This weekend I realized, as I was flying to California, that I pretty much hate motorized transportation. It just scares me. I also realized I will never be a great wildlife biologist for one very important reason: I hate flying. I hate flying more than I hate snowshoes and snowmobiles. I hate flying so much, I have to drug myself to get on a commercial airplane.
When I was younger, I rode in many helicopters, but now that I’m older, I refuse to get into a helicopter or a fixed-wing aircraft. Too many people in my field die this way.
About five years ago, I was radio-collaring deer. To capture the deer, a wildlife biologist would hang out of a helicopter and shoot a deer with a net. Then the pilot would land the ship so two muggers could jump out and tie the netted deer to the helicopter. Then they would fly it back to those of us on the ground so we could put a radio collar on it. One of the guys in charge, for some reason, really, really, really wanted me to get in the helicopter and be a mugger. He spent the entire day, telling me how safe it was and how good the pilot was. I didn’t doubt the pilot was good, but I KNOW helicopters are not safe. And he didn’t know me. If he did, he wouldn’t have wasted his breath. There was no way I was getting on that thing.
Four weeks later—this is not a joke—that specific helicopter, working on the same project, with the same pilot and gunner, crashed.
Thankfully, everyone survived…
And no one has tried to get me into a helicopter since.
