Witnessing Nature’s Wonders from the Skies of Alaska

A Chapter from Notes by Alex

4

There are moments in a man’s life that refuse to fade—moments that settle deep into the soul and quietly shape the way he sees the world. For him, one of those moments came in the summer of 1990, high above the waters of Ketchikan, flying for Temsco Airlines.

It was a season that hardly felt like work at all.

He was stationed in Southeast Alaska, often keeping an aircraft in Metlakatla—a place that felt both remote and deeply alive. The kind of place where the rhythms of nature dictated the pace of life, and every flight carried the possibility of something unforgettable.

One early morning, just as the day was beginning to stretch awake, a simple mission was placed before him: deliver an important document to a logging camp on the south end of Prince of Wales Island.

Nothing extraordinary on paper.

But Alaska has a way of turning ordinary assignments into sacred experiences.

At exactly 6:00 a.m., he and his copilot climbed into a De Havilland Canada DHC-2 Beaver—tail number N64393—a rugged, trusted aircraft that had carried countless stories across the wild expanse of the North. His copilot was still learning the art of flying in Southeast Alaska, a place where weather, water, and wilderness all demanded respect.

That morning, though, the skies were gentle.

The sun rose slowly over the horizon, spilling gold across glassy water. The mountains stood still and watchful. Everything about the moment whispered that they were stepping into something rare.

The flight to the logging camp was smooth. They touched down in a quiet cove, delivered the document, and prepared to head back. It could have ended there—a routine flight, another checkmark in a pilot’s logbook.

But on the return, something caught his eye.

As they climbed to around 1,000 feet and passed over another cove, the water below looked… wrong.

It churned and moved in a way that didn’t match the calm morning. It looked as though the ocean itself was boiling.

Curiosity has always been a pilot’s companion, and he leaned into it.

They banked the aircraft and circled back.

Descending slightly, the picture came into focus—and what they saw was something few ever witness in a lifetime.

A super pod of killer whale.

Not just a handful—but dozens. Possibly more.

The water wasn’t boiling.

It was alive.

Adult orcas moved with power and grace, while the younger ones darted and played, weaving through the pod in bursts of energy. There was no urgency, no hunt—just play. Just life, unfolding in its purest form.

For a moment, time seemed to stand still.

The engine hummed steadily, but inside the cockpit, there was silence. The kind of silence that comes when words feel too small for what’s in front of you.

He glanced at his copilot, whose wide eyes mirrored his own sense of awe. No instruction was needed. No explanation given. They both knew they were witnessing something sacred.

They circled gently above, careful not to disturb the moment below.

From that vantage point, suspended between sky and sea, he felt something shift inside him. A reminder that no matter how many hours you log, no matter how skilled you become, there are still things in this world that will humble you.

Alaska had given him many things—challenge, growth, solitude.

But on that morning, it gave him wonder.

Eventually, they turned back toward Ketchikan, the aircraft cutting smoothly through the quiet air. The mission was complete, but something far greater had been carried with them on the return flight.

A memory.

One that would outlast the logbooks, the schedules, the long days, and the changing seasons.

Because some moments aren’t just experienced.

They are etched into who you become.

And long after the engine goes quiet and the skies grow distant, those moments remain—like a quiet whisper reminding him why he ever chose to fly in the first place.