Switched to Gravity ((Chasing the Caribou, near Barrow, Alaska)(Suspenseful Flash Ficiton))

Switched to Gravity
(Chasing the Caribou, near Barrow, Alaska)

(Suspenseful Flash Fiction)


(Summer of 1996) He put his nose straight forward, straight down, less than one-hundred feet from the surface of the tundra, the Russian pilot was chasing caribou, over the wide open spaces between Barrow, Alaska, and Point Lay, alongside the Chukchi Sea, then inland two-hundred and fifty miles we went, then back to Barrow.

We had just left Point Lay, now was further inland, in the interior of this isolated region, he spotted a herd of caribou, descended from five-hundred feet to one-hundred, watching the caribou herd running in a sedate circle across the brownish tundra of June.
He had showed his flying skills earlier by doing some loops high in the sky, spun from 2000-feet up, and dived to five hundred, now one hundred. The good thing was that there were no poles or trees to get in the small plane’s way—thank goodness.
He closed the throttle, was right in back of the caribou, and then opened it again climbing, frightened the animals some, for me it was a high.
“All right,” he said to me, “you got what you wanted, was that close enough, I mean, I almost rammed into them, matter of fact, don’t tell anyone I got so close, I could lose my license over this.”
“It was close, almost too close, but I got to see them, instead of seeing dots, underneath the plane’s wheels.” I commented.
He was now smiling, almost laughing, and doing some thinking, didn’t give me the impression he digest all I said; next, he was now turning the plane around and chasing the herd again. I could almost touch their tails, and then he checked the gauges, and made a last turn upwind, over their heads passing them like a huge eagle.
“For gad’s sake, stop chasing them,” I said, “I think you’re scaring the daylights out of them!”
“Right,” he said, “let’s get along,” and he pointed the head of the plane towards Barrow, north.


It was a drowsy hazy day, he slid slowly beneath some clouds, shifting slightly, rising and falling.
He, the Russian Pilot, was coming just to the right of the small narrow airstrip at Barrow, Alaska, the plane fishtailed, trying to land, overshooting a little, not having the extra speed and height he needed, he cut the switch, raised the nose of the plane, his tail was down, the landing was seemingly fine, my stomach went up to my throat—blood filled my nose, then went up to my head, so it felt, as my head hit the front of the instrument panel, then I heard the roar of wind as he opened up his window and flicked his cigarette out,
“It’s a crash,” he said, “hang on,” and that was all the time he had left to say anything, and had he not switched to gravity—who knows? The adjustment saved us from a fatal crash.



Note: There is more truth to this story then meets the eye, on the white and black, perhaps it should be called historical fiction. Taken place June, 1996; written August 27, 2008; most everything I write has historical fiction in it, or some kind of experience I’ve had. I usually do not pull it out of my head unless it has been there.