Working as a game (wildlife) biologist for the Alaska Department of Fish and Game through the 1970s an annual ritual involved flying surveys to establish the health of area moose populations.
Every fall and early winter we waited for fresh snowfall to blanket central Alaska -- anticipating a call. When it came, half a dozen biologists would climb into super cubs, two seated planes, the pilot up front, the biologist observer behind him, and off we would soar, each of us assigned to a specific part of a game management unit. ADF&G divides the state into discrete areas (units) where moose and other species hunting seasons are set. Our mission: to get an estimate of the size and composition of the area moose population.
A survey involves flying at low altitude in transects a quarter mile apart, enumerating the moose we saw...cow, calf, bull. Surveyers circle each sighting to ascertain our call was correct, that the "cow" wasn't a bull that had shed it's antlers and there weren't other moose around. Often there were. Over the years, between moose, Dall sheep, and mountain goat surveys plus radio tracking moose, wolves and wolverines, I saw huge swaths of south-central Alaska.
The back seat of a super cub lacks the comfort of your average Winnebago. Because of the often sub-zero cold and drafty quarters we bundled ourselves in down parkas and pants. Still, I remember getting frost bite from a gap in a plane's door directing twenty below zero air at airplane velocity directly on my knee.
Some flights had hiccups. As winter descended on Alaska, landing gear on super cubs was often configured to have both wheel and ski landing gear options. During one memorable survey we took off from the snowless Palmer Airport on wheels. Once airborne the pilot pumped the wheels up so we could land with skis on frozen lakes when we reached our snow-covered count area. Note: At some point during surveys we usually had to land to refuel the planes from extra fuel we carried in metal 5-gallon Blazo (Fuel) cans stashed in the back of the plane.
On that occasion, while returning to Palmer after completing our count, the pilot turned and announced "we have a problem." On pumping the wheels back down to land at the snowless airport, one wheel descended, the other didn't. Half and half doesn't meet FAA aviation standards. Fortunately he was able to get the one wheel back up but all we had for landing gear were skis to land at a snowless airport. So the pilot announced we we going to land on frozen grass alongside the runway. As we approached the air field I braced myself for a "sports spectacular" but instead the pilot executed a landing as smooth as soft butter on a warm piece of toast.
One pilot I trusted farmed potatoes as his other profession. With him we departed from a runway next to his field which, during winter months, often gets pummeled by the famous Matanuska winds, the result of a high pressure area in interior Alaska and low pressure along the coast. Arctic air is funneled down the Matanuska River Valley to blast the area around Palmer and Wasilla. Temperatures just below zero and fifty mile an hour winds with blowing snow -- or dust (once exposed soil was cleared) made flying out of the question.
But one calm day we set off into clear skies headed towards Talkeetna, our mission that day -- to radio track collared moose. We quickly discovered the calm on the ground was nature's ruse because upon gaining altitude we virtually stopped in mid flight. Hovering over a Matanuska Valley barn seemingly motionless above it, the pilot queried "how fast do you think we're going?" The answer...50 mph and we were stationary in the air. The Matanuska winds reigned aloft but hadn't reached ground level...yet.
Returning to home base at dusk the winds had reached the ground. All "hell broke loose" as we descended to land. The plane bounced and gyrated all over the sky as the pilot fought to retain control of the aircraft. Approaching the potato field runway I remember looking out my left side window straight down at the field mere feet from the wing tip as a wind gust knocked us sideways moments before we were about to touch down. Landing a plane on it's side isn't generally recognized as advisable. The pilot slammed the controls to upright the plane and wham, we hit the ground and it was over. You'd think a pilot would be rattled by that landing, but as we taxied to his hangar, he chatted on like he was in a coffee shop conversation. As for me, shaking revealed my state of anxiety.
We've shown you some images of Sitka black-tailed deer in Part I and here are a few more.