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PUFA NEWSLETTER
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April 16, 1996
Jeff Rochon, President
Bernie Strotmann, Vice-President
Ken Buck, Treasurer
Glenn Ursel, Secretary
Mail to: Pacific Ultralight Flying Association
102-16071 82 Avenue
Surrey, B.C. V3S 2L6
PUFA Newsletter published by Glenn Ursel
I am pleased to report that the membership of PUFA is continuing to grow. The new members mean fresh input and constructive ideas for the club. With our latest member, Steven Major, you could say we have members from 9 to 90; that is, if anyone admits to being 90!
On another topic, there was some conversation at the last meeting about a fly-in breakfast at King George in aid of legal fund requirements. While this is a worthy cause, I for one will welcome our first fly-in of the season of the year as it ushers in a new flying season and signals the end of winter.
The date has not been set but a tentative window will be the first weekend that looks good weatherwise with a 4 day advanced forecast. Be prepared, help will be needed!
Other regular fly-ins this summer will likely include Grand Forks, Tofino, Lillooet and, of course, the Yukon-Alaska trip. As well, Bob McLellan has invited us to his place in D'arcy, a good short day flight and maybe an overnighter with a good air strip nearby.
Finally, we have enclosed a list of contacts regarding the ultralight issue in Surrey. At the last meeting, you were encouraged to phone the councillors and/or write the media on the issue. In this regard, please note Karin Fulcher's recent letter to the Surrey News Leader.
In this issue, we highlight Jeff's story of his early flying days with Elmer (a pseudonym of course). As noted previously, we encourage all of you to send us your literary offerings.
Bob Christen was "surfing the web" recently and found Ron Kilber's account of his May 1982 flying trip to Alaska under the subject aviation. In view of Bob's pending flight to Alaska this summer with Ken Hicks, Jeff Rochon (as far as Whitehorse, Yukon), Joseph Kietaibl (if he gets his Rans Courier together by then) and possibly others, we thought you might find his story interesting.
Ron Kilber's story is to be published on the Internet in 3 installments. Two of them have been completed to date. In this issue of the PUFA Newsletter, we reprint his first installment.
In this episode, the author flies from Bellvue, Washington, to Anchorage, Alaska solo in an old and tiny Ercoupe--a trip that involves a minor mechanical problem, large quantities of Moosehead beer, and some unexpected but not altogether unpleasant encounters enroute.
While we are on the topic of the Internet, to save postage in future, I propose to commence sending out the news letter by email to those of you that have an email address. I would appreciate it if all members that are online would inform me of their email address. Thanks!
The Adventures of Elmer
The sky was cloudless with just a touch of haze that promised to disappear later in the morning. It was my habit to fly in the early morning when the winds were at rest, but it was mid-morning before Elmer and I took to the air in our ultralights. It was the early 80's and, in those days, I flew a single seat Eipper MX. Elmer commanded a Lazair, also with room for only one. It never ceased to amaze me to see that impossible gossamer wing, with two chain saw engines stuck on the front, actually leave the ground.
Our flight on that cold, crisp, winter Saturday was planned from my digs on 152nd Street in Surrey to Crescent Beach and White Rock and back. Flying time, approximately 1 hour and 15 minutes at a blistering 25 mph.
"Let's do it", Elmer said, always impatient to be underway. Soon we were cruising at 800 feet above South Surrey. As I looked over at the Lazair, and Elmer hanging below it perched on the bent piece of tin he called a seat, I reflected on some of our previous flights. Elmer always seemed to find a way to make a routine flight anything but. I wondered what might happen this day. I was not long in finding out.
Elmer might be described as a 'reluctant pilot'. He was reluctant to observe and follow many of the rules of flight, with predictable consequences. Oh, he could fly all right. He just didn't think all the laws of aerodynamics were necessarily true, or that they applied to him!
In loose formation, we crossed over Crescent Beach, then followed the shore line towards White Rock Pier. I congratulated myself for wearing my long johns that day. On the Fahrenheit scale, my gauge read 28 degrees!
We descended to 50 feet over the sand; acres of which had been exposed by low tides. The wave action had formed many long, slim sandbars in somewhat the shape of submarines surrounded by tidal pools. It was one of our distractions to land on such 'strips' to test our skills, or for the sheer fun of it.
I lined up on a suitable bar and noted the wind was a few degrees off the nose. Good enough, down and stopped with enough room to take off without a back track. So I applied full power and lifted off cleanly. Elmer executed a perfect landing on another sand patch. He grinned widely and blasted off again. I circled low and watched as Elmer appeared to set up for another sand bar to land on. It looked short, very short; even for a Lazair or MX, kings of the short field landers! A puff of sand from the wheels and he was down, rolling to within 10 feet of the wet stuff... Close!
I arced my MX low enough over Elmer to see an even bigger grin this time. I felt obligated to give him a salute. In hindsight I wondered if my hand gesture had encouraged him into his next rash action. As I circled, Elmer grasped his seat with both hands, and with a technique familiar to many ultralight pilots, crab-walked his craft 180 degrees. He was going to attempt a downwind takeoff! With his legs, he pushed the 200 lb machine back to the waters' edge. A second later, he was rolling. There was nothing I could do. No one had a radio in those early days, and it was too late for a hand signal. It was a mystery why it hadn't crossed Elmer's mind that if he had used all the runway landing into the wind he would certainly need more sand to takeoff downwind. I waited for the inevitable damp conclusion. As his craft lightened, the quartering tailwind overcame rudder control, and Elmer made a 90 degree right turn directly into the chuck. I was still circling low and slow, so I could see that the water wasn't deep. Maybe 2 feet; however, it should be noted that a pilot's nose in a Lazair sits at the 3 foot level. So there he was, engines dead, complements of the submerged switches, stunned into temporary immobility and up to his neck in the Pacific.
The MX found a nearby (and longer) sandbar to land on and I waded over to the now amphibious Lazair. Elmer was out of the plane and okay. He was still dry from the neck up. He was also doing a pretty good Daffy Duck imitation.
To our relief the twin 6 horses fired up after only a little work and Elmer, shunning my offer of a dry sweater, insisted on flying home immediately.
I could only imagine his discomfort as we headed high enough over White Rock so as to not aggravate the natives. I edged closer to see how Elmer was doing. He didn't look over, nor show a sign of movement. He was truly putting a new meaning to 'frozen at the controls'.
Well, Elmer made it home that day safely, to fly again another day. He parked his plane and, without bothering to tie it down, headed for his car. He walked the walk of a man who has no interest in making contact with his clothes. He mumbled something unintelligible as he headed off. It was something like "ch-chit itz cole"! The humour of it all hit me again as I tied down both the planes. The sight of that great silver wing hanging a couple of feet above the water with a helmut clad head seemingly suspended below was quite a sight. I'll not soon forget it.
Jeff Rochon
April, 1996
The Little Flying Yellow Tiger!
Alaska Flying Sabbatical
This day is the culmination of many months of preparation for an adventure I've longed for ever since I had my first airplane ride as a teenager in South Dakota. I pull my faithful Ercoupe from Hangar #1 at the Bellevue, Washington airport. It is already topped off and loaded with provisions to accommodate the worst--a forced landing in the cold Alaska Bush. There is barely enough room left for me in the cockpit, but who would let this interfere with the excitement of flying to Alaska? Not me.
May is a little cold and early in the season for flying the inland route to my destination in Anchorage, however, the weather is expected to be relatively stable. Besides, I want to avoid the tourist season which generally picks up in June, not only to save money on less expensive food and accommodations, but I prefer experiencing my first ever trip to Alaska when its population is truly Spartan. That's part of why I'm going it alone, and part of why I'm going to the land of the midnight sun.
Before departing on my first leg, I want to say good-bye to Ron Parcells, the owner of Hangar #1; however, even though I've been waiting an hour, he doesn't show up. Ron has been hangaring my Ercoupe, along with a few vintage planes of his own, for the better part of a year. We are friends, often enjoying flights to his ranch across the Cascades along the Columbia River, or to an airport restaurant in the Seattle area. After getting a little nervous about flying all the way to Prince George by sundown, I leave Ron a farewell note, and scramble my Ercoupe into the air. This is my last day in Bellevue. I'd been working at a Fortune 500 computer company across the I-90 freeway from the airport; however, my days as a mercenary in the corporate world are now over. This adventure is part of a flying sabbatical after which I plan to relocate to Phoenix, Arizona to expand my successful part-time financial business. Already I've given up my apartment in Factoria (less than a mile from here), and have moved all my possessions for staging to Linda's place in Los Altos, California. Actually, Linda's place used to be mine too, but we soon learned the strength in our friendship is greater when we allow each other complete independence. In other words, we can't live together.
The first leg from Bellevue is to a sleepy little town by the name of Harvey, situated on the Western slopes of the Cascades near Everett. I need one more piece of provisioning before crossing the border into Canada. The Coast to Coast store, within walking distance of the field, is having a huge sale, and I need a shotgun. Canada will not allow any pilot to proceed into the country unless a survival weapon is on board. So I buy a beautiful Remington Model 870, 12 gauge shotgun, the weapon of choice among police departments. How I came to choose a shotgun is a long story, and I will share with you later how I came to this option.
The airfield at Harvey has an extremely popular restaurant for THAT pilot whenever he is in need of a $50 hamburger. I can't count the number of times I had breakfast or lunch there.
Whenever anyone from work asked me how they could get a ride in my airplane, my standard answer was always; buy lunch. Nine times out of ten, we ended up at Harvey. After buying the Remington and walking back to the field, it is noon and I am hungry. Of course, I put down a huge lunch to hold me over for a full afternoon of flying.
The next leg into Canada is so much fun. Northern Washington has the most beautiful landscape and scenery. Never mind the Puget Sound or the Cascades, I am savoring the beautiful rolling hills where lush pastures are separated by large stands of trees, then cut by serpentine rivers and creeks. For most of this leg, I fly below the tree lines over pastures, rising only to clear a stand of trees over the next meadow. Of course, I always steer clear of live stock and buildings.
Close ground maneuvers was a staple of my pilot training days in New Mexico (I thought I wanted to be a crop duster), and ever since, I never miss the opportunity to enjoy more of it. For me, no other part of flying provides more gratification, except maybe the utility of going from point A to point B by airplane. I take one last look in the direction of Puget Sound's beautiful San Juan Islands. These have been part of my weekend playground during the last year. Friday Harbor, Roach Harbor, Orcus Island and Blakely Island, to name a few, have all had a little yellow Ercoupe visit more times than desired, I'm sure. Weather permitting, I reserved these destinations for my closest friends.
Crossing the border into Canada is no big deal, as long as you land at a port-of-entry field, such as Abbotsford, British Columbia. I climb to pattern altitude, radio the tower, and land. Just as quickly, I taxi to Customs where an agent (with the requisite train conductor hat) is already waiting. This is comical, because he asks me a whole litany of questions, believing all my answers except the one about the shotgun. This is the only thing he wants to see. He comments on my choice for a fine survival weapon. His only other major concern is if I have any handguns; however, he doesn't search for any. Of course, the sight of all my provisioning on board would discourage anyone.
After topping the tanks, I'm back in the air for a long leg to Prince George, BC. I fly East and then North, following the swelling Fraser River and its valley all the way to my next destination. Here I avoid close ground work. The terrain below me is some of the most rugged and treacherous I've ever flown over. Even at 8,000 feet, there are long stretches where I have concern for the lack of landing opportunities. Even though my reliable little bird has fewer than 100 hours on an overhauled engine, still I am not willing to put all my eggs in one basket. Like pilots must do so many times, I can only cross my fingers.
About an hour from Prince George, I notice something unusual. The nose fuel tank gauge is no longer indicating full, as it always does. An Ercoupe has three tanks, one 9 gallon on each wing, and one six gallon on the nose behind and a little above the engine (24 gallons in all). Fuel is gravity fed via the nose tank to the carburetor. This leaves the mechanical fuel pump with the job of moving fuel from the wing tanks to the nose tank. In the event the fuel pump fails, the nose tank provides more than an hour of fuel reserve before you have a dead stick situation. Obviously, something has gone foul in my fuel system. Judging from the gauge, there remains a good five gallons of fuel in the nose tank. My concern right now is to safely make my destination with the remaining fuel in the nose tank. I've already overflown Williams Lake, and Quesnel is thirty miles ahead. Sixty miles beyond is Prince George. So, I am 90 miles out with five gallons of fuel. I only need four gallons.
I am concerned about landing at Quesnel where lack of facilities and service are a certainty. Quesnel is coming up on me quickly too, so I radio Prince George and learn that the winds are out of the SW. This encourages me. In fact, a little calculating puts my ground speed at 130, which means I can easily reach Prince George with 3 gallons of fuel, and still have 2 gallons reserve. So I decide, although somewhat hesitantly, to go for the better airport.
The tower puts me downwind for a long final. My nose tank fuel gauge is still indicating pretty good, so I don't request a quicker landing, but just as soon as I touch down, I make a beeline to the fuel pumps. The nose tank requires 4 gallons of fuel to top. Just as I figured, I had a good 2 gallon reserve.
Next I taxi to the repair shop. The owner is closing shop for the day, but assures me he can look at my fuel problem first thing in the morning. While I push my Ercoupe to a tie-down, a local pilot helps me, and I share my experience with the friendly guy. He immediately assesses that I'm a good guy, because he gives me the combination to the lock for the local EAA Chapter Clubhouse. He tells me to help myself, and to feel free to stay in it overnight. He even tells me there is a phone to use as long as I don't use it for toll calls. Why not, it's 30 miles to town, and I don't have a car.
By now I'm pretty hungry again, so I go to the airport coffee shop and try some Canadian food for the first time so far.
Afterwards, I try the lounge (and some Moosehead) where the bartender is friendly. She is concerned about my broken airplane and all, and offers a ride into town with her and her boyfriend when he arrives to pick her up at closing. I'm tired and decline her offer, so I grab my sleeping bag and sack out in the EAA club house.
About one o'clock in the morning, I'm awakened by a knock on the front door. I quickly dress and find out it is the airport security officer. She is an Irish lass in her twenties with flaming red hair and the requisite freckles, and just as friendly as the bartender too. She says she saw the light I left on, and came over to check it out. I invite her in from the cold, and we chat for a good hour. Mostly she is intrigued by the spectacle of my sabbatical, and wants to hear my flying adventures, but what I really think she wants is to quit her job and join me (I hate to tell her how much room I don't have in my Ercoupe). Now she has to go on her rounds again, but she says she could come back a little later and bring something for me to drink. I think I'm too tired (maybe too stupid), so we plan more chatting for tomorrow night.
Day 2
The hot coffee at the terminal is pure heaven, as is the lumberjack breakfast. Whenever I fly I can always eat two meals, but I never do. I'm not sure why this is so. Flying is not very physical; however, it is stressful, and that may explain the need for calorie intensive meals.
The owner-mechanic arrives and we remove my fuel pump. Sure enough, the linkage between the cam follower and the diaphragm is broke and missing a piece (should've left the old pump in when I overhauled). "Needs replacing, eh?", he says, and I agree. He doesn't have one in stock (who would for an Ercoupe?), but he will locate one. When he does, I learn that it will take several days to get here (because he is not in good account standing with the supplier back East, who wants cash before shipping). Am I in a hurry? After thinking of spending maybe up to a week here, YES! "Let me see what I can do"; I say, "I want to make a few phone calls".
After about thirty bucks for calls to US suppliers, I learn that the Ercoupe fuel pump is really an automotive pump. The FAA approves because it is a non-vital element in the fuel system (due to the gravity feed from the nose tank). Now all I need to do is find a fuel pump in town, and I'll be set. This calls for another Moosehead with my favorite bartender (it's afternoon already). She was delighted to tell me that her boyfriend owns an automotive parts store. Right away she calls him and puts me on the phone with him. We do not make much headway on the phone, so he decides to drive out to the airport and have a look at the pump for himself. I do not know what this guy is thinking at all, because he says nothing. After about an hour or so of closely examining the fuel system and everything, out comes his first recommendation, "What about an electric pump?" I thought for several moments, "Why not?" Then he says, "Let's go to the lounge and talk it over, eh". So we do, as it is about 5 o'clock anyway. Actually we are not talking it over as much as we are drinking it over. This guy is a hard drinker. He loves to sit and drink, and pretty soon he is not so quiet anymore. I know he is my friend, just as long as I continue to drink with him. While his girlfriend is working, we have dinner in the coffee shop. Then it's back for more Moosehead (for him, not me). When the lounge closes (10 PM), all three of us drive 30 miles to town to pick out an electric fuel pump from his automotive store.
After one more Moosehead for him, I'm dropped off at a motel around one o'clock. "I'll pick you up in the morning, Ron", he slurs.
Day 3
After breakfast I find a message from my new Canadian buddy.
Soon he stops by and we are on our way to the airport. By noon, the electric fuel pump installation is complete (including a new switch on the panel to turn the pump on and off). What a neat set-up, just like the Cherokee 140 I always flew. We have lunch, then I take the bird for a test flight. I am 100% completely satisfied that having an electric pump is much better than a mechanical one. Jim wants to celebrate now, so we go to the lounge for a Moosehead. No matter how hard I try, Jim will not take any money from me. He goes back to town, and wants me to meet him a nine o'clock when he comes back for his girlfriend.
Now I go over to the EAA clubhouse where I see a note from the security officer. It reads, "I see that your airplane is still here and wondering where you are". I forgot all about our little date for last night, and now I hope she stops by so I can explain. Sure enough, in a little while she arrives in her high- rider pickup (complete with running lights on the roof), and she still has the soda left over from last night. We chat until it is time to meet my buddy in the lounge. I drink one Moosehead to his three, then we part and say good-bye. I sleep at the EAA clubhouse for the second time.
Day 4
The next leg of my journey has two options. The object right now is to get to Watson Lake, Yukon. One way is to fly Northerly to Williston Lake, and then take up a 300 degree heading to Watson Lake. In all, it's close to a 500 mile leg, a tall order for an Ercoupe without a tail wind. Ingenika is a private strip about midway; however, fuel availability is not always assured, as is the condition of the strip. This route takes you through the notorious Trench, a well known grave yard for more than one bush pilot. The Trench is a 320 mile long narrow canyon with tall mountains on both sides. Williston Lake occupies the Trench for more than 150 miles. What is most troublesome about the trench are the endless box canyons which lie-in-wait to entrap the unsuspecting pilot who would be so foolish as to veer only 1 degree off course. Skud running is a virtual impossibility, with death a mathematical certainty. Once in the Trench, there are no nav-aids, save dead reckoning.
The other option for getting to Watson Lake is to fly Northerly to Williston Lake and then steer clear of the Trench with a Northeasterly heading to Fort St. John. From there, you fly 310 degrees to Fort Nelson, and then 264 degrees to Watson Lake.
The only problem with this route is that it is much longer and out of the way. Flying the Trench in a day is easy; however, flying this alternative route in a slow plane would take two days and maybe three.
I can't get any positive fuel or strip information on Ingenika, the little strip in the middle of the Trench, and the winds in the Trench are at 300 (head wind). That pretty much rules out the shortcut in this bird (maybe on the way back). So I depart using the long way to Watson Lake. It is uneventful all the way to Williston Lake; however, there is a ceiling on the mountains which I must cross to get to Fort St. John. So I fly the highway under the clouds, and boy is it windy. I reduce my airspeed, and still I can't tighten my seat belt enough to keep my head off the bubble top of my Ercoupe. Sometimes I feel like I will invert as I struggle to maintain control. These are not moguls in the sky, but dangerous pot holes. I don't see how a lessor ship can stay together. Surely the wings must now be bent, even on this tank. How much longer will these winds persist, and how much more punishment can this little tyke take?
Just as soon as I clear the mountains, things calm down dramatically, however, it is still very windy. I radio ahead and learn the winds at the field are 60 MPH at 200. I've got a perfect tail wind, boy am I flying. My ground speed is 180 MPH. The field is fifty miles away, but I'm closing in really fast.
First I turn base, and now final for runway 200 (am I glad they have a 200). My nose is down, I'm turning 2300 RPMs, and I'm not making much progress trying to move down the runway. If I throttle back too much, I know I will fly backwards, so I maintain power and control descent with the elevator. Finally, I touch down with 2,000 RPMs and about 10 MPH ground speed. No roll-out today. Now if I can just taxi without inverting.
I would like to find a building to park behind, but I must settle for a tie-down space in the open. Luckily I can taxi into the wind as I park. For extra security, I get out my emergency anchors to augment the airport's tie-downs. I just have this feeling that my airplane will fly away on the power of the wind.
I want to check for structural damage, but the wind is way too debilitating.
I think I've had enough for today, so I head into town for some chow and a room. During lunch I learn that there are no rooms left because some sort of oil convention is under way. Now what, I wonder, and I go back to the airport. It is 200 miles to Fort Nelson. If I fly there and they have no rooms, I won't be any worse off than here. I check the weather and find out that it is calm at Fort Nelson. In fact, the winds have died to 40 here, which is no problem for the Ercoupe. I give the Coupe a good pre-flight (she's still solid as a tank). So I taxi out, gingerly, and make a run down the field. I'd say no more than 100 feet and I'm off the ground. Now I'm climbing almost vertically while the airport remains stationary beneath me. The fun ends when I turn my crosswind leg and take up a 310 degree heading.
This leg is routine. Off my left wing is the Alcan Highway.
It's easy to spot because the landscape is blanketed in snow. I don't see any vehicle traffic on it. It veers away from my route and pretty soon disappears. The sky is clear, and the outside temperature at 6,000 feet is 10 degrees. This is the coldest so far, and even with the cabin heat on full tilt, I'm cold. I manage a struggle to put on my ski bibs (very difficult but now worth it). After an hour or so, the Alcan veers back and now I see several vehicles inching along it. The air is smooth and I begin my descent. Pretty soon I'm on final, and just as soon I'm on my way into town. I find a room right away at this place with a huge polar bear in the lobby, standing taller than the Washington Monument, looming over me while I check in. I never realized these creatures were so huge. Really, this bear is a minimum fifteen feet tall, maybe more. It's paws are wider than a truck tire.
Day 5
While flight planning at the airport, I meet two pilots each ferrying a Cessna to Anchorage from the US. They only met up in Montana, and began flying together. Now they invite me to join them. They want to make it to Whitehorse today (2 legs). I accept right away and am first in the air on a 264 heading to Watson Lake, Yukon. This leg is routine; however, more exciting because I have someone to chat with on the radio while flying.
We refuel in Watson Lake, eat snacks, and visit the weather station. The clouds are solid over the mountains between here and Whitehorse, Yukon.
Soon we are on our way. I assume a heading of 251 directly to Whitehorse and climb to 12,000 feet for VFR on top. This leg is exciting as I approach the mountain tops which are exposed through the solid layer of clouds. Even though I'm above solid overcast, I feel safety in the huge snowfields below me, protruding like islands in a sea of clouds (no fingers crossed).
Any one would be a good landing place in an emergency. Pretty soon I find myself on the Western slopes and I hear my pilot buddies calling. They want to know where I'm at. I learn they are over the Alcan Highway below the clouds. When I set down at Whitehorse, I wait ten minutes for them to show. That's when they inform me of my little faux pas for the day. "There's no such thing as VFR on top in Canada", they inform me. These guys are great. They didn't want to mention it over the radio for fear of someone at Flight Service discovering my wrongdoing (hey, we Americans stick together). Besides, all is well that ends well.
Day 6
The three of us are having breakfast when I decide to stay over in Whitehorse to sight see and slow the pace a little. I walk with them to their planes and say farewell. I don't think I'll ever see these guys again. They will fly back home commercially just as soon as they arrive in Anchorage. There's a commercial flight arriving at the terminal, and I find myself amongst the passengers competing for a cab into town. An attractive brunette recognizes my predicament and offers to share her cab. She is a 25 year old research assistant from Toronto on her way to the McBride Museum and the library. I learn she is assisting a writer with a new book on the Jack London days of the gold rush. After checking her into a downtown hotel, we find ourselves talking about high society, restaurants and night spots in Toronto. None of this really interests me at all, but I am well qualified for the conversation because I spent nearly one year living and working in Toronto several years earlier. I sense that it is important for this woman to have me for an audience, but only on her terms and while she is dominating the conversation.
When I tell her I once dined with Pierre Trudeau in Ottawa, she does not even want to know the details (actually, it was a Sunday in 1978 when the Prime Minister and his family walked into the McDonalds restaurant where I just happened to be; of course, I didn't talk to him or anything). Now it is late in the afternoon, and I decide to tell little Miss Muffit that tomorrow is a big day, so I go to my hotel next to the airport for dinner alone and a good nights rest.
Day 7
The motel and airport are perched on a mesa. I find myself looking out my room window at the huge expanse of the great Yukon River which is still frozen. The trees on its banks are void of all leaves. It is hard for me to imagine that this 2,300 mile long waterway, with less than 2,000 feet of elevation, flows Northerly through the Yukon, then Westerly across the entire state of Alaska where it empties into the Bearing Sea south of Norton Sound. The per mile drop is only 10 inches (rapids unlikely), which probably accounts for why it is navigable all the way to Whitehorse. Without navigation on the Yukon, Dawson and Whitehorse, together with hundreds of outposts, would not exist as we know them today. Last year I read Jack London's "To Build A Fire", a short story about a trapper who meets tragedy during a winter hike along a river in the Yukon or NW Territories (not sure). If you've never read it, I strongly recommend it, although be sure to wear a good coat beside a nice warm fire because the story will make anyone shiver.
Over another lumberjack breakfast, I read a brochure about Skagway, so I check the weather to consider flying the short hop to the historic town where the infamous Soapy Smith reigned during the gold rush days. The weather is not good, and I rule out the bus ride (how would I get to Juneau if I want to go there too?). Maybe on the way back, I figure, so I'm in the air again on the way to Northway, by way of Haines Junction and Burwash Landing. This is another usual leg; however, now I'm starting to develop an impression of the landscape as I fly over Haines Junction. Huge valleys, as flat as the sea, dominate the horizon, and mountains rise like islands on either side. Snow is everywhere so it is hard to see the thousands of lakes and rivers which dot the chart. There is no mistake about Kluane Lake, which to me looks fifty miles long and 8 to 10 miles at its widest. Soon I pass over Burwash Landing and take a 290 degree heading to Northway. After three hours, I'm on a long high final to runway 22, when the unspeakable occurs. My engine looses all power. I'm high and probably can make the field, so I remain remarkably calm. I check everything. Fuel is good, carburetor heat is on, my new fuel pump is working, what could be wrong? Once this happened to me in the desert over Arizona, but that was because I had my nose way too high while practicing a power-on stall. I continue on final and realize that I am descending faster than usual. The head wind is far too light to impact my descent this much, so I conclude the propeller must be acting as an air brake as the airplane's forward momentum is used to windmill the propeller. Even so, I can make the runway, and just before touching down, the engine restarts on its own.
Northway consists of a fuel island and a small restaurant. As
far as I can tell this is all there is. I refuel next to a Cessna
152, and have lunch with the pilot. He is ferrying the plane purchased
in Montana by his FBO in Anchorage. He's a soft- spoken flight instructor,
maybe 35, but his words pack a lot of punch. He thinks I developed
carburetor ice after I powered back on final. "What made the engine
restart?", I ask. "Well, when the engine RPMs fall off, less fuel
goes through the carburetor", he says. "This means less cooling,
which stops the formation of more ice. Now heat from the engine has
a chance to melt the existing carburetor ice". This sure does make
sense to me, as does his advice to keep lots of power on final to prevent
future occurrences. I give the bird a good engine pre-flight; everything
looks perfect. No water in the tanks, no leaks, and the carburetor
heat mechanism works perfectly. I prepare to leave when the flight
instructor wants to know my route. I tell him I want to follow the
road by way of Tok, which is considerably
out of the way. He suggests I follow him by a shortcut which
can save an hour. I am concerned that I can keep up, and he assures
me he can throttle back. Soon we are both in the air flying 210 degrees
from Northway over flat terrain towards mountains dead ahead. There
are no man-made landmarks anywhere. Most certainly, with my limited
Alaska experience, I would not attempt this shortcut without the benefit
of my new bush mentor. His calm voice assures me we are not entering
the abyss of no return.
None the less, I maintain close scrutiny of my chart and the surrounding terrain, just in case he loses me.
There is a 3,000 foot ceiling today. After flying 1,000 feet off the deck for 30 miles, we take a new heading of 250 degrees as we enter a valley with 6,000 foot peaks on the left and 5,600 foot peaks on the right. The visibility ahead is marginal, and we dash right into light snow flurries. This concerns me, but I'm assured all is well as long as precautionary carburetor heat is on. I've never flown through a snow storm before, and my guide explains that Alaska pilots would be grounded every day, if they had to avoid this type of weather. "Welcome to Alaska", he says, and I stop worrying, even when the visibility drops to two miles.
After twenty miles from the last course adjustment, we change to a new heading of 190 degrees. We exit the snow storm and head straight for Suslota Pass about fifteen miles ahead. How any neophyte would know when to turn, especially in this weather, would be near impossible. After we clear the pass, we change course and head directly to Duffys Tavern. Now we are over the Glenn Highway to Anchorage, and the ceiling keeps us at 1,000 feet AGL. My metabolism slows considerably, and for the first time since leaving Northway, I'm able to resume my study and enjoyment of the terrain below. It is shocking for me to learn the near total absence of large vegetation such as trees. In fact, Alaska is a huge desolate place, and I cannot comprehend how such a cold barren wasteland can support so much wildlife. I want to see Mt. Mckinley, but the clouds do not allow the spectacle today, as is the case with all high terrain. I look for bear, wolves, and caribou, but I see none. When we cross the Alaska pipeline, a friendly helicopter pilot calls. First we tell him everything he wants to know, and then he tells us all about the pipeline he is inspecting from the air. Finally I spot him at pipeline elevation.
Three hours and 10 minutes after departing Northway, I touchdown at Merrill Field in Anchorage (with plenty of throttle until I'm sure I can make a dead-stick landing). No engine stall this time, although the weather is much warmer than it was in Northway. I taxi to the only motel on the field, and as luck would have it, I find a room for $35, with parking for my plane close by (this is more than the $20 rooms along the way, but still less than my expectations for Alaska). I've arrived, and I've flown all the way to Alaska--solo.
Copyright, 1982 and 1995, Ron Kilber, all rights reserved.
Ron Kilber lives and works in Tempe, Arizona but says he'll drop everything
on a
moment's notice if anyone is planning an Alaska trip and needs an experienced
copilot.
Email to: rpknet@aztec.asu.edu
Bose Votes Against Ultralights!
Editor, The Leader:
I was distressed to learn recently of the decision by Surrey Council to seek legal means to terminate the operation of Airflow Ultralight Aviation Ltd. in Surrey. I was particularly surprised to discover that the mayor, Mr. Bob Bose, cast the deciding vote.
Three years ago my son William, then aged 13, began his flying training at Airflow Ultralight Aviation Ltd. under the guidance of Mr. Fred Glasbergen and his instructors. On William's 14th birthday, May 17, 1993, he became the youngest pilot in Canada when he flew solo for 30 minutes and received his student pilot permit for ultralights.
The facilities at Airflow Ultralight Aviation Ltd. have allowed my son and many other youngsters to begin training for a skill which for some may become a lifetime career and others a lifetime recreation. These young people are the responsible adults of the future who face yet another blow if these facilities are closed. Youngsters everywhere are being told to "play in some else's back yard". If facilities and interests are not made available to them, they will become bored and turn to other less productive pursuits.
I am not a resident of Surrey, but in view of the upcoming municipal elections, I hope that the voting residents of Surrey will think long and hard before re-electing Bob Bose. I am not inclined to support leadership which seems to change its mind according to which way the wind blows, or fom which direction it blows strongest.
Karin M. Fulcher
April 10, 1996