Roanoke Times
                 Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.

DATE: SUNDAY, September 5, 1993                   TAG: 9309170430
SECTION: HORIZON                    PAGE: F5   EDITION: METRO 
SOURCE: TRACY WIMMER
DATELINE:                                 LENGTH: Medium

A CLOSE CALL IN ALASKA'S BUSH

For the better part of an hour, Bill and I have circled these mountains.

This is life, you know - the Dall sheep scaling the cliffs, the mother black bear ushering her cubs into the prickly, thick brush that encircles the lake and the glaciers - slowly, slyly carving new faces into ancient rock few men have crossed.

Once we land, Bill wonders aloud where they are - the father and son he dropped off early this morning to fish these remote lakes and streams. They've had plenty of time to have reached the pick-up point. We're late. They'll be around soon, I surmise.

So we talk.

Bill has been flying since he was 15 and hates Exxon - this after having spent many months between flying oil executives to the Valdez spill and trying to wipe clean the eyes of dying otters.

The anger and moroseness vanish into worry when he again looks at his watch. I begin to feel his concern.

Float planes are common in Alaska. One out of 45 people has one - mostly to get to bush cabins or family in the wilderness. The obvious potential for problems is always there because of weather or mechanical failure. Much of the airspace in Alaska is so remote that there is no radio contact, leaving pilots and passengers in trouble on their own unless they log their destinations and flight times.

The rugged terrain also challenges any pilot who is looking for his passengers while providing great fodder for imagining what might have happened to them.

We take to the air again.

Bill begins bringing the plane down low, so close to the ground my stomach knots. I begin yelling questions: Should we be this close to the trees? Could they be back at the meeting spot already? My questions are inane to Bill, leaving me to stare silently out the window. And bargain with God.

Suddenly Bill yells. Soon we are turning the plane in the other direction.

Bill turns to me, grinning. My heart races and I'm clapping my hands before I realize I'm no longer clutching the grips above my shoulder. We see them making their way through the brush - just as our floaters hit the water.

The father begins to trot - almost run - while juggling. What is he carrying?

A handful of tangled flyrods and assorted gear in one hand, two fine-sized fish in the other and on his head - a chubby, little blond-haired boy, covered in mud and scratches, sleeping peacefully.

Once awakened at the plane, the child cries weary tears. I hand him a couple of Snicker bars while I fasten his seat belt.

He smiles.

But before we've made it into the air, the candy falls to the floor and he is again asleep.

``How old is that child?'' I ask the father who has propped his feet on his fish, never taking his eyes off the window.

``Three,'' he says, ``but this is not his first time [fishing].''