I was wrong.

I had felt ambivalent about a sight-seeing flight. We had flown a LOT. During our private-aircraft years, Karin and I had flown all over the US and into Canada, 3,000 hours of wonderful explorations over ten years’ time. We had visited the lowest and highest airstrips (Death Valley and Leadville), the birthplace of aviation (Kitty Hawk), and many remote, short/difficult bush strips in the Idaho and Utah back country. We’d been to beaches and to mountain-tops. We had flown our little Cherokee past the World Trade Center just four days before it was turned to rubble. In short, we’d done a great deal of flying, and I wasn’t sure that tourism flight-seeing held anything special for us.

I couldn’t have been more mistaken. We got a ride on a turbine Otter, and we flew out to see Denali from a perspective not achievable by even the world’s finest climbers. We then landed on a snow-covered glacier, got out of the airplane, and stood in the presence of The Great One. We were at 8,000 feet above sea level, and surrounded by peaks that towered above us by more than two miles. We simply marveled at where we were and what we were privileged to do.

Talkeetna Air Taxi was recommended by my dear friend Susan, and I owe her one – it is a class organization, with outstanding equipment and staff. We’ve used a lot of different tour services in our day, and most of them have been a bit used-and-abused if not absolutely worn out. Contrastingly, TAT had excellent gear and aircraft, that clearly showed signs of proper care and attention.

The staff were also friendly and helpful, even at the frantic pace of mid-season. We always had the sense that they remained interested in their products and in our satisfaction. Our pilot in particular (Jason) gave as interesting and extemporaneous a narrative as if he had begun last month – and he’s been doing this job for more than ten years. He just loves it, and it shows.

First order of the day was snow boots, supplied by TAT for the glacier walk. Comfortable, functional, but perhaps not exactly elegant.

At our appointed time, we load up and get ready to go.

We take off and turn north, passing quickly over the huge expanse of lowlands leading up to the Alaska Range. Jonathan seems to know every lake, hill, and cabin in the entire region. He also has something rare in pilots – the ability to quickly and seamlessly switch back and forth between flying and tour-guide duties. Many times I’d hear him pause for a moment, and I’d hear a background transmission about traffic or weather. As soon as it completed, Jonathan’s voice would pick up immediately, continuing as if the interruption had never occurred.

As we approach the Monster, one of the most apparent features of the range becomes evident: the number and size of the glaciers that flow down from the peaks. Here we’re looking at the Tokositna (left) and Ruth (right) glaciers. It’s at the upper reach of the Ruth where we will land. There are more than 40 named glaciers, and literally hundreds without names. The larger ones are 30-40 miles long.

Everywhere we look, the land below us is filled with bristling spires of axe-sharp rocks, thrusting upward as if to rasp the sky to shreds. As we move in toward the highest peaks, the horribly jagged terrain makes us ever more thankful for turbine-engine reliability. There are few places below where a forced landing would be survivable. As smooth as they appear, the glaciers are full of cracks the size of freight trains.

We make several exploratory passes along nearly vertical faces of the giants. They are so massive that it appears as if we are going to collide with them – but we are actually more than two miles distant.

 From our sparse-oxygen level of 12,000 feet, the Presence still towers over our heads. There is no camera made that can show you what it is like to see it as we saw it.

Wending our way through the peaks, descending even lower toward the inhospitable ground, we fly carefully toward the landing site. There are limited permits to fly this area, but there is only one place to land, and the tourism traffic must be precisely negotiated. Pilots make constant position announcements along the approach routes; the only thing worse than an engine failure is a mid-air collision. From several miles away, our companion airplanes, already on the glacier, are mere dots.

We pick the farthest of the two sites, and start our approach with a left turn over the nearer (more crowded) landing area.

The turbine Otter has absolutely spectacular bush-flying capability. We sink from flying altitude to glacier altitude like a gentle parachute, and our skis touch down as soft as – well, as soft as skis on snow. A bit of power to take us up the remaining runway, pulls us through a 180-degree turn, and places the aircraft in position for a downhill take-off. We are on the glacier.

See that little pointy thing way at the upper left? That’s the Big Man himself. That point is two miles above the crown of my hat.

One of the most remarkable features of the range might be the Mountain House cabin. Any tourist can rent this place, and stay overnight in the middle of this forbidding mountain range. Want to take a morning hike on the Ruth glacier? Make your reservations now. And yes, the little house to the right is the privy.

All too soon, it was time to leave. Like this airplane in front of us, we took off easily downhill, and then put the big turbine to work clawing our way back into the sky, safely beyond the un-loving embrace of the rocky crags.

The flight back to Talkeetna was again made endlessly interesting by Jonathan’s almost non-stop narrative about the most surprising levels of detail. Who built what cabin, whether it’s accessible by boat, road, or ATV, names of hills and waterways, a veritable encyclopedia of information. Wonderful.

Down on the ground again, Karin and I look at each other, grin from ear to ear, and wordlessly acknowledge the excellent decision to take this tour. Highly recommended, to say the least.