I've got the best possible news: I'm in Deadhorse!
I don't even understand how I made it, myself.
By the time I'd finished writing up my diary, this morning, I had the boarding pass for the Anchorage flight in my hand. I was in the middle of pestering Alaskan Airlines for the documentation of the cancelled flight to Deadhorse - for insurance purposes - when an attendant came up to say that I might be able to get to that place, the name of which I shall never forget, after all!
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Another airline company - was it Era Aviation? - has agreed to take all the disappointed passengers of Alaska Airlines to their destination. Perhaps they've found a braver pilot. There then began 30 mins. of running around as my bags had already been checked onto the Anchorage flight. We went through to the storage room, past several security checks, desperately searching for our bags, which, when we finally found them I myself removed from the conveyor belt. It's a close call; they'd almost been loaded into the belly of the plane, and then I would have had to dig them out.
Unbelievably, the inept Alaska Airlines attendant had lost my boarding pass for the Deadhorse flight, which I should have been given in return for the one for the Anchorage flight - which I had had to return at once, when it turned out I wasn't flying to Anchorage. Without my new boarding pass the airline won't let me on.
It's at this point I'm certain I'll go crazy.
We were just about to go to the office of the local representative, when the inefficient woman suddenly found it, and with profuse apologies, handed it over to me.
After all this, there were no other problems, which probably surprised me more than anyone else.
There was a journey of 1hr.30mins. ahead of us, on a tiny little plane. After take-off we went straight into the middle of the smoke cloud, and I started to realise why the Alaskan Airlines pilot had refused to fly.
At times I couldn't even see the wing-tip.
Over Deadhorse the clouds turned into fog.
Nothing could be seen.
It was only with our ears and stomachs that we could tell that the plane was descending - I'm not joking, two people were actually crossing themselves - but we still couldn't see the ground. Suddenly, the plane burst out of the fog, and there was the runway only 20 - 25 ft. below us. The pilot pressed the plane down onto the asphalt and slammed on the brakes. My safety-belt was cutting into my stomach, but finally we stopped. Cold sweat was running down my back. I don't know who the pilots were, but I raise my cap to them. Even now, whenever I think about this landing, I start to tremble.
From Deadhorse airport they call up the Alaska Air Tax Office, which sends over a car for me. Now, I'm sitting in their office, recharging my batteries, and waiting for the weather to clear. We can't leave for my mountain hunt base-camp - Kavik Camp - unless it does.
Deadhorse doesn't have any permanent residents. This is where the TAPS begins, and all the workers who service it live here in pre-fabricated houses.
They are the sole representatives of urbanisation in the polar region. It's a real oil-town.
I just have time to visit its one and only hotel. When I was there, all that was on offer in the small self-service restaurant were hot-dogs and a thick, but tasty, meat soup, full of vegetables. Whether you
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like it or not, this is all that's available, as this is the only restaurant in town. They did, however, have a selection of 15 - 20 types of drinks. I had my lunch with the oil-workers, all wearing high-visibility waistcoats, dirty overalls, hard-hats and all smelling of oil, and so as not to stand out, I happily slurped down my soup, like everyone else.
The settlement feels bleak and deserted.
There are no asphalted roads, and there's only 600 ft. between the airport and the hotel. The workers usually go home every two weeks, or sometimes once a month; the town's social center is the restaurant. Between each visit home, the only places to go are the restaurant or their huts. They always leave their car-engines running, as who would steal it - where would he go? The shabby little grocery store mainly sells canned fruit-juices and chocolate, but no-one seems to care. They are hard-working people who have no time for cooking. Artificial flowers try to improve the atmosphere of the restaurant, but with little success. All alcohol is forbidden - we won't get a beer here.
It's cold. I would say its around 40 - 45 F. and most of my warm clothes are in my big bag, but I can't be bothered to dig them out . I'd rather go back to the Air Taxi office and use the internet. Because at least they do have that here.
We're waiting for the fog to go, and then we'll go too.
Prudhoe Bay Hotel Restaurant
Deadhorse