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PUFA NEWSLETTER
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May 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
Two members, Ken Hicks and Bob Christen, along with fellow flyer, Terry Peterson, flew to the American San Juan Islands on April 20th. They island hopped to several strips, including Roche Harbour, Lopez Island, Orcas Island and Blakely Island. Their description of one of the stops was particularly upbeat. On either side of the paved strip were taxi-ways leading to many homes built along the runway. One end of the runway ended at a marina with its attending boats, etc.
As Ken and Bob described the airport, I couldn't help but think how different the attitudes on airplanes must be at this unique location. Can you imagine a home where you get up, have breakfast, walk 10 feet into the adjoining hangar and taxi out to the runway? I'm told there are many such flying communities throughout the States. Yet, here, we are told to keep a runway or facility one kilometre from anything... anywhere!
I guess I'm not ready to move to America yet, but I wish the general public and bureaucrats would embrace the flying community for what it is; a unique group of individuals wanting only to pursue their own sport that combines skill, discipline, patience and a sense of adventure while adversely affecting no one.
Will the day come when the only aircraft you see in the air will be contributing to passenger and freight movements, and nobody is allowed to fly for fun?
Last month I flew into the Baron's Intergalactic Aerodrome in the beautiful Hazelmere Valley just north of the border on 176th Street and after a nice visit with him and Bryan Evans, he presented me with two more of his literary offerings on the local ultralight scene. His story "A Good Day" about a flight to Widgeon Lake above the southwest corner of Pitt Lake illustrates a typical flight we have all taken which could be recorded for everyone's enjoyment and for posterity. His other story about his "Flying Buddy" provides an example of how our flying friends can inspire a good story for us all.
Speaking of the Hazelmere Valley, I see in a recent (May 4, 1996) news item in the Surrey/North Delta News Leader that one of the proposed alternate routes for the existing railway grade around the White Rock/Crescent Beach area is an old railway grade that traverses the Redwood Park and down through the Hazelmere Valley, crossing (I believe) the Baron's Intergalactic field to the border. Does this old grade connect to an another old railway grade that apparently goes through the Sun Fun and Apex fields? If the City doesn't do in our ultralight air fields first, it seems the railways will!
In this issue of the PUFA Newsletter, I am continuing Ron Kilber's account of his return flight from Alaska in 1982. Finally, in this era of VHF radios and GPS instruments for ultralights, I thought it might be useful for posterity to include a listing of CB handles from a now bygone era of not so long ago as the Baron says.
A Good Day
I wrote a story about a bad day, not so long ago so I thought that I would add one about a good day just to be sure that everyone knew that we have those too. Have you ever had a day that was just the greatest? Well, this was one of those!
Waking up to see the sun shining and really feeling alive is a good start and, as my eyes widened and the sleep departed, I could see my beautiful Precy, the love of my life, beside me; I felt good. The sky was a clear, deep blue and was beckoning me up. This was a day to fly!
After a hearty breakfast I got the bird ready, not a fancy $100,000 job, but my old work horse, the Beaver 550 ultralight on puddlejumper amphib floats. I phoned my buddies, Larry White with his self-designed Signet - a gracious bird, Gord Brogan with his Beaver on a mono-float - a striking bird she is, and Bernie Strottman in another Beaver. Bernie says he is all gassed up and ready to go (that is, his plane is all gassed up and ready to go).
Oh yeah, it's going to be a good day! I called Bryan Evans (Snoopy) to see if his wife would let him come out and play. His 6 year old son, Robert, was on the extension and said that Daddy was trying to get on the net. I asked why he wanted to stand on a fishing net and Robert said "it's a computer thing". It's all too much for simple me; "I can't keep up with all deese 'tings"! Some guy that flies out of the King George field even told me that he has a computer in his ultralight that tells him where he is going - he calls it a GPS or PSG or something like that. It seems to me that, if he doesn't know where he is going, he should stay home. But, anyway, Bryan said that he would be here in an hour to do some real flying, not that boring Boeing 767 stuff. It's going to be a good day I can tell! We're getting a gaggle of planes together and 'heading on out'. If I can only get Don Simmons to come with his water bird (another amphib Beaver), we'll be all set.
We get Bry, Bern, Brogan, Larry, and Don said he would come, so we have
a squadron. Now, where shall we go? We went to the Gulf Islands two
days ago and it was a bumpy ride. Today has just got to be a good
day, bright sunshine and Mount Baker in Washington State looks like the
Jolly Green Giant's snowball. The mountains to the north look tempting.
When Bernie arrives from his aerodrome on 176th Street to the north and
Brogan arrives from his field to the east and Larry and Bryan arrive in
their cars, we will make a decision. Precy packed me a good lunch
with a ham and cheese sandwich, cookies for dessert and orange juice, all
with a big kiss. It's going to be a good day! Bernie breezes
in, makes a great landing; Don, Larry and Bryan have arrived and their
airplanes are ready to go. Finally Gord, the Eagle, circles for a
landing. I had already got my Beaver out of her hangar, done my walkaround
and preflight check and made sure there
was no water in my gas or floats.
All the birds are on amphib floats, the only way to fly! The versatility
is awesome; we can get into places even a Cessna 180 on floats can't get
in and out of and we've still got wheels, if we need them, to land at the
few airfields still open. With everyone together, we began our preflight
briefing; "Where to go?" was the question, someplace special for this very
special day. Larry White came up with the perfect place. Especially
on a warm summer day when the temperature is hitting a torrid 28 C (well,
for Vancouver, that's a torrid day). A mountain lake, where it's
a little cooler, to rest our weary souls. A lake that sits like a
jewel in our north shore mountains. A lake 2,500 feet up in the snow
capped pinnacles 30 miles (as the crow or ultralight flies) from our Intergalactic
Aerodrome. We'd have to cross the mighty Fraser River, skirt the
'real' airports of
Langley and Pitt Meadows and keep a sharp eye open for sky divers.
Fly north towards Pitt Lake and then veer slightly west up the Widgeon
valley to Widgeon Lake. It's nestled between the mountain peaks about
2 miles long and 1/2 mile wide. I still work in miles, just can't
grasp that kilometre stuff! The scene is breathtaking with the formidable
snow capped peaks and deep valleys with huge waterfalls cascading down
each side. On the route from the Pitt River to Widgeon Lake, there
are not too many places to land, even for us; no engine problems today,
please. The reward at the end of our flight will be well worth it.
Our ragtag squadron is ready to go, five free spirits ready to venture into the wild blue yonder! All the pilots are in their birds with engines running ready to flock off. I follow the other four aircraft down the taxiway, waiting for take-off. It is a great sight to see; your friends ready to go, five knights of the air, the five musketeers, one for all and all for one! I'm sure that if I have any problems they will be there to lend a hand. Brogan and Bryan are in the air; Larry and Don soon follow. My spirits are high! I give full power and roar down what some people call my "two short runway" and, with a warm southwest 10 mph wind, I'm airborne in a twinkle of an eye; or, like Dorothy, a click of the heels and I'm in Oz. The engine is turning like a Swiss watch, well maybe like a Toro lawn mower at full power. At last we are all up in a circling climb, looking for lift. It feels great, lots of abort fields close by, just in case. As I head north in this beautiful weather surrounded by my friends, I can't help thinking 'this has the makings of a great day'. At 1,200 feet, we all take up our positions in a loose formation and 'head er on out'.
The farm fields stretch out before us like a patchwork carpet with the scent in the air of freshly cut hay and, now and then, a whiff of burning grass from the numerous slash burnings. Our little motorcycles of the air always give you a feeling of closeness to nature - if only they were a little less noisy; maybe someday someone will figure out how to do that. The air is so clear it seems that you can see forever. Your fellow aviators come up beside you, sometimes a little too close, to give you a wave. You can even see if they shaved that morning or not. Not to worry, mate; just keep heading north 'young man', go north. We have crossed the meandering Fraser River and the majestic, ominous mountains loom ahead, ever closer, like giant sentinels to protect the serenity of their jewel in the sky, Widgeon Lake. There are no roads to this jewel, only a strenuous five hour hike or a versatile ultralight will let you enjoy the peace and tranquillity of this mountain lake, ringed by snow capped peaks. Even the lake itself still has snow patches on the ground in a shady area under the giant Douglas firs. As we enter the valley that leads up to the lake, the shear cliffs on each side of our tiny craft make you feel very insignificant to nature's grandeur.
We have now climbed to 2,000 feet on our way to 3,000 feet which will put us 500 feet above the lake itself. At last it comes into view - Widgeon Lake sparkling in the sunlight. Just a glimpse of it at first to tease us with its beauty but, as we climb higher, it fills the view in front of us. Its two mile length beckoning to us, we fly on to inspect our landing area and to be sure it is clear of flotsam and jetsam. There is a small island at the south end where the lake spills over the edge of the cliff that drops straight down for almost 2,000 feet; past that the water is clear and glassy. We try to get an indication of wind direction and point our noses in that direction for our landing. A final check to make sure our gear is up; this would not be the place to land with your gear down (not that any other place would be). We are all down safely and taxi to an open spot on the shore together to tie up our ships of the sea and air. Once all engines are shut down, the first thing that is so striking, other than the beauty, is the silence. It is deafening, just the occasional splash from trout jumping for flies. We have left the hustle and bustle of the world far behind and are 2,500 feet closer to our supreme being, whomever 'she' may be. She must be close to this place because it fills every definition of heaven I've ever seen. Some of us start exploring our surroundings while others start to open their lunch bags. We find a raft someone has made out of two drop tanks from some sort of fighter, probably a T33 but that was just a guess from Bryan. We wonder how they got here. A couple of us start paddling around on the raft while Bryan goes for a swim in the glacier fed, frigid water - brave man!
Our advancing years seems to melt away and we all become nothing more than a bunch of fun loving kids, having a good time with all the cares and worries of the world left far away in Never Never Land. "It ain't Kansas, but it sure will do". We have a great day, having a few laughs and reminiscing about past times; it's great to be among friends! Soon it is time to get ready to again 'head er on out'. We clean up any mess we have left and a bit of someone else's, climb into the cockpits and get ready to start up. The takeoff run is a little longer than normal due to the altitude, temperature and glassy water but finally we are all in the air again, heading south at 50 feet above the water. What a thrill when you get to the south end of the lake and pass over the shear drop. The 50 feet instantly becomes almost 2,000 feet; it takes your breath away. It is a little uneasy for the next 20 minutes or so with no place to land below you. We follow Widgeon Creek which winds its way down to Pitt River, listening for any change in the beat of the engine. Not to worry, nothing could spoil such a good day. Even an eagle comes up to look us over; we're almost brethren. We have good air this day, lots of thermals but smooth. We retrace our route in reverse and finally Hazelmere Valley looms in the distance and the world class Intergalactic Aerodrome. Bernie drops into his field as we fly over and Brogan peels off to the east, heading for his Eagle's nest next to the mushroom farm.
I'm first to land, my hangar is past everyone else's, then Larry in his self designed, home built Signet, then Don in his trusty Beaver - Canadian Airlines would be proud of that landing, followed by Bryan. We taxied to our respective hangars and put our noble little chariots away. Being first to land, I go in to put on the coffee (it's free at Intergalactic) and we all sit down to talk about our GOOD DAY. This was certainly one for me and I hope it was for my wingmates. You don't have to fly a great distance to have a good flight; it's just a feeling you get when you're with friends up in the wide open sky and you get to see scenes not many earthbound creatures can imagine.
Happy landings, "Now ya all come by and see us some time ya hear"! Our field is not too short; it's just right, but it is not for the novice. Get a little experience under your belt before you come in solo. ENJOY!
Fred Baron*
April, 1996
*Original script edited and typed by Bryan Evans.
Flying Buddy
Hey - you know what? I have some great flying buddies! I met one of them 14 years ago here in Canada's largest municipality. We do not have controlled airports here in Surrey, British Columbia but that's another story. Over the years this particular buddy and I have shared many flying adventures. Although, he started out with a licence to fly conventional aircraft and still earns his living flying the big jets for an international airline, he didn't do any real flying until he took the controls of his first twin engine (6 horsepower) "V" tailed Lazair ultralight. His formal aviation training has helped make him a tower of strength and a valuable resource within the local ultralight community. He stands up for the rights of recreational pilots in the area and never refuses a helping hand to those that need one. Countless times he has gone out of his way to assist with an engine change, adjust a float fitting or patch the fabric on a damaged aileron or elevator. On rare occasions when members of our Intergalactic squadron have had mechanical problems away from the field, he is always one of the first on site to help pull the bird out of the weeds. Service with a smile!
Once in a while I tend to hurry my pre-flight inspection in anticipation of the adventures about to unfold. When I look over and see him doing his usual meticulous pre-flight, I am soon back on track, fulfilling my obligation to personal safety, the safety of those around me and the safety of those below me on terra firma. When my buddy takes the time to help me with a pre-flight, I always appreciate and value his comments and observations. Two sets of eyes are better than one and, if he suggests that he wouldn't fly the aircraft with a certain deficiency, then I won't either. His attention to detail has been instrumental in making our adventures safe and enjoyable. With forty years experience and 20,000 hours in his logbook, I guess this guy knows what he's talking about. I have learned a lot from him.
Recently my buddy missed a monthly club meeting because the wide-body passenger jet he was flying was grounded far from home by a mechanical problem. Before his passengers and crew were taken to a local hotel, he personally briefed them about the problem, explained that their safety was foremost on his mind and that he would not depart for Canada until the necessary repairs had been made. An unexpected round of applause indicated that his sound, professional judgement was appreciated just as much in that distant airport waiting room as it is here at our tiny Intergalactic Aerodrome.
Perhaps one day my buddy will be the Captain of your flight. Looking at his starched, white shirt bearing the four gold bars of command, you will have no way of knowing that this is the famous "Snoopy" from our ultralight flying field. You will be in good hands!
Fred Baron
April, 1996
The CB Radio Era
Although we now take the VHF radio for granted, it was not so very long ago when we all communicated with each other by CB Radio. I can remember yelling "Collector, Collector, do you read?" and getting a loud scratchy unintelligible reply back. Of course there were others with better radios and, most of the time, they worked very well. They were also useful in that people on the ground could communicate with you as you flew over them as happened to me on more than one occasion. The following contains a list of CB Handles from 1990.
Glenn Ursel
May, 1996
AIRFLOW ULTRALIGHT AVIATION LTD.
CB HANDLES AS OF SEPTEMBER 2, 1990
The following are most of the known "Handles" of the Ultralight flyers in this area. Some are well known while others have a reputation all of their own. If we have inadvertently left yours out or misspelled a name, we apologize! Let us know and we will adjust the list in our next updating. Have fun and fly safely!
NAME HANDLE HOME FLYING FIELD
Fred Baron
Red Baron
Intergalactic
Betty Barnes
Red Robin
King George
Gordon Brogan
Eagle
King George
Dorothy Brogan
Stubblejumper
King George
Bruce Brownell
Snowrider
King George
Volker Budziak
Saran Wrap
Intergalactic
Dennis Clark
Nobby
Caulfield
Gerry Crapo
Shakemaker
Sod Farm
Gordon Denham
Air Force 1
Golden Ears
Andy Dionne
Grasshopper
Golden Ears
Pete Dowding
Yellow Kitten
King George
Gerald Edwards
Gruesome
King George
Ron Emond
Batman
Yarrow
Bryan Evans
Snoopy
Intergalactic
Neil Fetherstone
Spitfire
Intergalactic
Bill Finlayson
Wild Bill
Intergalactic
Fred Glasbergen
Top Gun
King George
Cliff Goertz
Greyhound
Sod Farm
Ellie Halcrow
Liberty
King George
David Harris
Black Bird
King George
Karl Heep
Bumblebee
King George
John Heilmann
Captain Marvel
King George
Mike Jensen
Big Foot
Intergalactic
Herb & Janet Johnson Jaybird
King George
Steve Johnson
Laurel Air Force
Lynden
Mike Knibbs
Rain Bird
King George
Beverly Lawrence
Queen Elizabeth
King George
Debbie Lepine
Unicorn
King George
Wayne Lowe
Freightliner
King George
Vic Magee
Pioneer
King George
Ron Nelson
Red Dog
King George
Dave & Gail O'Hara
Old Bailiff
King George
Bob Peters
Phoenix
King George
Cliff Raymond
Hiac
King George
Betty Raymond
Throttles
King George
Weldon Reid
Hummer
Intergalactic
Bob Rittemann
Yellow
Banana Intergalactic
Bernie Strotmann
The Collector
Collectors
Glenn Ursel
Mr. Clean
King George
Jim Verth
Aardvark
King George
Larry White
White Swan
Intergalactic
Alaska Flying Sabbatical (Part 2)
Second installment of Ron Kilber's account of his May 1982 flying sabbatical trip to Alaska, solo in an antique and tiny Ercoupe. In this episode, the author recounts his adventures (and misadventures) exploring Anchorage and the Kenai Penninsula, then starts heading for home along the Alcan Highway but runs smack into serious weather that puts a successful outcome to the trip in serious doubt.
Day 8 Anchorage
It's already 10 am; I haven't been up very long, even though I went
to bed early last night. I guess all that flying from Northway yesterday,
together with too much tension en route, wore me out pretty good.
Anyway, here at the Big Timber Motel right on Merrill Field, I did get
a sound and good night's rest, in spite of the fact that there are many
noisy little
airplanes right out the door.
The rooms are really small, in fact, half the room is for the bed and entry way, and the other half is for two bathrooms--one for me and one for the room next door. In other words, about one fourth of my room is used for the next room's bathroom. I've never seen this type of "L" shaped room layout in a motel before. It's probably an Alaskan strategy to hold down already high construction costs. In other words, for every four rooms built, the motel owner yields an extra room for free. The window is smaller than usual, which is an asset for holding down the heating bill, but it doesn't do much for lighting up the room or for alleviating claustrophobia in already crowded quarters. I'm sure I could do better for room size elsewhere in town for the same price, but the added advantage here is that I get to taxi my airplane right to my front doorstep. Sure beats the nuisance of cabs and rental cars.
As I walk towards my airplane, I notice two men looking over my little Coupe. Before I even get close, they notice me, and already know I'm the owner, because when I arrive they tell me what a nice bird I have. Both have pleasing dispositions, and they are so relaxed and so confident, I'm envious. How does one attain this much peace of mind, I wonder. I guess I've just been living too long in Seattle and San Francisco where everyone seems so jaded. One of the guys tells me he is a building contractor and that he used to own an Ercoupe. We talk until lunch time (and until they are satisfied they have my complete biography), and then they invite me to lunch at a bar/restaurant within walking distance of Merrill Field on East 5th Ave. I learn over lunch from them that flying in Alaska is a little different than in the Lower 48. For one thing, they tell me, it is legal to fly airplanes 10% over gross in Alaska, and that everybody does it.
This does not sound too good to me. Certainly I wouldn't do it. But then again, maybe it isn't any worse than flying an airplane into a high altitude airport in New Mexico on a hot day. You just compensate with a longer runway.
They continue, and tell me that in Alaska, if you can safely get off the ground at 10% over gross, by the time you get to where you are going, you will be well under gross after burning some fuel. Also, they argue, if a pilot is making a delivery to an outpost, he might be heavy when he lands, but after unloading, he's light again for the takeoff to return home.
After lunch, my two friends leave me, so I just hang around the airport. After a little while, I meet another friendly guy who is doing the same as me--loitering around the airport. He is a school teacher from Nome, and brought his plane in for some major work. He has been killing time for several days while waiting for completion of engine work at an FBO on the field. Actually, the work was suppose to be done today; however, a slight problem should not delay it beyond tomorrow morning.
My Nome friend has an old car which he keeps here at the airport for use whenever he travels to Anchorage. In true Alaska tradition, he wants to give me (a complete stranger) a guided tour of Anchorage. As we first drive around the neighborhood near the airport, I'm struck by how dirty everything is, especially the roadways. We visit the shopping center (east of town if I'm not turned around), a college, the city center area where there are some tall buildings, then the International Airport, complete with a float plane facility adjacent. After I treat him to some dinner, I retreat to my large, luxurious prison cell at the motel.
Day 9 En Route to Homer
My throttle is practically fire-walled as I cruise south down the coastline of the Kenai Peninsula. I want all the airspeed I can get, for safety reasons, because I'm flying low again. In fact, the coastline here is really an endless cliff, very shear, along the Cook Inlet. I'd say the cliff is about one hundred and fifty feet high, more or less, and on top is a highway winding close to the edge. There are houses between the road and the edge of the cliff. In fact, as far as I can see south, there is no end to the individual homesteads, spaced generously, all with a birds-eye view of Cook Inlet.
Sometimes I fly below the precipice, just above the water, then I pull up and climb above land and fly inland for awhile. I feel I have the grace of a swan as I first bank gently left while climbing. When I clear the cliff, I continue to bank, but now I lower the nose so I can fly low over land. Eventually, I make a slow roll to the right, towards the cliff, and descend down to the water again. Then I repeat the whole process over. This is so much fun, much more so than maneuvering around meadows and trees.
On one of the homesteads ahead, I can see people in their yard. I descend out of their view, then, as I anticipate their position, I climb just enough to sneak a peak. They wave at me, and I return the gesture as I fly out of view.
I don't think I could ever get bored with these maneuvers. It is just plain the greatest feeling of freedom for me. Even if my engine stalls when I'm near the water, I'm confident the extra airspeed I attain from diving is more than sufficient to trade for altitude in order to reach the safety of the road above.
I don't know for sure if this kind of flying is considered bad habit. If it is, there sure are a lot of pilots with bad habits.
While a student pilot in Las Cruces, NM, I remember the owner of the University Air Academy taking me for a plane ride one day. For a whole hour, all we did was fly 10 feet above some pecan orchids in the area, as well as chase some roads in the surrounding desert. That's when I got hooked, and I've been flying like this regularly ever since.
This is my first flight since arriving at Merrill Field in Anchorage. As I prepare for landing at Homer, I'm still a little ginger about the engine stalling when I was on final at Northway. After I find the airport, I see how huge the runway at Homer is--it looks two miles long and plenty wide too. I wonder what such a huge airport is doing way out here in the middle of nowhere. I decide to make use of the long field and test my mighty little power plant for carburetor ice and engine stall on landing. This is the perfect place for such a test.
I maintain cruise power as I turn my base leg for runway 21. On final, when I'm absolutely sure that I can make a dead-stick landing, I slowly reduce power all the way. Sure enough, the engine losses all power for the second time now. As I rotate, the propeller stops before I touch down.
This is an eerie feeling, being at the controls of an airplane on landing, without an engine and staring at a propeller which no longer rotates.
With just enough momentum, I coast clear of the active onto the taxiway. When I hit the starter, the engine springs back to life. Boy, I can't deal with this anymore. Before, I might of believed the motor stalled because of unusually moist, cold air at Northway; however, those unstable conditions are not present here. I'm just a little worried now. The dead-stick landing put the fear of God in me (epinephrin too).
The Land's End Resort is at the end of a natural spit extending what seems to be 7 miles into the Kacemak Bay and perpendicular to runway 21. I'm riding in the shuttle, and as we travel the length of the spit, the driver is telling me all about the Kacemak Bay, and how it is the richest seafood body of water in the entire world. They harvest so much fish here, it is mind boggling he says. Most of it is flown out in 747 cargo ships, thus the huge Homer airport.
As we near the resort, he directs my attention to a fish processor selling huge shrimp (5 to the pound) for $1. Imagine that, a pound of shrimp for $1. That would cost $10 or more back home. Alaskan halibut, my favorite fish dish, comes right from these waters.
I think I'm the only regular guest here right now. I find out from the desk clerk that everyone else at the resort is an employee working somewhere on the spit, either as a fisherman or fish processor worker. All of them are staying in the bunkhouse for seasonal workers, which is operated as an annex to the resort.
I decide to go outside to tour the spit, but soon exhaust all opportunities after only thirty minutes. There just isn't all that much out here, for me anyway. I guess if you're a fisherman, then this certainly must be a paradise. As far as get-aways go, I certainly wouldn't call this a resort.
Before I go back inside, I notice there are many tents set up on the beach. I don't see any people, but the wind is very cold and is blowing about forty miles per hour. If I were camping, I'd be in my tent too (if that's where they are).
Unexpectedly to me, the lounge has quite a crowd, but it is unusually dark and quiet for a place of libation. I order a brew from the bartender who is not friendly at all. In fact, my impression is that she is annoyed by my very presence. As I drink my beer, I notice the other patrons (more than likely seasonal workers). All are men and all of them seem so reserved. In fact, I'm not even sure the paired ones are talking with each other, just drinking with each other. Then again, to me, this is a desolate place, and maybe their dispositions are just a normal reaction of the boredom and void which must exist out here. Actually, I'm sort of depressed right now myself.
After one more brew, I go to the restaurant and experience the worst halibut diner of my entire life. Imagine that, at the richest and best seafood bay in the world. Maybe it's just that I'm here too early in the season.
Day 10 Homer to Anchorage
I'm a little worried about the carburetor icing problem, so today I think I will go back to Merrill Field in Anchorage and try to find someone to help me resolve it.
As I ride in the shuttle past the $1 shrimp again, I contemplate the idea of owning something like a Turbo Centurion. Let me see; if I buy 1,000 pounds of shrimp, I could fly it to the San Francisco bay area and probably sell it wholesale for 7 bucks a pound. That's a gross profit of $6,000--not bad for a day's work.
Returning to anchorage is uneventful. I notice some people fishing on a river between Skilak Lake and the Cook Inlet. This lowland of the Kenai Peninsula is so barren (and flat). By this I mean devoid of large vegetation. And when I look east to the mountains, they are completely white from all the snow. It just seems that there is not a live plant anywhere, although I know there has to be, and probably buried in deep snow.
I'm on final to Merrill Field for the second time since first arriving in Alaska, and very much concerned about carburetor ice. All is well with the engine though, as I touch down heading north without a hint of engine stall. I taxi to the Big Timber Motel. The clerk remembers me, and I get room 205 again. This time he tells me about the weekly rate, so I pay him $172.75.
Day 11 Anchorage
Today I want to resolve the problem with my engine. So I walk to a repair station on the field where the owner and several of his mechanics are working on several single engine bush planes. The fuselages are all torn apart, and much of the zinc chromate primer is exposed.
The proprietor informs me that it will be several weeks before he can take a look at the problem with my Ercoupe. In spite of his schedule, he is very much concerned with my puzzle. In fact, he advises me that the problem might have been put there when the engine was overhauled.
He explains how the engine compartment of an airplane is actually two compartments. At least it is supposed to be. The top compartment houses the top half of the engine; the bottom compartment houses the bottom half of the engine. While the airplane is flying, ram air is forced into the top compartment via the nose bowl. With no where to go once in the top compartment, the air's only escape path is right over and through the cooling fins of each cylinder. In this way, the engine is guaranteed maximum cooling from the incoming air.
He thinks I may have an air leak in the top engine compartment. Therefore, not enough air is passing over the cylinders, and not enough hot air is reaching the carburetor in the bottom engine compartment. This may be my problem, and he says I can fix it myself, if it is.
Sure enough, I inspect the engine compartment and find that the rear seals are missing. It is apparent to me that much intake air can escape, and worse, that this can severely impair engine cooling on a hot day. I don't have engine over-heating to worry about here in Alaska, but I am anxious to correct this deficiency right away. I use the rest of the day and gather all the material and tools necessary to complete the job tomorrow.
Day 12 Anchorage
After fiddling all day with the engine cowling and rear compartment seals, I'm satisfied my Ercoupe is in better shape than ever. In fact, just by looking at the air path in the lower compartment, I'm confident the old boy knows what he is talking about.
Back at the motel, I'm watching the news on television. The British are dukeing it out with the Argentine military positions in the Faulkland Islands. Listening to the political leaders speak and boast (with impunity) about this conflict is most unpleasant (forget about all the lives of the troupes, they are expendable). How arrogant.
Day 13 Anchorage
There are good things and bad things about Alaska. I find this out by renting a car and getting around a little. The best I can do is with Alaska Dial-A-Car at $28.95 per day (cars here must be worth their weight in Klondike gold). Having to pay more for a car than a room is rather discouraging.
On the other hand, the people in the shopping center, the restaurants, and everywhere are just plain nice folks.
The weather is generally gloomy, so I have lunch at a large hotel in downtown Anchorage and spend some time loitering around the lobby. The hotel lobby here in Anchorage doesn't hold much promise for human interaction, so I go back to my room and take a nap.
Afterwards, I'm hungry for some Italian food, and the exercise of looking for a pasta restaurant makes me think about my favorite place in California. I am an Italian food connoisseur, and by far the best place in the bay area that I've been to is the Florentine Restaurant in Mountain View, California. Their sauce is so rich and so exquisitely delicious. I always made sure to use plenty of the sauce with each mouthful of pasta. That way, when the waiter noticed that the remaining pasta on my plate didn't have any more sauce on it, I always got an extra side dish of sauce for free. If I could only have some of that rich sauce right now, I'd be in seventh heaven.
Day 14 Anchorage
Another gloomy day here in the land of the midnight sun. Due to the weather, I can't even go for a sight-seeing excursion to the glaciers.
Beside the weather, there is another big problem with Alaska. Where are the women? There are not that many anywhere in sight. The ones that are seem to always be escorted by one or more men. In a bar, it's about a 20 to 1 ratio. My impression is that if I tried to make a move on one, not only do I risk mathematically certain rejection (I don't have a beard or a red plaid shirt), but probably the wrath of some burly bushman fearing his babe might have a soft spot for a more refined gentleman. Some do look at me like I'm a threat. I doubt many conflicts are resolved in Alaska without resorting to assault and battery, so I decide to keep my hands to myself.
Day 15 Anchorage
Today the weather is clear so I decide to do some sight-seeing of the glaciers in the mountains to the southeast. Most unappealing about the immediate vicinity to Anchorage are the huge mud flats on the shores of Cook Inlet and surrounding waterways. When the tide is out, it seems this mud is ten miles wide in places. I wonder about the consequences of landing in this mud. My first thought is that any airplane would immediately invert from the tremendous drag on the landing gear. Once inverted on the mud, is there any escape? Surely I would be trapped upside down, only to drown when the tide returns.
Not more than fifty miles from Anchorage, I see several cumulus nimbus clouds, dark and black at the base, and billowing to what must surely be thirty thousand feet. Precipitation lowers the visibility below the clouds to less than a quarter mile. I think of the violent updrafts, and wonder how long of an elevator ride it is to the tops. These storms are only miles across at the base, so I maneuver around them.
The glaciers for me are not a big deal at all. In fact, I'm wondering what it is that attracts so many to them. I take a few close-up looks, then head back to Anchorage.
Day 16 Anchorage
My motel rent is due tomorrow, so today I think I will decide if I will stay another week here, or move on to another place, like Fairbanks.
While buying charts from the FBO where I received help with my engine compartment air leaks, a local pilot strikes up a conversation with me. He is interested in my whereabouts as well as my plans. I learn that he is in the hovercraft business, and that he is experimenting with deploying these vehicles for hauling huge amounts of cargo across the Cook Inlet and elsewhere. Hovercrafting is especially advantageous during fowl weather when all airplanes are grounded. But launching a new business that depended on marginal weather is foolhardy at best, so he is experimenting to see if hover crafting can have a cost advantage compared to airplanes.
After a half hour of chatting, I'm on my way with him to his hover craft facility across town on East 1st Avenue. We take one of the vehicles for a joy ride. My first impression is that these things are extremely noisy, and not from just the engines alone, but from the tornado-speed winds which are required to sustain hovering. The dust and dirt are flying everywhere, and it is most annoying, especially as if you are right out of the shower.
Afterwards, we retreat to the comfort (and silence) of his office where we talk about Alaska and flying. Then we discuss the possibility of an opportunity for me in the hover craft business; however, I tell him that I already have plans in the desert (and warmth) of Arizona.
Back at the motel, it is late in the day. I wonder about flying to Fairbanks, or is this something I should save for another visit to Alaska. I do want to return here again someday. One thing for sure though, I think I've been in Anchorage long enough for one spell--maybe Alaska too.
I decide to check the weather, then I decide to check out of my room in the morning. Another weather system is moving across Alaska, and it will overtake Northway by tomorrow evening. If I want to leave Anchorage, I must do it first thing in the morning, otherwise, I will be stuck here for several more days. I decide to skip the idea about going to Fairbanks. Instead, tomorrow I will depart for the lower 48.
Also, on the way home, I think I would like to try my hand at the shortcut through the famed and notorious Trench.
Day 17 Anchorage to Northway, and Points Beyond
Considering the advancing storm, the weather is remarkable nice here early in the morning.
It isn't long before I'm on my first leg home to Northway. As I follow the Glenn Highway, I'm looking for the sheep I'm supposed to see at, of all places, Sheep Mountain. Sure enough, there they are, right in some small mountains off the right side of the road. It is incredible where I see some of these mountain sheep. How they got on top of the rock is a mystery. And what are they doing there anyway? There doesn't appear to be any food for them at all.
I wish I could see Mt. Mckinley today, but the approaching weather makes it impossible to discern the horizon from the sky. Off to my right though, I can clearly see the peaks of mountains reaching over 12,000 feet. Also, a few good sized glaciers are in plain view too.
Some of the glaciers from here look to be maybe twenty miles long. Knowing they measure glacier movement in inches per day, I wonder how old the ice is on the leading edge, before it melts or breaks off. How long does it take a given chunk of ice to move from the beginning of the glacier to its end?
One foot of movement per day would take a glacier about 15 years to move only one mile, or 300 years to move twenty miles. Then again, assuming only two inches of movement per day, the nose of the glacier started out about the time they switched the calendars from B.C. to A.D.
I decide to brave the shortcut (which we took on the way into Anchorage from Northway) across the tundra alone this time, so I break away from the Glenn Highway at Duffys Tavern and head for Suslota Pass. Even with the advancing weather from the west, the visibility is much better today than it was when I went through here before.
I consider one of my strongest piloting skills to be dead reckoning. Just give me a chart, and I think I will find my way anywhere, even without a compass. This shortcut is well worth the time savings; however, I sure would not want to loose an engine out here. There is nothing, nowhere. I do not even see game tracks.
One thing is for certain, with good visibility, this route has no hint of intimidation for me, as was the case when I came through here with my newly-met guide at Northway. Except of course for the thought of a forced landing out here. Without survival gear, life would indeed be grim (or short).
Now I'm on a very high final to Northway. I slowly pull the power back so as I don't cool the engine too fast. When the throttle is all the way off, the engine idles perfectly with no hint of a stall at all. I am convinced the carburetor icing problem has been cured. Right now, I'm so high I must do large S turns to descend without over-shooting the runway (I wish this Ercoupe could slip). All is well that ends well, as I touch down just in time to catch the taxiway to the fuel pumps.
After fuel and food, I want to go to Whitehorse, Yukon, via Burwash, and Hanes Junction. Altogether, it's about 300 miles to my destination in Whitehorse. Hanes Junction is not reporting VFR, but Burwash is. I figure I might as well go to Burwash Landing and wait it out there. At least I'll be making some progress. If I'm lucky, maybe the weather will move farther east while I'm traveling, then I can fly on into Whitehorse.
Burwash Landing is a virtual nothing on the northwest end of Kluane Lake. About all that is here is an airfield and a weather station with a few antennas on top. The station is manned by one person who tells me he has been here three months. Boy, back in Anchorage I thought I was getting lonely. This guy is way beyond loneliness. I would say that he's more like catatonic. From the moment he lays his eyes on me, I can tell he does not want me to leave--ever.
First, he makes a cup of coffee, which I badly need. Then he shows me all around the building, like I'm a guest who just arrived to stay for a week. There's the bathroom, and over there I can sleep on the couch if I'm tired. The hospitality is great, especially for a weary traveler.
When he gives me a weather briefing that Hanes Junction doesn't look good at all, somehow I suspect the information is inaccurate, and thus, just his ploy to get me to hang around for a few days and provide companionship. I'm certain the weather reports are accurate; however, I'm not certain he wants to encourage me to leave.
I hang around for about three hours, and then I check the weather again. Hanes Junction has been steadily progressing to VFR all day, but it is still too marginal. Northway, where I just came from, no longer is VFR. The advancing weather has overtaken and is heading this way.
If I make a run for it now, by the time I get to Hanes Junction, the weather will be even better. Should I make a run for it? I look in the direction of Northway and now see the huge front about thirty miles away which is quickly approaching. If I don't move now, how long will I be stuck here? I can't imagine staying here for the time it will take for all this to pass.
Against my host's better judgment, within five minutes I'm in the air flying easterly, outrunning the weather from behind. It is only about 70 miles to Hanes Junction, then another 90 miles or so to Whitehorse.
The ceiling is much lower than reported, and this forces me to fly about 800 feet above the Alcan Highway.
When I reach the east end of Kluane Lake, I make a slight course adjustment over higher ground, so I don't loose sight of the road. Now the ceiling is even tighter, and boy do I have gratitude and comfort for having that road below me and in my view. I have no intentions of taking my eyes off it.
Looking back in the direction of Burwash Landing, I can no longer see the airport. The front has completely engulfed it, and now is beginning to do a good job of consuming all of Kluane lake.
The valley I'm flying over has solid overcast, no more than 1,500 feet AGL. The forested valley floor gently slopes to the mountains with 8 to 9,000 foot peaks on each side, and then disappears into the low ceiling overhead.
As I approach Hanes Junction, something does not look right, and I no longer believe the weather is clearing there. In fact, quite the opposite is occurring right before my eyes. If my orientation is correct, the ceiling is right on top of the village. The Alcan Highway disappears into the clouds as it snakes through the pass to the northeast of Hanes Junction on its way to Whitehorse. To my horror, my route is totally obscured and impassable.
In fact, in every direction I now look, the ground meets the clouds. I get the feeling that the valley I am in is a huge bowl, and I'm flying just under the lid of clouds reaching to mountains on all sides. There is no retreating to Burwash, although now I wish I had stayed there with that attendant. Unless I find another way over the small mountain range between here and Whitehorse, I'm trapped. And not only that, a forced landing is a certainty.
The chart indicates a road branching off the Alcan Highway at Hanes Junction heading southeast off the chart in the direction of what must be Skagway. I find it and follow the road, but it is no use. It disappears into clouds too.
Things do not look good at all. Now I resign myself to the fact that indeed a forced landing is imminent. Short of a miracle, I have nowhere else to go. It is only a matter of time, and I will be forced to set down on the road. How embarrassing this is going to be, as I think about the awkwardness of explaining my predicament to a passing traveler who cannot proceed because I am blocking the narrow road with my airplane.
Coming to grips with this reality is difficult. I'm unhappy with myself for not staying at Burwash Landing. How stupid to be so impatient, I think. With just under two hours of fuel remaining, I have no other recourse but to fly around and around, if I want to avoid setting her down. For now, I'm content to delay the inevitable for as long as possible.
So I fly in the direction of Hanes Junction again. Out of desperation (and much metabolism), I wonder if I should make a run through the pass on instruments. It's not that far to the other side, according to the chart. Fear not, logic prevents me from this insane option. At least over here out of the pass, I'm alive with or without fuel. But over there in the pass, I have no such guarantee.
As if I don't have enough problems already, I can see that the visibility is deteriorating rapidly to the west. I'm convinced there is zero chance for retreat or refuge in the direction of Burwash Landing. Fear drives me southeast again over the windy road to Skagway, where I can fly higher off the ground. There is no other way to face this. Indeed, I'm trapped over the bush south and east of Hanes Junction.
The chart indicates a small valley through the little mountain range between here and Whitehorse. It looks to be maybe 12 miles south of the pass which the Alcan Highway goes through. Maybe I can make it through this pass, then pick up the Alcan once on the other side.
I check it out, but it does not hold promise. So I turn around and retreat. By now the ceiling is even lower, so I'm forced to fly so low over the trees, I can no longer see the road from Hanes Junction to Skagway . This sends a surge of epinephrine throughout my body, and my heart races as it prepares me for the inevitable. Now I am really afraid as I realize, on top of all else which has gone wrong, that now I'm lost too.
Up to this point, the recognizable landmarks on the chart have provided me with a great deal of comfort. No longer can I recognize anything on the chart. Where is the road? I am puzzled as I ponder my disorientation, and realize during these last thirty minutes I've been navigating solely by terrain, without any instrumentation at all. Where am I? Nothing looks right out there anymore.
I can't help thinking about pilots who have lost their lives in a plane crash. And how their tragedy is used to teach us the unforgiving nature of flying. I can remember how I've always swore I would never intentionally do anything stupid, like fly without checking the weather. Well, here I am, not only doing something stupid, but in spite of checking the weather.
Is this what has happened for so many unfortunate pilots? Is this how it happened to them, by just sneaking up on them, and hitting them over the head?
I think about how my Ercoupe and I are the same age. We both arrived on the earth in the exact same year. Are we now going to part together, too, I wonder?
Considering the gravity of this situation, I don't know how I'm able to stay so remarkably in control, especially in my heightened state of alarm. One of my greatest fears has always been that I would panic in an emergency. This situation is now an emergency, but I have not panicked. Not yet, anyway.
Maybe it is not yet time to panic. I do have more than enough fuel, plus reserve. But what about when I have only 5 minutes left, or when the engine stops? Will I panic then?
Maybe my subconscious mind tells me there is no need to panic, because I do have the recourse of crashing into the trees. If I make a well controlled ditch, maybe the trees will do the rest, and the worst that will happen is that I will loose my airplane.
These thoughts and more all race through my mind. In fact, my entire life is on instant replay, and now I have an acute mental awareness of all my remembrances.
Concurrent to reliving my life, I'm still tuned into reality. The reality that if I'm to get out of this mess which I flew myself into, in one piece, I must find a way out. And I must do it now.
As luck would have it, I find myself flying low and oblique to the road back to Hanes Junction. I am not flying perpendicular as I expect, and my heading is off considerably from my expectation. Now things are fitting back in their place again with the chart.
As I approach Hanes Junction one more time, I notice that the Alcan Highway is more apparent as it winds through the pass. A closer look reveals daylight on the other side. In fact, I can actually see places in the valley beyond where it is clear. This is most promising, even though the pass is extremely marginal. I decide to make a run for.
Things have improved here remarkable in only thirty minutes. In an effort to stay out of the clouds, I'm actually flying about 50 feet off the deck as I negotiate the pass. Even so, I am running an obstacle course of clouds. I dodge the thick ones and fly right through the thinly formed ones. Pretty soon I am in the clear, and it is all over.
Wow! What a nightmare. And what a relief. That was close. Very close.
Will I ever do a dumb thing like that again? No! Never!
As I descend into Whitehorse, there is no hint of carburetor icing. The problem definitely seems to be behind me. The nose tank is still full, but both wing tanks are bone dry.
Without bothering to refuel, I tie my bird down and walk the short distance to the lodging district. I find a room at the Airport Chalet, consume a nice hot meal, and within thirty minutes I hit the sack and I'm sound asleep.
Copyright, 1982 and 1995, Ron Kilber, all rights reserved.
Email to: rpknet@aztec.asu.edu
News Update By The President
by Jeff Rochon
"I saw an ultralight pass over the field but could hardly hear it over the sound of sizzling bacon"! (Quote by Councillor Jerry Huot at the Surrey Council Monday night meeting of May 13th. He had attended the PUFA pancake breakfast the day before.) There was a good turn out for our legal fund raiser at King George Airfield on Mother's Day. With the help of many of the PUFA members as well as others, the pancake breakfast was a success, albeit a modest one. It was gratifying to see so much assistance offered to the setting up, cooking and serving of at least one hundred and fifty breakfasts. Amazing how much can be accomplished when people pitch in with the enthusiasm that was evident that morning! Ken Buck, our dilligent treasurer, will report the cost of the breakfast and funds accrued at our next meeting on May 29th.
Bob (Won Ton) McLellan is, I'm sure, sad as we all are to hear that the cafe at Pitt Meadows Airport will be no more. The proprietor has informed her customers that Transport Canada intends to dispose of the building. Notice has been given to shut down at the end of June. However, there is hope. There is a strong possibility that the upstairs portion of the clubhouse on the north side of the airport will available to the never say die management. I guess we'll have to get used to "Clear to land, 26 RIGHT", if we want our Won Ton.
A list of fly-in events is included with this issue of the PUFA Newsletter. The May 17th to 19th fly-in at Grand Forks was washed out by rain with nobody going from here. Please note the list includes another fund raiser pancake breakfast is scheduled for Saturday, June 9th.
With respect to our meeting on May 29th, a letter has been forwarded to the Mayor of Surrey inviting him to attend to give us his views of the city's concerns regarding ultralights.
Finally, I would like to inform current PUFA members that one of our past members, Cliff Raymond has had a recent heart by-pass operation. A card has been sent from PUFA to wish him well.