The twin engine prop jet takes off from Fairbanks, on a foul day, with nine passengers aboard. We're bound for Kaktovik, on Barter Island in the Arctic Ocean, at the edge of the known universe. Getting anywhere in Alaska is half the adventure, if not the fun. We have 400 miles of trackless tundra and Brooks Range to fly over in roughly two hours, no pun intended.

I'm settling in for a snooze when I notice out the window a total white-out. I can't even see the wing tips, a few feet away. I know there are instruments in the cockpit, but not having a sense of spatial orientation challenges my composure. A short time later the engine slows, then misses, the plane lurches a bit, and then banks as if trying to avoid something big, perhaps a mountain or a building. We then fly for 30 seconds or so, in more or less a straight line of continuous descent, still in the white-out. I am pretty certain by now that we are all going to die. And to prove it the ground makes an abrupt appearance, very close by. The plane drops with a suddenness that makes hair stand up straight. Then BANG. Contact! We bounce, then taxi down a runway that miraculously is there. Like a gift from god. The sign says Yukon Flats. The pilot says we have some mail to deliver (now he tells us). So much for my snooze. Welcome to the outback of Alaska. (next photo)