We lifted off at 13:22 on Wednesday, about two hours later than anticipated. Waited for the helicopter (a Hiller, almost exactly like those in M.A.S.H., including the racks along the sides (with survival gear strapped on instead of casualties), but with a patched hole in the bubble at the passenger's feet) in the convenience store at Muddy Gap.

The gal running the store does not mind us using her parking lot as a helipad, even though it probably violates some OSHA or FAA regulation. If nothing else, it brings in a couple more customers to this quiet junction.

The chopper had only the pilot in it when it arrived. The morning observer was dropped off twenty-two miles to the west, and was waiting there for his ride. Helicopter costs being what they are, it is cheaper to have the observer dropped off at the end of their survey with someone else driving 60 miles to pick him up, than to have the chopper take him back and then have to make a return flight.

After the standard flight safety talk (yes, even on charter flights... you never know when you may need to know where the emergency locator beacon is situated, or the first aid kit) we took off for the north side of the Ferrises.

My hopes were not high. The wind tried to blow a semi off the highway in front of me as we crossed the divide, and although the air was calm on the flats, there were huge lenticular clouds capping the Ferris peaks.

Found out later that this new pilot is a bush pilot from Alaska. Suspect he is not familiar with our winds.

I warned him I had the most sensitive stomach in our outfit, and he let me know he had already been apprised of that. We flew across the face of the first ridges unusually low, at about twice tree-height. Winds are slower and usually less severe near the ground, so that normally smoothes the flight. On a good day, flying low like that is almost like riding in a high-rider bus. Really easy on the inner ears.

But not today. We were on the leeward side of the mountains, catching all the eddies and downdrafts as the warm airmass flowed over the divide. Lots of bumps and pockets.

And not much ground below us.

As we climbed past Whiskey Gap, we hit a pocket that dropped the bird fast enough to lift my knees up in front of my face.

Really.

After the second knee-raising pocket, the pilot decided we probably couldn't fly the north side after all.

Really? What was your first clue?

He stayed low on the return flight, and then headed into Whiskey Gap.

This is a narrow rocky chasm, barely wide enough for the two-track road and narrow stream that pass through the bottom. When we had bighorn sheep in this area, they always walked through the gap on the road because the canyon walls were too high and too steep for bighorn sheep.

I guess my widened eyes gave him cause for concern.

"Have you ever flown through this pass before?", he asked.

Yes, but not this low!

Besides pouring through this gap, the wind is also pouring over the walls. As the pilot said, "not much room for error."

No shit, Dick Tracy.

So we climbed up and headed south following the highway a few miles to the west.

The southside was fairly smooth air. I probably could have held my guts longer if this pilot didn't have the habit of weaving back and forth from the left to right side of ridges, rather than simply flying straight down the ridge. His way is more effective at finding things, but a real carnival ride. Lost it the first time after the first group of deer (including what we would consider three mediocre bucks, but he was quite impressed).

After my second set of near-dry heaves (I packed my own sick sacks in a fanny pack, complete with paper towel to wipe the chin dry... he was impressed) the pilot asked if I wanted to quit.

Not hardly, we barely got started.

Found quite a few deer low in the sage, but as we moved up the valley, we moved into a snow squall. Beautiful sight from the air, flying in white with white above and below. Only the dark green pine trees tell you where the ground is. Not very safe, but even with a queasy stomach I enjoyed it. But of course we turned back.

Lost my guts again in the dunes, and missed the bag part of the time. Lots of foamy bubbles on my chest and lap (those details are for you, Bad, everyone else can ignore them). Scum was nice and shiny on the safety-orange nomex suit (Mandatory wear, in case of fire upon impact. Likewise the rule of wearing only low-flammable cotton or wool clothes...like that would really make a difference.)

We were following the creek down when we spotted one of our last herds for the day. Pilot instinctively dipped down to the right on top of the deer, leading immediately to upchuck number four. I assume maybe he herds moose or grizzly bears or something in Alaska, because you don't need to push deer that hard to see who they are. But with one hand running the tape recorder and the other hanging on for dear life on the sick sack, there was no way I could key the mike to tell him so.

Not to mention the vocal cords refuse to work when immersed in bile.

And then he banked a hard left and circled, so I could kindly finish puking before following the deer.

Now, excuse, me, but isn't this a helicopter? As in, can't it hover? These words were on my mind as I searched for the opening to the bag with my lips.

I dry-heaved all the way through his loop, and as he prepared to make another useless circle to the left, I tapped the console and pointed to the deer.

"Thought I would let you finish, first", he said.

Thanks so much.

Four times in 75 minutes. I think that's a new record for me.