37 Fall 2025 Proceedings As we departed Cold Bay, we plotted a flight path through Lenard Harbor, a narrow bay leading directly to King Cove’s Runway 8. This harbor snakes through rug- ged terrain, with sharp cliffs and dense snowdrifts lin- ing its edges. It was the most direct route to King Cove. Additionally, we devised an alternate route around Deer Island and into Belkofski Bay, ensuring a low-altitude option over water to mitigate terrain hazards. At the mouth of Lenard Harbor, we established a decision point: If visibility extended to the back of the bay, we would proceed. Otherwise, we would follow the alternate route. Conditions appeared favorable, and we confidently fol- lowed our flight plan toward King Cove airport. As we crossed a ridgeline at the back of Lenard Harbor, King Cove’s airfield was in sight. It is a relatively small airfield, the runway approximately 3,500 feet long and unpaved, which is typical for Alaska. The field is nestled at the base of mountains rising to 5,000 feet to the north and 2,000 feet to the south. As we began our final approach to Runway 8, we noticed distinct white streaks passing across the windscreen from below our night vision goggles’ field of view —resembling the streaking stars seen in “Star Wars” when the Millennium Falcon jumps to light speed. Snow began to fall—lightly at first, then with increasing intensity. To our left, abrupt mountains loomed like silent sentinels. Alaska’s rugged peaks are notorious for generating their own weather systems, and we soon found ourselves on the leading edge of a fast-moving snow squall. This weather was not forecasted and in stark contrast to our expectations. Visibility diminished steadily, but with the runway in sight, we landed, retrieved the patient, and departed before conditions worsened. To minimize blowing snow and maintain visibility, we executed a no-hover landing. Once safely on the ground, we taxied off the runway to meet the ambulance. Fortunately, our wait for the ambulance was brief. We dispatched our swimmer to coordinate with the EMTs and collect the patient—a tall, weathered man whose presence spoke volumes about the resilience required to live in such an unforgiving environment. With the patient safely aboard, our crew turned its attention to the challenge of determining the safest route back to Cold Bay. Snowfall intensified, and visibility continued to dete- riorate rapidly as we sat by the runway. We evaluated our options which included returning via Lenard Harbor, departing east via Belkofski Bay, or remaining on deck to wait out the storm. Our first option, retracing our inbound route through Lenard Harbor, had its advantages. We were familiar with the terrain, it was the shortest route back to Cold Bay, and it allowed for an upwind takeoff. However, with the storm advancing from that direction and mountainous My first MH-60 helicopter deployment in Alaska was to Cold Bay. Being my first year in Alaska, the deploy- ment was filled with anticipation and a healthy dose of trepidation. I remember my first step off the HC-130J Super Hercules that transported my crew from Air Station Kodiak to this remote forward operating location. There, I will never forget my initial look around. The first thing I felt was the cold slap of the wind; it seemed to cut through every layer of clothing and pierce straight to my core. It certainly felt like an Alaskan greeting. Within moments, I was struck by how isolating the place felt. I looked across the airfield to the rolling tun- dra that stretched for miles, slowly ascending to a peak I would soon come to know as Mount Baldy—a fitting name, as there were only a handful of shrubs speckled across it. There were no paved roads, no restaurants, and no box stores. All drinking water was sourced from jugs at a local depot that doubled as the town’s elemen- tary school. As someone who grew up in the suburbs of New England, this was an experience unlike any I had encountered before. Our mission was to serve as a deployed helicopter crew responsible for search and rescue (SAR) operations along the 900 nautical miles of the Aleutian Islands and north into the notoriously unforgiving Bering Sea. We were deployed with one Coast Guard MH-60T Jayhawk helicopter, “Big Iron” as they’re known in the fleet. With a range of 600 nautical miles, onboard GPS navigation, radar, anti-ice and deicing equipment, the aircraft is a pleasure to fly and crucial for conducting SAR missions throughout Alaska. We just settled into our new home for the next two weeks when the call came in around 11 p.m. It was a medical emergency in the small fishing community of King Cove. The report indicated a 50-year-old man was experiencing chest pains and showing early signs of a heart attack. Given the limited medical facilities in King Cove, our mission was straightforward. Fly to King Cove, pick him up, and transport him to Cold Bay, where com- mercial medical transport would take him to Anchorage. King Cove is located about 17 nautical miles from Cold Bay, a stone’s throw in helicopter terms, yet the terrain prevented any form of transportation other than air. Our crew gathered to discuss the mission. There were no immediate concerns. We checked current and fore- casted weather—clear skies, light winds from the north, and a near-full moon. All conditions appeared favorable for a nighttime medical evacuation, or medevac. We esti- mated the entire operation would take approximately an hour from takeoff to shut down upon our return to Cold Bay. Short, routine cases like these are what we typically refer to as “Gentleman’s SAR.” However, in Alaska, I would soon learn that even the simplest missions can become anything but routine.
