In our northwoods fishing trips, we have had many noteworthy adventures with various kinds of seaplanes and bush pilots. In my opinion, every takeoff and every landing is an adventure, and every bush pilot is a wacky hero.

Most of the takeoffs and landing are in small lakes, or bays, and it's a white knuckle experience to guess whether the place is overloaded or not, and whether the short run - sometimes rounding a curve - will allow the place to clear the treetops. Many of the landings are in lakes that the pilot has never seen before, and there's always the change that he'll hit a rock, stump, floating log or shoal on landing. Northwoods weather is suddenly variable, and there are no local weather reports. So I think they're all wacky and brave to be in that business.

Some of my friends who were thinking about a northern fishing trip asked me whether I thought the pilots were good fliers. I replied, "Those that are still alive certainly are." I don't know whether that encouraged my friends or not.

Wacky? On one of the flights to a strange lake, we had that rare luxury - a navigator. I saw that he was studying the map very diligently. But when I looked over his shoulder, I learned that it wasn't a map, it was girlie magazine!

Another pilot told of one trip when he'd had engine trouble and had to land on one of the thousands of lakes. He'd been stranded for three days. I asked him why he hadn't radioed for help. His reply? My battery was dead! He was finally rescued by a pilot who happened to see him standing on his plane and waving.

Twice, when we were in a small boat in the middle of isolated Lake Makokibatan, we were surprised by a seaplane landing beside the boat. The first time, it was a fish and game warden, checking to see whether we had licenses or were keeping too many fish. The second time I was really surprised. I was traveling up the lake with grandsons David and Steven, on a windy day. Steve happened to look back, saw a plane landing only a few feet behind us and yelled. When I looked back, it was following so close that I turned the boat so it wouldn't run over us! With the wind and the boat motor noise, we hadn't heard the plane. It offloaded some welcome fresh meat, vegetables and milk, and a mostly melted cake of ice.

A few years ago, we drove to the east side of James Bay, to territory of the Cree Indians. When we arrived at an isolated lake where a seaplane was to pick us up, the wind was kicking up such high waves that the veteran pilot decided it was too dangerous to fly. There was no place within many miles for our group of ten fishermen to stay overnight. Late in the afternoon, the wind abated a little, and the pilot decided to try it (against his better judgment, I'm sure).

Gunning the engines, he headed against the wind and waves. As he turned, the end of one wing struck the top of a wave. Just a little deeper and the plane might have flipped over. But we were lucky this time. It reminded me vividly of the time a few years earlier when my brother and I were in a little float place that flipped upside down in the icy waters of Great Bear Lake on the Arctic Circle.