THE INCOMPARABLE BUSH PILOT

One afternoon, I saw Bob Curtis, who had started bush flying in Alaska after World War II, loading his Aeronca Sedan floatplane at my dock on Lake Hood, which is an integral part of the Anchorage International Airport. He was getting ready to fly out to Tikchik Narrows Lodge, a premier wilderness fishing retreat that he and his wife, Gayle, had opened in 1969. They were expecting their first summertime guests and Bob was filling the back of the plane with grocery boxes of every kind. Rhoda, the gal who ran their gourmet kitchen, was standing nearby, along with Bob’s stinking, good-for-nothing, Chesapeake dog named Chief. I left my office to say good-bye, since Bob and I were good friends and I wouldn’t see him again until fall.

Before I go on, I must explain that Bob, who’s no longer alive, was one of Alaska’s legendary characters. He was the epitome of the hard-drinking, fun-loving pioneers who had opened the state to big game hunting and world-class fishing. When he wasn’t working, he was raising hell, and few have cut a wider swathe in the Last Frontier.

He filled the Sedan almost to its back headliner, leaving only a foot or so. I was beginning to wonder . . . then to my amazement, he grabbed Chief with his left arm circling the dog's neck and his right arm beneath the dog's belly and out between the legs with his hand clenched around the poor dog’s testicles. In one swift motion, he stepped onto the pilot-side pontoon, squeezed Chief’s family jewels, and torpedoed him into the cramped space above all the boxes. “Yip, yip, yip,” the dog cried.

In the next instance, he turned to Rhoda and asked, “You want some help getting in?”

Rhoda shot him a look that could kill, which flew right past Bob because he was that kind of guy. After a moment, she said, “Don’t you dare touch me.”

I walked back to my office, laughing and shaking my head. I’d seen it all.