down at the desk in front of him for a few seconds. Then, he said, "Let's do it."
We agreed on ten thousand each, thirty five hundred down, cash on the spot. John and I each wrote a check, that we would scramble to cover. We shook hands, and we were in the lodge business.
The remainder of this first meeting we spent arguing about the name for our lodge. John finally came up with Silvertip, in honor of the supreme resident fishermen--the brown bears. We composed an ad which ran in the next issue of Sunset Magazine, soliciting guests for Silvertip Lodge. The deal went from a drunken handshake to a magazine ad in eight hours and thirty minutes. That was business on the frontier.
I wanted the identity of ‘bush pilot’. The lodge project would require plenty of flying. I fraternized with the pilots. I had gravitated to the pilot cluster at parties. But I was ex officio , since I had no airplane. I had my eye on a ten year old Cessna 185, blue with white call letters 2525 Z. It was the older model with only 265 h.p. It was the brown bag model, but still a 185, for fourteen thousand five hundred dollars, tax deductible if we built Silvertip Lodge. Archer had the loyal friendship of the mechanic owner of Alaska Aeronautical Industries. At Archer's request he pulled me from the depths of indecision, pronouncing 2525 Z a reasonable purchase. I bought her. So I became one of the pilots for Silvertip Lodge.
I took six weeks to add a floatplane rating to my pilot's license. Then, I began hauling materials to the building site on Judd Lake: fuel, nails, food, workers, and lumber. I loved the flying, and the image. No job was too large or too small if it involved a flight to the lake.
I carried all kinds of cargoes: in the passenger compartment, in the baggage, inside the floats, tied to the outside of the floats. I had been sucked up into a cloud by an updraft. I had been lost and trapped above weather, and I had iced up the wings. I had accumulated 100 more hours in my log book that first summer. I had joined the bush pilots at Lake Spenard.
The turn around point came up on the horizon. I awoke from my reverie.
I had stayed at 1200 feet to simulate a standard flight from Anchorage. I did my one minute 180 degree turn, straight and level, and I was headed back to Judd Lake. After a few minutes of flying, I could see the lake and the lodge. I was close...and way too high. I had to loose some altitude and speed...soon. I cut the throttle to idle, put on full flaps, and pointed the nose steeply toward the ground. Perfect. Half of the twelve hundred feet in altitude disappeared in no time. Keep a little altitude to spare...450 feet, just right to begin an approach to clear the trees on the windward shore.
At 500 feet I retracted the flaps half way; and the plane settled to 300 feet, lower than I had expected. Too low. I pushed the throttle to the fire wall. I needed full power to be sure to hold that altitude. The engine coughed twice. Oh, Shit! Then it stopped. One second went by...one-alligator...and the wind-milling prop started the engine again. It sputtered...two alligators...then I had all 265 horses. Yes! Run. The engine was screaming. But I was 30 feet above the ground... in a thick stand of saplings, hundreds of them! Finally, the plane was starting to climb. I glanced at the airspeed. It was 70 m.p.h., just above stall speed, but she felt solid, probably ground effect. The plane climbed. One second a myriad of tiny trunks filled my field of view; the next second, the saplings were inches beneath the plane. All the same height they looked like a green runway. I had to dodge several larger trees. In the background, I could see several hundred yards to the tall fir trees at the shoreline. I climbed 40 feet, but there were two alders to get around. Here they come. Air speed 68. Carefully, I rolled the left wing up, and it cleared as the plane turned to the right. Now on the right... a big tree. I rolled the right wing up and turned gently to the left. The wing tip cleared...by inches. I leveled the wings. Now climb, damn it. For a heart beat, I was elated. I had made it. I had flown a slalom course through the saplings.
I pulled back a little on the wheel to get a little more climb, and the airspeed fell to 68. Uh oh. There was one last little skinny tree top, the last fir at the shore line 70 feet up. I can still make it. I might hit. Steep turn, risk a stall? No. Just brush the top. Keep the air speed. Here it comes. I was expecting the little “Tick” brushing the tree tip- top.
No! Wham! There was an explosion just above my left ear where the wing which attached to the fuselage. The engine continued to scream, but the plane just stopped. It groaned as it ever so slowly pivoted ninety degrees around the tree that I had just hit. I could see the setting sunlight pink on Mount Gerdine through the windshield. The right wing dropped, then the entire airplane fell. The cockpit filled with the sound of the stall horn. Through the window of the passenger door I could see the lake coming up to meet me. The engine was still screaming at full throttle.
I locked on to the airspeed indicator. The speed was coming up fast. The needle passed 65 m.p.h. It might fly. I gave it full right rudder and pulled wheel all the way back sucking in my gut to give it full travel. The stall horn was still droning as the right float hit the water. The right wing tip was almost in the water. One alligator, two alligators. The cockpit was suddenly quiet, and the left float gently touched down. I cut the power, and she settled down off the step plowed ahead for forty five yards, and then idled gently along at the middle of the lake.
Thankful would have been reasonable. But it was not my first thought. "How am I going to pay for this?" filled my consciousness. Fifteen grand for the plane, borrowed. Two thousand deductible. Blue book value? Salvage value? Repair costs? I'm in deep weeds."
I looked out along the leading edge of the left wing. Everything was fine until about two feet in from the tip. I had hit the tree two feet down from its top. The treetop was projecting its two feet straight above the wing, as if it had grown there. I had an impulse to laugh.
I turned the plane toward the lodge. Such a trip would embarrass any bush pilot, but especially a newby. The tree that I had hit was down the shoreline, out of earshot and not visible from the lodge. They would know that an aircraft had landed but would have no idea that I had crashed. Bad news. I would have explaining to do. What a blow to my bush pilot image. I had to get a story ready to tell.
Then, I realized that I was going to have to taxi all the way across the lake...slowly. They would have plenty of time to take in the sight...the tree sticking up from the wing tip. They would figure it out: what had happened, that I was okay, that I was fair game for jokes. I wished that I had less time to think about it.
Surprise. When I got to the dock, Bob was waiting...just Bob. He thought that I had just come back for something. He hadn't even noticed the tree in the wing. When I pulled up, he was dumbfounded as he took in the garbage bags in disarray around me.
"Thought you went to Anchor town?" he said as he opened the passenger door.
"Look at my left wing tip."
His jaw dropped. "You hit a tree. Where were you? "
"Here. I was practicing...Just down the shoreline"
"What happen?"
"The engine stopped," I replied.
“We didn’t hear anything.” He looked at the torn sack and said, "What a mess. Look at all this garbage."
"I could use a drink."
"I'll bet. I'll tie her down and get rid of the garbage." He removed a bag to let me out.
Pinky met me half way to the door, with a mixture of questions on her face. She had figured it out. She said nothing. She just hugged me...for a long time...firmly. I could feel a little wetness on my neck.
"I'm okay," I said.
"You look like a ghost."
She just hung on a little longer. Then she let go and looked toward the dock. "There's a tree growing from the wing." She choked out a laugh through tears.
"A late Christmas tree. I knocked the angel off," I said. "Let's go up to the lodge and drink."
My story was: "I had an engine failure." It was the story that I needed. There was amazed shaking of heads and much well wishing. I had a beer, and things were starting to settle down, back to the activities of daily living.
I went to the kitchen and got the hand held radio. For the FCC license, the radio was for hospital intensive care emergencies. For Archer, it was a personal communication system, and we used it for everything from ordering lumber to reporting this crash-- all through the ICU. I needed a ride back to Anchorage for work in the morning and I wanted to talk to a mechanic, to find out if the plane might be air worthy after extraction of the tree top and duct tape patch...maybe save the cost of an airplane house call.
Conventional wisdom was that the high point on the river bank away from the generator and building provided the best radio reception at the hospital 100 miles away. I went out the back door about 100 feet to that bank. Below me the bank descended steeply 20 feet to the river. There was a huge brown bear wading in the river, up wind, with his back to me. He was fishing for a twenty-pound salmon, as matter of fact, like a housewife selecting a cantaloupe in the grocery store. I watched him several minutes, in wonder at just being there watching the continent's largest carnivore tending to business.
I squeezed the receive button, and the radio squawked loudly with static. I was expecting a treat...to see the bear run, to pad slowly downstream, or to sit up on his haunches and sniff, forepaws dangling. Instead, he whirled instantly, his rear feet under him, leaning slightly forward, forepaws out in front ready to use. In that instant of eye contact, I could feel his first calculation: distance to food...to me. His question was not, "Can I?" It was: "Is it worth my effort?" The airplane crash had simply been reactions...no time for fear.
I was frightened. The bear had seen it in my eyes. I made my own distance calculation. He was four of his body lengths away plus that twenty-foot bank. I was in danger of being caught and mauled in my two hundred foot run to the back door. My heart was in my throat. I dropped the radio to run. The bear wheeled...away from me. I felt a mixture of relief and mild nausea. As the bear walked away a few steps, I picked up the radio, squeezed the transmit button and said, "Alaska Hospital ICU, this is Judd Lake. Over." I watched the bear as he continued fishing the shallows.
I got Archer in the ICU, told the story for him and all the eager ears in earshot of the radio at the nursing station, and asked him to see if someone could fly me back in the morning. That was no problem. He also agreed to get me airplane advice.
Dinner turned into a party, a release. We were interrupted by the radio. Jack from Alaska Aeronautical Industries had my aircraft advice. I told my story.
He said, "Yep. If you cut all the way back to idle, you've got to ease in the throttle. Push it right to the wall and you're in trouble. Those fuel-injected engines will just stop. Lucky she started again." A gentle hint, identification a of pilot error, a hitch in my near polished story of engine failure.
"Why?" I asked incredulously.
"Too rich. Raw gas with no oxygen. It’s like flooding a carburetor. What's the wing look like?"
"Other than the two inch thick tree growing out of the wing it looks fine."
"Did you hit it near the cabin or at the wing tip?"
"At the tip."
"Can you move the wing...by hand, pushing on it?"
Bob was nodding his head "Yes."
"Yes," I replied.
"Is there a wrinkle in the skin on the fuselage behind the door?" he asked. He pronounced it like mucilage.
"I don't know."
"Go look"
Bob was already up and to the front door.
"We're checking," I replied. "Do I have to report this to get the insurance?"
"As soon as you can reasonably get to a phone, the law says you have to call the FAA. They'll have you come in and fill out an accident report."
In about twenty seconds Bob was back at the door. He was again nodding "yes".
"The fuselage is buckled slightly," I said.
"Don't let anyone try to fly it. The wing carry through is probably broken."
"Wing carry through?" I asked.
"It’s Two pieces of steel pipe at the root of the wing that give it strength where it attaches to the fuselage. Tie up the plane and I'll have a look for you this week-end," Jack said.
"Thanks."
"See you Saturday at Archer's tie down. Alaska ICU clear," he said signing off.
Now all of us knew that I had almost knocked the left wing off of 2525 Zulu. It wasn't just a little indiscretion.
When we turned in upstairs, I sat on the corner of the bed and looked at Pinky quizzically.
"Do you know what scared me?" I asked.
"What?"
"The bear."
"The bear?" She was incredulous. "Why?"
"I don't know. He scared me. It made me think. I've got some questions...not just about the plane...but about the lodge, even about buying in to the clinic."
"It doesn't look as good in retrospect. Does it?"
"No. This lodge will fall apart in a few years. It's built on skids...no foundation. The first floor joists bow down from the weight of the second story. No wonder we can't insure it."
"Can you fix it?"
"Archer's guys are the labor force, and we can't get him to listen. Besides, the repairs would be major. The worst problem is the high roller himself."
"Archer?" she asked.
"Right."
"Why don't you and John get out then?"
"Archer would probably buy us out. He would have to sign a note. It might work. I could just be a doctor. Forget lodges, air cargo, and Japanese tourism."
"Give it a few days. Then decide."
"I can see pretty clearly right now," I said. "And the medical practice is actually an even worse deal."
"What do you mean?"
"Think about it. The clinic is losing money. They have to borrow money to pay the physician's salaries. There's a constant war between the specialists and general practitioners. I'm wasting my time. They already have my buy in money, and I'll never see it again if I don't jump ship soon."
"You have an air plane crash on your mind. Let's sleep on it."
The Piper Tripacer arrived at 6:45 A.M. and flew me back to Anchorage for work. The cab dropped me off at the hospital, a half-hour late, unshaven in Levi's and wool shirt, but I was there. I waded right into a big stack of films and a busy schedule. At about 10:30 A.M., I called the FAA to report the accident and made an arrangement to fill out the accident report during the noon hour. They told me not to move the plane until the FAA accident inspector released the wreckage.
It was 12:30. I was at the Anchorage office of the Federal Aviation Agency. I had filled out the accident report providing details on the airplane, maintenance, time, location, cargo, my experience, my log book, repair records, and a one page prose description of the accident. I took care with the prose to put myself in the best light, laying my doubts on the machinery. The inspector was methodical, thorough, and courteous. He was also sympathetic. He had been there himself he said. He gave me the report, asked me to sign below my prose, and excused himself to read my essay. He was back in five minutes. Several of the lines had been marked with a highlight felt pen.
"Dr. Walker, you note that you had some work done on the fuel pump about twenty engine hours before the accident." He was reading the hi lighted lines.
"Yes."
"Why is that in your description?"
"I thought it might have something to do with the engine stopping."
"Do you believe that the fuel pump failed."
"I don't know."
He was patient.
"But what do you think?" he asked.
"I doubt it completely failed because the engine did start and did run again at full power," I admitted.
"Completely?" he asked.
"Well..."
He interrupted gently. "All accidents have causes. They can be mechanical, or they can be pilot error."
I nodded understanding.
"We need your help to sort this out." He let it sink in and continued, "If we decide it was mechanical failure of the engine, we will impound the plane, take the entire engine apart in that next room, and we will reevaluate the licensing of the repair stations that signed off on all of the engine maintenance indicated in your documents." He left me to consider that in a silence of about fifteen seconds.
"You can see that when we suspect mechanical failure, we take it seriously. It's expensive, and it takes time. Is that what we need to do here?"
I nodded.
"You mentioned in your report that you had the power back and full flaps and that you allowed 150 feet when you went back to half flaps."
"Yes."
"When you went to full power, what was your altitude? You didn’t say."
"About 150 feet."
"Do you consider that appropriate anticipation for recovery from full flaps."
"No. Two hundred feet would have been better."
"What about power management?"
"I should have had some power during descent, and a more steady advance to full throttle instead of pushing it right to the wall." I hesitated, then admitted, "That was pilot error also."
"I see," he said marking the report form. "Now. We need to decide for sure about that fuel pump."
"It wasn't the fuel pump," I said.
Things were going smoothly now.
"You're sure?"
I nodded, "Yes."
"Nothing to do with this report or interview, your license is suspended automatically until you have a check ride with an FAA examiner, no sooner than one week and no later than three months from today's date."
"I'll probably have to rent a plane. Does it have to be a 185 or can I do the ride in one of the flight school's 150's?" I asked.
"A 150 will be fine," he said.
"Where do I schedule?"
"My office," he said handing me a card.
"Thanks," I said. We shook hands and I left.
I finally made it home that night to sleep on my thoughts in my own bed. My encounter at the FAA office had forced me to further come to grips with my accident. My error in judgment had caused that accident. Did I want to become a better pilot? How much fun had the airplane really been?
Pilot talk had overwhelmed every social gathering. The plane filled every aspect of my non-professional life. I had learned to think in terms of thousand dollar units for repairs. Every time the wind changed, I’d worry about Two Five Zulu’s tie down. Flying had taken every minute, every dollar, and every drop of emotional juice outside work. A mistress would have been less demanding, cheaper, and possibly more acceptable to my wife.
Pinky had to compete for attention. She had recently emerged from the bathroom at bedtime stark naked both arms extended circling the room imitating engine sounds. When I looked up, she said, "I've got drooped tips, long range tanks, and I'm stressed for 13 G's. I'm coming in for a landing, please advise. Over."
I resolved to take my check ride and get my pilot's license back. Then, I'd think about whether to repair the plane or dump it.
Two days later, on the third day after the crash, the vultures had gathered. I received calls from a variety of pirates asking how to find my airplane so that they could "evaluate it for salvage". They wanted to steal parts.
One call was different. It was from Bob, on the radio back at Judd Lake. He had called Archer in the ICU. Two beer drinking Alaska Airline mechanics with big red noses had been poking around. They owned the cabin next door to the lodge, so Bob let them have a good look. They wanted to trade their property for my wrecked airplane. Archer gave me the phone number and said, "Ask for Jeff Masley."
The insurance company would pay $8,200 for the repair. That meant that Jeff Masley's five acres and a cabin would cost me $6,300. It was at least a fair deal, maybe a good deal. I called the number immediately.
"Spenard Bar and Lounge," the husky female voice said.
"Sorry. I have the wrong number. I'm trying to contact Jeff Masley."
"You've got the right number all right. He's not here right now. Maybe in an hour," she said.
"Could you have him call Dr. Walker at the Alaska Hospital?"
"Sure. What about?"
"An airplane. 2525 Zulu. He'll know."
In about two hours, the phone rang. It was a deep raspy voice. "Jeff Masley here. Sorry, I was out when you called. I wanted to talk to you about that wrecked 185 on Judd Lake. I'd like to it off your hands, doc."
"What did you have in mind?"
"Your plane, as is, for our cabin and five acres next to your lodge, straight up."
"I'm interested, but I'd like to think about it a little."
"We'd like to work on the plane this week end."
"The FAA hasn't even released it yet, so let me call you back. Give me a home phone number."
"Just call me here at the Spenard," he said.
On post crash day number four, I got a call from the FAA Field Inspector.
"Doctor Walker." His speech was painfully slow with a deep drawl.
"Yes," I replied.
"I'm Ron Wakeley with the FAA."
He paused, and continued, "I've been to Judd Lake to investigate your accident."
"Is there a problem?"
"No sir. Just a question or two if you don't mind."
"Sure."
"I think I found the tree that you hit about three or four hundred feet to the south. There is a tree right on the shoreline missing its top about sixty or seventy feet up. Does that sound about right?" The drawl continued.
"Yes, that sounds right."
"You were climbing at about sixty eight on your air speed indicator by your accident report. Is that right?"
"That sounds right to me."
"Doctor Walker," he drawled. "How did you do that?"
"Do what?" I asked.
"Land that airplane," he replied.
"I don't know. What do you mean?"
"Doctor Walker, I've been doing this job for 28 years. This is the first airplane with that wing damage that I've seen landed right side up."
Crash landings upside down are universally fatal. I was his only survivor? I was numb. I couldn't think of anything to say.
I just blurted out. "I've sold the plane. Can they work on it now?"
"It's cleared. Good luck, Doctor."
This accident inspector had just cracked my brittle shell. I would take the insurance money and dump the plane.
It was noon. I dialed the number.
"Spenard Bar and Lounge."
"Hi. This is Doctor Walker. Jeff Masley, please."
There were a few seconds of background bar room noise. "Masley here," he rasped.
"Walker here. You've got a deal,"
"Are you the builder in Palmer or the doctor with the bent 185?" he asked.
"The doctor," I replied, wondering how many business deals he had running through his central office at the Spenard Bar and Lounge.
"Well, good. That's just fine," he rumbled. "I'll go pick up the title and have my attorney make us up a bill of sale. Will you be at the hospital?"
"Yep, I'm on a pretty short leash here," I said.
"Can you have the title for the plane by this afternoon?"
"I'll find a way."
I went home that night free and clear of two Five Two Five Zulu. I told Pinky the story.
"So, you are out of the airplane business"
"Looks like."
"Good riddance," she said holding up her wine glass.
That weekend, to everybody's amazement Jeff Masley went from the Spenard Bar and Lounge to Ace Hardware to Judd Lake. He bolted a single steel plate across each cracked wing carry through bar of 2525 Zulu, cranked her up, took off, crossed Cook Inlet, landed on Lake Spenard, and walked away unharmed.
Four months later I had sold out of Silvertip Lodge and five years later it was still standing when Archer sold it. Within five years the teamsters had sold the hospital to Humana Corporation, and the Alaska Clinic had disappeared. Thirteen years later, I heard that Archer and his travel agency were bankrupt.
I moved "outside" to the lower 48, I sold the Judd Lake cabin for twenty thousand dollars, to an attorney flush with the proceeds of his first product liability suit. Two Five Two Five Zulu had, indeed, been the best of my Alaskan business deals.
What's left? For my part, I want to believe that Jeff Masley has installed a fax machine in the Spenard Bar and Lounge where he still trades wrecked airplanes and real estate.