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| Fulkerson Hankerson Miller | Coogles Millers Hankersons |
In the world of extreme motor sports, hill climbing is famous for its danger, "rush," and expensive motorcycles. Sadly, because of its extreme danger, we don't hear much about the almost-secret snow machine sports of tree climbing and bluff climbing. We shall save bluff climbing for a later story and concentrate here on Tree climbing. This story concerns the 6985th Ripple Riders of the late 70s, an amorphous-but-intrepid gang of snowmobile riders and, occasionally, their loved ones. First, let me set the stage for you.
In the long and deep Alaskan Interior winters, there wasn't much for young testosterone-driven aircrew members to do besides fly missions, ground process, ice fish, drink booze, and chase women. Well, OK: There was the chapel, library, or the movie theater, but most of "Alaska's Finest" wanted to mix their pleasures: therefore, snow machining with the Ripple Riders was a favorite. Ripple Riders were so named because initially they each carried a bottle of Ripple wine in their rear tool compartment with which to toast the trip (and each other) about half way through their ride. They have been accused of doing some crazy things and making some ill-advised choices and, certainly, the dedication to rot-gut wine gives a clue about this group's finances and their wisdom. In fact, the group became so embarrassed about it that they often substituted Ripple with Annie Green Springs wine or home-made fruit wines, choices that sometimes had negative impact on the safety of their rides.
This stalwart cadre of Ripple Riders included Cobra Ball AMS Harry "Barnie" Coogle, MA Frank Fulkerson, 207 "Squirrel" Miller, chief gunner "Hank" Hankerson, MA Butch Sadowski, and AMS Harry Swanson. They frequently rode together, either because they loved snow machining, loved a sip or two, enjoyed harassing each other, or all three. Everyone else at the unit was invited to ride, and frequently many partook of this offer, if for no other reason than to check out the veracity of the war stories that were overheard within operations on duty days.
All of them greatly respected each other's quirks, but some among them were in for more heckling and difficulty than others. For example, Frank Fulkerson, the newest member of the group, was a perfectionist narcissist with a Master's Degree in Political Science. His way was always the best way. He hated being last at anything, was very competitive, and he spared no expense to put himself on top.
As it relates to his new membership in the Ripple Riders, Frank bought a brand new, liquid cooled, John Deere 440. It was a HOG! It was bigger, heavier, and faster than the piddling little Arctic Cat, Polaris, or Ski Doo machines driven by the core group. Whenever he wanted, he could (and did) roar past anyone riding in trail, covering them with blue-white exhaust and powdered snow.
One cold day, the group was riding in trail along B Battery Road with Fulkerson in the last position. The riders often started their rides on this WWII overgrown roadway, but this was the first time Fulkerson had ever been on it. During the Ripple-sampling stop, Squirrel Miller, out of ear shot of Fulkerson, secretively suggested a plan to humble Frank and his John Deere, thus bringing him into line with the rest of the group. Squirrel knew that roadway ahead was carved into the side of a cliff face and made a dangerous 90-degree turn to the right, with the cliff side dropping away about 30 feet on the outside of the turn. In fact, the group often sped around it as fast as they could go, just to acquire bragging rights.
The plan was to speed off from the Ripple stop, as if to leave Fulkerson and his John Deere behind. Of course, Frank couldn't abide being left behind and would certainly speed forward, passing the group at great speed, leaving them all in his powder wake. At a safe distance, the rest of the group planned to slow down and just idle round the curve, looking for Frank's John Deere where it was expected to have run off the the cliff side. It was anticipated that a loud jeering would subsequently be called for.
The plan initially worked to perfection. Off everybody tore, engines roaring and blue exhaust painting the cold, sub-arctic air. Not to be outdone, Frank squeezed his throttle down to maximum and, weaving dangerously, roared past everyone in a green streak. Quickly, he and his snow cloud disappeared from sight. As planned, the trailing group slowed to approach the sharp curve and were soon met with a horrific scene.
There, in a spruce tree, about 40 feet off the ground, in a straight line with the roadway's approach, idled the big, green John Deere. Frank was nowhere to be seen, but he could be heard groaning over the drop-off side of the roadway. The Ripple Riders, fearing the worst, ran to his aid. He was dazed and buried in snow. All riders were uncertain as to his physical well being. You see, Frank was a non-drinker, in addition to his other faults, and did not have an alcohol stupor to help him through the pain.
It ended up that he was generally fine, but for a broken thumb - his throttle thumb! The results of Squirrel's plan were partially realized. Never again did Frank Fulkerson roar past the leaders, but he never trusted any of the Ripple Riders to have his best interests at heart either.
Each of the riders knew that Frank would, somehow, get even. The waiting was hell! RIP Frank and Squirrel.