Aviation - How to start an airplane

This picture was sent to me by one of my best friends up in Seattle. We share many aviation interests.

When I saw the image, somehow it reminded of the time, many, years ago when I was selling cold weather clothing way up in the Yukon and Alaska way.

The image brought back some funky memories of an unforgettable trip.

Well, the prop of the plane and the way the plane was being started is what fired the flashback. The guy doing the starting didn't look anything like this beautiful woman. In fact, nothing in the picture looked as it did back then.

Hell, it was cold, it was snowing, it was miserable. The plane was a cargo plane and not set up for "passengers". It was equipped with crates, boxes and other paraphernalia needed by the residents of those longitudes.

Me, I was just another 190 lbs chunk of cargo heading from Whitehorse to Old Crow on a day visit, alongside the other Three frequent fryers of this flying bus.

After being told by the cargo officer/flight- attendant/pilot to expect some rough air and to please make sure that we were "buckled" down securely, we would then take to the skies.

The look on the faces of the 3 regulars told me all I needed to know. It was going to be one hell of a ride.

The buckle. Oh the buckle. I think it was called the buckle on the academic sense. It was made out of some metal, it had "buckle" written on it with marker, and it was attached to the end of some rope by another buckle on the female side. On the male side, there was a hook!
All you had to do, was to simply figure out a way to hook that end to the "buckle" end and you're good to go.

Now, the whole thing was attached to the "seat"; which on this flight was played by a comfy, plastic, Pepsi blue crate, caped with a cushion sporting the logo of "another" unaffiliated air carrier.

The pilot announce that we were on our way. We all grabbed a hold to something in preparation to taxi out.
I remember the pilot punching the button expecting both props on the bird to fire up. The noise that took over the entire landscape was phenomenal. I guess in a cargo plane, insulation is only a nuisance.
After 30 plus minutes of trying his damnest to save face and to keep the one working prop from stopping while getting the other one to kick in, the Pilot finally decided that a more mechanical minded approach was called for.

He stuck his head and left arm out the little window and holler and waved to the ground-support team.

In the mean time I observed my co-passengers get excited at the sight of the mechanic who was slowly approaching our wing. One of them leaned towards me and yelled at the top of his lungs, that "Rogelio" a guy from Cuba was good with tools and that he would get us up in the air. They all seemed to recognized and like Rogelio.

I nodded, thinking. "What the hell is a guy from Cuba doing inches away from the Arctic Circle!?"

Rogelio, quickly determined which prop wasn't working right by doing a walk around. He then took a hold of that prop and coax it to cooperate by pushing it. He looked a bit frazzled. Or maybe he was stucked to the prop. I couldn't tell. After all, it was 1 degree out there.

My concerns grew more alarmed when I saw Rogelio jumping and trying to hit the prop's cowling with the biggest, freaking wrench I've ever seen! This damn thing was about as tall as Rogelio and about as blunt.

Watching him get frustrated with the whole exercise, he finally opted to get a ladder. The ladder towered over Rogelio, who strategically placed it within a gnat's eye-lash from the frozen prop.

I was somehow, mesmerized by the possibility of later on, giving an accurate description to the newspapers of the tragedy that I was certain, was only seconds away.

Rogelio banged the living hell out of that prop housing with rhythm. After all, he was a Cuban drummer I later found out.

After a good beating and a Bible of Spanish cursing the stubborn prop roared to life, not even scratching a single splinter from Rogelio's ladder. Wow.

Well, here we go!

A few minutes later we were all happily bouncing down the icy tarmac. I was quietly pondering if I was going to impotent after this little jaunt to the Frozen North.

It seemed that once airborne, the noise level actually increased by a few thousand decibels. I could see the wrinkles on my companions faces actually vibrate.

It was hard to see out the window. Not only because there were heavy clouds but because of the years of buildup cigarette smoke on the Plexiglas. If you got too close to the glass, I'm sure you could get second hand smoke inhalation. No doubt.

After several minutes in the air and catching glimpses through breaks in the clouds, suddenly downed on me that I should be able to see down on wildlife and such. However, here I was almost eye to eye with grazing Goats!!!

They were unfaced by the spectacle before them. A banshee from hell roaring and screeching through canyons, struggling to gain altitude. It was as though they have all seen this before many, many times!

My companions were also un moved by the tree-top flying warehouse we were riding in. I figure, if they are ok with this, who am I to be concerned by such triviality as self preservation?

Sometime later we were touching down in the nicest gravel runway of Old Crow. I guess, the expression of my face prompted the locals to offer me some water. Or maybe, it was the seat's cushion still firmly grabbed by my butt cheeks!

Oh yeah, Rogelio was the guy the girl on the picture reminded me of.