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

North to the Yukon

Day 4, part 1: Paine Field, Everett WA to Prince George, B.C.

The overly-optimistic plan from the night before was to be off the ground by 9AM... but I needed the rest, and so did my hosts, who had returned home in their VW camper after 3+ months on the road. Even so, I awoke at about 7 to check weather once more and make border-crossing arrangements. By the time this was done it was 8, and then there was breakfast, getting to the airplane, getting loaded, etc. The prop didn't turn until after 10.

I planned for and departed Paine VFR under a broken ceiling around 7,000'. There was really no sense in trying to fly IFR as numerous towering cumulus clouds had sprouted up all over the Cascades and further north into the Canadian coastal range which had even higher-elevation terrain. These were ice-factories for sure, and I didn't have the airplane to deal with ice, nor the performance to top them.

Closing in on the border, the ceiling gradually lowered such that I had to descend down to 2,500' or so passing through Bellingham's airspace, and then on to Abbotsford B.C. whose tower controller "radar identified" me and cleared me "into the zone". Different words, but the meaning was pretty obvious. The border itself appears anti-climactic from the air -- an east-west road or fence line. Abbotsford just had an air show finish and there were plenty of display aircraft on the ground, though no one out flying around.

My plan was to proceed along a common VFR route: The Fraser river valley, which provides a natural corridor of low-lying terrain past the formidable Canadian coastal range into the interior between it and the Rockies further east. Turning to follow the river after Abbotsford, the transition in terrain was immediate and striking; mountains sloped steeply to 6,000' and higher, with peaks still capped with snow. Really it became nearly instantly more intense than the terrain I was used to in my prior pacific northwest flying, of which I'd done a fair amount.

The airspace and Canadian VFR charts leading up the start of this route include their own challenges. For the newcomer there appear to be a plethora of small special-use airspace areas that, without comprehensive study, restrict the pilot under VFR to basically cross over Abbotsford and follow the river as I did. Some are labeled for quarries that conduct blasting, but the others aren't beyond a number, and despite my preparation it wasn't obvious how to determine what the purpose and times of a particular chunk of airspace were. I'd looked over the chart prior to the flight, but studying the minute details of a stretch perhaps 30 miles long is low on the priority list when you're trying to cover 1000+ miles for the day. As such, my intent was to simply just avoid it all, whether the airspace was active or not.

The strategy worked, but presented a couple of other challenges: I've grown accustomed to the charts produced by the U.S. NOAA, which are quite good in many respects. The Canadians have some subtle differences that careful study of the chart legend helps with, but in the heat of the moment navigating up a river valley, there isn't time for a refresher on the chart legend. To complicate things, the choice of colors used to depict things like letters and numbers was almost identical to other features of low-elevation terrain on the chart; even with better than 20/20 (corrected) vision, it was like a low-contrast cruel color-blindness test.

At one point I glanced down at icons depicting a cable strung across the river a few miles ahead and saw an elevation figure -- 2,300' or so (I was at about 2,400' at the time) and had a holy-s... moment: Had I overlooked an obstacle that could kill me until now, just a couple of minutes from reaching it? Fortunately by this time the ceiling was rising as I progressed east, allowing a climb rather than course-reversal to sort it out. I realized the irony of this wake-up call some time later: the elevation figure represented a hill on one side of the river - not the obstruction crossing it. The river was still quite low here, near sea level, and it struck me as very odd that a cable would be that high. Still, this wakeup call and the rugged terrain firmly impressed into me that I was a stranger in a strange land, and that this and the flying to come would demand a lot of attention.

Rounding the bend at Hope, B.C. the river turns north and so did I. The chart recommends a minimum of 5,500' altitude to fly the route, and by Hope I was able to work my way up to around 4,000'. Cloud bases were growing higher with the terrain however, and it became apparent I was past the lowest of the weather and was able to climb up to 6,500' shortly thereafter. From here the flying was more relaxed, if still a bit taxing due to turbulence.

Turning the corner northbound near Hope, B.C.

It was also an exercise in pilotage with a paper chart. Something I still practice on the iPad, but electronic charts (VFR anyway) were not yet available when I made the trip... for a couple of hours it was old-fashioned look-out-the-window and place the landmark you see outside on the chart to orient ones' self. Something refreshing.

Pilotage over panel

Occasional rain showers fell from the taller altocumulus build-ups, never reducing visibility enough to worry about but getting the airplane wet and providing the occasional rainbow. Sadly, the circular rainbow phenomena, from precipitation below me, remained elusive. This sort of thing rain in the mountains would be a very familiar thing in the days to come.



About halfway up the gorge I contacted flight service and gave a position and pilot report on the cloud cover and precipitation. I hear my report passed on over an hour later to another airplane contemplating the route. I got the sense over this flight and subsequent ones that pilot reports really are vital as one progresses north, as the weather reporting stations are few and far between, along with the complete lack of radar coverage for both low-altitude aircraft and precipitation.

After following a combination of the river, highways, and finally a more-or-less GPS direct course as the terrain subsided and ceiling improved, I found myself over the interior plateau of B.C., with lands heavily used for forestry and mining. Still, there were beautiful sections and sky-blue lakes, another omen of sights to come further north.



The communities of Williams Lake and Quesnel (pronounced something like 'kennel') were the sizable towns I passed after Hope, now about 200 miles south of me. Neither of the airports in these towns had a control tower, but they did have another new concept to the visiting U.S. pilot: a mandatory frequency and radio operator to give traffic advisories. The mandatory frequency is just that; its not like a non-towered American airport where most traffic self-announces, but a radio is not technically required. A radio operator, who was remote to the airport in the case of Quesnel, responded with the local altimeter setting and any known traffic, instructing me to report clear as I passed by. Such operators are addressed by 'radio', i.e. Williams Lake radio, similar to phraseology used to contact flight service in the U.S. I flipped through the CFS book as I approached each airport to review what the mandatory frequency was and who to address my calls to.

About three hours after departing the Seattle area I arrived in Prince George, B.C. for fuel and customs inspection. Prince George is a towered airport and they closed by flight plan upon landing. Usually they'd advise me of this after takeoff/landing; no separate call to flight service required. I was directed to part next to the airline ramp and saw a pair of polite customs agents waiting for me. As I recall I was pretty close on hitting my ETA - probably within 5 minutes.

The customs folks were interested in seeing my passport, examining my shotgun, and collecting $25CDN for a firearm permit (credit cards accepted; I had zero Loonies). No further inspection or other paperwork required. After that I taxied over to a local FBO where I bought my first fill of expensive avgas at over $1.90/liter. I checked weather and filed a new VFR flight plan to Watson Lake, Yukon via "the trench", and was warned of a system bringing lower weather into Whitehorse, west of Watson Lake. Time was of the essence.

How to cross the U.S./Canadian border in an airplane

The next leg of my trip would take me into Canada. For any border crossing between the U.S. and Canada, the procedure a pilot follows is a pretty-consistent process, requiring both telephone and internet access. I managed with only internet access at some points by using Skype to make international phone calls.

1. Request permission to depart from/arrive in the U.S. via CBP's eAPIS website by submitting a manifest with details about the proposed flight, crew, and all passengers.

Yes that's right, fellow Americans, if you're flying you must receive permission to leave. The airlines do all of this on your behalf as a passenger. When I was a kid in the 80s I was well-indoctrinated to the evils of the red USSR by my schoolteachers, and I remember one of the selling points of anti-communist propaganda at the time was that Russians weren't free to leave their country without permission. My how times have changed! This requirement came online in 2009. You can find my comment against the proposed requirements published in the federal register, not that it did much good. This is probably the worst of dealing with every American border crossing.

You (or your agent) must have internet access to use the system, which can be problematic when operating in remote areas. Even with internet access, there are a number of pitfalls to the system that make it easy to screw up. Moreover, if your online session times out you're locked out for a while. If you submit a manifest with a typo you can be fined thousands of dollars.

After double-checking everything and submitting the manifest, approval should show up within a few minutes via email. About the only advice I can give here is to create and submit a manifest well before your trip, and then re-submit with the relevant details (like exact departure airport, destination, time, and time of border crossing...the stuff you figure out an hour before you go). Is this legal? I'm not sure, but it worked for me and saved some headache as when on the road, you can at least use a recently submitted manifest as a template for a new border crossing.

2. Pick an airport of entry, where customs can inspect you on arrival, and call customs in the country of arrival and tell them when and where you'll be landing.

Canada makes this simple. One toll-free number to call, they ask you a few questions, and you're set up within a few minutes. The only trick is that they may have a customs official waiting for you to land, and you must hit your ETA within +/- 15 minutes (The U.S. imposes a similar requirement). The Canadian Flight Supplement (CFS, basically a paperback with details of every Canadian airport) describes which airports have customs officers and their hours of operation. I chose Prince George, B.C. as my airport of entry. The CFS also outlines the procedure and relevant telephone numbers.

In the U.S., you must call the customs office at the desired airport of landing. The CBP website has a big guide for private fliers that lists hours of operation, and how much notice is required, along with a more abbreviated list that I printed several pages from so that I had all Alaska, Washington, and Oregon airports of entry available should I need them. The operating hours and advance notice required vary by location and some airports require you to notify them on a weekday during business hours. Weekend travelers beware.

3. File a flight plan (whether IFR or VFR) with flight services in the country of departure. The plan is opened upon (or after) takeoff with the country of departure, and then must be closed with the country of arrival, as the flight's details and responsibility of search and rescue are forwarded to the country of arrival. The flight plan need-not be closed in the country of departure after it is opened.

4. After opening the flight plan, you may be given a code by flight service to squawk for the duration of the border crossing flight. I was given a code on both crossings between B.C. and Washington, but none for between the Yukon Territory and Alaska. The code is superseded if you're talking to ATC and they direct to to squawk something else.

Update... I thought it would be good to describe what happens on arrival
5. Land close to your ETA, and locate the customs officials at the airport of entry. At both my Canadian AOEs and Bellingham, Washington on the return trip, the airports were towered. I asked the ground controller where to taxi to. In Northway Alaska... well, there isn't much going on in Northway! Just look for the SUV waiting next to the ramp, that's your man (in all seriousness, the airport has an on-field FSS and the specialist kindly directed inbound international traffic to the customs officer). This is a good time to have you and your passengers remain in or with the aircraft until met and released by the officer.

You may or may not be met by a customs officer in Canada. On my return trip, I was not. In this case, you're expected to call Canadian customs on the ground (usually a phone is nearby) and they welcome you to Canada via telephone. The CFS documents this fairly well.

On the American side, thus far in my border-crossings, I've always been met by a customs officer.

Seattle

Day 3: An island on the Columbia river to Edmonds, Washington

Departing the island was much easier. Our fearless leader timed the trip by the tide, and the dinghy only had to be used to ferry people and gear from shore to the sailboat. It would take two trips to get everyone, everything, and all of our trash out. I volunteered to be towed out on the trash-barge-dinghy and fend off from the sailboat as necessary. The sailboat's 10-horsepower engine made an honest 6-knots motoring, and the trip back to the dock was pleasant.

Back ashore, I was given a ride back to Scappoose. My new iphone had internet service along the drive and I filed IFR to Paine field, Everett Washington. The skies were about 4,000' overcast, plenty to go underneath, but I wanted some time hand-flying on the gauges to evaluate my instrument flying prior to heading even further north. Back at Scappoose, it was airport open-house day and the field was alive with visitors, Maules on amphibious floats, Piper cubs, and at least one other Mooney. After purchasing the last "cheap" fuel I thought I'd get for the trip, I launched and picked up an IFR clearance in the air: Fly heading 030, join the airway, maintain 6,000'.

I got a good 20-25 minutes of hand-flying in benign IMC before Seattle approach brought me down to 4,000' and gave a friendly vector to Paine. I overflew the submarine base at Bremerton, the site on Bainbridge island where our friends Joe and Sejal - my hosts for the evening - got married, and soon had the largest building in the world -- the Boeing factory -- in sight and called airport in sight.

Landing at Paine for the first time was a unique experience. Rows of brand new Boeing 747s lined the north end of the field. It was difficult not to be distracted. I made a little camera-phone video while taxiing past, but the view of them off to the side on short final was the one to remember. Towards the center of the field, at the general aviation area, were a line of 787 Dreamliners in various stages of completion. I parked the Mooney directly across from an Air India 787, complete from the outside sans engines. Large weights were suspended from the engine mounts, perhaps to keep the nosewheel on the ground of some other structural reason.



Our friends Joe and Sejal, from the Seattle area hold a special place in my heart. Without looking for a room to rent at Joe's house when he lived in Santa Cruz, I wouldn't have met my wife. They were on their final leg of a three-and-a-half month road trip through Mexico and Guatemala in their VW camper bus and graciously offered me a place to stay even though it was their first night home. They had visited us in Santa Cruz the 6 days prior and had taken their time to finish their vacation on the way up. Due to a mis-set clock and traffic, they would arrive after I would, and suggested I check out the port town of Mukilteo where the ferry to Whidbey Island docks. I assembled my borrowed folding bicycle and was on my way.

After a 6-mile ride to Mukilteo, I discovered that 1: the folding bike's seat was coming loose, quickly, 2: I had failed to bring Allen wrenches, and 3: It wasn't much fun to ride it uphill. Many people may say that about bikes in general, but it was especially true to the geometry and fit. Still, beggars couldn’t be choosers and though I could fit a road bike in the Mooney, I certainly couldn't with Alaska gear, nor could I afford a Pilatus PC-12 to stuff it all into in pressurized turbine-powered comfort. Fortunately, the up-hills were small and most of the ride was downhill. I sat on a bench in Mukilteo not far from its boat-ramp and lighthouse taking in the scene. The last remnants of a wedding party were packing up the catering equipment and brides' maids were loading floral arrangements into their cars. People were fishing, returning from trips in their small boats, and generally enjoying life. The clouds were broken here, providing a bit of sunshine followed by an impressive sunset by summers' standards. I passed the time making calls to Canadian flight services to check weather for the next day's journey north and staring at tiny weather maps on the iphone. By the time that was finished, Joe and Sejal called and told me they were close -- a few minutes later I saw their Blue bus, "Pablo" coming down the hill. We enjoyed dinner and a beer at happy hour prices and I collapsed to sleep in a comfortable bed after touring their home in Edmonds, an impressive display of restorative craftsmanship.

So begins the northbound odyssey

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

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

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

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

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

Downtown Portland, Oregon

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

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

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



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

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

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