First of my Kind Read online

  First of my Kind

  By

  Marc Stevens

  To everyone everywhere, First of my Kind is a work of fiction and has absolutely nothing to do with anyone, anyplace or anything. This work is a compilation of words that came from a mind that might possibly be deranged so please don’t read anything extra into it because it’s just not there. Any perceived resemblance to anything else is purely coincidental and should not be mistaken for something it isn’t.

  Text Copyrighted 2017 by Marc Stevens

  All rights reserved.

  I am dedicating this book to my family. This is for my two wonderful kids and especially my wife Bernadette. I know that in the countless hours I spent writing this book there was a lot of chores that would have been completed a lot faster had I not been sitting in front of my computer. I love you Bernie, thank you for your support and your ability to help me wade through my dreadful use of the English language. I owe a tremendous amount of gratitude to my brother Michael and his wife Carolyn. Without their help this book would not have been possible. For every hour I spent thinking and writing this flight from reality my youngest brother spent an equal amount of time sorting and correcting my flagrant breaches of writing etiquette. He patiently steered me in the right direction whenever I decided to jump head first into the endless amount of pitfalls associated with becoming a first time sci-fi writer. Thank you little brother!

  I am going to apologize in advance to the really hard core Sci-Fi readers who might take exception to the fact that I didn’t include reams of rock solid known scientific facts. I love science fiction but have little to no appetite for technobabble. I am a reader that yearns for a rousing action packed space adventure rather than a manual spewing technical scientific perfection to back up my protagonist propensity for blowing the crap out of everything. Sorry it was never my intention to attempt to entertain my intended audience with Einsteinian rhetoric. Please read my book for what it is and not for what it isn’t.

  Marc Stevens

  Table of Contents

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  1

  I moved to Alaska 7 months after my 19th birthday. I left my grandparents farm in rural Missouri hoping to become a hunting guide in Alaska. The stories my best friend Karl told me about flying the Alaskan bush was the motivation I needed to make my ambitions a reality. Karl said his uncle had several wealthy clients he flew to remote hunting camps on a regular basis. The pictures he sent me of the hunters posing with trophy class game were captivating. This was the stuff of my dreams. It also didn’t hurt knowing a successful guide could make more in a week than I did in a month. All the people that knew me said I was the best hunter in the county. I reasoned that once I got established in Alaska, it would be just a matter of time before my talents were recognized. I knew I was on the road to fortune and fame. Thinking my friends would be in awe of my move, I made it a point to tell them all. It was disappointing when most said, Nathan Myers you’re an idiot if you think you can drive to Alaska and become rich and famous. Thinking back on their comments, I wish I could tell them they were only half right.

  My parents divorced when I was 9 because my Dad was in the Air Force and deployed to parts unknown most of the time. Mom deployed elsewhere permanently, and she wasn’t even in the military. I don’t think she could stand the loneliness and heartache of raising a child by herself on an air force enlisted man’s salary. I was raised by my grandparents on my dad’s side and had spent the last ten years working on their farm in rural Missouri. Life with my grandparents was good. The hard physical work of running a farm was what I needed to put solid muscle on my otherwise skinny but tall stature.

  My grandfather taught me everything he knew about farming, hunting, and fishing. The last two were my passion. My grandpa’s 560 acre farm backed up to the wooded hills and bottoms of the Mississippi river. This was a hunter’s paradise. The days I spent roaming the beautiful countryside made me realize how much I loved the outdoors. As I grew older, I began to appreciate life on the farm. Just across the fence from my private hunting grounds was a narrow strip of woods running along the river to a small creek. If you hiked upstream a quarter of a mile, it put you on the spillway of a 75 acre irrigation lake owned by the Larson family. Roger and Sandy Larson ran a crop dusting operation out of their 2600 hundred acre farm. It was one of the largest privately held farms around. The Larson’s son Karl was my best friend since grade school. When we did not have chores, I would drag him with me to go hunting and fishing which were my favorite hobbies. I knew this wasn’t Karl’s thing, but he did it anyway because we were friends. As we grew older, I could no longer talk Karl into going with me. There was no way to tear Karl away from his favorite hobby, which eventually would consume a considerable amount of my free time.

  When I was not working the farm, I was fishing or hunting. It didn’t take long until I knew every inch of those bottoms and the surrounding hills. My Grandparent’s freezer became so full of fish and game Granddad bought another freezer. We wasted nothing I brought home from the woods. I still remember Grandpa telling me, every life is precious so never point your gun at anything you don’t plan on eating. I would find less than a year after leaving the farm I was forced to break that golden rule.

  Karl did not mind hunting and fishing, but his love was flying. He was probably born with wings but the doctor cut them off so he wouldn’t suffer an embarrassing childhood. His Dad owned a fleet of 3 Air Tractor 502s, a Cessna 182, and a Piper 140. Quite a few of my first flights with Karl had me calling the Piper the Puker. Since Karl’s Dad had learned to fly at an early age like his Dad before him, it was only natural Karl would follow in their footsteps. Karl flew his first solo at 14 in the 140 and got his pilot’s license in the 182 on his 16th birthday. He had already accumulated hundreds of hours in the Puker and the 182. I wish I could say I loved to fly with Karl. However, his crop duster flying style was not what I was cut out for. His father grounded him from the planes on a weekly basis for finding tree branches stuck in the landing gear cowlings or the odor of vomit in the plane. His father knew the only reason the plane smelled like puke was because Karl was flying like a mad man purposely trying to make me sick. I swear my vomit must have smelled like Ambrosia to that guy. No matter how much I bitched and moaned he would just smile, stall the plane, then put us in a steep diving recovery. If that didn’t get the desired results, he would quickly follow up with a negative G pushover. These maneuvers quickly stifled my bitching and usually liberated even the smallest amount of food I had in my stomach. If the Puker went down, we wouldn’t be hard to find. The authorities could just follow the trail of Walt’s Market bags that littered the countryside along our last known course.

  The good things that came from this experience, was Karl taught me to fly, navigate, take off and land without endangering myself or others. He also taught me to reasonably read the upcoming weather by looking at the cloud formations and noting the temperature changes. Did he instill enough of the right stuff to make me a daredevil like him? NO! But I could safely get the 140 to poi
nt A from point B and back again in VFR conditions. During summer break from high school I would spend several hours a week being Karl’s designated lookout. I was the nervous fool making sure we weren’t on a collision course with one of the numerous tall communication towers dotting the surrounding hills. Karl’s contribution to this ritual entailed him donning a ridiculous looking hood over his head to purposely obstruct his view of the outside world. Karl assured me this procedure was necessary for him to qualify for his instrument flight rating. My opinion of this madness often led to some very heated discussions. Flying high enough to make it a reasonably safe practice also increased the danger of encountering other aircraft. If Karl’s Dad ever became privy to our activities while flying Karl’s future would be confined to driving a shuttle bus for the nearest old folk’s home.

  Karl’s parents were adamant Karl would go to college upon finishing high school. They wanted him to become something greater than a hair brained stunt pilot or chemical soaked crop duster. Karl had other ideas. Little did I know his plans for the future would eventually involve me? My grandparents always told me when I was young I had a bright future ahead of me. I do not recall them saying anything about a future full of grim realities that would make me doubt my sanity.

  Karl’s uncle owned and operated Larson’s Bush Service in Seratook Alaska. I still chuckle at the implications a person could conjure up about that small play on words. Karl’s Uncle Bill had a prospering charter/cargo operation in the remote Alaskan Wilderness that hauled just about anything you could shove into a bush plane. His uncle and the pilots working for him flew to all points within several hundred miles of his airstrip. Most of the destinations you couldn’t get a land vehicle to without extreme difficulty. In the winter the majority of locations were only accessible by a bush plane with skis. Karl always spoke of his Uncle Bill like he was the God of all bush pilots. It was not uncommon for Karl to e-mail him every evening before going to bed. Karl loved hearing about his Uncle’s adventures and what airplane he flew that day. His Uncle had a Super Cub, 2 Cessna 206s, and a Helio Super Courier that could land on water or snow. Karl said his uncle recently purchased a Cessna 208 Caravan at a bank auction and was spending a fortune to update it. Karl always said his uncle would sign off all of his e-mails with an invitation to come to Alaska. I believe some of my flights with Karl involving more than one Walt’s Market bag, were directly related to Karl’s morning reading of his Uncle’s e-mails.

  Karl’s Uncle Bill like his Dad, was a gifted pilot that flew in the military. When he completed his tour of duty, he moved on to the other things being born with wings would take you to. In Bill’s case he got together with his brother Roger and started Larson’s Ag Air Services. The business was successful and led to the brothers buying large tracks of farm ground. Bill finally got his fill of dirt and chemicals, which are always on the menu if you spend much time in a crop duster. He sold his interest to his brother and moved to the far north. I knew Karl’s Uncle Bill and the excitement of a new flying challenge would pull my best friend to Alaska. Karl could never be grounded long enough to go to college. At just over 18 years old Karl finally got what he would say was his parent’s blessing to go live with his Uncle in Alaska. I knew it was a load of bull. I’m sure Karl’s parents caved to the fact Karl needed to make the same decisions that at some point in their lives they had to make. To say I was a little depressed my best friend was taking off into the wild blue yonder would be an understatement. I came to grips with the fact Karl was leaving and I could only say goodbye and good luck. Three days later Karl took off in the 140 headed for Seratook Alaska and Uncle Bill Larson’s Bush Service. I stood at the edge of his family’s private airstrip wondering if I would ever see my friend again.

  I got a call from Karl about three months later. He told me about his flight to his Uncle Bill’s place and how he was picking up on the bush service routine. His uncle had him cutting his teeth on the easy charter routes. He quickly got his aircraft ratings flying in his Uncle’s modified Super Cub and the pair of hard worked Cessna 206s. His call kind of made me miss the puker. I had not flown since Karl left for Alaska and honestly did not know if I ever would again. I got another call from Karl about six months later saying his Uncle Bill was shorthanded at the airstrip. His hired help decided to retire and move to the lower 48. Karl said his Uncle’s charter business was doing so well, he decided Karl had enough experience to start flying several of the bush routes. Karl casually added his Uncle Bill had 3 different Hunting Guides working out of his airstrip. WOW! Now he was talking my kind of language, hunting guide was definitely right up my alley! I was sure if I worked at the airport for several months and got the lay of the land I would be a guide in no time. Granddad had recently asked me if I was interested in running the farm for him and Grandma. He said they were getting to the age where they needed to take life easy. I needed to figure out if farming is what I was put on this earth to do or if I needed to take my bright future in a new direction.

  I had been harvesting soybeans for the last week. The long days in the cab of the combine kept me out of the woods. The more I thought about Alaska, the more I disliked the taste of dirt and the smell of diesel. I only saw my Dad once this past year. He was now in charge of aircraft maintenance on some island called Diego Garcia. I was a grown man now and my father always said "take life by the horns or you'll be trampled under its hoofs.” I was not going to be the first Myers to wear hoof prints because of indecision. I had to be honest with myself about moving on. It did not help matters knowing I was not brought to the farm by my choice. Two days later with a case of the jitters and mixed emotions, I sat down with Granddad. Finding the words to tell him what I was thinking about doing proved difficult. I asked if it was going to cause him and Grandma any hardship if I left the farm. My granddad sat back in his chair, gave me a warm smile, and a knowing look. Granddad told me Karl’s Dad had been after him for the past few years to sell the farm. It was something he was thinking hard about lately. He said he owed it to Grandma for putting up with him to take her some place warm and exotic.

  That was news to me, but good news nonetheless. Now I had very few reasons to stay on the farm. My grandparents furnished my room and board and paid me $1500 a month for work I did on the farm. I did not know at the time but Dad had been sending my grandparents $500 a month for my day-to-day living expenses. Being a teenager, regardless of the lectures I received from my grandparents still could not save me from being financially challenged. I still managed to spend the majority of the money I earned on all the things I thought were important. Such as the seemingly endless list of custom parts for my old 4 wheel drive pickup. I also had it in my mind better equipment made a better hunter, so I bought some very pricey firearms. Against my grandparents better wishes I dropped a huge chunk of change on a 4 wheel drive ATV that tried to kill me on more than one occasion. The list of expenses keeping me mostly broke was considerable.

  I had tough decisions to make concerning what I could part with. I had to generate enough cash to get to Alaska. My plan was to make it a leisurely trip. I had never traveled, so I was going to sight see along the way. Gas, food and occasional lodging quickly added up to a small mountain of spending money. I still had about six thousand dollars in the bank. Most of it would go towards the 16 foot box trailer I was going to purchase to haul my belongings. When Granddad figured out what I was up to, he told me to hold on until after the upcoming harvest. Grandpa decided to go ahead and sell the farm to Karl’s dad. I did not realize how serious Granddad was about retiring but now it was a sure thing. Granddad sat me down a few days later and told me to stick around another 6 months. When the harvest was over he needed me to help him fix up and sell his surplus farm machinery. I had no problem with that because it would take me a while to earn traveling money.

  The word had spread my grandparents had sold their farm and several of our neighbors came by to look at the tractors and equipment. I had worked hard to get the equipment in sh
ape and had even painted two of grandpa’s older tractors. My grandparents were pleased with my efforts because two of our neighbors wanted to buy all the machinery. The two got into a bidding war. The results of which netted my Grandparents top dollar. That evening after dinner Grandpa and Grandma surprised me with a check for $20,000. I was stunned at the amount of the check. It brought tears to my eyes knowing how much my grandparents loved me and wanted me to succeed at whatever I did. Saying goodbye to them would be one of the hardest things I ever had to do.

  I was 19 years old and setting out towards Alaska with everything I owned. I loaded it all in my pickup and a tandem axle 16 foot box trailer. I was not going because of a choice someone else made for me. I was going because I had life firmly by the horns. I was starting a new chapter in my life and knew it would lead to bigger and better things.

  My time spent driving gave me more than enough time to question my decision to leave the farm. I wondered if it was a mistake to leave my stable, comfortable life and a job I had spent years learning, for one I had only dreamed of doing. Sitting at a gas station just outside of Kansas City I sent an e-mail to Karl letting him know I would be showing up in a couple weeks. I told him to let his uncle, and of course, the hunting guides know I would be looking for a job when I got there.

  After four days on the road, I checked my laptop to see if I had gotten any messages. There was nothing from Karl. I was starting to get a sinking feeling in my gut. I again questioned my decision to leave the farm. I began to wonder if I would even have a job when I got there. On the sixth day I finally heard from Karl. I was in a small hotel in northern Washington. It was raining sideways from a huge storm blowing in from the mountains. I got two e-mails back to back. The first one saying how excited Karl was to hear I was really coming to Alaska. He went on to say the reason he had not called me back was he flew supplies and charters every day for the past week. He was up early and back late. Those that knew better never waited until the last minute to stock up on winter supplies. Then he described the past years harsh winter conditions, and the things needed to be done to keep the airport and the aircraft operating in sub-zero weather.