Part 3: Ghost Stories

Part 2: Vanishing Point

I now find myself in locations where the term “roads” is a very loose and generously abstract description for the barely navigable paths which blend seamlessly into the vast mountain wilderness I am now surrounded by.

After my initial departure from the shadow people, I somehow ended up in Stewart, British Columbia. A small northern town on the B.C Provincial and Alaskan State border.

Enraptured by the stark beauty and solitude of the area, I was fortunate enough to find a long term lease for a winterized log cabin, located on the north-western shore of Clements Lake, located approximately 15 kilometres north of the town. It was far enough away from civilization to satisfy my desire for infrequent human interaction, unless I needed to venture into Stewart for supplies.

The cabin has now become the one place—apart from the cockpit—where I feel at home. No cell service, (notwithstanding the satellite phone in my emergency bag), no unwanted visitors. Just the whisper of the wind through the trees and the occasional moose or deer mistaking my porch for a rest stop.

I may have unshackled myself from the chains of corporate flight, but I still needed to make a living. A man still has to eat. I certainly had no desire to avail myself of the itinerant meals-on-legs which regularly sauntered past the front door of my cabin.

I was fortunate to have sufficient savings squared away prior to my arrival in Stewart. Enough to acquire a decidedly ancient, but well maintained de Havilland DHC2 Beaver. I was even able to barter for a pair of slightly used amphibious Wipline 6100 floats. I rented parking space for the plane in one of the hangars at Stewart’s tiny airport—ostensibly now my new base of operations.

I found myself flying mining equipment to camps where the only "road" was the hastily cleared space for me to land my plane. Or getting medical supplies to outposts where a recent snowstorm could mean life or death. Sometimes it was just mail—letters from one lonely soul to another, bridging the vast emptiness of the North.

While I do my best to only accept cargo contracts, sometimes normal requests may arise because of abnormal or unusual circumstances such as:

“Can you transport the local Band Chief to his inauguration ceremony?”/ "How much moose meat can you carry?" / "Can you provide transportation for an 8-month pregnant lady needing an emergency C-Section?"

After completing a job, I always try and make my way back to my cabin hideaway for rest and rejuvenation—abiding by the only schedule that matters—the rising and setting of the sun.

I’ve always believed an airplane to be more than just a compilation of metal, bolts, rivets, rubber or aviation fuel. It’s a time portal – a trans-dimensional storyteller in its own right. Every dent, oil stain and whispered creak of the fuselage has a tale to tell.

Some of these storied flights are straightforward. Others carry a hint of intrigue—a mystery cargo, suspicious-looking clients with no luggage, an unsettling, fuel-devouring headwind, or a sudden downdraft on approach to a runway carved out of the side of a mountain. Sometimes, the only way to navigate to your destination is by following a thin dirt road partially obscured by fog and mist as you fly 500 feet above the ground while attempting to stay clear of low hanging cloud. At other times you're the one being followed.

I don’t always know how the story begins when I take off, or how it may end when I land. But that's the thrill of it.

The flights are the stories, in as much as every takeoff is a new chapter; every landing, a punctuation mark. These stories are meant to paint moving pictures in the mind. Any painting at a minimum, requires two things:

A Canvas and a Brush.

These stories are composed by applying Microsoft Flight Simulator software as the brush that strokes the canvas of my imagination; creating a moving diorama of infinite possibilities, each with a thousand potential outcomes.

Maybe, somewhere out there, someone else is flying with their own ghosts through the digital wilderness, running cargo, or taking on passengers—never realizing who or what is sitting just a few feet behind them.

But that’s another story … for another flight.