When I flew into Whitter, Alaska with a bush pilot the winds blew that little plane all over the sky. Even seat belted in I managed to slam into the top of the cockpit once. When the lunatic (I mean pilot) landed the plane in what he told me were 45 knot cross winds (amazing how fear sharpens the memory) the bloody thing jumped all over the runway like a Mexican jumping bean on steroids. It took several adult men to tie the plane down so this quivering blob of protoplasm could ooze out of the cockpit. .
Walking in the incredibly windy environment in Whittier meant walking against the furious wind at an angle. It is like shoving against a wall while walking forward. When I opened the door to the Saltwater Cafe I almost fell flat on my face. Nothing like being a Cheechako. (sigh)
Incidentally, I didn’t take a plane back. I hitched a ride with the mayor of the town out on the weekly car (as in it loaded people in automobiles tied to flatcars) train to Anchorage. Enough with the plane through the Chugach into cross-wind hell. Clearly, I do not have the derring-do of an Alaska Bush pilot
Today, it feels like Whittier. The wind is pummeling the land, whipping the waters of the coast into a froth and making my car shimmy, lurch from side, and threaten to become airborne from time to time. Since my Saturday appointment cancelled after I got to the office I considered getting a pizza (I did) and driving to the coast (I didn’t in deference to the fact I didn’t want to get blown over the sea wall and into the ocean).
At least in Whittier I had the great sights of towering mountains rising from the depths of the sea and the beautiful harbor. Instead I’m on the couch with the dog, who is very happy for the company. I considered trying to take him for a walk, but in this wind, he might need ballast. Besides, he’s curled up next to me, snoring.