Dave Baldwin - The Flying Doctor

It was Sax Dave Saxton who originally introduced me to the term Godzone. I knew exactly what he meant, and I am reminded of it, over and over again, on trips like this one.

Ive just left Christchurch-controlled airspace I signed off by assuring the controller that I would have my first whitebait patty in her honour and Im now cruising at 10,000 feet on visual flight rules (VFR) over the headwaters of the Rakaia River. The weather is sparkling clear, with only a few shreds of cloud around good old Cloud Piercer, Aoraki/Mount Cook, which is, of course, busy piercing them. The other big fellas Malte Brun, Tasman, Dampier stand close by, too. The terrain repeatedly soars to meet me and then plunges away scree slopes, fields of golden tussock, icefalls, jewel-like tarns.

You may have heard of Dave Saxton. Hes one of the legends of the aviation scene around South Westland and Fiordland, a part of the world where there is no shortage of legends, characters, colourful individuals and downright dangerous bastards. Theres a story about him theres actually a few stories about Sax where he was returning from a trip north with a couple of mates. He paused at the head of the gangway of the Interislander, swept an arm to take in the South Island, and said to his mates: There you go, boys. The winter block. As with Godzone, I know exactly what he meant and I know exactly what he was feeling when he said it. The South Island is Gods Own Country, all right; a playground for anyone who loves the outdoors. Its always good to be back.

ZK-Really-Jolly-Good, my Cessna 172 Hawk XP2, bounces around in the thermals at the head of the Godley River valley, and I brace by gripping the bit of Arawata River schist velcroed to the top of the instrument panel as a handpiece. Lake Tekapo is spread out ahead of me, the kind of pastel blue that was fashionable in the 1930s. Shortly itll be time to let the local pilots who are flying in the vicinity of Wanaka know that Im inbound. My eye roves over the instruments out of habit: fuel good in both tanks, leaning just right. All good.

Im a bit shagged, truth be told. I was on call all morning at my medical practice across the way at Bulls in the lower North Island, and got away much later in the afternoon than I usually aim to. So while Im keeping an eye on the plane, Im also keeping an eye on myself. Just to be sure, I reach across to the thermos I have in a holder on the starboard side of the cockpit and pour myself a cup of weapons-grade coffee, white and sweetened with just a dash of my favourite borage honey from the Nimmos farm in the Clarence River valley.

South of the Mackenzie Country, parts of the mighty Landsborough River valley are in view. I cant look at this area without a grin and a pang. Its where me, my best mate and son Marc, and my mum, Granny Olive, used to come to hunt the roar as the Gang of Three.

Great times.

Every one of my trips south is a sentimental journey. As my GPS ticks off waypoints along the route Ive logged into it, my soul kind of does the same thing. I have a photo of the Gang of Three on our first roar trip, where Marc bagged his first stag at the age of nine: it seems stupid that Im the only one of us still right side up. I dip a wing to my ghosts and carry on.

Quite recently, I made the decision that The Not-So-Royal Bulls Flying Doctor Service wasnt going to do rotary-wing aircraft (or, as theyre rather better known, choppers). Plenty of people have told me Im mad doing what I do with a fixed-wing, but after 16 years and 3500 hours of flying I know this little plane backwards. Instead of going for a rotary-wing rating and getting hold of a chopper, I decided I would invest in some big wheels and vortex generators for Really-Jolly-Good. The wheels slow me down the GPS indicates Im probably losing a good 10 knots in speed over the ground at 10,000 feet but as I say to people, it means I simply spend longer in paradise. And man, do those big tyres smooth out the bumps on some of the more tricky strips I land on. The vortex generators a series of little fins mounted behind the leading edges of the wings, the tailfin and tailplane have really improved the short take-off and landing capabilities of my little aircraft, turning it into a poor mans helicopter. Im happy with that.

Plus, I cant even handle T-Rex, the floor polisher at our medical practice, so what hope would I have of landing a chopper in a tight bush clearing? Youve got to be pretty sharp. Ive lost so many good mates in chopper crashes lately, good bastards who knew what they were doing.

I give the local pilots a heads-up on 119.1 MHz and 120.1 MHz that Im descending to land at Wanaka Airport, doing a big arc over the Clutha in its plush golden terraces. Its beautiful country: I never get tired of this place. Theres another plane about; I cant see him, but hes happy to go number two, to join the circuit and land behind me. Theres a paraglider somewhere Aha! Got you, you bastard, over there, by the outlet on the edge of Lake Hawea. So Im all set to land. I line up. Its been a hot day, and the plane wobbles a bit on approach, but I get her on the tarmac nice and sweet with a little bump and squeak of my new tyres.

I taxi in and park next to the fuel bowsers. Ive got a few medicals to do here, in the Wanaka Aerospace Research Institute in the Wallis boys Alpine Helicopters buildings. The first of the pilots is there already, leaning on the fence and wearing a big grin. I reckon hes impressed by my big new wheels.

When I take off again for the 40-minute flight to Te Anau, its as though a weight has been lifted from my shoulders. After the mornings on-call load and four medical inspections back there in Wanaka, Im buggered and ready for a beer. The chances of not getting one at Noddy Deakers place the Upukerora Aerospace Research Institute are absolutely zero, Id say.

The sun is low as I transit Queenstowns tightly controlled airspace. You have to do everything by the book with these buggers, because its a tricky place to fly in anything, let alone the big planes they get in and out of here, so theyre sticklers. I wind the controller up a bit about the prospect of night flights starting up soon. I hope he gets to be a rich man from all the pending overtime, I tell him, and offer to help him out if he ever ends up having too much money.