Old Aviator Tales By Ken Wittekiend As I return to the aircraft, an old fellow is standing nearby, studying the machine with a knowing eye. He has registered the big tires and Alaska mods, sized me up, and determined I was fit for conversation. Gray hair and stubble, eyes alert as a mink, he reminded me of a marooned pirate. "I had one like it many years ago. It ended up wrecked on a gravel bar on the Susitna [River in Alaska]. Still there, I suppose. Mind if I look inside?"
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