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PUFA NEWSLETTER
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June 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
The best laid plans of mice and men, as they say! Fortunately our tried and true pancake breakfast more than made up for the great Pufa Yard Sale that wasn't. Evidently more organizing is in order if we do this in the future. The pancakes were as good as ever if I do say so myself and generous donations made the event a great success financially. There are no plans at this time to have more breakfast's. However, it would not be wise to overdo a good thing. Besides, members have many other summer activities to pursue.
As of this writing, members have attended fly-ins at Nanaimo and Duncan so far this summer. Seven odd aircraft were at the bathtub city and five made it to Duncan. It was my first visit to the Duncan Airport and I was pleasantly surprised. The Father's Day turnout was surprisingly large with hundreds of kids not only enjoying the airstuff but participating in the many games and air events put on by the Duncan Air Club. There was hardly a break in the action all day, with many visiting aircraft coming and going, flybys, flour drops, nerf drops and spot landings.
There was a new wrinkle contest I had not witnessed before. After completing the spot landing, participants had to taxi to a pole on the apron and attempt to come to a stop as close as possible with the wing tip of their plane to this pole. But that's not all! After a judge measured your distance to the pole, you would then taxi forward to two tiedown ropes where, after shutting down, you leap out and tie down your aircraft as rapidly as possible throwing your hands up upon completion, just like calf roping!
Prizes were awarded for everything and yours truly humbly accepted first prize for the flour drop. The prize? $20.00 worth of aviation fuel no less! A tip of the hat to the Duncan Air Club for an extremely well organized fly-in. Coming up next will be the Seashelt pancake breakfast on June 23rd.
Despite the advice in our last PUFA Notice of Meeting, we decided to publish a PUFA Newsletter for the month of June to include our minutes of the last meeting in May, an updated list of fly-in events, membership list and Ron Kilber's third, and final, installment of his 1982 flight to Alaska and back.
In this episode, the author meets a flying mentor and discovers the adventure of the treacherous Rocky Mountain Trench, out-smarts horses on a landing strip in the Trench and experiences a landing mishap in the tiny Cascade Mountain community of Cashmere, Washington upon returning to the U.S.A.
Following Ron's Alaska story is another article on our ongoing battle with the City of Surrey that I copied from a June 8th issue of the Surrey Now which not all members might have seen, since some of you do not have the pleasure of residing in our fair city.
Alaska Flying Sabbatical (Part 3)
Day 18, Whitehorse, Yukon
It is noon, but already I've had breakfast, showered, and refueled the Coupe. That weather system moving from the west moved on top of us last night and is still with us now. This will be a good day for a little R&R.
Whitehorse is a bustling little town full of people that seem to be everywhere. I don't do much at all today, except try to imagine the life and times of the people who lived here almost one hundred years ago. Certainly, only the hardiest (the creme de la creme) were able to survive out here (or wanted to). Any village idiot from the lower 48, who dared travel here, was doomed en route to this barren place. In my opinion, I'm afraid not many were able to survive here at all.
Some of the deciduous vegetation (barren weeks ago) is now sprouting, and no longer detracts, but complements the evergreens.
About the time when I need a cab to go back up the hill to my motel, I encounter two young ladies who pull over to the curb in an antique pickup truck. They are giggling and generally having a grand time as they both exit the cab. Then one of them retrieves a long, thin branch from the pickup bed, and uses it to check the level of fuel in the gas tank. Obviously, their gas gauge isn't working and they fear they might be out of fuel.
They notice I am curious, and then they have just as much fun explaining to me what they are doing with the stick. Both know without asking that I'm not a resident of Whitehorse, and then they ask if I need a ride somewhere. After they drop me off at the motel, I give them $5 for the ride. Now they are more tickled than ever. With new gas money, they can now drive around Whitehorse some more, instead of going home. They even invite me to join them. I think they feel a little guilty for accepting something for an unsolicited ride, but my impression is these gals can really use the money. When I decline their ride offer, I think they are satisfied that their kind gesture justifies accepting the money.
Day 19, Whitehorse, Yukon to Prince George, British Columbia
The tail end of the weather system moving east has already passed, and the skies are clear. The Canadian Snowbirds are at the field and appear to be preparing (with military precision) to depart. They probably flew in late yesterday, and stayed over to wait for the weather to clear.
By 8 am, I'm off the ground and on my way to Watson Lake. It's about 220 miles as the crow flies, but I plan to follow the Alcan Highway by way of Teslin Lake. When I arrive at Watson Lake, I will check the weather and decide if I will fly the shortcut through the treacherous Rocky Mountain Trench, or go the long way around to get to Prince George.
While on final to Watson Lake, I can see that the Snowbirds I saw in Whitehorse are already on the ground and parked in echelon at the far end of the field. They probably arrived here two hours ago, and now they are waiting out the weather again before proceeding east. After I top the tanks, another airplane with three people in it pulls up to the fuel pumps. It is a big, yellow, single engine Beaver, and looks to be ready for any mission in the bush.
Watson Lake is an outpost about 40 miles northwest of the most notorious aviation obstacle (in my opinion) in North America - the Rocky Mountain Trench. I'm in the FSS checking the weather for Prince George (at the other end of the Trench) and Fort Nelson (the long way around the Trench). Neither one looks good. Fort Nelson is very bad; in fact the reason, I'm sure, why the Snowbirds are grounded and waiting. The route through the Trench has excellent visibility; however, there is solid overcast at 2,000 feet AGL. The winds are at 300 degrees, which is a perfect tail wind. This means I might be able to reach Prince George without refueling, about a 500 mile leg.
I'm on the fence as far as deciding what to do, so I make the decision to wait out the weather. When in doubt, don't, they always say (actually, I think I've learned my lesson pretty good the other day at Hanes Junction).
I don't mind missing the opportunity to fly the Trench. I sort of would like to go farther east anyway, and stop off in Edmonton. That is where I have a friend who attended private high school with me in the US. I have not seen George since I last visited him in Edmonton a long time ago.
About when I'm ready to enquire about accommodations in Watson Lake, the pilot of the Beaver comes inside to obtain a weather briefing. He is wearing a heavy jacket with an RCMP emblem on it. My first impression of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police goes back to the television days when Sgt. Preston traipsed around the alpine country with a dog.
I start a conversation by asking him for his destination. He tells me he wants to go to Prince George, and he wants to fly via the Trench. "Aren't the conditions kind of marginal?", I ask.
Thinking he missed something on the report that I read, he looks at it again and says, "No, they are about right".
"What about the ceiling?", I lament.
Now he knows I'm a neophyte pilot for these parts, and states, "You don't get much better than this; the visibility is good and so is the forecast". "There shouldn't be a problem."
He also knows from my composure I am afraid to fly the Trench.
He asks if the Ercoupe at the pump is mine, then suggests I can follow
him through the Trench. If I start out now, he will catch up, then
throttle back and fly along side me. He also informs me that fuel
is available at Ingenika, a small dirt strip about half way and on the
shores of Williston
Lake.
All this changes my mind about flying the Trench, so I decide to commit and fly together with the RCMP to Prince George.
He briefs me on how to find the entrance to the famed route. At the entrance to the Trench, there is a lake with an island in it on the south end. "It's the only lake with an island around", he assures me, "So you can't miss it". By the time I reach the lake, he thinks he will catch up. We shake hands and he tells me his name is Rick. So off I go.
There are two Snowbird pilots checking out my Ercoupe at the fuel pumps. They are young guys, and leave me with the impression that they wish they could be on their own adventure like mine, rather than have to go where the military sends them.
Funny, I should be checking out their birds; instead, they are checking out mine.
I lift off at 12:10 pm from Watson lake and fly 120 degrees, 1,000 feet off the deck. I have no trouble at all locating the lake with the island in the middle. It definitely is an excellent landmark.
At 12:45 pm, I'm directly over the island and heading towards the entrance to the Trench (Editor's note - this is the Kochika River Canyon which links in succession to the Fox River and the Finlay River that drains into Williston Lake). Still, I have not heard from my RCMP buddy. This worries me a little as I stare down the throat of the long, narrow passageway ahead. Indeed it is narrow, but has enough room for a 180 retreat, so I continue. The mountains on each side, some reaching to well over 8,000 feet, are steep and disappear into the solid cloud layer. I feel like I'm entering a huge hallway, ceiling and all, with no sky or end in sight. This is both eerie and exciting.
I'm ambivalent about the absence of nav-aids on this route, so I make a point of it to closely record the time as I pass landmarks. If he doesn't show, or if I get disorientated, at least I will know where I'm at. I'm especially concerned about unwittingly flying up one of these box canyons and, unscheduled, into the next world.
It isn't long before I get a call on the radio from the RCMP. He's about 10 miles behind, and assures me I'm doing fine. "You're flying faster than I expected", he says at 1 pm as I pass over Scoop Lake Ranch. I tell him I was getting a little worried.
When he is along side me, he powers back to just under 100 knots to match my speed. I can read his tail number (C-FCJB). Uncertainty which I had about this route moments earlier vanishes. The Beaver looks a little tail heavy flying slow, and now I think how wonderful all these people are way out here in the bush. No one is exempt from dispensing kindness.
We talk until we have exchanged each other's biographies. People up here want to know everything about you, not just to make conversation, but because they genuinely are interested - which to me, make them interesting.
Then I ask him about his two passengers in the Beaver with him. They are prisoners, and he is transporting them to a jail in British Columbia somewhere. How interesting, I speculate, that it must be in law enforcement up here. Why not a patrol plane? There aren't enough roads for a patrol car!
At 1:20 pm he alerts me to a left fork in the canyon (Editor's note - Ron is apparently referring to the Gataga River drainage which enters the Kochika River canyon at this point). I learn that it is a graveyard for more than one unsuspecting pilot who wrongly assumed an incorrect course. In fact, as I look down our route in the Trench, the terrain rises, and the vanishing point looks like it ends in the clouds. It appears to be a dead end. The left fork, on the other hand, does appear to be the better choice, at least in these weather conditions. I certainly can see how a pilot could mistake the left fork for the route to Prince George. For a pilot unfamiliar with the terrain, trouble definitely is waiting out here.
I am very fortunate. As we continue our journey, my guide informs me of every detail. A cabin here, a good fishing lake there, a plane wreck in there, etc. I don't have enough capacity to absorb all that is pointed out to me.
Pretty soon, I switch to the subject of bears. "Are they a problem?", I ask. He tells me that if someone survives a forced landing, and someone doesn't find them, a bear eventually will. So it is important to have a survival weapon.
"What do you have for a survival weapon?", he asks.
I tell him about my 12 gauge shotgun and ammunition, and he says, "I like the 870 and the #6 game shot, but you can throw away those slugs". He tells me #6 shot is the best defence against bears. A slug is good too, but you have to hit the bear in exactly the right spot to kill it. This is an unlikely feat for anyone while a large animal is bearing down, especially for a scared and potentially injured pilot. On the other hand, with small game shot, all you do is aim for the head to maximize the likelihood of blinding the bear. This is a certain defence, the RCMP assures me.
I like and accept all of his advice about small game shot and bears, which, incidentally, never came up once, as I struggled for months researching the best solution for a survival weapon to be used in the bush. Most pilots, law enforcement types, and gun store employees (you know, the burly ones with plaid shirts), advised that a high-powered rifle was the only way to go. I resisted the rifle idea because it did not seem to be an option for hunting game food. Others familiar with weapons argued for shotgun slugs. No one recommended bird shot or anything. I only happened to bring along #6 shot so that I could survive on fowl and small game, in the event of a forced landing. It is only a coincidence that I now have the best defence against bear too.
Time is moving so quickly as we continue our way through the Trench. I'd say the terrain here is 400 to 500 feet higher than at Watson Lake. In other words, the ceiling is now even lower. With these birds which we are flying, there is no way out of here except straight ahead or straight back.
Looking straight ahead, we must cross a saddle to reach Williston lake on the other side. The ceiling over the saddle looks to me to be only 800 feet or so. It looks tight for my experience; however, I can see it opens up quite a bit on the other side of the saddle.
At 2:08 pm we cross over Fort Ware, a small private strip, and now I can see Williston Lake which seems to continue with no end in sight. I wonder if the other end of the lake is out of view due to the curvature of the earth.
I once calculated that one end of the long San Mateo Bridge in the San Francisco area is approximately 65 feet lower than the other. This is due to the curvature of the earth, like a ship at sea hidden from coastal viewers, when 7 or 8 miles out. In fact, when driving across the bay, for this reason, you cannot see the other end of the bridge at all, only the horizon in the foothills beyond.
Here we have a lake which is about 150 miles long. I wonder how much of this lake is invisible due to the curvature of the earth. Even at 1,000 feet of elevation, a substantial amount of this lake must be out of view. After all, VOR stations are strictly line-of-sight radio signals, and even when flying a mile high, they generally don't work past 70 to 80 miles (depending on the terrain of course). Now that I think about VOR stations, I now conclude that even if I were two miles above Williston Lake, I still would not be able to see the other end. After all, the drop-off with distance is not a linear function, but rather an exponential one. It is hard to perceive, but one end of this long lake is definitely more than two miles lower than the other.
"How's your fuel doing", my RCMP buddy calls on the radio.
Ingenika is about thirty minutes ahead and lies on the east shore of Williston Lake. The RCMP assures me they have fuel, because he was there only days ago to buy some, and they had plenty. I calculate that I will have been airborne more than 2.5 hours when we reach Ingenika. Ingenika is about half way, which means Prince George is another 2.5 hours further. Four hours aloft in this bird is possible, but five hours is definitely not workable. I decide to stop for fuel.
The RCMP informs me that while I am refueling at Ingenika, he will continue ahead so he can stop at a private strip to check on some native people. After I'm back in the air, I'm to call ahead and then we will rendez-vous in the air as we did before.
It is 2:35 pm while reconnoitering the situation at Ingenika, I notice a herd of horses grazing nonchalantly on the good sized strip below. I would not want to make horse meat out of any of them (or me). So I make a low pass to scare them away, which works. But by the time I reach final, the horses are all back on the runway again. So I do a go-around and scare them off again, only to be met with the same results after reaching final again. Now what?
I devise a strategy to drive the horses farther and farther from the strip by flying tight circles and scaring them. Horses are pretty smart. After I make a pass and circle away from them, I notice that they stop and look at me, waiting to see what I will do next. They want to make sure I will not come back and scare them again with another fly-by. When they see me coming again, they move a little farther. Then they stop and look at me some more after I fly by. When I think they are far enough away to make a safe landing, I make a run for final and land.
Sure enough, while taxing to the fuel barrels, the horses (every one of them) are back on the runway grazing away to their hearts content, oblivious to my noisy presence. It must have been a long winter for the horses.
Runway lights wouldn't do any good here. Imagine the thought of trying to land here at night knowing all these horses are around somewhere. I taxi to the only obvious area for parking, and pretty soon a guy arrives in a pickup from a building about a quarter mile away. There are what appear to be 55 gallon drums scattered everywhere. Lots of them. He tells me the avgas is transported here in barrels via a barge on Williston Lake.
As luck would have it, I'm parked close enough to a full barrel of fuel. He tops my tanks using a hand pump and hose, which he gathers from his pickup. I don't expect him to take a credit card, but to my surprise he does. Only thing, he doesn't have an imprinter, so he completes the three-part invoice with a ball point pen. Out here, you improvise.
When I taxi back out, of course, the horses are still grazing away on their favorite pasture. They move out of my way, but after I complete my run-up, they are back in the middle of the strip again. Happily, the guy and his pickup assume the role of a sheep dog, and herds them well out of my way. He probably has to do this every time someone stops for fuel.
It is 3:20 pm when I lift off from Ingenika. With all the excitement of the horses and everything, I forgot all about the time, as well as my RCMP buddy. He's probably wondering where I am at. It's been almost an hour since we split up.
After thirty minutes of flight, the canyon walls are wider now, as is the lake too. The terrain on the canyon floor is lower than at Ingenika. Pretty soon, Williston Lake forks to the east, according to the chart, maybe 70 miles. The chart indicates a dam about midway between here and Fort St. John (the place where I could have flown backwards while landing if I wanted to). It appears that dam is what forms and holds back the entire lake (Editor's Note - Ron is referring to the W.A.C. Bennet Dam above Hudson's Hope) .
Off my right wing are two private strips. One of these, I think, is where the RCMP checked in; however, I do not see his plane anywhere in sight. I figure he is long gone. Anyway, the worst is over, so I make a bee-line for Prince George.
One thing though. I meant to ask him something. When I think about that huge polar bear in the lobby of the motel in Fort Nelson, I do have my doubts about any shotgun having much good for defence. Would my shotgun be of much defence against such a huge animal? I would like to know what the RCMP thinks.
I decide to spend the night at Prince George, and wonder if the bartender, her boyfriend, and the security guard are around. I think I'm too exhausted for socializing, so I really don't make an effort to find them. I'm only in the mood for food and sleep; then I want to continue my journey home early in the morning. Besides, I really don't want to get stuck drinking a bunch of Moosehead beer again.
After refueling, I'm really exhausted and I don't feel like or want to travel the thirty miles into town. I would like to eat at the airport, then grab my sleeping bag and sack out again on the sofa at the EAA clubhouse on the field. I still have the combination to the lock on the door. I can't assume that I'm still welcome, so I scheme a little and think that if I don't turn on the clubhouse lights, maybe the security officer won't even notice my arrival. If she does, I'll invite her in. Will she be any the wiser that I'm not welcome? How would she know? Did she verify that I had permission the last time I was here? I doubt it.
My conscience overrules my desire to sleep in the clubhouse. It is just too bold for me. I think the better of it, so I catch a ride into town instead (and very tired).
The Anco Motel has a room for $28 (CDN); this is $2 more than they charged when I stayed here before. I guess when the temperature goes up around here, so does the price. After another very long day, I enjoy an abundant and hearty hot dinner. Then, I'm sound asleep in minutes.
Day 20, Prince George, British Columbia to Cashmere, Washington
Prince George is definitely the breakfast place for me. After a great lumberjack breakfast with the best bacon ever, I'm on my way again.
It takes me more than an hour to over-fly Williams Lake (where I had fuel pump failure when flying from Abbotsford), and another hour and a half to reach the field at Kamloops. I'm a little anxious to make some good flying time again today, so I only stop in Kamloops long enough to re-fuel.
My next objective is to fly southeast about 100 miles across 6,000 foot mountains in order to reach the beautiful Okanagan Valley; however, according to weather reports, direct VFR flight is not possible. The weather is localized over the mountains, so there's a chance that I will be able to find a way around it.
After more than an hour of trying to find a way over the mountains, it becomes apparent I cannot reach the Okanagan Valley by flying southerly, unless I go all the way west to Vancouver - at least a full day out of the way. I may as well stay over in Kamloops.
Before throwing in the towel for the day, I make one last attempt at reaching the Okanagan Valley. I fly east of Kamloops, then NE over a narrow lake. Here the ceiling is 2,000 feet with excellent visibility, so I continue, following the lake as it snakes around the mountains and eventually leading into the north end of the Okanagan Valley.
I'm a little uneasy flying between mountains below the weather like this, because 90 percent of all power line strikes (non-agricultural) occur under these conditions.
I use to have perpetual nightmares about getting trapped under power lines. Those dreams never included an actual power line strike, but I was always hopelessly trapped under an endless maze of power lines. No matter which way I turned my airplane, more power lines always appeared. My only escape was when I finally woke from my sleep.
I believe the source of these dreams goes back to my student pilot days in Las Cruces, New Mexico. That's when a student pilot struck high tension lines while on final to runway 2 at University field. The impact nearly sheared off the landing gear, and the airplane landed on its back. Luckily, the power lines slowed the craft enough prior to impact with the ground, and the pilot, although injured, was not killed.
While I was a member of the Mt. Diablo's Pilot's Association, the local utility company put on a seminar (which included a professionally produced documentary about power-line strikes) at one of our regular member meetings. That's when I learned that power line strikes don't occur (for the most part) in good weather. It's only when clouds force pilots close to the ground that 90 percent of the accidents occur. Mountain passes are especially dangerous, because utilities have the opportunity to save expensive infrastructure by just draping power lines across a valley.
Ever since that seminar, not once have I ever had another one of those nightmares. That's because I no longer have fear of flying into power lines, because I know when to be extra vigilant.
Even when I'm flying below the weather, as I am now, I'm confident I will not strike a power line, so long as I do not let my guard down. Like I said, I'm a little uneasy, but I have to be.
The weather in the Okanagan Valley is beautiful, as is the scenery along the Okanagan Lake which appears to be 100 miles long. This valley is a jewel.
After over-flying Kelowna, midpoint on the lake, I'm hungrier than a bear so I stop at Penticton which is at the south end of the lake and only 30 miles from the US border. Since re-fueling at Kamloops, I've only made 100 miles of progress (as a crow flies), but already I need more fuel.
I'm a little anxious because I want to make up for lost flying time so I only stop long enough to have lunch, to re-fuel and to make arrangements with the US port of entry people at Oroville, Washington.
When I arrive in Oroville, no one is around. I'm the only person on the field. After about a twenty minute wait, I wish I hadn't notified the port people, and instead decided to just fly right on through this place. How would anyone know? There's no one out here.
When the female US official appears, I get the impression that she is a part-time employee assigned to the airport detail. I'm thinking if I had not come along today, she would not have had to put on her uniform and get ready. Therefore, I am being punished because I interrupted what otherwise may have been an undisturbed day for her.
She is a nice enough lady, and soon I forget all about my impetuous thoughts. After exchanging formalities, I'm on my way and back in the air flying south again.
Within an hour, I'm approaching the Chelan airport. Below my left wing is my friend's ranch and its short dirt strip. There is no indication that anyone is around; otherwise, I certainly would drop in.
Looking off my right wind is Lake Chelan, a 50 mile long narrow lake between tall mountains.
So far this has been a long day, and it is getting late. At this point Wenatchee, WA would be a good place to stop for the night, however, I know of a tiny, sleepy town with an airport within walking distance of the community. Cashmere, WA is nestled in a canyon of the Cascades about 25 miles northwest of Wenatchee.
I'm on final to the little airport. The strip is very short, and I'm in doubt that I will not touch down soon enough, so I go around for another try.
On final again, I'm doing better this time, but I'm a little hot, and when I touch down I apply the brakes hard. Suddenly, my right wing drops, and now I'm veering off the runway to the right. I must of blown a tire. No amount of effort on the controls can keep me on course. In a flash, I'm on the grass, and just as soon I'm traveling sideways. When I finally come to a complete stop, my airplane is perpendicular to the runway behind me.
I think to myself "Cashmere traffic, 14H, clear of the active". Sure enough, my right tire is flat, and my airplane looks crippled on the grass, listing severely. It is apparent I will need a new tire. Useless now, I have two brand new tires back in Los Altos, California.
Within minutes, a man arrives in a pickup truck and introduces himself. He is a pilot and says he heard me go around and decided to drive over to see who I am.
By now it is getting dark, and using his pickup and a rope, we drag my disabled airplane to a tie-down spot. We conclude tomorrow may be a better day to deal with this new setback.
In the fashion of bush people farther north, my new Samaritan aviator tells me I can bunk for the night in the airport pilot's clubhouse. He will come back in the morning and help me deal with the flat tire.
After dining on snacks which I buy from a small shop two blocks from the field, I retrieve my sleeping bag and prepare to sack out in the bunk house. While doing this, I meet a lady who lives in a mobile home on the field not more than 200 feet from my clubhouse quarters. She tells me she provides night watchman services at the airport in exchange for the use of the mobile home she lives in.
After chatting with her for a while, she invites me into her home for a beer. Being a complete stranger, accepting such an offer (after dark) is a little uncomfortable for me, because I worry that she might wonder if I'm Jack the Ripper. Nonetheless, I accept anyway.
Once inside, there are two huge great Danes curiously starring at me. After they settle down, one jumps on the couch. The other one would get on the sofa too, except there is only room for one dog at a time.
My host is very friendly (or lonely), and is completely comfortable with a total stranger in her home at night, although I'm not so sure I'm all that comfortable being here with a couple of unpredictable 100 pound pooches. She could care less if she invites in Jack the Ripper; the dogs are so bored they would welcome the excitement.
After I finish one beer, I'm tired and sleepy, so I excuse myself to the club house.
Day 21, Cashmere, Washington to Palo Alto, California
Early in the morning I meet a pilot who is already fiddling on an Aeronca Champ. He figures right away I'm the one with the Ercoupe, and offers to help me out. We use his car jack to raise the right wing and remove the flat tire. He tells me the closest place for airplane parts is in Winatchee, and he gives me the phone number for Columbia Skyways. If they have what I need, he will fly me down there in the Aeronca.
Within an hour, we are back from the Wenatchee airport with a brand new tire and tube from Columbia Skyways, which costs me $72.81 & $30.32 respectively, plus tax (I hope you guys get your comeuppance, only in the form of a real robbery).
We mount the tire with the help and tools of the guy from last night, and by noon the installation is complete and tested.
It isn't long before I'm back in the air and flying to Winatchee for fuel and much needed lunch. Then I'm on a long leg to Redmond Oregon, and then another leg to Corning, California.
It is already dark and the air is calm as I approach the San Francisco Bay Area. I skirt Buchanan Field and Mt. Diablo, then head generally towards Palo Alto. When I report over the Dumbarton Bridge, I'm the only one in the control area, and the tower gives me clearance to land.
By the time I reach familiar surroundings in my friend's home in Los Altos, I'm totally exhausted. Three days of marathon flying, non-stop from Whitehorse to Palo Alto, is more than any pilot should attempt. But it was worth it, because I'm home again. How sweet it is.
Copyright, 1982 and 1996, Ron Kilber, all rights reserved.
EMail to: rpknet@aztec.asu.edu
Ultralight operator still flying!
Even though Aviation Week wasn't officially proclaimed by Surrey's mayor, Airflow Ultralight Aviation Ltd. is gazing skyward for weekend activities.
The Surrey ultralight facility has been hosting hot air balloon rides, radio-controlled aircraft shows and power parachute flying demonstrations. And, against the city's wishes, Airflow is still flying. Ultralight pilots and owners are still launching off a grassy field south of Panorama Ridge despite city efforts to clip the company's wings.
Airflow has been operating off a 78 acre farm for 15 years. The ultralight company was ordered to vacate the property at 4981 King George Highway last January. When owner Fred Glasbergen refused to ground his operation, he was slapped with an injunction stating that he's violating the zoning bylaw. Glasbergen is fighting the injunction.
This week's aviation events, including a Sunday morning pancake breakfast, are helping Glasbergen gather donations under the "Save the Airfield Fund" to fuel his legal battle with the city.
"We're still operating fully until we get a court decision and nothing will likely be happening until after the election", he said. The owner said he hopes the upcoming municipal election will turn things into his favour. "What is happening is there's a group of people here that are going to get politically motivated", added.
Airflow Ultralight Aviation Ltd. rests on land within the Agricultural Land Reserve which is overseen by the Agricultural Land Commission. The Commission has said it doesn't permit ultralight operations because they're considered non-farm uses.
Glasbergen wants the chance to apply through the city for approval from the ALC to continue operating his facility, but the City of Surrey won't support his application.
By Doug Alexander, Staff Reporter for the Now, published in the Now on June 8, 1996