aktango58
FRIEND
18AA
Piccolo the Wonder Dog
Headwinds. That was the local observation. Forecast for my flight route: Headwinds. Forecast for my destination: Headwinds with turbulence.
OK, it was still shaping up to be a great day as a Yukon Quest Sled Dog Race Volunteer pilot. So far this trip I'd visited Circle City, Slaven’s Cabin, and Eagle where I had spent the night. My Aeronca airplane had seen more ski flying action in the prior three days helping the Quest than in the last two months, and with headwinds, I just got more time to look around and see the river country. Maybe I could find a new place to moose hunt.
The previous night I was asked by the veterinarian to do an early run to Slaven’s Cabin, about 100 miles down the Yukon River from Eagle. The Yukon Quest Veterinarian Team member staying at Slaven's Cabin had notified the office that the last musher was headed for Eagle, and all available veterinarians were needed in Dawson. My plan, subject to change every minute, was lift off just after light for down river, returning in the afternoon to help transport dogs.
Fuel was not available until after 8:00 a.m. offering plenty of time for a leisurely breakfast and to peek into the official Eagle Checkpoint. Mushers were resting and caring for their dogs everywhere I looked, most looking forward to the 36-hour mandatory layover in Dawson. As I was leaving, I gave the radio operator my intended route and return time, then headed for the plane inside the local fuel truck, vintage equal to my trusty 7AC.
Surprisingly I found a tailwind to Slaven’s making it there in record time while looking for moose along the way. Pretty country: the winding Charlie River, a deep valley into the Nations River, a little piece of heaven. Naturally Slaven’s had a high overcast, making a challenging flat light landing condition. Just a patch of packed snow against the trees, surrounded by broken ice projections was our strip; no markers, no sunshine. My landing was made much more bearable by the thickly padded seat and the fact that no one else saw it.
Cold! No other way to describe the temperature. Just getting out, covering the engine, loading, uncovering the engine and getting in had allowed all of the windows to frost over. Within minutes of my landing we were airborne, turning back upriver for Eagle. Following the river, we stayed low to check the teams racing upriver.
Every tailwind is paid for in triplet it seems. I finally turned off the portable GPS, it was discouraging seeing our Ground Speed below 50 mph. The teams were making better time it appeared, but one does not fly an Aeronca Champ on skis for speed, one flies it because they can afford to, at least that's my reason.
Eagle was a long time coming. Upon landing I was quickly given my next manifest: four fine sled dogs which had been recovering since the mushers had dropped them. (Dropping a dog means to remove a dog from the team, usually for a medical precaution.) Destination: Dawson.
Each tied in a bag with only their heads out (to keep their feet contained and help avoid the dogs moving around too much in the aircraft), I got four bagged k-9 companions loaded into my bird. I had the fuel truck bring some “safety” fuel just in case the winds increased, giving me enough reserve for any potential problems.
The pooches seemed to sleep as soon as they were loaded into the plane. That was good; I did not have any flight attendants able to offer snacks or beverages. Flying duties took my mind off the back seat passengers as I taxied up the ski strip, turned and powered into a takeoff over the river.
Altitude usually offered less headwind, and a warmer temperature the last couple of days. Slaven’s Cabin had dipped the thermometer to –10 F., though Eagle was a sultry +20 F. I estimated that in addition to the better temperature, if I got to the thinner air above 6,000 feet the athletic animals joining me would sleep better… so I thought.
My constant vigilance and altitude navigation was interrupted by a distinctive squeaking sound. Visual checks to both skis, cables, springs, lift struts, jury struts and anything else I could think of indicated that all was normal. The squeak was gone, oh well, it is a 1946 plane, things squeak.
After another ten minutes I heard it again, but behind me. Hmmm… I looked- uh-ho, Piccolo the dog was chewing on my newly repaired rear seat! Now was not the best time for me to have a lively discussion, but we, Piccolo and I had one, in spurts, as I flew one handed and held his pretty black and white face with the other. When I took my hand away from him I noticed a small patch of fresh blood on my fingers. Now I was in trouble, a dog under my care became injured. Heck, these little guys could be worth more than my airplane.
Every time I tried to concentrate on flying the plane through the moderate chop we were in, Piccolo he would resume his destruction to my plane. If I petted him, he would sit quiet and content. I figured it out-he was lonely! I needed a solution to save my plane; well, reach back and pet him I guess.
Things soon got busy with turbulence, my hands busy adjusting the throttle and working the stick. Piccolo again started moving around and making noise. Then the cockpit began to smell like…. Ugh! A sick dog in my plane. Of all things, poor Piccolo had vomited. Well, he wasn’t sick anymore. Just smelly and still moving around.
Once again I reached back attempting to pet and relax lonely Piccolo. He gently placed his paw on my in a sign of friendship, my mind began to race: HOUSTON, WE HAVE A PROBLEM! Paw!?! This dog’s body and legs are supposed to be tied completely inside the bag for safety, theirs and mine. This pup was getting loose!
By now I was in my descent to Dawson and things had gotten a little busy. Being Captain on an international flight, I had radio calls to make, and a loose dog; descent procedures, and a loose dog; landing checklists..… and a loose dog. Then it got really busy. Piccolo had been staying quiet for a while, and silly me thought he'd remain calm while I used both hands to fly the plane.
I felt him move. He was just anxious and wanted to look around I figured. Glancing back quickly I saw that he had pulled the jackets off of the rear shelf and was lying under them. NO problem, down through 4,500 feet and descending. Just a few more miles would be the veterinarian’s problem. There should be time for me to make one more trip to Eagle before dark.
Dawson radio was loud and clear about 10 miles out. The dog was acting like a Jumping Jack behind me. Descending through 4,000 feet I looked to the right in horror as Piccolo's foot landed on the door handle and pushed the door open- head and front feet already outside the plane!
Releasing the plane for a moment, my right hand shoot back grabbing as much of Piccolo’s fur as possible. A standoff ensued, me now clutching his collar, his head and front feet dangling outside getting the full force of the slipstream and gravity. Every force was sucking him further out the door. A life and death struggle between me and a dog, and all I could think was: “the vets aren’t goanna like this!”
I tugged and pulled, eventually getting the dog back into the plane and seated. As I petted him his calm persona retuned. My rational brain was back to flying, analyzing how to put this bird on the ground without a replay of the last few minutes. I can fly one handed until I need to use the throttle, then….well, if I let go of him Piccolo goes crazy.
“4-5-Echo, say intentions.” Dawson Radio returned an earlier call from me.
Safety of flight was consuming my thoughts. Can I maintain safe control with a loose dog? Can I land with this particular dog loose? Will he jump out after landing and run forward into the propeller, or back into the tail? How would I explain that I “dropped” a dropped dog? These questions pounded through my mind , I reminded myself I had volunteered for this!
“Dawson Radio, 4-5-echo, I am coming down through 3,500 ft and 6 miles, will enter…” there he goes again, jumping around like a teenager.
“4-5-echo, please repeat, your transmission broke off.”
Yup! I was sort of busy trying to keep from becoming the first k-9 jump plane in Dawson. “Dawson, this is 4-5-echo, I have a slight dog problem, I am entering an extended base for a landing, will talk after I land!”—that should do it.
“4-5-echo, did you say a “dog” problem?”
Explain? Maybe just let his imagination run; maybe he thought these dogs had wings, “4-5-echo, yup, I am really busy, talk later!”
By holding the stick just so in my left hand I could make throttle adjustments with my elbow. That gave me my right hand to hold the dog. Adding some subtle ear scratching and a few kindly spoken words borrowed from a sailor’s vocabulary, I had coaxed Piccolo’s front paws up alongside my seat where I could sit strait and hold both front feet in my right hand, essentially immobilizing the excited dog.
I remembered there were four dogs with me, but was only having one problem child. Good thing, I was at my wit's end. All of my tie-up lines were under dogs. I was wearing snowpants, so no belt to tie him with. Just guts and prayer to depend on from here.
I calculated the approach at a solid stall plus 30 percent for margin, just like the book says, then I doubled the resulting speed for dog reasons. Or more easily defined I was flying in as fast as I could go and still be in control. Figuring my elbow-throttle manipulation was not it’s best with present limitations I wanted more speed than less. I had plenty of room to land, and very little snow. It should be a quick stop, noisy, but quick. Most of the runway was bare and dry, and my wear bars under the skis were metal!
That night I was telling the head veterinarian about my flight. I had only gotten to the dog being sick when she broke out laughing “the Iditarod guys say they just tip their plane and open the door when a dog gets sick.” She was referring to “dropping the dog”. My day was made just watching her face as I expounded on Piccolo’s use of the emergency exit; shock and fear as she realized her suggestion in jest was almost prophecy.
Before the end of Piccolo’s antics he was responsible for chewing up one aircraft seat, one aircraft winter cover, one pickup bench seat and one plastic kennel. Piccolo’s musher said that next year Piccolo will have to run the entire race to prevent more upholstery bills.
Me, I now tie the dog’s collars to something away from the door. When possible I will line the dog area with plywood, maybe even give them a rawhide. Yes, I will still fly those beautiful and valuable animals. After all, if not for the Yukon Quest, I would be home doing housework!
Headwinds. That was the local observation. Forecast for my flight route: Headwinds. Forecast for my destination: Headwinds with turbulence.
OK, it was still shaping up to be a great day as a Yukon Quest Sled Dog Race Volunteer pilot. So far this trip I'd visited Circle City, Slaven’s Cabin, and Eagle where I had spent the night. My Aeronca airplane had seen more ski flying action in the prior three days helping the Quest than in the last two months, and with headwinds, I just got more time to look around and see the river country. Maybe I could find a new place to moose hunt.
The previous night I was asked by the veterinarian to do an early run to Slaven’s Cabin, about 100 miles down the Yukon River from Eagle. The Yukon Quest Veterinarian Team member staying at Slaven's Cabin had notified the office that the last musher was headed for Eagle, and all available veterinarians were needed in Dawson. My plan, subject to change every minute, was lift off just after light for down river, returning in the afternoon to help transport dogs.
Fuel was not available until after 8:00 a.m. offering plenty of time for a leisurely breakfast and to peek into the official Eagle Checkpoint. Mushers were resting and caring for their dogs everywhere I looked, most looking forward to the 36-hour mandatory layover in Dawson. As I was leaving, I gave the radio operator my intended route and return time, then headed for the plane inside the local fuel truck, vintage equal to my trusty 7AC.
Surprisingly I found a tailwind to Slaven’s making it there in record time while looking for moose along the way. Pretty country: the winding Charlie River, a deep valley into the Nations River, a little piece of heaven. Naturally Slaven’s had a high overcast, making a challenging flat light landing condition. Just a patch of packed snow against the trees, surrounded by broken ice projections was our strip; no markers, no sunshine. My landing was made much more bearable by the thickly padded seat and the fact that no one else saw it.
Cold! No other way to describe the temperature. Just getting out, covering the engine, loading, uncovering the engine and getting in had allowed all of the windows to frost over. Within minutes of my landing we were airborne, turning back upriver for Eagle. Following the river, we stayed low to check the teams racing upriver.
Every tailwind is paid for in triplet it seems. I finally turned off the portable GPS, it was discouraging seeing our Ground Speed below 50 mph. The teams were making better time it appeared, but one does not fly an Aeronca Champ on skis for speed, one flies it because they can afford to, at least that's my reason.
Eagle was a long time coming. Upon landing I was quickly given my next manifest: four fine sled dogs which had been recovering since the mushers had dropped them. (Dropping a dog means to remove a dog from the team, usually for a medical precaution.) Destination: Dawson.
Each tied in a bag with only their heads out (to keep their feet contained and help avoid the dogs moving around too much in the aircraft), I got four bagged k-9 companions loaded into my bird. I had the fuel truck bring some “safety” fuel just in case the winds increased, giving me enough reserve for any potential problems.
The pooches seemed to sleep as soon as they were loaded into the plane. That was good; I did not have any flight attendants able to offer snacks or beverages. Flying duties took my mind off the back seat passengers as I taxied up the ski strip, turned and powered into a takeoff over the river.
Altitude usually offered less headwind, and a warmer temperature the last couple of days. Slaven’s Cabin had dipped the thermometer to –10 F., though Eagle was a sultry +20 F. I estimated that in addition to the better temperature, if I got to the thinner air above 6,000 feet the athletic animals joining me would sleep better… so I thought.
My constant vigilance and altitude navigation was interrupted by a distinctive squeaking sound. Visual checks to both skis, cables, springs, lift struts, jury struts and anything else I could think of indicated that all was normal. The squeak was gone, oh well, it is a 1946 plane, things squeak.
After another ten minutes I heard it again, but behind me. Hmmm… I looked- uh-ho, Piccolo the dog was chewing on my newly repaired rear seat! Now was not the best time for me to have a lively discussion, but we, Piccolo and I had one, in spurts, as I flew one handed and held his pretty black and white face with the other. When I took my hand away from him I noticed a small patch of fresh blood on my fingers. Now I was in trouble, a dog under my care became injured. Heck, these little guys could be worth more than my airplane.
Every time I tried to concentrate on flying the plane through the moderate chop we were in, Piccolo he would resume his destruction to my plane. If I petted him, he would sit quiet and content. I figured it out-he was lonely! I needed a solution to save my plane; well, reach back and pet him I guess.
Things soon got busy with turbulence, my hands busy adjusting the throttle and working the stick. Piccolo again started moving around and making noise. Then the cockpit began to smell like…. Ugh! A sick dog in my plane. Of all things, poor Piccolo had vomited. Well, he wasn’t sick anymore. Just smelly and still moving around.
Once again I reached back attempting to pet and relax lonely Piccolo. He gently placed his paw on my in a sign of friendship, my mind began to race: HOUSTON, WE HAVE A PROBLEM! Paw!?! This dog’s body and legs are supposed to be tied completely inside the bag for safety, theirs and mine. This pup was getting loose!
By now I was in my descent to Dawson and things had gotten a little busy. Being Captain on an international flight, I had radio calls to make, and a loose dog; descent procedures, and a loose dog; landing checklists..… and a loose dog. Then it got really busy. Piccolo had been staying quiet for a while, and silly me thought he'd remain calm while I used both hands to fly the plane.
I felt him move. He was just anxious and wanted to look around I figured. Glancing back quickly I saw that he had pulled the jackets off of the rear shelf and was lying under them. NO problem, down through 4,500 feet and descending. Just a few more miles would be the veterinarian’s problem. There should be time for me to make one more trip to Eagle before dark.
Dawson radio was loud and clear about 10 miles out. The dog was acting like a Jumping Jack behind me. Descending through 4,000 feet I looked to the right in horror as Piccolo's foot landed on the door handle and pushed the door open- head and front feet already outside the plane!
Releasing the plane for a moment, my right hand shoot back grabbing as much of Piccolo’s fur as possible. A standoff ensued, me now clutching his collar, his head and front feet dangling outside getting the full force of the slipstream and gravity. Every force was sucking him further out the door. A life and death struggle between me and a dog, and all I could think was: “the vets aren’t goanna like this!”
I tugged and pulled, eventually getting the dog back into the plane and seated. As I petted him his calm persona retuned. My rational brain was back to flying, analyzing how to put this bird on the ground without a replay of the last few minutes. I can fly one handed until I need to use the throttle, then….well, if I let go of him Piccolo goes crazy.
“4-5-Echo, say intentions.” Dawson Radio returned an earlier call from me.
Safety of flight was consuming my thoughts. Can I maintain safe control with a loose dog? Can I land with this particular dog loose? Will he jump out after landing and run forward into the propeller, or back into the tail? How would I explain that I “dropped” a dropped dog? These questions pounded through my mind , I reminded myself I had volunteered for this!
“Dawson Radio, 4-5-echo, I am coming down through 3,500 ft and 6 miles, will enter…” there he goes again, jumping around like a teenager.
“4-5-echo, please repeat, your transmission broke off.”
Yup! I was sort of busy trying to keep from becoming the first k-9 jump plane in Dawson. “Dawson, this is 4-5-echo, I have a slight dog problem, I am entering an extended base for a landing, will talk after I land!”—that should do it.
“4-5-echo, did you say a “dog” problem?”
Explain? Maybe just let his imagination run; maybe he thought these dogs had wings, “4-5-echo, yup, I am really busy, talk later!”
By holding the stick just so in my left hand I could make throttle adjustments with my elbow. That gave me my right hand to hold the dog. Adding some subtle ear scratching and a few kindly spoken words borrowed from a sailor’s vocabulary, I had coaxed Piccolo’s front paws up alongside my seat where I could sit strait and hold both front feet in my right hand, essentially immobilizing the excited dog.
I remembered there were four dogs with me, but was only having one problem child. Good thing, I was at my wit's end. All of my tie-up lines were under dogs. I was wearing snowpants, so no belt to tie him with. Just guts and prayer to depend on from here.
I calculated the approach at a solid stall plus 30 percent for margin, just like the book says, then I doubled the resulting speed for dog reasons. Or more easily defined I was flying in as fast as I could go and still be in control. Figuring my elbow-throttle manipulation was not it’s best with present limitations I wanted more speed than less. I had plenty of room to land, and very little snow. It should be a quick stop, noisy, but quick. Most of the runway was bare and dry, and my wear bars under the skis were metal!
That night I was telling the head veterinarian about my flight. I had only gotten to the dog being sick when she broke out laughing “the Iditarod guys say they just tip their plane and open the door when a dog gets sick.” She was referring to “dropping the dog”. My day was made just watching her face as I expounded on Piccolo’s use of the emergency exit; shock and fear as she realized her suggestion in jest was almost prophecy.
Before the end of Piccolo’s antics he was responsible for chewing up one aircraft seat, one aircraft winter cover, one pickup bench seat and one plastic kennel. Piccolo’s musher said that next year Piccolo will have to run the entire race to prevent more upholstery bills.
Me, I now tie the dog’s collars to something away from the door. When possible I will line the dog area with plywood, maybe even give them a rawhide. Yes, I will still fly those beautiful and valuable animals. After all, if not for the Yukon Quest, I would be home doing housework!
