With my Alaska trip written up I've come up with several ideas to keep this blog going. Some will be trip reports, some surrounding technical aspects of flying that have interested me enough to further my education on.
...but sometimes, you just have to go out and have fun. I've flown the San Francisco "Bay tour" many times. One day last year, several folks were visiting and a pilot friend and I decided to take them on a bay tour. Why not make it a flight of two? Here's a little clip one of the passengers took near Sausalito.
The sun had just set. Next time, we need to get up there before sunset to get the #2 airplane basking in that "golden hour" light outside the bridge. That was also the flight where I got the image that's presently at the top of this blog -- the sun was just above the horizon then, just past abeam SFO.
Formation flying is a fun challenge. Like many things in aviation, preparation is the key. We had a lengthy preflight brief going over our plan and several what-if-type scenarios. Flying the #2 airplane, I didn't enjoy much of a bay tour at all - my eyes were glued to the lead, who scanned for traffic, talked with ATC (we were treated as a single airplane), and the like. I'm by no means a formation expert but had some good training on it, along with aerobatic flying, shortly after receiving my private pilot license many years ago.
Showing posts with label flying. Show all posts
Showing posts with label flying. Show all posts
Thursday, January 12, 2012
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 |
"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 |
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.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
 |
| Adolescent Bald Eagle, Homer |
 |
| Homer seaplane lake |
 |
| Fire Hydrant art, Homer |
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.
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Marshes, morraines, mountains, and rain
Day 7, part 3: Northway to Palmer, Alaska
It was hard to top the Wrangell-St. Elias overflight. I can see this in hindsight because I simply stopped taking photos immediately afterward. The scenery wasn't any less interesting, nor was I less thrilled to see what was beyond the next mountain pass, but those mountains and ice spoiled me.
I departed Northway, the first stop of my journey where it was comfortable, warm t-shirt weather since the day I arrived in Portland a week before. A mountain pass visible from the ground to the south, through which the Nabesna river flowed, was obscured in a heavy rain shower with towering cloud overhead; while I didn't see lightning it tipped the scale of "convection I won't fly near" and had me wondering about the next mountain pass I couldn't yet see, the Mentasa, that I intended to fly through to gain the Copper River near the start of its nearly-cyclonic path from Mt. Wrangell to Valdez. Without any weather radar in the area, it was a matter of pilot reports (none) and eyeballs to figure out whether the convection would block my path, so off it was to go take a look.
The pass was open, with the stronger convection localized to where I'd seen it earlier, and occasional rain going through Mentasta. I gave a pilot report to the friendly flight service specialist I spoke with in Northway, and was able to easily fly through at 6,500' with broken to overcast skies not far above. Once in the Copper River Basin, it was easy flying. I spotted the Alaska pipeline and HAARP site, which I had previously read about but forgot the location of. I hope they turned it off as they promise to, as airplanes fly by.
One disappointment about this area was that I'd lost the
relatively clear skies that blessed my glacier overflight just an hour
prior; an isosceles triangle of large volcanoes that mark the western
extent of the Wrangell-St. Elias range (Mt Sanford, Wrangell, and Drum)
was hidden in cloud.
One final geographic barrier, Tahneta
pass, remained separating the Copper River basin from my destination at
the far reach of the Cook Inlet. It was clear from 20-30 miles away
there was some weather in there, and I wanted to know my odds of getting
through as I was again thinking about fuel reserves should I have to
backtrack to Gulkana for gas. Flight service gave me a favorable verbal
description of what the passes three weather camera sites were
showing. A few miles before the pass some desolate foothills with a lake
at the top invited a close inspection. The pass was no problem, but into the lowlands beyond was more frequent rain with visibilities dipping down to 5 miles or so. Marginal, but at that point I had Palmer made and landed.
Why Palmer? I had made contact with a fellow Mooney pilot who lived nearby before the trip who suggested we might be able to rendezvous if our schedules aligned. Palmer is a pleasant little town at the northeastern end of the Knik arm of the Cook Inlet -- the body of water Anchorage, just a short flight now to the south, resides on. Once in this weather 'zone', I could make little hops without any significant barriers to cross, and I wanted to stay in the area until meeting my wife. Other than that, I knew nothing about the place prior to showing up.
The field did have a flight service station who closed my flight plan, and directed me to a (free) pilot car provided by a local private school. The big brown beast epitomizes a pilot car: Something you'd expect to see at a demolition derby, with three doors that don't lock, the keys under the floor-mat, and exhaust leaking in. Still, it started right up and ran... just put some gas in it when you being it back.
After three days of camping in the Yukon, a hotel and good burger hit the spot. Oh and hey, I just flew to Alaska!
It was hard to top the Wrangell-St. Elias overflight. I can see this in hindsight because I simply stopped taking photos immediately afterward. The scenery wasn't any less interesting, nor was I less thrilled to see what was beyond the next mountain pass, but those mountains and ice spoiled me.
I departed Northway, the first stop of my journey where it was comfortable, warm t-shirt weather since the day I arrived in Portland a week before. A mountain pass visible from the ground to the south, through which the Nabesna river flowed, was obscured in a heavy rain shower with towering cloud overhead; while I didn't see lightning it tipped the scale of "convection I won't fly near" and had me wondering about the next mountain pass I couldn't yet see, the Mentasa, that I intended to fly through to gain the Copper River near the start of its nearly-cyclonic path from Mt. Wrangell to Valdez. Without any weather radar in the area, it was a matter of pilot reports (none) and eyeballs to figure out whether the convection would block my path, so off it was to go take a look.
The pass was open, with the stronger convection localized to where I'd seen it earlier, and occasional rain going through Mentasta. I gave a pilot report to the friendly flight service specialist I spoke with in Northway, and was able to easily fly through at 6,500' with broken to overcast skies not far above. Once in the Copper River Basin, it was easy flying. I spotted the Alaska pipeline and HAARP site, which I had previously read about but forgot the location of. I hope they turned it off as they promise to, as airplanes fly by.
 |
| Rain on the western side of Sheep Mountain, Tahneta Pass |
Why Palmer? I had made contact with a fellow Mooney pilot who lived nearby before the trip who suggested we might be able to rendezvous if our schedules aligned. Palmer is a pleasant little town at the northeastern end of the Knik arm of the Cook Inlet -- the body of water Anchorage, just a short flight now to the south, resides on. Once in this weather 'zone', I could make little hops without any significant barriers to cross, and I wanted to stay in the area until meeting my wife. Other than that, I knew nothing about the place prior to showing up.
The field did have a flight service station who closed my flight plan, and directed me to a (free) pilot car provided by a local private school. The big brown beast epitomizes a pilot car: Something you'd expect to see at a demolition derby, with three doors that don't lock, the keys under the floor-mat, and exhaust leaking in. Still, it started right up and ran... just put some gas in it when you being it back.After three days of camping in the Yukon, a hotel and good burger hit the spot. Oh and hey, I just flew to Alaska!
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.
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.
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.
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 |
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.
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 |
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| 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 |
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| Donjek Glacier terminus |
 |
| More Donjek |
 |
| Donjek calving into the river below |
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| 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 |
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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| Alcan Highway west of Watson Lake |
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.
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| Mt. White, west of Teslin |
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| 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.
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| World's largest weather vane - Whitehorse airport |
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| Residential Whitehorse |
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.
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
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.
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.
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.
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 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.
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| Campground gazebo amenities |
Monday, August 15, 2011
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.
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.
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.
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 |
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. |
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.
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 |
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