You see, I find it troubling how TV and movies consistently misrepresent certain professions, painting them in misleadingly noble or heroic lights.
Take the classic portrayal of the police officer, for example. On screen, you’re often led to believe that this is an incorruptible beacon of virtue, a steadfast protector of the vulnerable, whose every waking moment is spent serving the public good and rescuing kittens from trees.
The reality?
Well, let’s just say it rarely involves capes, heartfelt speeches, or triumphant theme music. Instead, you’re far more likely to encounter an officer decked out in tactical gear that would make a Navy SEAL blush.
He might stroll past your distressed dog stuck in a trench, take a quick shot at your cat in the tree (to "put it out of its misery"), and then—just to round out the experience—write you a ticket for illegally parking while you were trying to help an elderly gentleman who’d been steamrolled by his own shopping cart.
Heroic saviors? Perhaps. But only in the scripts of screenwriters with active imaginations and limited life experience.
You really think the carabinieri who show up right after you’ve wrapped yourself around a lamppost are there to help you? To check if you're still breathing and perhaps hold your hand while the paramedics arrive? Oh, no. Think again, my friend, and brace yourself for a financial assault.
First, they'll slap you with a fine for not wearing your seatbelt—because safety, of course. Then, they'll add a penalty for the grievous offence of bleeding all over public property. And don’t think for a second they’ll overlook the poor lamppost you dared to bend out of shape. That’s an extra charge for "damage to municipal assets." At this point, you’d almost wish they’d just left you there.
And while we’re shattering illusions, let’s talk about the mythical movie taxi driver. You know the one: he speaks 20 languages fluently, has a degree in economics, a PhD in neuroscience, and spends his weekends as a hobbyist astronaut. The kind of guy who can take you on a city tour and simultaneously solve global poverty while you sit comfortably in the backseat.
In real life? You’re lucky if he knows three words in your language, two of which are "no change.”
In reality, you climb into a vehicle piloted by an incoherent dunce who communicates primarily through grunts and the occasional, tragic burst of intestinal fortitude. Forget polyglot aspirations—this individual couldn’t articulate "hello" if you handed them a dictionary and a week to practice.
Navigating to your destination? That’s on you. Since this trembling milkmaid couldn’t locate their own backside with a mirror on a stick, let alone deliver you to your intended address, you’ll end up coaching them through the labyrinth of urban traffic using Google Maps on your phone. All the while, you’re praying they don’t plow into a lamppost, a pedestrian, or a wayward pigeon because their driver’s license? Oh, that was issued after they successfully herded three mules across a dirt path in the rain.
So, am I saying fiction doesn’t measure up to reality? Not quite.
I get it—movies need to sell better than a used coffin ever could. Nobody’s lining up to watch a film that mirrors the dull monotony of someone’s uninspiring daily grind.
A romanticised, polished version of reality is part of the deal, and honestly, that’s fine.
But here’s where I take issue: even documentaries, supposedly the bastions of truth, have veered so far off course that they might as well be classified as fiction. Stupid me, I fell for it hook, line, and sinker.
Take Ice Pilots or those shows about Alaskan and African bush pilots. They paint these characters as lone wolves, rugged survivalists who—despite their scruffy exteriors—still manage to look strangely composed, like they just stepped off the set of a well-funded outdoor gear commercial.
They’re presented as environmental savants, deeply in tune with nature and profoundly respectful of the animals they encounter.
Reality, however, had other plans. Let me tell you what I actually found…
The Yukon, Summer 2018
Did someone die in here?
“Aaron, do you smell that?”
The acrid stench had been following me around since I entered the main cabin this morning. At first, I chalked it up to the charred bacon Aaron’s wife was cooking—a culinary assault I found uniquely nauseating. Few scents in this world can make my stomach churn like the pungent, smoky reek of bacon frying away in its own grease. If you gave me a choice between wearing a decomposing rabbit carcass around my neck or waking up to the smell of pig butt sizzling on a pan, I’d take the rabbit every time.
“No, smell what?” Aaron replied with genuine confusion.
Aaron was my boss up here in the Yukon, running a hunting outfit with a lease on a sprawling conservancy north of Whitehorse, the capital of Canada’s vast Yukon Territory. He was the kind of guy who likely wouldn’t notice a bad smell unless it came with flashing lights and a bullhorn announcing its arrival.
For this season, he’d hired me to fly his well-heeled, trigger-happy trophy hunters around in his vintage Piper Super Cub on floats. That plane was as old as disco but less well-preserved.
Today, Aaron and I were out scouting—searching for anything with hooves or horns that his clients could justify taking a shot at: mountain sheep, moose, caribou.
It was hovering around 5 degrees Celsius outside, but I had no choice—I yanked open the window. The icy wind clawing at my face was far more tolerable than the vile stench that seemed to have taken on a life of its own inside the cabin.
“For the love of God!” I blurted out as Aaron leaned forward, unleashing a new wave of nasal assault that made my stomach flip. “When did you last take a shower?”
Aaron straightened up, looking genuinely affronted. “Well,” he said defensively, “last week, at the hotel in Whitehorse when I picked up my wife from the airport. Why?”
“Last week?” I was aghast. “What does your wife think of that?”
“What do you mean? She also showered last week at the hotel.”
I sat there, stunned, trying to process this casual admission. The guilt hit me like a freight train—I had mistakenly blamed the bacon this morning. The truth was, the stench had a name, and that name was Aaron.
To be honest, I’d always admired those hardcore, quiet, self-reliant pilots who carved out a living in the mountainous north. The ones who could work miracles in their little Piper Super Cubs, fending off grizzlies and wolves, setting their planes down on stretches of land where even insects lacked the courage to tread. These were the people who flew in weather that would terrify commercial pilots, navigating through blinding snow and zero visibility, yet somehow avoiding every treacherous peak and hidden canyon.
To me, they represented a dying breed of heroes—men who thrived in chaos and danger. I had devoured countless books on the legendary Alaskan bush pilots, each story more daring than the last. They had this unshakable resolve, a mix of grit and grace, that made me vow silently to one day join their ranks. I’d dreamed of going north, to the untamed wilderness, to fly where only the brave dared venture.
But while I could hold my own at dangerously low altitudes, skimming treetops or buzzing down valleys in reckless bursts of adrenaline-fuelled flying, there was one thing that always kept me grounded when it came to the mountains: my fear of heights.
It’s ironic, I know. A pilot afraid of heights. But it’s not the flying that gets to me; it’s the thought of hanging there, exposed, with nothing between me and the jagged earth below. Snow, wind, and turbulence? Bring it on. But the vertigo-inducing vastness of a mountain ridge or a sheer drop? That’s another story altogether.
Every time I find myself flying at high altitudes, it becomes an unhealthy battle of determination—a constant act of sheer will to not simply fling open the door and hurl myself out in despair. I can manage for a few hours, gritting my teeth and focusing on the task at hand, but over time, the weight of it all drains the joy out of flying entirely.
So, when the seasonal job offer in the Yukon came up in 2018, I accepted it with a fair amount of trepidation. From the outset, there were plenty of red flags—more than enough to make any sensible person reconsider. Chief among them was my visceral dislike for trophy hunters, a demographic I’d actively avoided most of my life.
But, as is often the case, curiosity and the ever-present need for funds tipped the scales. Against my better judgment, I packed my bags, fuelled by a mix of financial desperation and a misguided hope that the adventure might somehow outweigh the risks.
Whoever spends more than five minutes with me usually discovers that I am, without a doubt, the least employable person on the planet. Since leaving the Navy in 1991—a four-year misadventure that could only be described as a maritime catastrophe—I’ve managed to avoid working for anyone.
It's not that I have a mean streak, mind you. It’s just that I’ve got this nasty habit of telling people exactly what I think of them, usually without applying even the thinnest of filters. This doesn’t play well in most professional settings, particularly when I disagree with someone, or worse, when their authority is derived from something superficial—like a uniform, a title, or some other hollow institutional marker.
My earlier remarks about the police force should give you an idea of how this usually pans out. Spoiler: not great.
This, of course, meant that tension with my new boss Aaron was inevitable. Don't get me wrong—I deeply respect people who are true authorities, who are competent, kind, and naturally command respect. That kind of authority is effortless, like the quiet strength of a wise old wolf in the pack.
But I can’t stand people who merely think they have authority, the sort who rely on gaudy displays to mask their ineptitude. You know the type: strutting around with stripes on their uniforms, tacky medals pinned to their chests, crowns perched atop their heads, or—my personal favourite—dressing up like a literal chicken in ceremonial garb. (Looking at you, overly-costumed Indian chiefs.)
But I digress…
However, here I was, eager to meet the crew and get a firsthand glimpse into life in the rugged wilderness of the Yukon. My curiosity quickly collided with a harsh reality: a shocking lack of hygiene among my new colleagues.
Out of a group of eight, including my wife and me, there were precisely two others who made any effort to shower. Now, I admit the shower setup was a logistical challenge. The contraption, which drew water from the nearby lake, required a masterclass in patience and ingenuity. First, you had to start the generator. Then, adjust the water pump. Finally, coax life into an antique water heater that seemed to have been plucked straight from a historic exhibition of the Civil War. Inevitably, one of these three components would croak at any given moment.
Even with all its oddities, I found the system manageable, and the reward—avoiding the constant company of flies mistaking you for a decomposing moose—was entirely worth the effort. But, of course, that was just me.
One crew member set the tone early by proudly declaring on the first day that he wouldn’t be showering even once during the entire 12-week season. To this, I issued a declaration of my own: that under no circumstances would he be allowed near my plane unless he wanted to find himself on the receiving end of a well-aimed boot, swiftly followed by an involuntary dip in the lake.
Aaron, my boss, gave me a quizzical look but said nothing. Whether he silently agreed or merely wrote me off as eccentric, I couldn’t tell—and honestly didn’t care.
There were other problems.
As a pilot, I’m admittedly spoiled when it comes to Super Cubs, thanks largely to a near-perfect machine I once owned. With the help of a good friend, I had it customised to my exact specifications—a labor of affection that took six months of meticulous work. We transformed a new but dull Super Cub into a masterpiece, my pride and joy. That plane eventually accompanied me to Kenya, where I flew it for nearly 1,000 hours. Parting with it was heartbreaking, but I eventually sold it to a charity with an impressive fleet of planes and helicopters, knowing it would serve a good cause.
Unfortunately, not long after I sold my precious Super Cub, it met a tragic—and entirely preventable—end. Some snot-nosed greenhorn, who clearly had no business in the cockpit, managed to fly it straight into the ground. Apparently, he thought making a turn at 200 feet off the ground at walking speed was a good idea.
The result? A fiery explosion that turned my beloved plane into nothing more than smouldering rubble.
I’ve tried to comfort myself with the thought that the Cub, a proud and noble machine, simply refused to be mishandled by an inept pilot. Perhaps it made the decision to end things on its own terms rather than endure the indignity of being operated by a complete dunce. Of course, that doesn’t make the loss any easier to bear. That plane and I had a history—a bond forged through countless hours in the air, in challenging environments, and under conditions that tested both man and machine.
To see it reduced to ashes by a reckless amateur? Let’s just say I’m not the forgiving type when it comes to such carelessness.
Naturally, every Super Cub I fly these days is involuntarily measured against that golden standard. It’s a mistake, of course, akin to comparing your current girlfriend to an ex—not a road anyone should go down. But despite my best efforts, I couldn’t help but notice that the adorable 1953 Super Cub on floats I was assigned here in the Yukon wasn’t quite up to par. It was charming, yes, but slightly underpowered for the rugged tasks it was expected to perform.
In this unforgiving wilderness, where short takeoffs and landings on unpredictable lakes were routine, every ounce of horsepower mattered. The little Cub was a relic from a bygone era, and while it had character in spades, character alone wouldn’t haul trophy hunters and their gear into the mountains. Still, it had to do, and I tried to suppress my nagging comparisons—for both the plane's sake and my own sanity.
My job up in the Yukon was straightforward in theory: fly around with a spotter to locate wildlife and occasionally make supply runs to town. Simple. But when you're flying a Super Cub in mountainous terrain, taking off and landing on small lakes, weight becomes your greatest enemy.
It’s not just about being able to touch down; it’s about ensuring you can take off again. And in this particular case, the variable tipping the scales—quite literally—was my spotter, Aaron, who also happened to be my 250-pound boss.
Now, I knew addressing the weight issue would be delicate. I made an earnest attempt to broach the topic diplomatically, but alas, subtlety is not my strong suit.
“Dude,” I said, scanning the tiny lake below us, “we can’t land here. You’re too fat. We’ll never get off the ground again unless I leave you here for the winter so you can shed some of that… uh… excess mass.”
To this day, I can’t fathom why he seemed offended by my observation. Surely, as a seasoned outdoorsman, he understood the physics of floatplanes? It wasn’t personal—it was aerodynamics! But no, Aaron was clearly miffed, his face flushing an unflattering shade of crimson, though thankfully, he refrained from retaliating.
There was more.
I was acutely aware of my lack of experience in Rocky Mountain flying. My expertise was firmly rooted in hot climates, red dust, erratic wind shears, relentless rainy seasons, and the occasional AK-47 wielding Somali in Koras National Park. My flying altitudes were typically so low I had to be more concerned about colliding with acacia trees or termite mounds than with anything resembling a mountain.
If I had ever wanted to fly headfirst into a peak, I’d have had to make a special trip to Mount Kenya or Kilimanjaro—neither of which was anywhere near where I operated. This Yukon terrain, with its towering elevations and unpredictable weather, was an entirely contrasting challenge.
Naturally, Aaron felt obligated to share his wisdom on mountain flying—a seemingly endless torrent of suggestions, opinions, and unsolicited advice. To a point, I didn’t mind. After all, there were things I was unfamiliar with: the weather patterns, local flight protocols, and the particular quirks of this terrain.
However, when it came to pushing a Super Cub to its limits, I knew my abilities and my boundaries. Flying one of these machines on the edge of its performance envelope was second nature to me. While Aaron was undoubtedly in his element up here, his advice began to toe the line between helpful and patronising.
I was willing to acknowledge my blind spots, but I wasn’t about to let someone lecture me on things I’d already mastered. And unfortunately, Aaron wasn’t the kind of man to stop when he was on a roll.
Naturally, I conveyed my opinion with my usual flair for diplomacy—or lack thereof. I made it abundantly clear that Aaron, unlike me, had barely scratched the surface of flying. He had started lessons, only to quit after a meagre six hours because, as he put it, “it was too stressful.” In my view, this left him with precious little experience to draw from, let alone to critique someone with thousands of hours under their belt.
To help him understand my perspective, I crafted a comparison he might grasp. I told him it was like my wife, who had logged 50,000 miles perched on the back of my motorcycle, suddenly deciding she was qualified to critique my riding skills. While her experience as a passenger was valid, I doubted it gave her the nerve—or the expertise—to tell me how to handle a bike.
Aaron, again, was miffed. But such is life. If honesty could fly planes, I’d be the king of the skies.
Of course, this was just one chapter of the saga. More troubles lay ahead—but that’s a story for another time.
Marcel Romdane
My Boss and Me, Beautiful Rockies, Amazing Scenery in the Yukon The Main Cabin
