It had been a busy day transporting missionaries and their supplies to their remote out-stations of Papua New Guinea, and now I was returning to my home base. The weather had deteriorated and the massive monsoonal storms rolled in from the coast and covered the mountains. I battled my homeward way, jumping from one valley to another until I caught a view of my base through the rain. It was situated in a valley over 7,000' high amongst mighty mountains.
Friends from another nearby mission greeted me and told me there had been a tribal fight in the next valley and several had died. One man waited on the airstrip to be flown to hospital, as it was the only way to get there. He was bleeding heavily with a gaping axe wound to his head. If he could not be taken to hospital he would bleed to death during the night. They pleadingly asked, "Will you see if you can rescue him?"
I had little inclination to face the storms again. Two commercial planes had attempted to reach the valley, only to both turn back, beaten by the weather. Torn between compassion and prudence, I agreed when they assured me they would be praying with me for the success of the rescue mission.
With three policemen on board with me to help quell the fighting, I charged down the rocky strip and was soon enshrouded in cloud. In fine weather it was only a twelve-minute trip but a 12,000' jagged mountain stood between the valleys like a silent sentinel. Today it was completely shrouded in cloud, making it an invisible obstacle. I slowly spiraled heavenward to a height of 13,000' then headed westward. Not a square inch of ground was visible during this time. Suddenly, after ten minutes of flying toward the valley there was a break in the clouds and right below it was the Porgera airstrip, surrounded on all sides by black clouds and rain was pelting the strip. "Thank you, Lord," I exclaimed, then quickly spiraled downward, landed, and the patient was place aboard with an orderly to care for him during the flight.
I elected to fly beneath the storm clouds on the homeward flight, so I flew at tree-top height down the valley, then through a narrow pass into my home valley. Heading up the valley only a few miles short of my home base, I came to a bank of cloud that stretched from the grass-roots to infinity above.
What was I to do? Night was fast approaching. With another earnest prayer, I started to climb when I saw a small hole in the cloud. I flew through it and soon could see my rain-drenched home strip. What a welcome sight! The doctor had been alerted and had blood ready at the strip to give the patient a transfusion. The patient recovered completely and was ever so grateful for what the Lord and mission aviation did for him.
My dear friends, this is only possible because of your prayers and gifts. We thank you for both and please continue — as prayers without a plane are of little value in this needy land of great opportunities.
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Watch the video, narrated by Len Barnard, that shows the people and places he writes about for The Quiet Hour’s aviation mission project. |
