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.

Wrangell St. Elias wonder, and Alaska, at last

Day 7, part 1: Whitehorse, Yukon to Northway, Alaska

The weather was finally better today. The sky was still full of multiple layers of broken cloud, but the instability and moisture had worked itself out. The passes to get to the southeast coast were still solid IFR, but flying over the top was now a possibility. Regardless, I stuck with the decision to bail on the southeast coast and move into the Anchorage area to meet my wife who would arrive in a few days. The local weather briefer gave me some suggestions the day prior for glaciers to tour as a side-trip from the Alcan, and I planned to do an abbreviated tour - perhaps a 20-minute detour or so - before stopping in Northway, Alaska to clear customs and then proceed from there.

After departing Whitehorse the first "cool!" moment was sighting Lake Laberge, of Sam McGee fame. I'm not someone with an extensive knowledge or even appreciation of poetry, but that one always stuck with me. I could only imagine traveling through here, in the dead of winter with a dog-sled. Being someone raised in a tropical environment who has lived through one solid winter in eastern Idaho (though its no Yukon, I got to experience snow covering the ground for 4 months straight, and catching the school bus at -20F), I could identify with Sam.

Lake Laberge

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who toil for gold; 
  The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
  The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
  Was that night on the marge of Lake Laberge
I cremated Sam McGee.

 - Robert Service

The scenery quickly took a more rugged character as the mountains west of the highway grew in stature and ferocity as they formed the 'foothills' of the approaching Wrangell and St. Elias ranges protected in the Kluane national park (on the Canadian side, Wrangell St. Elias park on the Alaska side). Atop this range, a vast icefield feeds vast glaciers down in every direction.

My plan was to planned to depart the highway near Haines Junction, and fly up the Kuskawulsh Glacier as far as I could, and weather permitting hop over to and fly down the Donjek Glacier and river to rejoin the Alcan norhwest of Burwash. The weather cooperated with this plan, and in short, it was one of the most spectacular flights I've experienced. The photos tell the story better than I ever could.

"Foothills" of the St. Elias range, near Haines Junction

Enroute up the Kulkawulsh River, I divere from the Alcan. This smaller range separates the high country from the Alcan highway

My first look at the present-day terminus of the Kuskawulsh Glacier

Each valley coming down from the icefield above had glaciers spilling out, with cloud spilling down over them

Kuskawulsh after its last main tributary (the south arm) joined it

Turning one's head from the main show, scenes like this would distract you right and left

Tributaries converging

Closeup of convergence

Eventually things were obscured by deck of stratus clouds. Mt. Logan, Canada's highest peak only about 500' shorter than Denali dominated the background though it was still many miles distant.

Taking a glance back at where I'd come from

Spillage from the ice field above into the Kuskawulsh

Glacial recession

Donjek Glacier terminus

More Donjek

Donjek calving into the river below

Donjek

One need not look far to see signs of how quickly these glaciers are receding. My aeronautical chart showed this one extending down to where the large area of grey debris now lies

Following this breathtaking diversion I rejoined the Alcan highway over still beautiful, but much more mundane terrain to cross the American border and land at Northway to clear customs; the inspection lasted all of a minute as I showed the agent my passport and he went around the airplane with what looked like a Geiger counter, because you know, there must be a huge threat of sneaking fissile material in from Canada.

Southeast Alaska attempts, and Whitehorse

Day 6: Watson Lake to Whitehorse, Yukon.

The day began wet, with much of the same weather in Watson Lake as the day prior, but with good visibility and a 2,000' or better ceiling at Teslin and Whitehorse, further northwest along the Alcan highway. I called for a weather briefing in addition to checking online to study the conditions to get into the southestern Alaska coast thereafter.

"The Chilkoot Pass is IFR 300 days a year", the Whitehorse flight services briefer commented. "a better alternative is the Taku river into Juneau for customs, and then up the coast to Haines".

The Chilkoot Pass and Taku River are routes to get to Skagway and Juneau (respectively) on the southeast Alaska coast from the interior in the vicinity of Whitehorse. Despite an optimistic forecast the day before, both from flight service and a local bush pilot I was put in contact with who operates out of Haines, the day begam  with both passes solid IFR, as confirmed by studying the various web cameras set up to help pilots on the route.

The Alaska Aviation Camera website is an absolutely wonderful tool for both strategic flight planning and tactical decision making on a trip. Looking at the live camera images and comparing them to a clear-day view with the local mountains and distances from those mountains clearly visible gives a great sense of whether or not a route is passable before takeoff. In flight, flight service (in both Canada and Alaska) are happy to pull up a camera and provide a verbal description of what they saw. I can envision one day in the future when this might be streamed live to the cockpit from a satellite or ground transmitter.. one day.

My prior optimism for getting a weather window to get into Haines to see my friend was fading. Thankfully the weather in and between the various airports on the southeast coast weren't too bad; once I was there I could probably tour around quite a bit, but even if I got in, how would I get back out? My primary medium-range forecast, a set of surface prog charts forecasting weather movement and flight conditions 24-60 hours out promised a break tomorrow, but yet another low slamming into the southeast coast immediately thereafter. Would it be worth the hassle of two border crossings just to visit someone for a couple of hours?

My only schedule constraint for the trip was to pick up my wife, who had bought a one-way airline ticket to Anchroage several days from now and would join me to tour Alaska and fly the return trip home in the Mooney with me. I did not want to be late, nor did I want to get myself into a situation where I'd be pressured to get there.

Alcan Highway west of Watson Lake

With all this in mind I departed for Whitehorse, a less than two hour jaunt along the Alcan highway where I could stop and wait a bit more for the weather. I'd give myself the day to see whether I could make it to the coast and if not, continue along the interior into Alaska.

The flight itself was simple. I picked up the Alcan not long after departing Watson Lake and had the worst weather right there -- some pretty consistent light rain that went on a ways, but with visibility still well better than 5 miles, and ceilings better than the 2,000' reported.

The scenery was similar to exiting the trench, but took on an increasingly vivid nature as the highway -- and me above it -- wound our way through low mountain ranges whose tops were covered with scrubby but colorful vegetation that called for a periodic close aerial inspections as I passed by.

I found myself looking forward to each bend with anticipation and splendor as the landscape was still quite foreign, and though one could seemingly get used to the general lay of the land quickly, details such as the colors along river banks, or the size and spacing of the trees kept the mind as occupied with details as an infant was to exploring his new-found world.

Mt. White, west of Teslin

Lower cloud bases, approaching Whitehorse

Approaching Whitehorse the ceiling lowered somewhat, and there were plenty of convective showers in the vicinity. It was similar to being in windward Hawai`i - warm sun one minute, rain shower the next... but all slightly cooler.

Back on the ground I visited the Whitehorse FIC (flight information centre), whose on-duty briefer corrected my American tendency to call his office a flight service station. After a curt introduction he loosened up. I could tell he was the same fellow who told me Chilkoot pass was IFR 300 days a year earlier on the phone. Whitehorse is apparently one of the only places in Canada where a pilot can still obtain a walk-in weather briefing, and it really is a useful service.

World's largest weather vane - Whitehorse airport

The passes to the southeast coast hadn't opened up, now over four hours since I first started looking in the morning. I had lunch, checked again, and then called off the attempt to get to the coast on the northbound leg of the trip. I'd been stressed about this for some time and the instant relief proved it was the correct decision. What to do now, then? My inclination was to get back into the airplane and keep going, up the Alcan into Alaska. However, with the time consumed eating and fretting about weather I had just run out of time to prepare for the next leg, get fuel, and make it to Northway Alaska in time to meet customs. I was stuck for the rest of the day, having only flown a couple of hours.

Residential Whitehorse

I called around to find a hostel, hotel, or rental car but they were all full. Apparently on Wednesdays a flight from Frankfurt -- yes, Frankfurt, arrives in Whitehorse with hundreds of German tourists, attracted to the Klondike with its multitude of outdoors activities, and today's Condor Air B767 was just about to land. Thankfully the airport had a simple area for pilots to camp; I had accommodation. Town was only a few miles away; with the fold-up bike I had transportation.

The rest of the afternoon was spent touring the town, taking care of some errands, replenishing my fresh food supply, and giving myself a nickel cycling tour. I even got to visit Canadian Tire and Tim Hortons. When in Rome.

The city's population of just over 20,000 represents about two-thirds of the population of the entire Yukon Territory -- an area of land larger than the state of California. It was also apparent that a mining-induced construction and real-estate boom, perhaps of a smaller scale than the original Klondike gold rush were underway. New construction was going on all over the place. In a conversation I'd have later in the trip, I'd learn that the circumstances of the boom were eerily similar to what happened down in the lower 48 states in the 2005-2007 era. Humans seem to be slow as a species at learning from the mistakes of others.

Weathered in Watson Lake

Day 5: Watson Lake, Yukon Territory

Last night was interesting. I didn't sleep all that well, my still green-to-the-north nerves were used to camping out, alone at times in the mountains of California frequented by black bears, but not alone in grizzly country. My only experience with the latter were a few nights the year prior near Yellowstone. I remember that shortly before that trip, a grizzly attacked and killed someone in their sleep just outside of Yellowstone park. There were several other fatal incidents last year and this, as well. Granted I wasn't alone -- the sleepy airport terminal was a half mile away, practically across the hall by Yukon standards, and if I stood up I could plainly see it, staffed by a radio operator/weather observer 24 hours a day. Not that they could hear or see me.

After I landed I set up camp, ate dinner, cleaned myself up, and walked over to the terminal to use their computer & free wifi. At about 11pm I sauntered back to my tent. There was still plenty of light to see without any sort of flashlight, although the skies were only partially clear with a broken layer of cloud slowly becoming more thick, marking the advance of the weather I was trying to beat to get here. I went to bed and was awoke first by the rising moon, then by the sounds of a distant wolf or two -- the latter a cool experience, not so frightening due to the distance -- but then again later by something a bit closer - walking around, maybe within 50 yards of me. After that it was difficult to sleep. What was it? "Hey Bear" I called out a couple of times. I kept a pretty clean camp, no food out, or dirty dishes, but wondered about those who came before me. Was something making its way to me to sniff something out. Raccoon? Wolf? Bear (black or brown)? I admonished myself for failing to even bring the bear spray into the tent with me.

After staying up a bit, not hearing anything, but being hyper aware of every minute sound, I rose, looked for anything around with a flashlight, went to the airplane, and pulled out and loaded my shotgun. Four 12-gauge slugs in the magazine, one in the chamber. Back in the tent, the shotgun beside my air mattress, I felt considerably more calm and was able to sleep. I have no false security about being able to successfully fend off or dispatch an animal that chooses to attack in the night -- but I at least had a chance, and that provided considerable comfort.

I realize that not everyone believes in firearms for this sort of defense, but I was glad to have one with me. Given the opportunity I'd have taken a large pistol for portability when hiking, but those are severely restricted in Canada. Absent that, a 12-gauge with magnum slugs was regarded as a solid defensive weapon in the north. I would be told later by other locals as I continued onward that this was a wise choice, and that most people did pack some sort of weapon in Alaska.

The weather worsened overnight as predicted with a few small rain showers and lowering ceiling. By the time I awoke it was late - after 8am - and a solid deck of overcast hovered around 2000' over the airport. I walked over to the terminal to check weather. Whitehorse had 1,500' broken, 2,000' overcast, 4 miles visibility, light rain. Teslin had more or less the same. What about going IFR? The airmass was moist, unstable, and above the stratus were many ACC clouds - altocumulus castellanus to over 20,000'. With minimum IFR altitudes well over 10,000' in the area that meant ice, and unless those were spread out to pick around them visually, flying IFR was a no-go in the Mooney, a fairly easy decision.

For continuing visually, I now had the luxury of the Alcan highway to follow, and to land on if need be, but this was uncomfortably low to me to go on, particularly with a low mountain pass at about 3,300' MSL (Watson Lake, Teslin, and Whitehorse are all just above 2,000' elevation). In other words, the ceiling was likely to be quite low there. I took my time -- I was groggy and the weather too low for me to want to try to fly.

I'd also checked the weather in southeast Alaska and knew that there was just no chance of making the Chilkoot pass between Whitehorse and Skagway to visit Don, a friend of a friend who had invited me to come and stay. This was my first-planned stop in Alaska, but I knew that making the trip in August I was going into wet season there. It would have been a lot better to be here a month prior. I fired off an email telling him I probably wouldn't make it today. By the time all that was done I'd burned an hour. 9:30AM. On my way out, a helicopter called in intending to land for fuel. I could eavesdrop on each radio call and the radio operator's transmissions clearly as they were in the large room next to the pilot's lounge. When the helicopter landed, I started back for camp and paused to ask for a pilot report.

"Nice machine."
"She's a quirky girl, but does OK.", the pilot replied, speaking of his Bell 212, a relatively large machine that took couple of minutes' time for the rotors to spin down to a stop after the fuel to its turbine was cut, and the pilot hopping out to prepare to fuel.
"I heard you coming from the west over the highway, how's the weather?"
"I started in Whitehorse, on the way to a place just past Fort Nelson. The ceiling was 500 feet over the worst of it.", came his reply.

Helicopters can land anywhere, I can't. I needed better. I walked back to the Mooney and my campsite, made breakfast. Back to the terminal to check weather, and a very nice super cub came in from the highway. The pilot, a man in his early 40s, had left Anchorage the day before and had spent the night in Whitehorse. He was delivering it, his father's "cream puff" airplane to his dad now located in Arizona. I pressed him a bit on the weather and it was evident to him that it was good VFR.

"Just how much ceiling do you want?" he asked. I don't regard myself as a timid pilot who runs away from a cloud in the sky. Believe me I've seen plenty of that type, and in many cases its a good thing for folks who fly very few hours per year, but I could tell that's what he was thinking of me.
"I was hoping for a couple thousand, as I'm not familiar and there's the pass..."

He was pleasant enough and it was evident he knew his stuff -- well dressed and spoken, and had "grown up" flying in Alaska. Hmm, the stuff up here is a bit different. I stuck to my desired minimums but also had to think about things a bit more. Unlike the trench, I really did have a pretty good place to land with the highway below. The fatal mistake would be pushing into something where the visibility was too low, or allowing myself to get suckered into a descent in some geography that would prevent a turnaround in a valley. I would come to find in flying the next day that, at least for the Alcan in that region, I did not need to be as conservative as I'd initially hoped to be, but I would still not have flown in the conditions these two pilots reported, without an prior knowledge of the route, terrain, and obstacles - particularly at the cruxes of each pass, where a hasty turnaround might need to be made.

Hauling a Cub on straight floats over to the lake adjacent the airport

I spent the rest of the day packing up my camp in case the weather improved, making calls via Skype, and chatting with the radio operator. Watson Lake has a Community Aerodrome Radio Station. This was a new concept to me. At such airports, a person staffs the airport 24/7 providing traffic advisories, taking an hourly weather observation, provide weather information (but not a full on briefing, just data) from pilots who walk up and request it, and keeps track of whose generally coming and going. So why is this necessary with three operations for the day (4 if I count the American turbine aircraft that did a practice instrument approach and went missed)? Apparently Watson Lake is the best IFR alternate to Whitehorse, Yukon's capital, with substantial airline traffic. A person, rather than automated sensor, must make a physical weather observation and fax it to Environment Canada hourly. A family in the area nearly has the business locked up, too, with a father and two of his sons working at Watson Lake and Teslin, the next airport to the west. The only one not in the family was the fellow working graveyard, 11pm-7am, whom I'd missed by oversleeping.

I took the chance to ask about wildlife, and whether the airport and its campground were completely fenced.
"Oh there are bears around all right, black and brown, but you shouldn't have to worry about them. There is a lone wolf I see on the airport from time to time". said Chris, one of the two sons who worked the afternoon shift.
"Ahh good, I heard some things not far away in the night.."
"Oh, that was probably that beaver that hangs around"

Great, so I was scared of a beaver.

Among other things I learned chatting with Chris and his father that small-time gold prospecting and mining claims were still continuing with success even now, still using the old style sleuce boxes to get the gold out of sediment in river beds and that the town of Watson Lake, which I'd decided to skip based on my quick aerial view during arrival the day before, was apparently nothing special (world-famous "signpost forest" notwithstanding!).

The weather stayed more-or-less the same through the day, and by 4pm I decided to throw in the towel on trying to make Whitehorse, or really any further progress. Not long afterward, another bush-capable airplane landed and set up camp in next to me. The gentleman had flown all day from Alaska, on his way home to the northwestern US. I inquired again about the weather, and although he was tired he assured me the Alcan from Whitehorse to Watson Lake was fine. I'd already made my decision to stay the night and stuck to it, but it was his other stories that got my attention...

"I couldn't make it through here, ran into a wall of cloud and had to turn around", he said, gesturing at Mentasta pass, a common flying route that the highway from Anchorage to the Canadian border follows after leaving the Copper River plateau, "So I backtracked and went up through here", he continued. "Made it over the rise into the next river drainage and followed it down. I wound up flying at about a hundred feet doing helicopter shit, I really didn't like that."

At least his airplane could land on a gravel bar if he had to...mine could, too, but it wouldn't get back out again.

Watson Lake's airport terminal has some interesting history. The aerodrome was part of the WW-II supply chain to get aircraft into Russia. There are many photos and displays on the walls documenting the region's role in the war effort. I later saw that it was an attraction mentioned in The Milepost, a guidebook for Alcan highway travelers that I managed to find at our local library and take with me for the trip. The terminal itself is interesting, with all the fixings of a small airport that has airline service, something that had vanished many years ago. 

Campground gazebo amenities

I never did try to make it to town. From what I'd seen, and was told, about the only attraction was the signpost forest. A cab ride, or anything else, were obscenely expensive. I had the fold-up bike but it was a good distance for the small machine. Besides, I had plenty of food, some fresh in my cooler, a warm terminal open 24 hours, and other surprising amenities right there. Several hours of chatting, dinner, and wifi later, I went to sleep, under the Watson Lake gazebo for the second time, this evening sleeping a bit better than the last.

North to the Yukon... the trench

Day 4, part 2: Prince George, B.C. to Watson Lake, Yukon Territory

The Rocky Mountain Trench is a geologic gem to a VFR pilot making the trek to or from Alaska. While it extends considerably further in either direction, the most easily identifiable portion is that which pilots are most familiar: From Mackenzie B.C., just north of my fuel and customs stop in Prince George, to just southeast of Watson Lake, Yukon. This portion of the trench is a valley straight as an arrow, whose floor is roughly between 2,000-3,000' MSL and peaks on either side relatively uniform at 6,500'-7,000' MSL, with higher ranges further to the east and west. A saddle in the middle of the trench marks a point close to half-way, and divides the Finlay and Katcika river watersheds.

The trench is by no means the only way to get to the Yukon and Alaska, beyond, but it was the route that made the most sense given the weather on my trip. From Prince George, weather was consistent with clouds at about 7,000' MSL as they had been further south, and scattered rain showers. An occluded front was making its way across the mountains inland of southeast Alaska, and was pushing with it a moist, unstable airmass that would make things worse into the night and tomorrow. I had previously ruled-out flying the coast in my single-engine airplane, and making the detour east across the Rockies to pick up the Alcan highway at its traditional starting point of Dawson Creek would add time, an MVFR pass or two, and thunderstorms east of the Rockies. I'd give the trench a try.

Peace Reach, Lake Williston

Departing Prince George I took a compromise route between following the highway north and GPS direct to Mackenzie B.C. As it is in Oregon and Washington, logging is big business here. Things changed as I passed Mackenzie, and started up the trench in earnest first overlying Lake Williston, a very, very large reservoir. Signs of man's influence over the land died out. Not a boat was to be seen anywhere on Lake Williston, and dead trees lined the shores. A few settlements and gravel airstrips dot the lake, but there were long stretches where ditching in it would be the best forced landing option. The lake has a few large arms that run off to either side of the trench.

Mackenzie was also the last place along the route that had 100LL avgas, and the last paved runway along the way. It was roughly 430nm from Prince George to Watson Lake, with 340 of those nautical miles after Mackenzie; though the Mooney has fairly long legs, at some point I thought I'd reach a "point of no return" and be committed to continuing on to Watson Lake to land. After passing Mackenzie I started calculating this point, and decided I'd be just short of Watson Lake and would still be able to turn around and make Mackenzie with a decent fuel reserve. This much fuel made me comfortable, but was downright luxurious compared to folks I met later flying the route southbound in aircraft such as Super Cubs and Maules. Some had to stop half way and add fuel from cans they carried, others had to make Mackenzie, or else. To extend my range, and to combat the expensive fuel I flew the trip at a relatively low power setting - about 8gph, lean-of-peak. I doing about 130 knots over the ground like this, enjoying the economy of the Mooney over top speed.

A curious thing started to appear around this time: Massive swaths of evergreen forest were turned red by what I believe is the mountain pine beetle, a phenomena that I'd continue to see for hundreds of miles further north.
 






Rain showers were frequent, and I got my share of flying through them. Visibility was generally quite good though, with a consistent ceiling and a very good view out the side even with a slightly obscured windscreen.
 

Fort Ware, B.C.

Toward the end of Lake Williston is the largest sign of man in the trench, the settlement of Fort Ware, a First Nations town. I'd heard conflicting things about how friendly the folks there are. One pilot I spoke with further on had to turn around and spend the night, only to be woken by local kids who enjoyed doing donuts on the runway in their pickup trucks at 3 in the morning. Other reports I've read were of very friendly people. I suppose like anywhere else in a collection of humans there are good and bad.

After Ft. Ware things become truly desolate. There was no more logging. No more logging roads. A landmark on the chart said "cabin". I did see a couple of remote cabins in this area. Though I've done a fair amount of cross-country flying, it was still astonishing to step back and think of the ground covered in a half-days trip from Seattle. I've flown across places like Wyoming before and marveled at the desolation. This, and the scenery as I continued north, took that up a notch, and I knew that I was barely scraping the desolation given my trip itinerary.

As I approached the pass that divides the two watersheds in this portion of the trench, a sizable rain shower was moving in. This one had worse visibility than the ones I'd flown through. I could see it moving to cross the trench from 30-40 miles away, and that I wouldn't want to fly through it. Its movement was slow, however, and I passed by with only a few drops on the windscreen. However, it also closed off the route behind me -- at least if I were to stay VFR. After passing the shower I'd periodically turn about 30 degrees to eyeball how it was. I figured, based on the solid rain to the west of it, that once it blocked my path I'd be committed to no turn around and divert. Thankfully the weather was improving to the north, as confirmed with a check-in with flight service near Ft Ware.

Some distance further down is a geographic feature that could lead a scud-running southbound pilot into trouble unless he were on top of things, preferably with a GPS. I turned slightly to look where I'd come from in this photo, with the left wing just ahead of the trench. The valley off to the left (east) looks like the correct path but eventually leads to a dead end.





Eventually the mountains on either side gave their ways to gentle hills and gorgeous lakes. With about 50nm to Watson Lake I had to use GPS & compass, rather than just the dead-nuts-simple straight valley to navigate.







Watson Lake finally came into view -- more the lake and the airport than the town which I barely noticed as I maneuvered to join the pattern. I landed just over three hours from departing Prince George. Despite that I'd only done two legs and six and a half hours' flying, I was beat. The friendly radio operator directed me to the western side of the field where there was a free nice (and free) campground for pilots to use. Aside from the radio operator, in the terminal about a half mile away, I was alone. I set up my tent under the large gazebo to protect from the rain forecast overnight and enjoyed my first night north of 60'. Though it was mid-August, I was still amazed to have plenty of light to walk across the airport at close to 11pm.

Watson Lake airport, Yukon Territory