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Ron Kilber |
This article is Copyright © 1982 and 1995 Ron Kilber. All rights reserved.
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Day 1 — Bellvue to Prince George
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 and then descending again 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 awaken 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 — Prince George
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 — Prince George
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 — Prince George to Fort Nelson
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 know 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 Saint 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 120 (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 Saint 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 Rs, 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 — Fort Nelson to Whitehorse
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 White
Horse, 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 White
Horse, 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 — Whitehorse
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 — Whitehorse to Anchorage
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 2300 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 Hanes 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 Hanes 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' 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' peaks on the left and 5,600' 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
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 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.
... continued in Alaska Flying Sabbatical (Part 2).
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