We awoke our first morning just outside of Talkeetna, Alaska, to the howling of sled dogs awaiting their morning meal. Through the trees, just a couple of miles distant, could be heard the distinct and unique echo of a floatplane at full power, probably on the step, slowly gaining enough speed to slip the bonds of glassy smooth Christiansen Lake. To an armchair bush pilot, there is no sound like it. It's what the crack of the bat on a home run ball sounds like to a baseball fan, or what the roar of all those engines at the start of the Indy 500 is to racing fans. Soon, I would be in that floatplane.
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