Home again

Days 17-18: Portland, Oregon to Trinity Center, and Watsonville, California

The next day was spent with family in Portland. If there was any doubt about possible culture shock the evening before, today confirmed it beyond a shadow of a doubt. After walking off some outstanding German panckes for breakfast, we walked the Ladds addition and met two of my cousins, uncle and aunt, spouses, and a room full of little kids to catch up. We had a delightful lunch, hosted by my cousin's wife. The call of the wild at Watson Lake was faraway, indeed.

One last DeHavilland spotting, Starks Twin Oaks

Making our way back to PDX to turn in the car, I firmed up plans to take a college friend and his wife flying. We'd meet them at Starks Twin Oaks airpark, barely a 10 minute flight yet a world away from the concrete jungle of PDX. I decided to delay my takeoff a couple minutes for an arriving C-17 transport that landed in front of us due to wake turbulence. Twin Oaks, just south of Hillsboro, offered a laid back place to unload the airplane to accommodate two passengers for a quick flight around the countryside.

As we set up to leave Starks it was late afternoon. A quick call check weather at home (Watsonville, CA) revealed fog already close to minimums to fly an instrument approach and see the airport. The best approach we have, a localizer, allows a pilot to get down to about 600 feet above the ground, and the summertime fog that usually rolls in during the late evening is often below that.. By the time we got there, three-plus hours from now, there was almost no chance of making it in without a diversion. The summer of 2011 had been a pervasive one as far as the fog was concerned and it showed no signs of abating. For those unfamiliar, September, October, and November are usually the best months to visit the California coast, with the exception of 2011!).

With a diversion assured, it was now time to think of a plan B. I'd had one in the back of my mind already. Trinity Center, in the mountains west of Redding, offers the flyer a peaceful lakeside airport adjacent a warm reservoir of clean water, a peaceful place to camp, and a small community nearby. I'd stopped once before for the evening on a trip north out of curiosity rather than necessity and enjoyed it; I wanted my wife to have a look. There should be just enough daylight to get there by sunset, a necessity as the airport is unlit and in a mountainous area. Its a daytime-only field for sure.

Loaded and fueled once more, we departed for Trinity Center. In contrast to the clear skies over the Puget Sound the day before, there was now a fair amount of smoke from fires burning in the Cascades to deal with as we proceeded down the Willamette valley. It wasn't pretty down low, and the visibility was certainly questionable VFR from 8,000 to well over 11,000', and quite smelly as well. We finally got completely on top of the smoke around 12,000' and cruised south at 13,500' where the air was smooth and clear.

On almost every trip I take to or from the northwest, there is usually some kind of weather change around the California/Oregon border over the Siskiou mountains. This is usually where weather systems get ripped apart leaving California warm, and the Oregon mountains under cloud, precipitation, and icing aloft. Today, the weather was great, but just like magic, the smoke ended as we got to the Siskious. The familiar sights of Mt. Ashland where I'd learned how to ski, Mt. Shasta, Scott Valley, and finally the Trinity Alps greeted our return to California. I delayed descent over the mountains as the sun was now setting, electing to make a few circles over Trinity reservoir, adjacent the airport. We landed with perhaps another 10 minutes of light sufficient to land given the terrain and unlit field.

Pitching our tent in the fading twilight on the ramp next to a picnic table, an SUV drove onto the field. Inside was a gentleman who upheld Trinity Center's reputation as a very hospitable place to visit. He lived in a house further down the field and decided to drive over just to see if we needed anything. He ended up inviting us over for breakfast the next day. During my last visit to Trinity, a family was picking up their son who flew in about the same time as me. They returned in the evening to invite me for breakfast at their home. Here I was, for the second time, invited to a stranger's house for breakfast! Its hard to beat that. Our evening was pleasant - quiet, warm, and with a sky full of stars to feast upon.

The next morning, after a brief swim in the lake, we made our way to our new friend's house for breakfast. He was a retired M.D., who had previously owned several airplanes and had taken several trips to Alaska. Naturally, we had plenty in common to discuss.

"After I got back from Alaska, there was a medial convention in Brazil I was planning to attend", he remarked. "I told my father I was going to buy an airline ticket and he said 'Why not just fly down yourself? You just flew to Alaska and back'." So with that, he flew to Brazil, in the 1960s, in his twin-engine Piper.

After lingering a while we began our last leg of the trip. It seemed apropos to say goodbye to our new friend with a low approach down the runway, but a couple of crows circling near the runway's end kept me from descending as much as I would have otherwise. The way home was positively routine. Light wind, warm atmosphere, California sunshine...all the way to the fog-laden coast, anyway. The fog was just starting to break when we arrived. I requested an IFR clearance to fly a localizer approach, broke out, circled to land, and touched down nonchalantly, as if from any other flight in the local area.

We called my brother in law, who had graciously come to house-and-dog sit for us while working remotely, to pick us up. While waiting, my wife ran into a man I used to work with (outside of aviation) for several years. He had just come down to the airport at random to take a look.

"Where did you come from?" He asked. "Well", I said, "Alaska."

Return to the lower 48

Day 16: Watson Lake, Yukon Territory to Portland, Oregon.

One last breakfast burrito north of sixty. The miniature skillet I’d hauled along in my cooler had earned its keep on this trip; too heavy to backpack with, but just right for frying sausage and eggs while airplane camping when an extra pound of weight could be carried.

Before leaving we had a chat with the community radio operator at Watson Lake. This was the one character of the three who worked there that I didn’t talk with during my trip north. I learned some sad facts about Watson Lake and its wartime history that, while I’ve been unable to substantiate with some quick googling after returning home, I am inclined to believe as this gentleman grew up there.

First, there was the petroleum in the ground water, which made the water in the terminal washrooms non-potable. When the military left the airfield at the end of the second word war, the tanks of a fuel farm were intentionally opened allowing thousands of gallons of avgas and diesel fuel to spill onto and seep into the ground. It’s still down there, over 60 years later, moving slowly and is contaminating ground water as it goes. He promised me that the well supplying the spigot at the campground where I’d been drinking from was still safe. Further, barrels of toxic substances were apparently lost in Watson Lake itself.

“A few years back we got this letter in the mail…” he told us “if you’d swam in or eaten fish from the lake, you were to report to such-and-such for some tests”.

It was difficult to tell the specifics of how many people contracted illness or what the precise problem was, but it was clear that someone had found something many years after the fact, and the government became concerned over public health because of it.

After contemplating the fact that I brushed my teeth using that non-potable water a few times before I knew it was non-potable -- and yes, it did taste funny -- we got to planning how to get back to the lower 48 states. The likely options were backtracking southeast down the Rocky Mountain Trench, which I’d followed to get here, taking a more easterly route along the Alcan highway to Ft. St. John and points east of the Rockies, or heading south to Dease Lake just inland over the coastal range before turning east to Prince George.

The weather was surprisingly decent for the Alcan or trench, with broken cumulus with bases 7,000’, tops to 20,000’+, and scattered rain showers until Prince George. Predictably, rain and lower ceilings were pushing in from the coast shutting out a more interesting westward route that would take us to Dease Lake, eliminating that option. Besides the college friends I saw on the trip north, I had several relatives in the Portland area that it would be good to catch up with, and I’d left a message for my uncle and another college friend the night before via Skype saying we might pass through. Taking the Alcan would require us to double back across the mountains adding some time and mountain flying risk, which I figured put a repeat of running the trench at a wash, risk-wise. With this we decided to retrace our steps through the trench. I planned for a stop in Quesnel, B.C., the next town south of Price George where I’d entered on the trip north.

With our flight plan filed with Whitehorse flight information centre and one last load of expensive Yukon gas in the tanks, we departed,  swooping out over Watson Lake, the Liard river, and on down to the trench. The weather was initially quite nice – the makings of a pleasant day – but the forecast cumulus buildups were visible in the distance to the south and west. Soon enough we passed over now familiar Scoop and Aeroplane Lakes that provide a gentle hint to the trench’s northwest terminus. I had climbed up to 11,500’ – well above the mountaintops on either side of the trench -- but wanted to follow it precisely should the need arise due to weather. At this point, clouds were scattered and becoming more solidified going south. I decided to give another new Canadian concept a try: Uncontrolled IFR.

Vast swaths of Canada are similar to the relatively small patches of their American counterparts, consisting uncontrolled airspace that stretches from the surface to a relatively high altitude. In this context, “uncontrolled” means that no ATC separation for IFR traffic is available. Therefore, one does not need an ATC clearance to fly in instrument meteorological conditions. In the lower 48 states, such areas are limited to a maximum altitude of 14,500’ (with a few exceptions), but these pockets of airspace are few and far between, lying destitute in mountainous areas, and are for the most part too small to actually go from point A to B. You might climb or descend through one (very carefully) if operating out of an airport in the middle of nowhere, accepting responsibility for terrain and obstacle clearance, while negotiating a clearance from ATC that would be necessary prior to entering controlled airspace. Canada, by contrast, had a whole lot more ‘nothing’, and the uncontrolled airspace went up to 18,000’.

Along the trench, I could fly continuously in this manner for the next two hours until just shy of Price George without needing (or being able to obtain) ATC clearance or separation services to fly IFR. So long as I maintained the appropriate altitude (in this case, odd-thousands), squawked the appropriate code (2000 as I recall, not that it mattered as there was no radar around), and appropriate distance above terrain I was free to fly through clouds. Separation from other traffic is handled via broadcasting a position report on the appropriate frequency, in the blind. That was the theory, anyway.

I’d used this facility earlier on the trip to poke into a cloud here or there, but as I’ve remarked previously, the majority of this trip had to be done clear of clouds due to icing potential. This leg was no exception, as it was a few Centigrade below freezing at this altitude, and the bigger clouds looked full of moisture. On this southeast-bound trip through the trench, my motivation to stay high and poke in and out of cloud was for the nice tailwind at altitude and to avoid the bumps below. I didn’t mind going through a cloud here or there provided I could size it up before going in. Somewhere around the half way point to Fort Ware, the buildups ahead appeared distinctly more ominous: too tall to out-climb, with neighbors on the sides, not allowing me a way to size up what was on the other side, or how big it was. Though my prior sojourns had been ice-free, I did not want to get into a situation where I had ice on the airplane and then had to descend down into the trench with terrain on either side, inside of a cloud. I reverted to VFR and spiraled down below the cloud bases, now about level with the terrain on either side of the trench, before continuing along visually.

Continuing along visually we retraced the remainder of the trench as I had going north. Now the land that had formed such a stark impression in my mind on the way north, from its lack of human contact, slowly reversed itself. Fort Ware appeared, and soon logging roads were visible alongside Lake Williston. The last of the true wilderness flying was behind us, though there were still hundreds of miles with not much going on to go. Along the way the clouds overhead coalesced to mostly overcast cumulus bases, with frequent rain showers.

Short final, Quesnel, B.C.

For the next hour I slowly descended, ultimately being pushed down to about 2,000' above ground until the rain and cloud cover abruptly ended somewhere around Prince George. Suddenly, we were in a beautiful warm late summer's day in central British Columbia, and the ice fields of the St. Elias range felt far away indeed. We picked up and followed the Fraser river to Quesnel (say "kay-nel"), an oasis of warmth, timber, and fields of alfalfa rolled into gigantic cylindrical bales. Here we stopped just long enough for fuel, a bite to eat, and to file a border-crossing flight plan to Bellingham, Washington.

On our way yet again, we followed the Fraser south, now under much more pleasant skies than the foreboding experience that greeted me on the trip north, down to Hope, Abbotsford, and across the U.S. border to Bellingham. On the ground, several GA airplanes were directed to shoe-horn into a box painted on the asphalt next to an Allegiant Airlines jet, for customs inspection. This, too was quick though they wanted to see some of the airplane's documents, which no one had asked for previously. The last time I was flew into Bellingham, in 2000, it was a typical, if sleepy GA airport. Now there were three airliners parked next to me and a new fancy (expensive looking) FBO. Its getting rare to see airports with a lot of growth these days in the US.

Seattle & Mt. Rainier

We made some quick plans to secure a rental car at Portland's main airport (PDX) where the cheap car offset the slightly higher airplane parking fee, and were on our way, enjoying a delightful sunny afternoon above Puget Sound, and the Seattle skyline. The flying was easy,  and though we were growing tired, things were familiar again. I felt home, in the geographic sense, even though we were still some 600 nautical miles away. On the ground, driving the interstate through Portland to a friend's house where we should stay the night, a sense of culture shock set in; returning from the absence of population density over the past two weeks of our travels created a final element of surprise to our Alaska experience.

Homeward Bound

Day 15: Fairbanks, Alaska to Watson Lake, Yukon Territory

In recent weeks my vigor to complete the Alaska trip narrative was disrupted by additional adventures that involved riding in airliners rather than flying myself there. Still, the route and experience remains as etched in long term memory as crisply as the rush of mid-latitude fall air against one's face after adapting to the heat of the tropics.

Our last day in Alaska began with clearing skies to the south. Denali's summit, now 153 miles away, is plainly visible from our mountain-top campsite northwest of Fairbanks. The prominence of the peak versus the broad Tanana river valley in front of us is magnified in analytical reminiscence. Looking at the distance plotted on a chart after the trip, I paused to wonder if I'd ever seen a natural landmark from that distance, on the ground, from any place else. I had not.

Denali from my campsite... 153 miles distant!

Before the trip I'd committed myself to a family obligation that would require me in California with a few days' buffer to prepare for. I'd learn, in hindsight, that making such obligations is something to avoid. Life is best lived without regrets, but not with the wisdom of hindsight: If you take a trip to Alaska, try your best to have a flexible return date!

Back in Fairbanks a weather check using our smart phone revealed ideal conditions for a trip back to the lower 48 states over the next couple days. After that, it became questionable as low pressure systems were progged to push past the barriers of the coastal mountains into the Yukon. The weather delay on the trip north entered my mind. Make no mistake, heading south and east was not something I wanted to do, after barely a week in Alaska itself.

We also pondered other possibilities.. what about heading north, past the Brooks range, the last trees, and the tundra, to stick our toes in the Arctic Ocean? Would it be worth the fuel cost? But if not, would we ever have the opportunity to do so again? Such dilemmas are the signs of a truly lucky and blessed life, rather than something to fret about. Ultimately the conservative option won out. We would start the trek south today, leaving Alaska behind after only an apéritif of what it had to offer.

By the time we returned the car, made border crossing preparations via iPhone, and loaded the airplane it was noon; one P.M., Yukon time. We left town, staying relatively low this time, along a course that meandered between the Richardson highway and Tanana river. This was relaxing flying, without concern for adverse weather, turbulence, or airspace as the massive military areas near Fairbanks were "cold" for the day. The occasional ridge-top and river rapid provided pleasant distractions along the relatively civilized route. The winds were slack. In two hours' flying we passed a single airplane heading in the opposite direction.

A taste of the Wrangells, mostly obscured by cloud

After giving a position report to the flight service man in Northway we crossed once again into Canada. My intent was to give my wife a shot at the splendors of the magnificent glaciers in the Wrangell-St. Elias range that I'd seen on the way north. I carved a mirror of my trip north, hoping first to meander up the Donjek, or some other mighty glacier and do some new exploring. As we drew closer to the range, however, a layer of solid overcast was visible obscuring most of it, allowing only the dirty tongues of a few glaciers to peek out beneath the layer. Going underneath was not a safe option. Further south and east, instability produced  broken altocumulus castellanus clouds, though visibility and ceiling below were still excellent. We would end up pushing on to catch the very downslope edges of various glaciers ending at the Donjek, which I'd glided down on the trip north. It was unfortunate that I could not give my wife the transcendent views I'd previously enjoyed.

Turning to cross the huge St. Elias "foothills" to Haines Junction, I heard an exchange on the common Canadian advisory frequency between a military aircraft identifying itself as "Canuck 1" and flight service in Whitehorse. Apparently the Canadian Prime Minister was paying the region a visit and had requested a low-level aerial tour of the countryside between Whitehorse and Haines Junction. As in about 300' off the ground low, if the pilots happy to boast the achievement were to be believed.

Some fun, dare I say artful, dodging of the medium sized cumulus clouds to get underneath brought us again to face Lake Laberge before making the gentle turn to land at Whitehorse in a gusty, crisp breeze. We were directed to park in the customs box beneath the tower but no officers were there to meet us. Inside the base of a tower, a phone direct-dials Canadian customs which cleared us back into Canada. Simple, trusting, and efficient. Inside I spoke with another friendly flight briefer about continuing down the Alcan to Ft. Nelson, which we had just about enough daylight to reach.

Short final for Whitehorse, PM's Airbus next to where I get gas

While we were chatting, Canuck 1, a Canadian forces C-130 transport landed and taxied past, over to a waiting Canadian forces Airbus parked next to my next stop (the self-serve fuel station); the P.M. was returning to Winnepeg. I asked the briefer whether there would be any problem getting fuel while the Prime Minster was there, changing airplanes.
"No not at all, go ahead and get fuel".

Canuck 1... just in from a low-level tour

Let's pause and compare and contrast for a moment. In the U.S., a 30-mile temporary flight restriction would encircle the President's every move, in which the likes of me would be prohibited to fly unless I were flying IFR. Only airliners with TSA screening would be allowed within the innermost 10-mile radius. Getting within a mile of the man within clear sight on the ground? I don't know but I'm guessing not. Now here I am -- a foreigner no less -- and can not only share the airspace with the P.M., but am welcomed taxi my airplane over next to his to get gas with a shotgun in the back (and yes, they still knew I had it per my customs arrangements). Call me crazy but I was really starting to warm up to Canada, at least until I remembered fuel was $2.22CDN/liter at Whitehorse. (Full disclosure: By the time I got in my airplane to taxi for fuel the PM's Airbus started its engines and departed as I was starting up).

The golden hour illuminates the Yukon

We departed Whitehorse soon after the PM's Airbus, and continued down the Alcan - more or less - climbing to 9,500' to enjoy a nice tailwind. I let my portable GPS calculate the wind direction & speed and gave the same Whitehorse briefer a pilot report of over Teslin as the wind was stronger than forecast. It was a continued game of dodge the cumulus buildups -- they were not threateningly large, but would certainly be bumpy and ice-laden -- until a point where it was too questionable to continue, calling for a slight deviation and spiral down below the bases to once again follow the highway. At this point, it was getting late in the day and we decided to make it a short leg and stop at Watson Lake for the night. Darkness came decidedly sooner than on the trip up, with twilight ending about 45 minutes earlier than it was on my trip north some two weeks prior. We set up camp under the little gazebo where I'd slept before, to enjoy the howls of the Yukon Wolves one last evening.

Denali color

Day 14: Talkeetna to Fairbanks

After a comfortable, if pricey, stay at the Talkeetna motel we decided to be on our way to make an attempt at seeing Denali from the air, and then proceed north to Fairbanks for a shot at seeing the aurora borealis the following night.

Back down main street once again, the Roadhouse was the place to be for breakfast, bursting at the seams with tourists - someone was making good money over the summer season. A takeout breakfast of hearty quiche, salmon-filled breakfast pastry (strange, but it worked!) and coffee from the Roadhouse got us going.

The view of Denali and the Alaska range from Talkeetna looked just the same as the day before and last week as well: solid gray clouds. North of the Alaska Range, however, the atmosphere was stable, dry, and warm. The plan was to fly north along the Chulitna river, through Windy pass, over the Denali park entrance that most folks would drive through, and then work our way to the north side of the range.

The views as we proceeded north and east from Talkeetna only grew sweeter as we proceeded north. Aspens lining streams at this latitude had their first tinges of yellow leaves, and soon ground and hillsides not covered in water or trees took on a more or less continuous deep red hue from the leaves of shrubs lining the slopes... the scale of it all was mesmerizing. We spotted another airplane going our way, what looked like a Cessna 180, and I decided to slow down a bit and follow.

Approaching Windy Pass

Windy Pass was a place I'd been warned about by the retired airline guys in their own C180 down in Seldovia... don't go through with more than 15 knots of wind. Comparing what the GPS was telling me with true airspeed on various headings, I figured we had just about 15 knots of wind. That was assuming a relatively low altitude, maybe 500-1000' above ground. Thankfully the ceiling was improving steadily and we were able to climb to about 3,000' above the ground while approaching the pass. Airspeed is life, and altitude is life insurance; money in the bank, and that would be enough to deal with a bad turbulence encounter. There ended up being a couple of moderate bumps, but nothing to worry about. Meanwhile I'd take a look at the other airplane we were following from time to time and noticed it was continuing along, maybe 1,000' above the ground or so, without looking like it had any trouble.

Denali

Rounding the corner through Windy we quickly approached Denali national park as is typically visited by someone driving. The weather was continuously improving as expected and we began a slow climb westward, more or less parallel to the park's roads as the ceiling improved, hoping to see Denali off in the distance. Climbing through 11,000' or so and approaching the Toklat River, The Great One finally came into view. Sadly, the angle of sunlight combined with the weather, now hemmed in but desperately trying to spill over from the south side of the range didn't work out for great photos.

Aspens line the Tolkat

From this altitude, our sight seeing was mainly limited to the peaks, glaciers, lay of the land, and abounding color of the region. While it was a fun flight, its a place I'd suggest visiting on the ground given its accessibility. Proceeding onward to Fairbanks, we enjoyed the push of the southwesterly wind on our back to cover ground at three nautical miles a minute. Along the way, the vast Aspen groves lining the Toklat were now a sea of gold; that one extra degree of latitude made a big difference in onset of season, versus Talkeetna.

Back on the ground, landing next to an old DC6 freighter on the parallel runway, we took a bit of time to explore Fairbanks. It offers lots of amenities, a reasonable rental car, but spending time in the town wasn't high on my list of touristic priorities. Still, enjoying a late lunch basking in warm sunshine (finally t-shirt weather!) next to the river that runs through town was fun.

A quick glance through the Milepost and we picked out Gold Dredge No 8 as as suitable tourist trap to go explore. Unfortunately it was closed when we got there, but along the way afforded a chance to see the Alaska pipeline (hooray, hydrocarbons!).

One interesting thing about ground exploration here was the trees were noticably petite. We would ultimately not continue further north on our trip, but eventually the trees die out all together as the forests end and the tundra begins. Sort of a timberline deliniated by latitude versus altitude, and nature's march towards desolate tundra was evident here.

On a friend's recommendation, we drove northwest of town to Murphy Dome to camp for the night. This hilltop provided a nice view of the Alaska range to the south. Sunset came around midnight, and I periodically awoke to try to see the aurora, which was forecast to occur at our latitude should the sky be dark enough. A pair of Moose slowly munched their way through dense brush not far away. Though darkness did eventually come to the southern sky, I didn't see the northern lights. The progression of twilight across the northern horizon was interesting, though: The sun set in the northwest, its light traversed the horizon, and rose in the northeast. It was as if just another good push to the north (or being here a few weeks earlier) would let us see the sun shine all night.

So ended our last evening in the state, at 65 degrees north latitude. The trip home would start, albeit way too soon, the next day.

Talkeetna Revisited

Day 13, part 2: Talkeeta

The remainder of the flight into Talkeetna was completely uneventful. No fog, no howling wind at Wasilla. Denali was still obscured by cloud, and the tour operators were still doing frequent turbine-Otter-on-skis departures as they had been on my first visit.

Wait -- Talkeetna. Again? I decided last week it was worth coming here with my wife. There are a precious few towns oriented to tourism that make me want to return for a second trip, but Talkeetna had some sort of magnetic pull associated with it. Some of it had to do with the airplanes and bush operators, some with the quirky things I saw in town, and without a doubt some probably had to do with the aviation history forged by the likes of the late Don Sheldon, legendary bush pilot based on Talkeetna whose business continues on in his name.

We arrived in the early evening hours, around 6pm, again not knowing where we'd stay. I saw a sign advertising a hostel not far from the airport and a quick walk in that direction and gaze from the muddy dirt road suggested that no, we'd spring for a hotel or find a place to camp the night. On the way into town from the airport road, I made the fortunate mistake of  looking in the direction of a warehouse with an open door. A friendly man with a hearty beard waved hello, and motioned us inside. You see, all you have to do to get Jerry's attention is to look his way.

Jerry, retired from the military aircraft industry in southern California came to Talkeetna to teach kids how to work on airplanes. Using donated airframes, tooling, parts, and monetary donations for supplies, Talkeetna Build a Plane gives high school aged kids an alternative to more traditional woodshop or auto repair classes. Various projects were under way, including skin and bulkhead work on a wrecked Cherokee Six fuselage that the prior owner had donated. Students get shown the ropes using scraps, and when their workmanship is solid are given a shot at working on the actual airplane projects themselves. Their work time is logged in an AMT logbook and I would imagine counts toward A&P certification if they are so inclined. Motivation in the form of flying lessons was part of the deal as well.

One thing that struck me as Jerry showed us all of this stuff, without us asking, and never even suggested that we give him or his organization a dime. I'm the type of person that gets turned off when solicited for donations, and his attitude of pride of the kids' accomplishments convinced me that their organization was worth donating to, something I did after returning home.

After parting ways with Jerry and picking up his recommendations for food and lodging we walked to town. The Roadhouse was full, no room at the inn, and the dining hall packed, but a few doors back was the West Rib Pub, which my formation-flying tour-guides had pointed out the week before. When we walked in, who did we see? Jerry again. After a brief chat I was introduced to another notable bush pilot, who ran Alaska Floats & Skis. We talked flying a bit, and what it takes to find a flying job in Alaska, for those so-inclined.

Some lucky networking completed, we sat down for a dinner of Caribou burgers and beer. I'd never seen a pub with a limit on how many beers someone could order right on the menu, but the 9% alc. Glacier Ice Axe Ale had a two-pint maximum. If you know me you'll know that I'm not a heavy drinker, but I did have a pint, and it did have a notable effect. We settled on an expensive -- but very nice -- motel down at the end of town and called it a night.

What a day. Some trips defined by just a few really outstanding days and this has been one, along with flying formation here with my Mooney pal several days ago, and the Wrangell-St. Elias overflight. Its setting in that this trip is one of the most rewarding that I've done. I'm eternally grateful for the opportunity to have flown here and to see the majesty of our planet.

Heaven is spelled "Seldovia"

Day 13, part 1: Homer to Seldovia to Talkeetna

The Mooney-flying Alaskan hosts I met last week suggested that I take at least a half-day to explore Seldovia, a hamlet across Kachemak bay from Homer. Given their favorable report of taking their Mooney (decidedly a fair off-pavement airplane with its low prop-to-ground clearance) to its gravel runway, I decided to give it a try. The brief visit would be one of the highlights of the trip.

After breakfast and another walking tour of Homer we came across a place everyone in town raved about: Two Sisters Bakery. I am a sucker for really well-done pastries, and a snob when it comes to mediocre ones, and this place was as good as I've had anywhere. It beats my favorite place close to home, Schat's, and that's no small feat. I point at a large sticky bun covered in cinnamon goo and pecans to my wife. She comes back with that, a large chocolate bread roll that's more chocolate than bread, a heavenly roll, and tall coffee. The B&B breakfast had nothing wrong with it, but this really started the day!

Fueled, we walked back to the airplane. The baby Eagle was still hanging out in the nest, not making any attempts to fly this morning. Walking past the water aerodrome the way to the airport, we caught a float plane starting its takeoff run - the loaded C185 (or 206?) took much longer in time and distance than I was seeing with solo Super Cubs at Lake Hood, taking most of the lake to get airborne.

Back at Homer airport I find the FSS and the briefer reminds me of Chris, the DJ character on Northern Exposure. I think he knew Santa Cruz too, not surprising. He provided a leisurely briefing, and had a few good stories to tell about life, the local music scene, and our new favorite bakery. I promise I'll come back to file after making a hop to Seldovia w/o flight plan as i'll be in radio contact, or should be, the whole time.

Yesterday we landed after flying IFR from Anchorage, with the assumption that the weather that rained on us camping the night prior would clear, and eventually it did, providing a nice clear sky to the west yesterday evening. Today that's gone. Its high overcast -- ceiling 7000' or so, with occasional rain due to a nearly stalled warm front stretching across the Cook Inlet off of a low off to the west - the weather breaks between storms don't last very long, though thankfully this next storm is weaker. You could just see the showers obscuring the horizon where Augustine Island's volcano was visible in the clear last night. Despite this, the weather is fundamentally good, and should be good VFR for our Seldovia hop, and then back up to Talkeetna in the late afterrnoon.

By the time we're airborne its past 11. Oh well, lazy tourists on sabbatical and all.

I want to show my wife glaciers from above while the opportunity presented itself. This won't be like the northern side of the Wrangell-St. Elias range like the week before, but several glaciers in Kenai Fjords park make their way down toward Katchemak bay from the icefield above, visible from on the ground at Homer. In the air and going across the bay, my wife quickly spotted a large pod of whales off the right wing during climbout. On to the glaciers, she was quite impressed, but I had to hold back as the grandeur from last weeks' overflight was still on another level.

After zipping up and down a few glaciers we turned down the coast for the quick trip to Seldovia. The coastline opposite Homer is dotted with occasional signs of man, wooded islands, and still inlets. A truly beautiful place. About 10 miles to go to Seldovia, and we noticed that the rain shower across the Cook Inlet is now closer. Not a thick shower, but its apparent there's a good chance we'll get rained on if we go to Seldovia, walking around for a few hours. Doubt creeps into my mind. This feeling, like an old lazy bum, would prefer to sit and watch airplane videos on youtube instead of doing anything productive. He even gets a word in, asking my wife if she really wants to walk around in the rain again. Now the doubt is in her mind. Somehow I push the doubt out of my mind. We're here, this place has been recommended, we've got the right gear, who cares if we walk around all afternoon in the rain?.

Seldovia airport is just over 1,800' of gravel, with trees on both ends of the runway, separated from the runway with 200' & 500' "safety areas" of water. Before even contemplating going in there, I dug out my airplane's flight manual with its paltry set of 1960s performance charts and saw that at maximum gross weight, the airplane should be able to land and takeoff again in less than half the runway. The "book numbers" provide no provision for an unpaved surface, soft-field technique, and ginger acceleration to keep the propeller free of dings from rock. I knew from prior experience at my home field what the airplane will do (when I don't screw up), and decide that the 100% safety margin (1,800' vs 900') should be sufficient. I'm also about 10% under maximum weight, which will help. Still, its a small runway and requires that a pilot new to the area be on their 'A' game and abort the landing (or subsequent takeoff) if certain parameters that will affect distance are not met.

We arrive and I decide to fly an entire pattern to scope out the field - starting on the upwind leg - at about 1,000' AGL. Looks doable, so we try for the landing. Wind is calm down here, so no need to worry about gust factor. Final at 75mph slowing to 70 during the slight dog-leg turn through the clearing in the trees. Touchdown isn't smooth but is within a couple airplane lengths of the start of the runway after chopping the power and we get off about half way down, right where all the locals do later when I get to watch them land. Who says you can't get a Mooney into a short strip?

The walk into Seldovia is where our first inklings of what a special place this is - finally getting a taste of real Alaska. A large aluminum drainage pipe runs under the road leading from the airport 1/4 mile to down. At the base of it is a pool of later about 3' deep and 15' in diameter. It is filled with Salmon, the stream form it to the ocean barely enough for one to scoot by due to the relatively low tide. Is this little drainage and creek their actual spawning run?



A couple hundred yards later we cross a bridge going to town, where the real bonanza starts: hundreds of Salmon hover in the shallow inlet. A fellow comes by to fish from the bridge and snags one on the gill while reeling in his lure. Like shooting fish in a barrel. A boy and girl each start to fish, and will later be rewarded with dinner for a family. A true bounty. The inlet is postcard perfect itself, with houses perched above the water on high pilings due to the large tidal swings, rowboats moored nearby.

We spent the next couple hours expiring the quiet town - accessible by air or sea, in intermittent rain. Pushing that doubt aside was the best move we made all day. Life moved more slowly here. Another case where the photos do the talking.

Downtown Seldovia

Back at the airport, a Cessna 180 landed as we had a late lunch getting ready to go. I didn't pay much attention until its occupants unloaded their cargo into the pickup truck next to us, and I saw a large set of fuzzy antlers protruding out.

"We got this on the North Slope. Have been making trips back and forth to haul the meat out."

I learned a bit about how to preserve Caribou for the several days that it took to get the meat back to where they'd landed their airplane, and then to shuttle it and their gear back across the state. The pilots, both retired airline guys, confirmed my intuition as far as the community and lifestyle were concerned.

"Seldovia is like Alaska twenty-five years ago" one remarked. I could identify with that being raised in rural west Hawai`i.

Before departing I paced the first half of the runway and picked out a go/no go spot where I expected to be airborne, and to plan my route of taxi and power application to avoid any large rocks. Fortunately a nice path that was mostly dirt occupied the southern end of the runway, allowing me to do a nice 180 at the end of the runway and not have to delay much in getting power applied on the takeoff roll. Going to full throttle with little to no ground speed tends to be worse for the propeller as an area of low pressure is created on the ground beneath it. Stones can literally be sucked into the prop. By bringing the power up slowly as the airplane gains speed, this is minimized.

Near Soldotna, northbound

The takeoff went as planned. I felt the main gear leave the ground just where I expected and I held the airplane in ground effect to get the gear up and accelerate to climb speed. A slight dog-leg to bypass the higher terrain and we were out, over the ocean again.

We flew back to Homer - taking all of 10 minutes - with the intention of getting gas, but I read the fuel price in error (mistaking the much cheaper jet fuel for avgas). We had enough to continue on, so I decided to again stop in Wasilla for gas before going on to Talkeetna, our next evening stop. The trip back up the Kenai was delightful, this time allowing us to get to know the landscape, and then on to Talkeetna as I did the week before.

Back in the air - IFR to Homer

Day 12: Seward to Anchorage to Homer

It rained all night. By morning we discovered a bit of a leak in the tent rain fly, and the and foot box of sleeping bags a bit wet - luckily the down inside still dry.. need to fix that fly. The plan was to get rid of the rental car and resume travel in the airplane... the weather was supposed to clear out today. Supposed to!

We quickly tore down camp, ate breakfast in the nice large rain shelter, and hit the the road to try to return rental car at the main Anchorage (Ted Stevens International) airport by noon. I'd rented the car there despite leaving the airplane parked at Merrill field to save money ($40/day rental vs. $150...). A slight logistical pain, but now I had an excuse to fly from Merrill into Lake Hood (or Anchorage International), so I didn't mind. We got back to Merrill field around 1130, where I loaded the airplane as my wife drove the rental car back.

It was apparent the weather wasn't clearing out as quickly as forecast - it was supposed to be nice by now. Instead a cold front form a weakening low was slowly meandering north, now just past Homer. Anchorage had a ceiling around 900' broken with overcast just above. The weather was clearing from the south with our destination, Homer, reporting 2000' overcast. Another excellent briefing from the Kenai FSS suggested that even low-level VFR wouldn't work out as an area between Kenai and Homer tended to have very low ceilings in this circumstance. This leg, however, was one of the few where I could fly IFR without worrying about icing due to the lower terrain and minimum altitudes along the route.

The next step was getting from Merrill to Anchorage International. Geeky as it is, I thought it would be fun to land at Lake Hood strip, and then depart from Anchorage International. The two are joined by a taxiway that crosses a road.

At Merrill, I requested a special VFR clearance to get over to Lake Hood Strip. Many other operators were also requesting SVFR to get out of town. It was a good 10-minute delay waiting for IFR arrivals before the tower could launch departures, and the ensuing antics were amusing... a Cessna 180 requested SVFR just after me, and soon he asked that he'd be a flight of two with his buddy if that would speed things up. A couple of minutes later, another pilot called in and asked if they could be a flight of three... some impromptu formation flying briefings were happening, I'm sure. The controllers, however, did not mind and I'm assuming they all went on their merry way. Welcome to flying in Alaska!

The flight to Lake Hood was perhaps the shortest I've ever done. Its all of 4 miles. Takeoff, "cruise" at 800' for all of 30 seconds, with a little turn to give a tall building and radio antenna some room, and then you're on base to the Lake Hood Strip, swooping in low over Lake Hood before turning a nice, tight, half-mile final.

The controllers gave me helpful directions to taxi across several roads -- some with pilot-operated gates (click the mic on a certain frequency to open them), and then across something of a railroad crossing triggered by taxiing your airplane close to the road, with the arms that go down and everything. Again, very geeky to be excited about that, but I'll bet you would be too when you saw it for the first time. I taxied over to a GA parking area that I'd previously scoped out on the international airport side, reachable for a pedestrian - maybe 200 yards from the car rental area, which worked out well for our purposes. By the time all that was done, I'd "flown" 0.4 loggable hours for a 2-and-a-half minute flight.

After picking up my wife, and IFR clearance, we went through another taxi-gate to the "big" ramp with B747 freighters parked left and right, presumably exchanging their goods, or just stopping for fuel between their exotic ports of call in Asia and elsewhere in North America.

Lets review that depature one last time!

The flight to Homer was straightforward if lacking a nice view - we climbed into the clouds at 1,000', getting a bit of a break between layers once but otherwise just plain gray, sometimes rainy sky, though it was pleasantly smooth, cruising at 6,000'.

Sometime after passing Kenai, another aircraft from Anchorage passed me by somewhere in the gray ether, a Piper Navajo I think. A Mooney passed by a Navajo: sad, right? Well I was flying slow to save gas! ATC asked me to slow to minimum speed. I'd soon figure out why: Their radar coverage went down to 5,000' or so by Homer, so it was one airplane at a time on the approach. I slowed down to maybe a hundred knots, loafing along thinking I'd get my approach clearance soon enough. Then, 20 miles from Homer a "lifeguard" (air ambulance) flight checked on, also going to Homer.... there was no question there -- they have priority over me. Just as I thought I might have to hold, I was given holding instructions.

"Mooney five one mike, hold as published at the Homer VOR, expect further clearance at 2150, time now 2130".

Here I am, instrument rated for 11 years, practicing holds every 6 months as a currency requirement, and I get my first real hold, ever. I wasn't going to complain, I would have had to practice a hold next month to keep my currency once again anyway. After this excitement quickly wore off I realized there was no hold published at the Homer VOR, at least on any of the charts I had. Some back and forth with the controller produced a bizarrely-worded clearance that would make me actually think about the proper hold entry (parallel, thanks for asking).

As I finished the entry, the lifeguard flight landed and I was given approach clearance -- a DME arc to a localizer back-course. The winds were slack, but this was a few less miles to fly than the front course. More good practice, right? I flew a decent enough approach and broke out at 2,000' or so.

Back on the ground, we walked to downtown Homer, about 2.5 miles. At first I have to admit based on that walk of shoulder-less road, wondering if this town was worth the stop. Those feelings were quickly admonished when we came across an Eagles' nest near the center of town. A pair of Bald Eagles had raised two offspring there over the spring and they were the stars of town, as you couldn't miss them. A couple of friendly passerby's gave us the story: The two babies were now adolescents, nearly grown. One had flown by itself already and was off somewhere else. Both parents were sitting in a tree a hundred yards or so from the nest waiting for the other baby to fly. It would take a few test hops - getting maybe a foot or so off of a branch next to the nest, but wouldn't yet commit to flight. Apparently this had been the scene for some days, and people were wondering if the remaining Eagle would take flight, or eventually be abandoned as the parents moved on. A nearby marine life visitor center was another interesting diversion.

Adolescent Bald Eagle, Homer

Turning to lodging, we had a recommendation for an outfit that rented cabins but didn't receive a call-back. Homer, however, is full of B&Bs and a few minutes of walking and looking later we had a wonderful place not far from the ocean, perched over an art gallery.. my wife was pleased! The gallery and three-room B&B were owned by a very talented local artist, who from the appearance of things was also a successful entrepreneur. A rare(?) combination.

Homer seaplane lake

An Australian couple, retired, traveling with their mid 20s daughter occupied in room next door. They know how to travel and are enjoying retirement: Airline Melbourne to Seattle, the marine highway into Alaska, to King Salmon (according to them, a dissapointment), Homer, a week exploring the Kenai Peninsula to Anchorage, then across Canada and eventually home after visiting New York & the U.S. east coast in a month.

Fire Hydrant art, Homer

We took a walking tour of Homer and settled on a nice local pub for a most excellent burger & a brew for dinner. Between the local characters and art scene it was easy to see how Jewel got her start here.It was apparent between accomodation and dining that we had just missed the tourist wave.. life was quiet here, and presumably would be much more so once winter started to set in.

After dinner, a brief foray to the beach, where locals drive their trucks down to enjoy evening bonfires. Still plenty of light at 10pm, and the weather had finally cleared to the south and west allowing for a nice sunset, and interesting view of the volcanoes of Augustine Island and Mt. Iliamna poking up above the horizon on the opposite side of the Cook Inlet. The tide goes up and down over 30 feet here at its extreme. Amazing.

Tomorrow, Seldovia.

Seward & Exit Glacier

Day 11: Seward & Exit Glacier, Kenai Fjords Nat'l Park

...Another day, (one last day) without flying...

My wife had finally arrived in Anchorage the night before, and I was glad to see her. In the early discussions of whether to take this trip we'd planned on traveling together for the duration, but I asked her if she really wanted to spend 2+ weeks traveling in the airplane. Between that and a $200 one-way ticket to Anchorage it was an easy choice: Airline it up, travel around for a bit, and fly south in the Mooney together. This plan would prove to work out satisfactorily, though in the end we both wanted more Alaska than time would permit.

We had another day of rental car and weather was forecast to move in that would preclude any flying, so once again I tore down the Seward highway out of Anchorage, this time it was my wife's turn to marvel at the sights as a first-timer. We made our way to Seward, a pleasant town of only 2,600 or so that felt larger, no doubt due to the rail connection, port, and large commercial fishing presence. The small downtown area has some fun touristy diversions, local art, etc.

After Seward we left to get up and close to a glacier -- Exit Glacier, a drive-up affair in Kenai Fjords National Park. Along the drive in, road signs are posted with dates (years). The years grow successively larger (more recent) over the last mile or two as you approach the end of the road, and current-day terminus of the glacier... an interesting chronology of its retreat. This was our first experience exploring the terminus of a glacier and doing a bit of up close hiking near the end. One regret was not getting there early enough to take a half-day or so and hike up adjacent Exit Glacier to take a look at the Harding Ice Field above, a climb of a few thousand feet.

One general travel principle I prefer, though not without its stress, is making as few plans in advance as possible. When traveling via single-engine airplane this is usually the case anyway -- one of the more hazardous things a pilot can say is "I will be there tomorrow at 6pm, no matter what". From what I'd read prior to the trip this can be a problem in the North in the higher part of the tourist season - June & July... but approaching late August with school back in session things like rental cars and hotels were generally available the day-of (well, except for Whitehorse a few days ago).

With this in mind, we started thinking about accommodations while visiting the glacier. As I had a few days break from camping and my wife was still fresh we looked for a nearby place to camp, and were not disappointed: Kenai Fjords park has a (free) walk-in campground a couple miles from the terminus of the glacier just off the access road. Normally, I eschew established campgrounds for the proximity they place people in different groups. I'm not anti-social, but prefer a quiet place to sleep, free of hearing tent zippers, people who stay up late, and smoke from campfires. Give me a hundred-yard buffer, at least. This campground, however, was exceptional... elbow room with vegetation between campsites, a great shelter to cook and eat in, and a walk-in food storage area to keep smelly items and food from tempting the local bears.

As we weren't paying for a hotel we enjoyed a great feast at the Exit Glacier Salmon Bake, most of the way down the road to Seward. Any restaurant that deprecates itself with t-shirts that say "Lousy food and cheap beer" is probably going to be really, really good -- and our feast of salmon, halibut, wine, and beer certainly was.

Chugach hikes

Day 10: Crow Creek Pass

Crow Pass

The airplane stayed parked at Merrill for a couple more days as I had ground transport. My wife was arriving this afternoon, and I had been looking for a good day hike to pass the time out of town. This presented a dilemma not unlike going to a good restaurant with a lengthy menu -- too many choices, all that looked good. I settled on a day hike to Crow Creek Pass in Chugach State Park, and I was not dissapointed! This was a relatively straight-forward 8-mile out and back day hike about an hour drive outside Anchorage.

The trail head along Crow Creek lies about 10 miles off the Seward highway, just outside the community of Girdwood. It was my first drive down the Seward highway along the Turnagain Arm of the Cook Inlet, full of gorgeous vistas in itself. Beluga point lived up to its name with countless Beluga wales coming up for a breath of air.

What struck me most about this hike, and seeing the mountains in this region of Alaska up and close was the condensed stratification of climactic zones. The flora just below trailhead elevation was made up of lush temperate rainforest, that quickly gave way to shrubby hillsides. The treeline seemed to be only around 2,000', and the upper bounds of the shrubby vegetation maybe 2,500'...with an alpine mountain pass at 3,200', similar in nature to what I'm used to seeing at 10,000'+ in California. It was as if everything I was used to was compressed. I suppose this continues the further north you go, with timberline eventually approaching sea level as one approaches the arctic tundra.

Approaching timberline

I didn't encounter much in the way of wildlife along the way, but there was a plethora of signs of bear activity in the first mile or so where the trail was lined with dense vegetation. Part of the reason I picked this hike, as I was still alone, was that it was a well-travelled trail and I thought this would reduce my chances of surprising a grizzly should one be in the area.

After reaching timberline the vegetation quickly thinned out, and eventually the ground was carpeted in places with tiny wildflowers and low-lying shrubs with vivid red leaves.

The reward for the hike upon reaching the pass was an up close view of the Raven glacier. I scrambled off trail to one of its morraines to enjoy lunch next to it, occasionally hearing the ice groan as it moved and melted.

Raven Glacier

I've done a fair bit of hiking, and perhaps I'm easily spoiled by the riches of a new environment, but I have to say this was one of the best day hikes I've done, period. The scenery, variations in climate, and rugged beauty just a short drive outside of civilization are amazing. Go take a look, if you're in the area and have the inclination. You won't be disappointed.

On the ground in Anchorage

Day 9: Anchorage.

I took a few days off of flying to explore Anchorage and its surroundings until my wife flew up on an airline from California. Executive summary for someone considering visiting Anchorage: The city offers surprisingly decent deals on food, fuel, and equipment considering its location. For the pilot or aviation enthusiast, taking some time to explore the local flying scene, Lake Hood, and the aviation museum are worthwhile diversions. Other than these, I offer one simple recommendation: Get out of town. A friend of mine in California remarked before I left that Anchorage reminded him a lot of a larger version Klamath Falls, Oregon where we went to college: a functional if somewhat depressed ex-logging town surrounded by good outdoor opportunities. I think his assessment was spot on.

My choice for lodging was a hostel. This started out good and turned out bad, but then they are often a crap-shoot. The place was clean though, and surprisingly was frequented by an older set of travelers, something I wasn't used to. My prior hosteling experiences have been in Europe where it was mainly the college and early-20s set. Here the owner enforced no drinking & smoking rules, and reasonable quiet hours. The nice thing is that you usually meet one or more interesting people, and this was no exception.

My sole roomate was Ira, a 76-year old semi-retired nightclub owner from Missouri. He had travelled to Alaska on a ferry, up on the Alaska marine highway, camping out along with the younger folks to save money and enjoy the view. His businesses had done well and were now mostly managed by his children, but he still preferred to use budget accomodations travelling for the same reasons I did: to meet people and be able to afford longer trips.

"If I'm not going for 5-6 weeks, I may as well stay home" he remarked. I want to have that attitude to travel when I'm 76, and beyond.

Ira had some interesting tales to tell about the Blues club business. From being backstage with Elvis before he was big, to big-name blues musicians [the name alludes me and my notes] who showed up at his club unannounced, after bailing out of a big-dollar gig at a large auditorium after playing just an hour-long set, to then play at his place until the sun rose. He'd led an interesting life, now spending his summers at a cabin in the high mountains of New Mexico where he had some interesting tales on the ramifications of befriending a black bear.

I did a walking tour of downtown Anchorage, but didn't feel compelled to check much out. Perhaps if I were in the market for something made of fur, or a bearskin rug? Later I caught a bus over to the main airport (Ted Stevens) where I'd secured a cheap rental car (the standard rate was well over $130 a day -- get a corporate discount code if you can), and to check out neighboring Lake Hood.

Lake Hood is a must-do for folks with any interest in aviation, and will probably be interesting even for those who aren't into airplanes. A large lake, adjacent Ted Stevens international airport is home to a towered seaplane base with several runways (water lanes), a gravel strip, and like Merrill Field, hundreds of aircraft jammed into every nook and cranny. The difference here was that many were floatplanes with a "slip" rented as you would a tie down. On the far side of the field a float dealer had row upon row of aircraft floats stacked on racks. Every parking spot was occupied. Specially modified trucks were set up to take non-amphibious airplanes out of the water. Roads doubled as taxiways with signs warning motorists to yield to airplanes, and pilot-operated gates allowed aircraft to cross from the gravel runway at Lake Hood Strip, over a series of road/taxiways, and into the international airport. The whole place was abuzz with activity.

B737 gravel deflector

The Alaska Aviation Heritage Museum, also at Lake Hood, chronicles the progression of aviation in the state from bush pilots to the progression of Alaska Airlines. The museum I'd rank as interesting but "OK"... something you can skip if budgeting time (but don't skip a trip around Lake Hood!). The most interesting thing, to me, was a retired Alaska B737-200 with a gravel kit installed, out in the open for visitors to poke around. The aircraft had something like 67,000 flight hours on it before being retired, and had many areas of damage that were repaired (i.e. dings near boarding doors that were fixed with fat doublers and massive quantities of rivets). This made me feel better about my airplane with 4,300+ hours since new.

Into the Matrix?

B737 skin doublers

B737 engine modification to deflect air at the ground to prevent injestion of rocks and debris

Besides Lake Hood, I poked around the area and found the nearby Earthquake Park and was surprised by how lush the coastal forest was; there were a plethora of colorful mushrooms.

Beyond that, the road wrapped around the back side of the international airport offering a nice place, surprisingly close to the runway, to watch airliners and B747 freighters land. It was refreshing to see someone taking their kid down to watch airplanes land, rather than an environment of paranoia that might cause such an act to be treated suspiciously in a place like, say, New York.