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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.

So begins the northbound odyssey

Days 1-2: Santa Cruz, CA, to an island in the Columbia river

I departed Watsonville, CA alone on Friday Aug 12, one day later than planned, due to general laziness in final preparations and in maintenance availability to give the Mooney a quick firewall-forward inspection. My inspector found a few small items which were corrected with a few minutes' work, mostly in preventing things like wires from chafing on hardware. I'd been borrowing tools and the FBO's beater airport truck occasionally to work on the airplane, and thought it would be a good idea to fill it up. Between the gas and picking up some auto parts for my inspector, there was no labor charge; it’s great to have relationships like that in this day and age.

The first leg of the journey took me to the Portland, Oregon area. The plan was to hitch a ride with one of a large group of friends from my college years who were doing an annual camping trip that I'd missed every year since 2002. Being on sabbatical, I had no excuse not to attend this year and thought that the 500+ nautical mile trip north would make a good launch-off-point for Alaska. The trouble was, most folks were getting there Thursday due to the logistics of the camping trip. Each year, one particularly well organized individual set up the trip by scouting out a suitably remote location and maintaining a web page to collaborate on planning. This year an island in the Columbia river was chosen. The precise location is not important, but the logistics were: 20 people gathering together, who collectively had access to one ~20' sloop, one 10' aluminum dinghy, one electric trolling motor, and one set of oars to get everyone and their gear in and out. The closest boat ramp was only a mile away from the site, and the sailboat was berthed in a harbor about 20 miles away. There was one other person making the drive out from Portland after work Friday, and he graciously offered to pick me up at Scappoose airport after work. With the delay in my departure, it was him for a ride or miss the trip.

Bt the time I left the ground it was 1:30pm, the Mooney relatively well-packed with camping gear, food, survival equipment, Canadian charts, a 12-gauge shotgun, freshly-filled oxygen tank, parts to do an oil change in the middle of nowhere (I would buy a case of oil at some point), and the usual set of tools, hardware, tie-down ropes, chocks, and oil that normally reside in the airplane. I figured I'd have room for my wife who would join me later, and her backpack, assuming that was all she brought. The skies over the Monterey bay area had been particularly foggy. I was used to departing IFR to climb through the thin stratus layer, but at this hour of the afternoon blue sky was visible a couple miles north of the field. I took off VFR, leveled briefly to remain clear of the fog bank, and blasted up into the warm sunshine and hot atmosphere above the marine inversion.

I climbed to 6,500' initially, punched in KSPB into the GPS, and pointed the airplane's nose toward Livermore, a slight dog-leg and a bit lower than normal to stay under the flow of traffic inbound to SFO from the east. This seemed to satisfy ATC who let me do as I pleased. Clear of Livermore, I resumed climb to 10,500 and flew a 339-degree magnetic course that would take me over land I'd flown and driven over many times -- up along interstate 5, past the Sutter Buttes where Mt. Shasta usually comes into view, Red Bluff, Redding, a couple miles west of Mt. Shasta, and into Oregon. The wind aloft, initially forecast to give me a slight tailwind was more from the north, and robbed precious groundspeed; would I have my hour of fuel reserve in Portland? It was looking iffy. Somewhere around the Oregon border, the wind swung around to the southwest, and finally south, and boosted groundspeed from 135 knots up to 160; my true airspeed somewhere around 145. I climbed to 12,500' abeam Klamath Falls and Medford. The wind didn't get any better, but the Mooney cruises at about the same airspeed on slightly less fuel. Between all of this I had two hours' fuel at Scappoose; no worries.

Downtown Portland, Oregon

The remainder of the flight was relaxing. Started descent just past Eugene. Portland approach wanted me to keep clear of their arrival and departure routes, so I overflew PDX at midfield and got a nice view of downtown before turning to the west for Scappoose. I arrived after just under four hours, and my friend was driving onto the field to pick me up as I taxied in.

At that point I learned that arriving on Friday was a good thing: The borrowed dinghy was woefully underpowered for the amount of ferrying needed, and last night the trip organizer and sailboat owner drove to the dock, and sailed up the Columbia river with about half of the trip attendees, a trip that took all night. At 630am, they ran aground on a sandbar and had to wait for a rising tide to get un-stuck. This much I learned from the friend who picked me up at the airport. We arrived at the dock at 630pm, right on time, and it wasn't until 8, just after sunset, that we saw the dinghy rowing toward us to pick us up. The sailboat now safely moored off the island, the owner did not want to risk getting stuck again as this was the following low tide.

The one-mile journey out to the island took a long time. The electric trolling motor was good for about 1.5-2knots, but was battery powered. A portable generator and battery charger in the boat kept it turning, in addition to charging the battery. Unfortunately, about half-way to the island the motor quit all together, and it was time to take turns rowing. By this time twilight had passed and it was dark, but a waxing moon one day short of being full had risen majestically above the tree-lined ridge providing an idyllic evening. I enjoyed rowing for about 15 minutes, getting a nice workout, before it became apparent that the rate of progress (against the incoming tide which makes the Columbia flow backwards) was almost nil. Fortunately we were abeam a beach on the island and resorted to running along in the shallow water towing/pushing the dinghy with our gear. At least one ship passed up-river while we were rowing, making me wonder about just how much wake would be generated, and how the tiny craft would handle it.



Despite the logistical trouble in arriving, the island was a wonderful place to camp. The island was almost entirely sand -- except for a few spots of muddy soil that appeared along the shore at low-tide. I don't think anyone found a rock. Even so, it was considerably wooded with a mix of conifers and deciduous trees alike, with copious amounts of blackberry bushes making the forested areas impenetrable without getting scratched up. Thus, the few acres' of sandy soil with only a scattering of trees and bushes provided a wonderful place for a group to enjoy themselves in solidarity. The next two nights were spent around the campfire, reconnecting with old friends and getting to know newcomers to the group.

I'm no botanist.. what kind of berries are these? Edible?

The sunset at 46'N was noticeably later than at 37'N where I departed from. This simple act - a predictably-later summer sunset, further fueled my thirst to continue north.