Like Fleas on a Carpet

This spring I embarked on a new phase of my flying career. Every year the Montana Fish and Wildlife Department counts big game species from the air, and I have been flying a biologist in the western part of the state. The work is strenuous and exciting, and the number of animals we have tallied up is amazing.

Every morning, I rise at 4:30 a.m., crawl out of my nice warm bed, and reach for a cup of coffee (only one, because there is no bathroom on board the little 2-seat airplane we use for the job.) Next on the agenda is a check of the weather. Reports for this area of the state are sparse, so I usually peer out the window to try to see how much maneuvering room we'll have between the earth and the clouds. Of course, at this hour of the morning, it's difficult to see any meteorological conditions, unless it happens to be actually raining or snowing. If I can see lights across the valley, I bundle up in warm clothes and boots and head for the airport at 5:30.

The airplane must be thoroughly examined before take-off to be sure all its parts are securely attached and operational, and that the fuel tanks are full. Any mechanical difficulty would quickly become an emergency at the low levels we must fly to see the animals on the ground. We use a little orange "taildragger" called a Citabria (airbatic spelled backwards) that can fly low and slow, and is also very maneuverable. My biologist/counter arrives just about the time I have completed the preflight. As the sky begins to lighten, we take off into the crisp mountain air and take a look at the area in which we will work for the next 2 hours.

We are never more than 1,000 feet above the ground, so must plan our search pattern carefully, always allowing for a downhill escape in the event the engine decides to quit humming. The animals (usually elk, sometimes deer, bears, moose, or mountain sheep) show up against the greening spring grass in the foothills in the faint dawn light. If I spot the first animals, I get a free cup of coffee courtesy of the biologist. Now the fun begins.

The first task is to circle above the animals high enough so that the biologist can make a total count. This is relatively easy if the animals are out in the open, but much more difficult if they are scattered among 100-foot tall pine trees on steep slopes. We usually circle 2-3 times to be sure of the count. Next, the biologist asks me to get lower and closer so he can classify the animals. With elk, this means close enough to distinguish between yearling calves and their mothers, and to see whether bulls have spike or branched antlers. This requires some fancy maneuvering. I have to keep the animals in sight, watch out for tall trees or ghostly "snags" (also called widow-makers) that poke up above the green trees, make turns tight enough to stay away from canyon walls that loom on both sides of us and avoid flying into low level clouds. The elk also seem to have an affinity for high tension wires and towers. I am constantly adjusting the throttle, extending or retracting flaps, and monitoring airspeed and engine instruments in case of carburetor ice or fouled spark plugs. My right arm aches from the forces necessary on the control stick.

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