Will I make it home? It's a question we ask when we climb into the airplane take off our hats, stuff gloves into pockets, slip off our boots. We relax. Take-off is always fine. We wiggle our toes inside our sox and head off for the Bush. As many variegated edges as a river, has this frontier of ours. Some have names: Dillingham, King Cove, False Pass. Further west, we slip into vowels and soft aspirates: Unga, Belkofski, Ounalashka. The syllables soften, like the endless clouds the engines are pushing through, an altitude eternal, infinitely blue. The sound creeps into our heads. The pros wear ear plugs or speak loudly, already deaf. Yawn, cat-nap or hash over old times, next year's fish and caribou. It's a hunting trip now; we are tracking down land. It's out there, somehow, floating in this mist-wrapped world floating otherworldly, out of reach; we will never touch down. We have been flying for hours now. You never step onto the same island twice. Yet it is home, there it is! We find it bobbing on the waves near its customary location athwart two great, unruly oceans, whose friction creates the air we use to touch down. We bid the mountains to stay back, give us passage to the air strip. We approach the field--a flat place-- arm-wrestled from land that was rocky for millions of years. We hold our breath, to show the wind how to do the same; each landing a cooperative effort, much like fishing, fighting, loving. We feel the wheels bounce down the thrusters blast to halt the plane before its nose gets wet in Dutch Harbor. Now we exhale, now we applaud, how easy now to believe in God, the pilot, the mountains, the wind, ourselves, all the forces of nature who have given us this day. So many departures in Alaska life so many turnarounds. So many hours of waiting await us in Cold Bay. Even the storms do not stay forever, even they fly away like the ravens who greet us with the neighborhood news. From their opened beaks we hear the sound. Oh we never understand. All we know is touching down and walking upon the land.