Two Health Evacuations from Bush Alaska

Laura on snowmachine with Buddy

A frequent question we are asked about living a 3.5 hour snowmachine trek away from the nearest road is, “What do you do in a health emergency?”  Well, now, after two health-related evacuations, I can answer that question.

1)  Last winter, my husband experienced chest pain for several days.  He feared that he was experiencing a cardiac issue and was, therefore, not confident about snowmachining to town to reach a doctor.  Fortunately, we have an annual subscription to a Life Flight company.  For the first time, Bryan called them, described his symptoms, and 45 minutes later, a helicopter pilot and her two burly medics landed on our remote lake to whisk him off to a regional hospital.

Three EKGs later, the doctors told Bryan that he did not have a cardiac problem and, in doctor language, told him to go home and suck it up.  A friend snowmachined him home.  To my relief, insurance paid for the life flight ($24,000). 

2) This winter, my back most molar started to hurt and over three days, grew very painful.  Clearly, I required either an extraction or a root canal. I found an emergency dentist in Wasilla who could see me on short notice.  Unfortunately, we were in the midst of a three day snowstorm of wet, heavy snow!  We did not trust our old, narrow, 660 cc snowmachines to deliver me safely without bogging down several times along the route. 

So Bryan called a reliable and resourceful family that we have engaged over several years for many reasons, including to build about half of our 8 buildings, haul in supplies in March, and sell us delicious frozen chickens.  In fact, we had a delivery date scheduled shortly for fuel.  He asked if they could move up the intended date in order to take me with them on the back haul.  Sure enough, the very next day, the intrepid son and daughter, Anson and Oceana (probably in their early 20s), arrived, coated in snow, but without the expected load of gasoline.  The snow they traveled through was so wet and heavy that it grabbed their skis and tread, adding weight to the machines and belabored the engines.  So they left the sled loaded with 200 gallons of gasoline (about 1600 lbs) on the Susitna River rather than hazard getting stuck on the steep and sinuous woodsy trails to our home. 

A freight hauling sled

We stowed my small overnight bag and then I clambered up onto the comfortable rear seat (with heated handlebars) on one of the two, powerful 900 cc vehicles.

The first half of the trek was gorgeous.  In fact, Anson and I both used the phrase, “Winter Wonderland.” Young spruce trees bowed low under the weight of the snow.  The ancient, twisted trees of the boreal forest suggested fanciful forms, like hunched gnomes and ballerinas with arched arms.  One upturned root ball looked like a rabbit profile.   Other trees, buffeted by wind, careened into others, forming bridges and tripods.   The narrow trail veered left and right, up and down, following a series of little reflective markers nailed into trees.   In the dense woods, we traveled at about 10 – 12 mph and were protected from the wind.  On the flats (ice covered lakes and snow covered bogs),  we sped up to 25 mph through snow and sleet that pelted our faces.

Two hours later, in the waning light of afternoon, we encountered the first little cabins, dotting the ridge above the river, as well as a moose resting out of the wind.  My competent team of snowmachiners hitched the sled of gasoline to one vehicle, and then tethered the two machines together to power the load uphill out of the river valley.  We managed each hill this way.

Overflow, which is a thick layer of slushy ice water on top of the lake ice (and insulated by the new snow)  encumbered our passage across a broad lake that we know is fed by springs.  Oceana dropped me off at the far end of the water way, to shed some weight, and then she and her brother tied the two vehicles together to pull the heavy sled fast and hard through the water to an elevated shore.  There,  Anson lay on the ground to scoop out wet snow clinging to the skis and tread.  A very large moose, which I did not see when he was still, caught my eye as he lumbered away from the noisy engines.

Our plane in overflow on the lake.

After 3.5 hours, I saw, through the sleet and darkness, the first fence and telephone pole I had seen since my prior trip to town in September.  We skirted a small natural gas plant where gas lines from the Cook Inlet connect to other gas lines on this side of that waterway.   Shortly thereafter, we stopped abruptly because a moose was resting in the middle of the hard packed snow trail.  He or she reluctantly moved a few feet so we could pass, and then quickly returned to the marginally warmer spot.  Finally, we reached Anson’s home, from which his parents kindly drove me to a friend’s house to spend the night before my much needed visit to the dentist the next morning.  He extracted the tooth and its roots in a noisy/scary but pain-free procedure.

Because Anson had out-of-town friends visiting the following week, he could not take me home right away.  So, since I was on the road system and could get to the airport, I booked a last minute flight to San Francisco where I was able to visit my father, sister, and brother.  During that week, the Alaska night time temperatures dropped enough to harden up the snow for a faster and easier return cross-country.  When the snow was firm,  I flew back to Anchorage, spent the night, drove 45 minutes north, spent another night, and finally rode home with Anson on a beautiful, sunny day, toward “My Mountain” which increasingly dominated my field of vision, welcoming me home.  I arrived  at 4.30 pm with a load of mail, lots of store bought food, one less tooth than I used to have, and great appreciation for the “can-do” attitude of Anson’s intrepid family.   

All’s well that ends well.

Wildlife Questions of Alaska Fish and Game

At least once a year, I call Fish and Game (and other state Natural Resource departments) with questions about wildlife changes I have noticed.  The biologists are always responsive, nice, and well informed.   

Below are Q and A from a recent phone call with a Fish and Game biologist:

Wolverine tracks in the snow

Q:  We saw large bear tracks in the snow on New Year’s Eve, a cold week.   No raining into a den. Didn’t the bruin get the memo about hibernating?  Why would a bear be out and about that time of year?

A:  Bears that are old, starving, or infirm will often leave their den in order to die elsewhere.  (That was certainly illuminating to me!)

Q:  Since 2007, the first wolf we saw up close was last year, sitting on the frozen lake across from our cabin.  This winter, we hear more of them, my dog smells them, and we hear/see fewer coyotes.  Insights?

A:  Fish and Game had a predator control program in your area of Alaska from 2012 to 2016.  We culled the packs to about 41 wolves.  Since we stopped, we have recently counted 15 packs of about 125 animals in the region.  Yes, as wolf populations increase, they cull coyotes.

Q:  We used to see lots of hares and their tracks.  Last year and this, very few.

A:  We are nearing the end of their 10 year population cycle.  You will likely start seeing more hare and lynx tracks (a major predator) in future years.

Q:  Last year and this, we have seen more wolverine tracks close to our home.  Last winter, one walked right under our cabin, tracking dirt into the snow as he walked down to the frozen lake.  This winter we see big tracks and long gaits - bigger and longer than estimated in my “Scats and Tracks” book.  A big guy nearby.   

A:  You live in a zone with a healthy wolverine population.  I am not surprised by your observations.

My contact, Chris, was on top of every question I asked.  He was great.      

Wolverine (stock photo)

I forgot to ask him if the death of millions of spruce trees to beetle kill in the past 8 years has impacted animal populations.  I would certainly think that as an important component of our eco-system declines, animal populations dependent on spruce would shift.  I already see succession plants moving into the newly open areas previously densely shaded by 80 foot spruce trees.  We still see spruce grouse and ruffed grouse, but not the darling two families that each year reliably raised babies on our property, marching the little ones to and fro with gentle cooing by the mom. I LOVED those! I saw only one porcupine, years ago, and none since then.  We hear fewer owls at night than we used to.

Some years, our land is traversed by several bears (usually black, seldom brown) and moose with calves in June.  Other years few.  We are down to our last two quarts of bear meat from two years ago.  (Saving it for bear tacos).   Moose chow down on birch branches, but hide behind healthy, thick spruce boughs, and blend in beautifully.  I would think that these enormous ungulates might be easier for predators (wolves and bears) to spot as the spruce thickets thin and die.

Even the population of insects varies (except for mosquitoes, which are consistently tortuous in June).  This rainy summer, we saw very few hornets or yellow jackets.  Nice that the rain had at least one advantage.  When temperatures topped 80 degrees F, the lake never bloomed with a red, waterlogged rainbow of spider mites. 

My dog sits inside today, with his paws on the window sill, watching “snow TV.”  Yesterday, his hackles rose (for the second time this year), as he smelled or heard wolves behind the trees that line the lake.  Observing nature’s changes, from inside and out, entertains me, too.

A Clogged Chimney at a Wood Heated Alaska Cabin

Stove pipe creosote, 3 months' use

Note:  After reading this article, readers may ask themselves, “How long has it been since I cleaned my chimney?

 

Our off-grid log home is heated by a Drolet wood stove that burns spruce and birch almost 24/7 during the coldest winter months, up to 40 logs per day.  Fast, hot fires burn more cleanly than do slow, cooler fires because of the speed and temperature of the smoke that rises and exits through the stove pipe.  Wood that is less than optimally dry* or letting fires cool down, go out, and then restarting them frequently contribute to smoke conditions that coat the interior of the stove pipe with creosote and ash.  This builds up like cholesterol in arteries, narrowing the circumference through which the smoke escapes.  A clogged chimney is a dangerous chimney.  Dependent as we are on heating our home with wood, these issues warrant frequent maintenance to ensure a clean burn, clean air, and a safe home. 

On the first of every month, my husband opens the exterior “chase” and shoves upward an extendable chimney sweep, which, with its thick circle of metal bristles, scrapes off creosote.  The flakes shower down, looking like greasy, shiny bits of charcoal.   We sweep up the debris and dump it in the outhouse hole, not wanting it in our gardens, yard, or water table.

Still, this task is not enough to ensure a clean chimney and part of the problem may be our less than

Wood stove with hot water tank

optimal design.  We have an interior metal tube that rises about 4.5 feet from the wood stove and then exits the structure at a 90 degree angle, to ascend 2.5 stories above our metal roof.  The horizontal section slows the smoke and collects debris (see photo above).  Every spring cleaning, we dismantle the interior pipe and vacuum it out.   Another problem is much higher, where it is hard to address.  Many chimney tops, including ours, are encircled with several inches of mesh wire to retard sparks and deter birds from nesting within a quiescent, summer chimney.  This mesh is topped by a flat, metal cap to keep out rain.   

With a hot fire, the smoke quickly ascends the 2.5 stories before it cools.  A cooler fire means cooler, slower smoke and more creosote build up.  Even in mid-winter, when one would think that our fires are very hot, we used to see salmon colored creosote icicles dangle from the mesh, eventually crashing onto the back porch, leaving a distinctively resinous scent that we did not want our boots to carry inside. 

Back of cabin, hot tub to right

Every summer, Bryan climbed our longest ladder with a poking tool that he jury rigged out of a paint roller to hammer and poke at creosote accretions that clogged the mesh.  I stood below, holding the ladder, wearing a hard hat to protect my head from the rain of hard chunky bits that he dislodged.  After complaining about this task to a wise friend in Wasilla, we heard the directive:  “Remove the cap.  You are in more danger of smoke damage than of a bird nest.”  Heard and noted.   So, two summers ago, Bryan ascended the ladder with tin snips and succeeded in cutting out the section of mesh that faced him, and two of the four tines that held the cap in place.  However, he could not reach those on the far side of the chimney.  So he descended the ladder, got a hammer, and rammed the cap up and back at a rakish angle.  The chimney now had a “mouth” to which no creosote could cling.    This helped for two years.

However, since then, we have been burning beetle killed spruce inside, rather than birch.  It creates less ash in the wood stove, which is an advantage, but it produces fewer BTUs (British Thermal Units) than birch, meaning that the heat per log is not as high.  Within the past month, we have had to contend with two times when the smoke in the firebox could not ascend the stove pipe.   This could be dangerous. At the end of December, we let the fire go out and then dismantled the interior chimney tube.    With spoons and a shop vac, we removed about 2 gallons of ash and creosote and swept the upper stove pipe, too.  This week, my husband was dismayed to discover, during a midnight check on the firebox, that the smoke within was swirling, not drawing.  The temperature gauge on the pipe 2 feet above the wood stove read a meager 150 degrees. 

Creosote clogged cap and mesh,

 

 upside down

Before the cooling smoke could escape into the house (heat rises, cool air sinks) as happened several years ago, described in a prior February blog, Bryan donned his parka, hat, gloves, and boots, along with a bright headlight.  He opened the exterior chase of the stove pipe, quickly inserted the chimney sweep and shoved it so hard up the chimney that he rammed the rusting metal cap off altogether!  It careened down into the snow.   By the time he dismantled his tool and re-entered the cabin, the stove top thermometer had doubled to 300 degrees when the firewood reignited and burned brightly. 

The attached photo shows the gross looking creosote gunk that coats the mesh, blocking air flow. 

From now on, we may get some rain in the chimney, but I will feel safer all winter, and safer for my husband.  I was always nervous when he climbed that long, steep ladder to stab and cut the chimney top. 

-----------

* Our wise friend in Wasilla also gave us the gift of a handheld, battery powered gizmo make by a company called General to measure how dry a log is.  You simply stab two metal probes into the wood to get an immediate moisture reading.  The closer to zero the better.  A reading of 13% is considered medium, not optimal.  For this reason, storing firewood under a tarp or roof is obviously better than leaving it outside uncovered.  Trying to burn newly cut wood is even more fruitless.  Readers:  if you pay good money for a cord of wood delivered to your home, ask the vendors to measure its dryness.  They know.  You may want to spend $20 - 30 for a tool like ours to confirm the wood dryness upon delivery, or before burning some inside.   

Float Plane Pilots are Aging Out

Airplane pilots are aging out, with new pilots below replacement levels.  Management firm Oliver Wyman estimates a deficit of 8000 commercial pilots now, rising to 30,000 by 2025.

Our Piper PA 20, view from front porch

This is particularly true for the tiny subset of float plane pilots, who comprise just 3% of total pilot numbers (including my husband).  The 2021 FAA statistics counted 161,459 private pilots, so we can infer fewer than 5000 float plane pilots in the country.  Most of them are in Alaska, which has far more seaplane bases (140) than any other state in the country (Florida has only 44).  As these flyers retire, Alaska’s iconic form of transportation is diminishing. 

Many reasons contribute to the decline in numbers.

1)      1.  Because so few pilots are licensed to fly float planes, the pool of insured planes is smaller, resulting in high rates.  Two years ago, an air taxi pilot told us that his insurer announced a TRIPLING of his rates for floats, so he cancelled that summer service altogether.

2)      2.  Pilots with planes on floats in summer and skis in winter have to change out the undercarriage seasonally, an expense that wheeled planes lack.  For our small Piper PA-20, the cost is $600 to shift from floats to skis plus $50 each spring and fall to haul the plane in and out of the water.  The price is surely higher for bigger, heavier planes, even for air taxis that invested in the expensive equipment to handle these transitions themselves.

3)      3.  It is much more expensive to learn to fly now than 30, 40, 50 years ago, regardless of the undercarriage, but most people start with wheeled planes and then pay for 8 extra training hours to learn water take offs and landing skills.  My husband paid about $100/hr twenty years ago, starting with wheels and then added additional training for floats (and skis).  The total expense over the years he estimates at $10,000.  Currently, I see estimates of $20-25,000.  People who learned to fly as cadets or in the military enjoyed a substantial financial savings.

4)    4.    Many destinations for float planes are remote lodges, homes, and natural settings, so they may lack back haul cargo or passengers to cover the cost of the return.  As a result, float plane expenses for both the owner and the passengers can be higher than wheeled air taxis, which can have a steadier income flow from one rural or city airport to another.    For example, if I want to engage an air taxi at a time of year with few other passengers, I have to charter the whole plane, essentially paying round trip for my one way flight.  On such occasions, we pack the plane with supplies that we cannot fit in our little plane, like plywood or 100 lb propane tanks.   

5)     5.  Because the floats add more weight to a plane than wheels, a comparably sized wheeled plane can haul more cargo.  On the other hand, the floats of larger, commercial air taxis have (narrow) storage space for smelly stuff, like trash, garbage, and fresh animal skins.

Civil Air Patrol at Lake Hood, Anchorage

My husband and I live at a remote, fly-in only location.  Even here out in the boonies, we are aware of the following pilots who have hung up their wings:

In one small, rural community near us (population 2000), one air taxi owner/pilot got cancer and lost his medical approval to fly.  He sold his planes to private pilots.  Another was appalled to find that his hangar collapsed from heavy snow, pancaking both of his planes.  “Well, he observed, philosophically, “More time with my grandkids.” A third air taxi couple retired, and several years later, sold their dock and office to an out-of-state pilot who flies in the summers only and promptly doubled the rates given the dearth of competition.  Two accomplished pilot friends in their 80’s, one commercial and one private, may be wondering when their last flight will be, and to whom they can sell their immaculate float planes.

Further north, the FAA grounded a man who trained and examined a generation of float and ski plane pilots, reducing the paucity of people qualified to do so.   

In Anchorage, a flight teacher who used to do touch and go’s on our lake has retired.  Whoever bought her planes did not buy the business, too.  A phenomenally knowledgeable air taxi pilot in Anchorage retired to Louisiana, near relatives.  A veterinarian who used to fly to remote locations to care for racing and other dogs sold his plane to a friend of ours when he aged out.

Obviously as people age, they make different decisions about business or pleasure, based on health and expenses.  But I can’t help thinking that I am seeing, if not an end of an era, a dramatic reduction of float plane competent pilots.  This saddens me. 

Float planes can travel where wheeled planes cannot – to pristine lakes, glacier fed rivers, gorgeous log lodges and modest plywood cabins.  They connect technology with nature, air with water, noise with silence.  They travel where roads and bridges would be prohibitively expensive to build and maintain, leaving little trace on the landscape.  They require no runway. 

I salute all float plane pilots, past and future.  If you, as a reader, are not one, I encourage you to add to your bucket list a flight in a float plane to some lovely destination.  It will be memorable.   

Warm (Sort of) Below Zero

The week approaching Winter Solstice has been clear and cold.  Today, it is minus 15 degrees F.  Hoar frost (from ice fog) coats the bottom thirty feet of forest that spikes through 6.5 ft of sugary snow. The spruce boughs droop white. I see no animal tracks at all.  Everyone and everything is hunkered down on these short days of blue light at 9 am and sunset at 3 pm.

Hoar frost coats the branches

Outdoors, we do our jobs as quickly as thick mittens and bulky parkas allow.  When I light the fire for the hot tub, (yes, we bathe outside at these temperatures), I notice an inversion layer of cold air that presses the smoke to flow horizontally out of the chimney.  To the chickens, I carry warm water and snacks of meat fat or seedy berry pulp. I kick a hole in a frozen layer of the chicken water, pouring warm water in the allegedly heated bowl.  Their coop is insulated, with a thick carpet of straw, but their body heat and a light bulb are not enough to keep their eggs from freezing, which I boil and feed back to them. 

Down to about zero, we walk on the frozen lake, playing fetch with the dog, who skitters and slides on icy patches.  Below that temperature, a stroll or a brisk walk is less appealing to all of us.  Buddy lifts alternate back legs off the cold snow, but I have not yet succeeded in getting him to accept four fabric and Velcro booties.   

Our machines suffer, too.  The solar batteries are nowhere near as efficient in winter as summer, so we awaken to a loss of power every morning (if there is no wind for the wind turbine).  In the cold and dark, Bryan trudges uphill to the power shed, dragging a sled with the ever-reliable Honda generator that he warmed in the cabin overnight. Plugged in for about four hours (one gallon of gas), we eke out another 20 hours of electricity.

Inside the 750 sq ft cabin, the wood stove burns 30-45 logs per day, 24/7.  The 23 gallon aluminum hot water tank above the stove radiates some heat into the room, but we still need to wear several layers of clothes inside.  The double layered windows need additional insulation, so we hang blankets over rebar, tucking them behind the drapes during the day.  However, the chilliest corners of the log cabin measure 29 degrees today. Olive oil has congealed on a shelf.  The warmest center of the cabin, though, is a pleasant 60 - 63.

Summer view of our woodstove

The drain under the kitchen sink freezes, so every morning, we plug in an electric line that dangles inside the pipe to warm it.  On exceptionally cold days, when the drain line requires more power than we want to allocate, I wash dishes in a bucket and dump the gray water outside.  Outside, the well pump can freeze, too.  On those days, we bring in buckets of snow to melt for wash water. 

Challenging though this weather can be, it does offer compensatory benefits. 

We save up indoor projects and pleasures for this time of year. This morning I cuddled in bed with an Agatha Christie novel.  Previously, I finished two online courses on dog training and another on making herbal remedies.  Herbal leaves, berries, and flowers that I harvested and dried during the summer are turned into salves, balms, and tinctures now.   The chocolate brandy made in prior summers my husband likes to sip, warm, on cold winter evenings.  I favor mint tea with rosehips.

Some people may get cabin fever.  I figure it is my job to make sure that I don’t.