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Ron Kilber |
This article is Copyright © 1982 and 1995 Ron Kilber. All rights reserved.
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... continued from Alaska Flying Sabbatical (Part 2).
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 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 en 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
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 AGL. The winds are at
300, 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 inquire 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. 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', 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. 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 mistaken 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 defense 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 blindly the bear. This is certain defense, 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 rife 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 defense 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' 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 either end of the long San Mateo Bridge
in the San Francisco area is approximately 65 feet lower on one
end 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 Saint 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.
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 Ft. Nelson,
I do have my doubts about any shotgun having much good for defense.
Would my shotgun be of much defense 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, British Columbia.
I'm a little anxious to make some good flying time again today,
so I only stop in Kamloops, British Columbia long enough to re-fuel.
My next objective is to fly southeast about 100 miles across 6,000'
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 can not reach the Okanagan Valley by flying
southerly, unless I go all the way to 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 it 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 here
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.
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