How, you may ask, did a 45-minute plane ride from Twin Hills, Alaska to Dillingham stretch into six hours? Well, since you asked. . .

I was in Twin Hills waiting for my flight to Dillingham, the first leg of my long journey home. One of the paraprofessionals from the school was waiting also. With several years of waiting-for-small-planes experience under my belt, I was pretty much relaxed, even reading a story to the preschool with my suitcases stacked in the corner. We could see the airstrip from the classroom window, and it was a quick skedaddle up the hill.

The first hitch came with the news that Dillingham was fogged in, while at the same time the day was getting warmer. The warming weather meant that the Twin Hills (gravel) airstrip would thaw and become too mushy for the plane to land. The agent called and explained that the pilot would pick us up and take us to Togiak, which had a better airstrip. We would wait there until the weather cleared in Dillingham.

We boarded the plane and completed the five-minute hop over to Togiak. To my untrained eye, this airstrip seemed kinda mushy too, but I maintained a respectful silence. The agent picked us up and took us to the local grocery store where we bought lunch and waited on the bench outside the store. This was the first of several times that day when I wished I had packed my real boots, instead of the twenty-dollar Walmart specials that refused to die. I shared my chicken with a stray dog and shot the breeze with other customers. One obliging gentleman showed me the goose call he had made from a shotgun shell:

Three times we hustled down to the airport at the news that Dillingham had cleared up. On the first trip, we picked up three more passengers, which would put the plane at capacity. Two times we waited for a while (once, we all even crowded into the plane), and then heard that Dillingham was socked in again. Both times we went back to the store, while I silently cursed my boot-related decision. I bought more chicken, mostly for the dog, and briefly entertained the idea of taking her with me. The pilot gave me a look and I dropped the subject.

Third time was a charm. The pilot took a call and rounded us up with great urgency. We raced to the airport, piled into the plane (oof), and took off on the slippery, slippery airstrip. In about thirty minutes we were in visual distance of Dillingham. Except the only visual in that direction was clouds. The pilot took a call, muttered something, circled the plane, and landed at Manakotak. Here, we all climbed out of the plane and wandered around the parking area. Several of the passengers started talking about plane crashes, trying to one-up each other, whereupon I threatened to sing. My feet were very wet and very cold.

Eventually the weather cleared up yet again, just long enough for the ten-minute hop to Dillingham, where I gave my boots a proper burial in the nearest trash can. My sneakers were at least dry.