A New Airstrip

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I haven't written on this blog about my trip to Nanwalek.  I didn't know how to.  It didn't seem like what happened there was really my story to tell.  It still doesn't feel like my story, but I can share what I know.

I had been in Nanwalek for about four hours when it happened.  The day was a bit blustery.  My flight over with Homer Air was bumpy; we had been delayed for a couple hours that morning because of snow, low visibility, and wind, but finally had been able to make the trip across.  I had made arrangements with a local man who was going to help introduce me to people, but I found out upon arrival that he was busy with two sick kids.  Instead, I found my way to the Village Office/Community Center, where I stumbled into the middle of the weekly Elder Tea.  Within half an hour, I had begun an interview.  I was in the middle of the fourth interview of the day when it happened.

We heard yelling.  

A small plane had crashed into the cold waters of the Bay. 

I arrived at the beach a few minutes later, slush splashing under my boots, heart pounding, tears forming in my eyes, a blanket clutched in my hands.  By that time, the three passengers and pilot were all out of the plane.  Wet, cold, and shivering most of them were already wrapped in blankets.  They were loaded up into trucks and four-wheelers and taken to the Village Clinic.  The tail of the plane showed in the water, about 100 feet offshore.  The people on board had swum and then waded to safety, assisted by the folks that got to the beach first.  It seemed as if the entire Village was there, ready to help in whatever way they could.  Once everyone was safe, attention turned to fastening the plane to the shore so it wasn't washed away by the tides.  Sometime later that day or the next, it was hauled onto a boat trailer and brought onto land.

Everyone was safe.  It was over, but it wasn't at all over.

I can't fathom the panic that must have coursed through the veins of those in the plane as it hit the water.  I can't imagine the terror that filled the hearts of the people in Nanwalek as they watched their family, friends, neighbors plunge downward to the Bay.

I learned later, still a little shaky from the whole thing, that this is not a completely rare occurrence in Nanwalek.  Planes have crashed here before, and sometimes, tragically, the casualties have been much worse. 

When I flew out two days later, I was anxious.  I was also sad to leave Nanwalek; despite the upsetting event, people there had been kind, welcoming, and friendly to me.  As I waited for the plane in the leaky shack at the end of the airstrip, people came by in trucks and on four-wheelers to see if packages had arrived earlier that day.  They waved, chirped "Hi," struck up conversation.  I plan to go back this spring.

After I clambered aboard the plane, it was time to take off.  I held my breath.  We made it, clearing the cliffs with only a few lurching bumps and arcing upwards and around towards Port Graham.  I looked down at the forest below, thinking of plans for a new airstrip between Nanwalek and Port Graham.  I've never been so sure that trees should be cut down.  For the people living in these villages, small planes are often a critical connection, bringing medicine, food, and supplies.  Especially in winter months when taking a skiff becomes an especially dangerous and cold affair, planes are the primary way to leave the village -- for important medical care, visiting family, or just having some fun.  The new airstrip between Port Graham and Nanwalek would make it all a bit safer and hopefully a little less nerve-wracking.

My thoughts are with the people of Nanwalek as they continue to heal and recover from the horror of a plane going down in the water.