The Mountains Call

While flying across remote landscapes, I’ll sometimes see a bush plane landed on a river gravel bar or even a flat mountain ridge. Seldom have I ever seen one on wet, tussock-peppered tundra—a surface that could shear the landing gear right off a plane. It was with no small measure of disbelief when I spotted a plane in the midst of flat, featureless tundra one September evening, the peaks of the Alaska Range looming on the distant horizon. Just before sunset, the scene perfectly captures the freedom and beauty of America’s last great wilderness—and the independent spirit of those who live on the frontier.