The sky is blue, with no clouds. The sun lies low on the horizon, and lightens the primordial landscape. There is no sign of human presence.
The last frontier’s meadows are still partially covered in ice and the majestic rivers meander snake like, woods of white birch trees like old bones sticking out into the sky, and further north, thousands of square kilometers of mountains and lakes. On the ground a pack of dogs gallop, pulling a little sleigh. The musher looks up and waves at the small aeroplane which flying low combs through the air. The first powerful chords of “Hard sun”, echo in the cabin, Eddie Vedder wrote this song for the movie Into the Wild. The man flying the Piper PA-18 Supercub quickly and elegantly puts the plane nose up; the little bush flying single engine stands out against the sun, turns, and makes a nose dive, then goes back to cruising.
The pilot has a lopsided smile and asks himself if this is what true dreams taste like. The man on the sledge howls, laughing excitedly and lifting his fist into the sky. Paul, the pilot, checks out the instruments and slightly corrects the route, turning a few degrees to the right. He starts singing, while the sun spreads its last rays over Seward’s folly. Seward’s Folly, that’s what they called Alaska, in 1867. This extreme territory, which on its own is as large as all the Midwest, has not always been part of the United States of America. Humankind came by here ages ago, from the Aleutian islands and the Bering strait, populating the continent, but the first European settlers of this iced and remote land were Russians. Hunters and fur coat merchants spread around a few isolated commercial outposts. Doomed by their greed to live a miserable existence, at the limit of what is human, hoping to get rich and head back to the mother land as great lords. In 1867, finding it impossible to transform those beautiful but inhospitable lands into a real and proper colony, the Russians decided to sell it to the USA. The secretary of State William Seward was responsible for these negotiations, and in a night concluded this agreement; the Tsar Peter II would have received 7,2 million dollars in exchange of one million and seven hundred thousand square kilometers of Alaska. Their peers did not see this as a good idea - spending all that money for a place that was in essence inhospitable and unproductive seemed, in fact, to be utter madness. At least, until thirty years later, when the gold rush in Klondike started. Paul’s plane slows down, losing height. In the last rays of sunset he aims decisively towards a small hill and turns left. A small strip of land appears surrounded by tall birch trees. Small, very small. Paul thinks to himself how terrifying it was to learn how to take off from here, and with what disarming spontaneity Ken manages to do so; he firmly holds the control stick and with calculated competence, gently brings the plane to the ground.
From the hangar at the end of the skimpy landing strip a young man pops out, his hair ruffled, his hands and working trousers are black from engine oil, an open and easy going look on his face, the look of a person who has just finished doing something they love doing. “So, Paul” he begins merrily “have you finished for today? Welcome home! Come on, let’s go, my wife has made something delicious for dinner.” Paul fumbles about unloading a large backpack from the small Supercub. “I’ve finished…only for today, Ken. I don’t have much time, and tomorrow I want to push myself further north, beyond Denali. I think I’ll be away for three or four days. Let’s go eat now, I’m knackered and starving.” Paul Guschlbauer and Ken MacDonald head into the house chatting away about what there is beyond those mountains, while the last light dies down in the Alaska sky. Four months have passed since this bizarre Austrian, arrived from Anchorage with only two paragliders, a sleeping bag, a pair of skis and some clothes, now living in his plane and Ken´s hangar. He has learned to land and take off in the most unlikely conditions and places, he has learned to fix his plane on his own, and to fly over the Alaskan outback. They met recently in an unusual way: Paul, who is above all a paragliding pilot, was looking for something to captivate his attention after the Red Bull X-Alps, an explorative project. With a few email exchanges and even less phone calls he reached Ken, one of the best bush pilots in this corner of the world, or the whole world even, for that matter. The plan was a simple one. Get an American flying license- easy, all you have to do is convert your European one- Then find the right kind of plane – definitely more complicated, but not impossible. And finally reach new places by plane to then fly by paraglider: far away places, remote places which take two weeks on foot. Into the wild, but without biting the dust in an old abandoned bus. Ken liked the project so much that he helped Paul buy an old Supercub, taught him how to fix it, and offered his knowledge and a place to sleep. It is early morning, before sunrise when Paul wakes up. The dinner was amazing and he is already feeling homesick for that familiar spirit that has been created with Ken, his wife and children. During the silence which comes just before the sunrise he neatly loads the plane with supplies and the gear he will need during the next few days: paragliding gear, skis, a little tent, some food. He checks the fuel level, and tops it up.
Just before Paul starts the engine and before he takes off for this new adventure Ken appears, still a bit sleepy. The American discretely knocks on the fuselage, he strokes it. “We definitely did a good job with this bit of scrap iron from ’59, didn’t we? It looks impressive now.” Paul comes out of the cabin, he steps down, and nods. “Well, you did a great job, I just acted as your busboy. Ken, I just don’t know how to thank you enough. You are an amazing person, and a friend.” Ken minimizes, sneers then mumbles, he doesn’t like receiving compliments. “Listen” Paul urges on, “why don’t you come as well? It’s been a while since we’ve flown together.” Ken strokes the shiny blades of the Supercub’s rotors, lost in his thought. !I would love to come. Fly with you, teaching you how to fly over Alaska was awesome. I think… when you show someone the place you live in, it is like having the opportunity to see it with a fresh look. Well, I might have taught you a few bush pilot tricks, but you’ve reminded me why I am so in love with this darned ice.” Ken furrows his eyebrows and curls his lip “…and today I need to go to Anchorage for the monthly shop, and I have to go by car.” Paul and Ken laugh as accomplices. Pats on the back, farewells, and Paul back in the cabin is ready to take off. Ken walks lankily back home.
