The passengers were all sound asleep in the back. It would be a shame to awaken them to prepare for the landing. I let them sleep until the very last moment. There had been none of the usual complaints, like “we’re too hot” or “we’re too cold.” They had no inkling of what lay ahead for them. Nor did I.
My very early flight for this day was to the tiny Alaskan village of Beaver, far north of the Arctic Circle, to pick up 27 tired and very dirty smoke jumpers and take them to Anchorage. The jumpers had been ferried into the gravel airstrip at Beaver by helicopter from a stubborn tundra fire they had worked on for almost a week. The summer sun never sets this far north, and as they boarded the DC-3 in the early morning sunshine, they had little energy left. Their faces were smudged with charcoal and ashes mixed with sweat and mosquito bites. The boys were hardly able to smile and utter a very weak, “Hi, Jim.” After boarding and loading their gear, some did cheer up a bit when they were told they were going to Anchorage for a few days off. After takeoff, the steady hum of the big Pratt & Whitneys soon drummed them deep into slumber. Parachute bags became their mattresses, Nomex jackets their pillows. All was very peaceful in the cabin all the way to Anchor-Town.
