In truth, I'm a certified geek about aircraft - especially military aircraft. So when the 517th Airlift Squadron offered to take me along on a re-supply mission, I hopped on board.

On Nov. 18, we took off from Elmendorf Air Force Base, bound for two remote radar sites - Indian Mountain and Fort Yukon - aboard a C-130 Hercules.

The C-130 has been in production since 1955. It's the big four-engine plane, made familiar in the film reels of the siege at Khe Sahn, skipping across the dirt runway as shells explode in front of it, cargo pallets skidding out the back.

"For its mission, it just can't be beat," said Tech Sgt. Jeff Begley, load chief on the aircraft. Like everyone in military aviation, Begley has a special place in his heart for the plane on which he serves.

"I was watching footage of the U.N. inspectors returning to Iraq, and they came in on a C-130," he said, grinning.

It's cold outside. It's dawn. Large hoses are attached to the engines, heating the oil. The plane is being de-iced as well. We're about to take off and fly north to the Interior, to land on Indian Mountain, a remote radar site, pretty much in the center of the state. It's an uphill runway. To get to it, the pilot has to drop the plane between two peaks, and then plop the massive beast down at the last second. There is only one chance to do it right. The training video for landing at Indian Mountain says it all: "A successful go-around is improbable."

"I love that part," said the pilot, Major Wiley Dickenson, during the pre flight briefing.

In the belly of the craft, as crew members load pallets on board, Dickenson stands in his leather flight jacket, overseeing the operations. I'm inspecting all the parts of the plane. Cargo racks, roller tracks for the pallets. I think of the fact that small helicopters can fit in the cargo hold, and notice the familiar cable for static line jumping. I did it when I was 19. Then I notice the pararchutes.

The Air Force is big on safety. Still, things happen, especially in interior Alaska. A C-130 crashed a few years ago when a flock of Canada geese flew into its props. I have a friend who was an Army medic at Fort Richardson at the time, and he was first on the scene. The carnage was absolute. He's not an Army medic anymore.

This is what rushes through my head when I notice the parachutes. I think everyone has a "what if" hum in the back of their mind when they get on a plane. Still, that's the fun part: buy the ticket, take the ride.

I count the parachutes. There are seven. Eleven people are on the plane. I mentioned this to Maj. Wiley Dickenson, in a humorous sort of way. But he's heard it before. Pilots know the risks; non pilots dwell on them, and even invent them. He knew just what to say.

"Yeah, I've often thought of what it would take to get me to strap on a 'chute," he says matter-of-factly. "The flight decks on these planes are connected to the fuselage with tiny bolts. If one of them goes, they all pretty much pop. And these planes don't ditch very well. I think that's the only instance where I'd strap on the 'chute."

Well, that's encouraging.

After a short pass by Denali, we begin our descent for Indian Mountain, but a 29-knot cross wind prohibits a landing. The people at Indian Mountain won't get their re-supply today. We pull off at 600 yards out and bank hard, 400 feet above the ground. We do this for the next half-hour. Five good ol' American boys spinning donuts in a giant plane. The co-pilot, Capt. Sean Finnan, points out the window, and we all look. A herd of caribou on a frozen lake. Dickenson banks again, this time to the right, and even the navigator, 2nd Lt. Micheal Morris, who's done this many times before, stands up and laughs. It's part of their day, having fun like this.

An hour later, we're making our final approach for Fort Yukon, our cargo hold still full. We have to drop the load here, and another plane has to pick it up later. Weather is fickle in the Interior.

The load chief climbs up into the flight deck, gets my attention, and shouts a contingency plan.

"If we skid when we land, sit tight, because we'll whip around and take off again!"

Fort Yukon is one of 10 radar sites throughout Alaska, meant to alert NORAD of any incoming threats. It was activated in 1958. We get a brief tour of the site, meet some of the people who man it through the winter. People like station technician John Nodus from Chicago, who wears a fur hunting cap he never removes. He gives us the run down of what there is to do way out here in the dead of winter.

"Yep, pool and ping-pong," he says.

But leave it up to the U.S. military to make sure that out here in the frozen perimeters, there is ample supply of blueberry cheesecake. We have a feast at the radar site.

The people who man the site seem to enjoy the remoteness, and project a jaunty sense of humor about it.

As we leave, the site engineer, Clay Shaw - his husky, Duker, sprinting around in the snow - waves and shouts, "Come on back, we'll be here!"

In the end, not only do we leave supplies intended for Indian Mountain at Fort Yukon, but the gear we were to collect at Fort Yukon can't be loaded, for reasons undisclosed. Just another day in the unpredictable climate of Interior Alaska. Dickenson, a pilot since 1984, is used to it.

"When we leave the building in the morning, we think we're landing," he said. "But it changes fast out there."