Zippy's Alaska
A Tale of Adventure, Brotherly Something & Flying
by James Wasem
- credits -
For Dad
Thanks for giving your sons the dream of flight, and so much more.
Thanks for giving your sons the dream of flight, and so much more.
Independence Day
Let’s just say that Zippy didn’t exactly know what was about to happen. There were distant dreams and aspirations that made flaps all a flutter years ago, but 1950 was a long time past for this Cessna 140A, and those visions of pioneering adventure had since faded like the waning Wisconsin summer and the faint silver N140MQ on the tail.
A fresh paint job, new upholstery, and a few new-fangled instruments added some solace to Zippy’s genteel existence, but it just wasn’t enough to quench the appetite of a natural born tail-dragging trailblazer. There had to be more to this life than the occasional Sunday fair weather outing punctuated by fussy manicures and a dose or two of mild hangar rash. “Where’s the fun in that,” Zippy would often muse to no one in particular.
Little was it known that plans for a rescue operation were well underway, with a mission of liberation and high adventure for the young-at-heart Zippy. Yes, this would be a tale to remember, and perhaps even inspire those who have harbored years of mitigated dreams for the lift of winds aloft.
It was on a certain day in early July that Zippy felt something a little unusual. There had been some tire kicking and instrument tapping as of late, but this touch was different. There was something more to it than the mercenary feel of a staid aircraft actuary. No, this was special.
But what was it, exactly? The tone of questioning? The meticulous, yet respectful inspection? A deep consideration of attitude and mettle? The only sure thing was that this was new, and it made Zippy feel a slight tingle in the trim.
Then it happened.
A gentle cough, a quick sputter, and a push on the throttle were all it took for Zippy to truly know that this would be a day to remember. What exactly would be remembered was yet to be discovered. But it would be real. It would be big. And it would be liberating. After all, it was Independence Day.
A fresh paint job, new upholstery, and a few new-fangled instruments added some solace to Zippy’s genteel existence, but it just wasn’t enough to quench the appetite of a natural born tail-dragging trailblazer. There had to be more to this life than the occasional Sunday fair weather outing punctuated by fussy manicures and a dose or two of mild hangar rash. “Where’s the fun in that,” Zippy would often muse to no one in particular.
Little was it known that plans for a rescue operation were well underway, with a mission of liberation and high adventure for the young-at-heart Zippy. Yes, this would be a tale to remember, and perhaps even inspire those who have harbored years of mitigated dreams for the lift of winds aloft.
It was on a certain day in early July that Zippy felt something a little unusual. There had been some tire kicking and instrument tapping as of late, but this touch was different. There was something more to it than the mercenary feel of a staid aircraft actuary. No, this was special.
But what was it, exactly? The tone of questioning? The meticulous, yet respectful inspection? A deep consideration of attitude and mettle? The only sure thing was that this was new, and it made Zippy feel a slight tingle in the trim.
Then it happened.
A gentle cough, a quick sputter, and a push on the throttle were all it took for Zippy to truly know that this would be a day to remember. What exactly would be remembered was yet to be discovered. But it would be real. It would be big. And it would be liberating. After all, it was Independence Day.
Monday, July 4th, 2016
Lakeland, Wisconsin
A certain John Wasem arrived to meet Zippy for the first time by way of a red-eye road trip with a Marine Corps buddy from Minneapolis. There had been a lot of planning and deliberation to get to this point, but now that the day had come, there was no turning back.
A thorough pre-flight inspection and careful run-up were conducted. Then a solo test flight. Just John and Zippy.
Yup, it was confirmed: a perfect match.
Minor transactional details were conferred, and a bona fide adventure begun. Wheels up with a bearing to the West was the only confirmation needed for Zippy to know that this new freedom was real. The pride felt nearly popped a rivet, but that just wouldn’t be prudent, so the joy was redirected to a warm and even purr of the Continental O-200 100 horsepower engine.
Touchdown and taxi two hours later at Crystal Airport just north of Minneapolis bookmarked this new chapter in the now not-so-complacent life of wild aerodrome dreams for this rejuvenated Cessna.
A short five days hence would reveal even greater proof of revelation for the aspiring airplane, anticipating pilot, and an unassuming accomplice.
A thorough pre-flight inspection and careful run-up were conducted. Then a solo test flight. Just John and Zippy.
Yup, it was confirmed: a perfect match.
Minor transactional details were conferred, and a bona fide adventure begun. Wheels up with a bearing to the West was the only confirmation needed for Zippy to know that this new freedom was real. The pride felt nearly popped a rivet, but that just wouldn’t be prudent, so the joy was redirected to a warm and even purr of the Continental O-200 100 horsepower engine.
Touchdown and taxi two hours later at Crystal Airport just north of Minneapolis bookmarked this new chapter in the now not-so-complacent life of wild aerodrome dreams for this rejuvenated Cessna.
A short five days hence would reveal even greater proof of revelation for the aspiring airplane, anticipating pilot, and an unassuming accomplice.
Awaiting departure.
Saturday July 9th, 2016
Crystal Airport, Minnesota
It is at this point that the voice of the accomplice and narrator for this ensuing legend emerges from the Minneapolis-Saint Paul baggage claim curbside pickup zone…
The dream of flying for these two brothers has been as strong as any. And it should be noted that the younger beat the older to the left seat section. Yes, John bested James in the chase to gravity-defying flight. And he’s done it in style!
Five years at the University of Alaska aviation program in Anchorage and a new position in the right seat of a Beech 1900D flying for Bering Air in Nome handily puts John in the exonerated little brother circle. And you know what? That's ok by me!
I told John that if he ended up getting this new plane, I’d be happy to help ferry it up to Alaska. Planes, Mountains, Adventure, Bro Time… Who in their right mind can pass that up?
“You have to have a partner on a trip like that,” or so I made my unnecessary justifications to my wife Kate. She said GO! before I could even finish my opening statements.
So I arrived in Minneapolis on Saturday July 9th and was met by a rather dapper looking individual wearing a tie and a pilot’s uniform. Was that John? Indeed it was.
“Solid gold,” he says of his outfit for getting him on board those free jump-seat flights allotted to such prestigious members of our society.
First stop was a Home Depot. Because you can’t start a 3,000 mile continental flight in a small plane without first grabbing a few zip ties and some duct tape. Now, before you go off thinking we plan to fly some rattle can across the country, let me explain.
The cloth section divider that keeps gear from rolling back into the tail section was slightly compromised. Bad zipper. Nine zip ties fixed that right on up.
And the duct tape… That was required to satisfy a Canadian aviation mandate. Lest you think I’m making this up, all planes entering Canadian airspace need to have 12” tall N#’s. So that little 3” N140MQ on the tail? It had to get a lot bigger! Duct tape to the rescue. And that’s how I spent my first hour with Zippy – duct taping large numbers on each side of the tail section.
And you know what, it actually looked OK. Hey, it’s even color coordinated!
The dream of flying for these two brothers has been as strong as any. And it should be noted that the younger beat the older to the left seat section. Yes, John bested James in the chase to gravity-defying flight. And he’s done it in style!
Five years at the University of Alaska aviation program in Anchorage and a new position in the right seat of a Beech 1900D flying for Bering Air in Nome handily puts John in the exonerated little brother circle. And you know what? That's ok by me!
I told John that if he ended up getting this new plane, I’d be happy to help ferry it up to Alaska. Planes, Mountains, Adventure, Bro Time… Who in their right mind can pass that up?
“You have to have a partner on a trip like that,” or so I made my unnecessary justifications to my wife Kate. She said GO! before I could even finish my opening statements.
So I arrived in Minneapolis on Saturday July 9th and was met by a rather dapper looking individual wearing a tie and a pilot’s uniform. Was that John? Indeed it was.
“Solid gold,” he says of his outfit for getting him on board those free jump-seat flights allotted to such prestigious members of our society.
First stop was a Home Depot. Because you can’t start a 3,000 mile continental flight in a small plane without first grabbing a few zip ties and some duct tape. Now, before you go off thinking we plan to fly some rattle can across the country, let me explain.
The cloth section divider that keeps gear from rolling back into the tail section was slightly compromised. Bad zipper. Nine zip ties fixed that right on up.
And the duct tape… That was required to satisfy a Canadian aviation mandate. Lest you think I’m making this up, all planes entering Canadian airspace need to have 12” tall N#’s. So that little 3” N140MQ on the tail? It had to get a lot bigger! Duct tape to the rescue. And that’s how I spent my first hour with Zippy – duct taping large numbers on each side of the tail section.
And you know what, it actually looked OK. Hey, it’s even color coordinated!
One more adventure begins with the use of duct tape.
Duct tape applied, gear loaded, flight plan prepared, and crosschecks complete. It was time to fly.
We lifted off from Crystal Airport feeling a little heavy in the wings, but solidly underway with a steady drone from our four-piston friend. First scheduled stop: Jamestown, North Dakota.
Zippy carries about four hours worth of fuel (25 gallons), so each leg of this trip was planned to accommodate that fuel usage while leaving roughly a one-hour reserve. This was a new plane to John, and we didn’t want any surprises. Plus, the weather can change quickly, so having plenty of reserve fuel can be a lifesaver. Literally. On this trip, we would generally be making two to three hour flights between fill-ups.
Jamestown was positioned well for our journey to Minot, where we would need to stop for a while to file our Canadian entry paperwork. The plan was to make it to Minot late on the night of the 9th. That plan was not to be.
There were two things that were quickly revealed as we flew over the many lakes of central Minnesota. First, the Vertical Speed gauge was stuck. It wasn’t completely unresponsive, but it certainly wasn’t providing anything close to an accurate reading. Second, and more importantly, the Airspeed Indicator was malfunctioning. We thought it could be a calibration issue, or something was stuck. Tapping on the glass lens seemed to provide the expected reading, but that just didn’t instill a whole lot of confidence on this first big leg of the trip.
The sun was beginning to set, and Jamestown was still 45 minutes away when we flew over the small city airport of Wahpeton, North Dakota. John made a very quick decision to cut short our path to Jamestown so we could assess the faulty gauge situation. He didn’t want to risk landing a new plane at night with less than accurate instruments. This decision would turn out to be a very wise choice, for reasons we would soon discover.
It happened about thirty minutes after refueling. Streaks of lightning and foreboding dark clouds appeared on the horizon. We decided to tie down the plane and head into the small airport lounge to plan our next steps.
No sooner did we step inside the lounge than the dome of sky around the small town was lit up with sheets of lighting. It seemed to be coming from all sides. The wind was starting to pick up as well. “Good thing we found some tie downs for the plane,” we said to each other self-assuredly. We had no idea.
A wayward leaf blew across the tarmac outside the door as the first few raindrops began to fall. There would be more. Many. More.
The lounge had a nice couch with a built-in recliner section for each of us. This would be a great place to catch some sleep and casually observe a nice Midwest thunderstorm. I hadn’t seen one for a while, so I was actually looking forward to it. However, our ideas of casual weather observation and sleep would not be realized.
The lightning started getting brighter, the thunder louder, the wind stronger, and the rain… The rain started coming down in sheets, driven sideways across the airfield by the wind. Hmmm. This was getting interesting. And it didn’t stop. In fact, it only got worse.
We tried to sleep on the couch, but each flash of lightning and clap of thunder kept us from falling into any sort of idyllic rain-on-a-tin-roof type of slumber. And did I mention the wind? Well, by now, it was violently rocking the plane back and forth. Would the tie downs hold? I secretly had my doubts about one of them.
Losing sight of the plane parked only 100’ in the distance, now obscured by copious amounts of wind-driven rain, did nothing to calm our anxious nerves as we paced back and forth in the lounge area. John was maintaining good Marine decorum, but I could tell he was pretty worried about this. His new plane was getting pummeled and there was nothing he could do.
Then came the hail. In case you were wondering, this is NOT good for an aluminum-clad machine of any type, and especially not one intended for flight. The hail seemed small at first, and it wasn’t accumulating on the pavement, but we were concerned that this storm would only get worse. This new variety of precipitation was not our friend.
Fortunately, the hail did not get bigger, and it did not get worse. But we did lose sleep over the prospects that it would. And maybe it was a healthy diversion containing the miniature flood that was pooling up under the front door of the lounge. Yeah, there was so much rain that we had to sop up a few gallons of rainwater that had blown under the door.
Our anxious pacing around the lounge was broken up by many glances at the weather forecast and a Doppler radar mobile app I downloaded for the occasion. Remember those plans for landing in Jamestown? Turns out this storm just came from there. Another 45 minutes in the air and we would have tested out those seatbelts – or worse. John seemed to be developing a keen pilot’s instinct for averting danger, and I told him so.
Sometime around 2 AM the storm started to weaken and a bit of sleep was finally achieved. It wasn’t particularly deep sleep though. What would we find on the tarmac when we walked out in the morning?
Sunday July 10th, 2016
Wahpeton City Airport, North Dakota
Blue skies greeted us in the morning, as if nothing of any consequence had ever happened. We knew better.
A thorough inspection of the plane revealed two important details. One: the tie downs held fast. Only one short tie down without the customary double knot had loosened a bit, but it was secure enough to keep Zippy from flipping over during the storm. Two, and less encouraging: the pitot-static gauge system was full of water. This began to explain our aforementioned issues with the vertical and airspeed gauges. (A pitot-static system is a simple network of air chambers, tubes, and pressure sensitive instruments. Water is not a welcome element in these systems!)
It’s hard to say if the recent storm had added any water to this problem, but it’s possible. More likely is that a storm in Minnesota a few days ago contributed to the water issue. Zippy had experienced a rather kept life of hanger leisure up to this point. No longer. A little rain was all it took to reveal a few untested armaments.
We used the only two tools on board, a Leatherman multi-tool and a #2 Philips screwdriver, to dissect the instrument panel and hoses connecting the suspect instruments. I should note here that the pitot-static system is actually connected to three important instruments: Vertical Speed, Airspeed Indicator, and most importantly, the Altimeter. Out of these three gauges, the Altimeter was the only perfectly functioning instrument. Thank God!
Loosening the hoses allowed us to drain the water out, and we gently sucked on the end of the tubes to try and clear the rest of the system components of water. We got most of it, except for the standing water inside the Vertical Speed gauge. That one was probably toast anyway.
It was now time for a test flight to see if our MacGyvering would pay off. John did his pre-flight inspection, taxied out, did the cursory engine run-up, and headed down the runway. I watched from the fuel apron as he made this trial run, fingers crossed.
A thorough inspection of the plane revealed two important details. One: the tie downs held fast. Only one short tie down without the customary double knot had loosened a bit, but it was secure enough to keep Zippy from flipping over during the storm. Two, and less encouraging: the pitot-static gauge system was full of water. This began to explain our aforementioned issues with the vertical and airspeed gauges. (A pitot-static system is a simple network of air chambers, tubes, and pressure sensitive instruments. Water is not a welcome element in these systems!)
It’s hard to say if the recent storm had added any water to this problem, but it’s possible. More likely is that a storm in Minnesota a few days ago contributed to the water issue. Zippy had experienced a rather kept life of hanger leisure up to this point. No longer. A little rain was all it took to reveal a few untested armaments.
We used the only two tools on board, a Leatherman multi-tool and a #2 Philips screwdriver, to dissect the instrument panel and hoses connecting the suspect instruments. I should note here that the pitot-static system is actually connected to three important instruments: Vertical Speed, Airspeed Indicator, and most importantly, the Altimeter. Out of these three gauges, the Altimeter was the only perfectly functioning instrument. Thank God!
Loosening the hoses allowed us to drain the water out, and we gently sucked on the end of the tubes to try and clear the rest of the system components of water. We got most of it, except for the standing water inside the Vertical Speed gauge. That one was probably toast anyway.
It was now time for a test flight to see if our MacGyvering would pay off. John did his pre-flight inspection, taxied out, did the cursory engine run-up, and headed down the runway. I watched from the fuel apron as he made this trial run, fingers crossed.
Checking the Airspeed Indicator
Zippy never lifted off the runway. Takeoff aborted. I’d have to wait for a few minutes before finding out why.
Seems that the gauge we were most worried about, the Airspeed Indicator, was still unresponsive after our vacuum hose clearing exercise. Maybe we missed something. Back to the instrument panel we turned, this time completely removing the faulty gauge.
It was only then that we saw a warning on the back of the instrument – apparently you’re not supposed to blow or suck on the hose system connected to the gauges. Oops. Well, “they weren’t working anyway, so what harm could it do to try,” we thought.
As we debated the merits of continuing on without the working gauges, a plane came in to land. We waited for the pilot to arrive at his hanger, then walked over to see if a local aircraft mechanic might be available to check out the problem (previous attempts at calling the airport manager and other contact numbers yielded no results). Fortunately our friendly farmer pilot was able to rouse the resident mechanic and we went over to meet him at the maintenance hangar.
Seems the mechanic had experienced quite a night as well – fighting a fire with the volunteer rural fire department until arriving home at 2 AM where he was welcomed by a flood at his house that kept him up until four in the morning. And here he was at 10 AM, seemingly happy to be helping us in our moment of need.
Lucky for us, he found another hose with water in it that we had missed in our two attempts at clearing the system. We were just happy he found something. He had an air compressor that he used to clear the rest of the hoses, and he even gently blew air across some of the gauges as he explained that “a little air won’t hurt, but you need to be really careful or you can burst the instrument’s sensitive diaphragm.” That made us feel a little better about our fumbling exploits an hour ago.
Ok, now… we were ready to get underway. We decided that working gauges or not, we would make the daylight journey to Minot. This show had to get on the road!
We pushed the plane away from the maintenance hangar and conducted another thorough pre-flight inspection, making sure all the screws and hoses were properly secured. Time to buckle up and get the heck out of Wahpeton. Fuel. Ignition. And…
Nothing.
The prop made a stuttered turn before stopping with an exhausted gasp. Now what!?
Yup, dead battery. Could this day get any better?
We tried a few tricks, like turning off some unnecessary electrical components for startup. Still only half a cycle. And then we shifted our attention to the possibility of hand propping the engine. This is the image you see of those sepia tinged airmen grabbing the wooden prop and giving it a whirl, engines coughing to life in a cloud of black smoke. It would certainly work, but neither of us had done it, and I wasn’t exactly thrilled about an experiment that could result in lost fingers and hands if I wasn’t quick enough.
Fortunately, this little airfield had a fair amount of traffic today. Another local pilot joyriding his sporty RV-8 experimental aircraft was just landing for a fuel stop, so we asked if he had some ideas for a jump or if he had experience with hand propping. Lucky for us, he seemed somewhat confident with the notion of grabbing the propeller, so we prepared all systems for go time.
I stood outside the plane next to John confirming communications between the two pilots as they carefully planned the start. With the engine already primed and master start switches turned on, the propeller was quickly turned and the engine abruptly started to life, as if nothing was ever the matter. Well, that seemed easy enough! I took mental note of what happened. We may need to use this trick again before the trip is over.
Finally, at around 1 PM CDT, we took off and pointed our nose to Minot. We were told that there are avionics technicians in Minot, so if we needed more instrument work then we could deal with it there. Fortunately the Airspeed Indicator was working on a marginally acceptable basis – not fully responsive, but after a couple taps on the glass lens it would give a presumably accurate reading. Good enough for now. Plus, it was daylight. John felt better about landing with faulting gauges if he had plenty of light to do it in.
Alright Minot, here we come.
We arrived in Minot with the winds starting to pick up and some storm clouds building in the west. The original plan was to land, fuel, schedule our arrival in Canada with the customs folks, and depart. However, given our late start from Wahpeton, the Canadian customs office hours, and the late afternoon weather that was popping up around Minot, we were compelled to make yet another single-leg layover for the night. Alright, fine. Maybe we’ll catch a break tomorrow.
The Minot FBO (fixed base operator) was very well appointed, and turned out to be the nicest of the whole trip. Kind folks, comfortable lounge chairs, great WiFi, and a discount at the local hotel made this an easy place to hang out. John took a few moments to deliberate the merits of putting Zippy in a hangar, after the harrowing hailstorm from the night before, but opted out of the $85 hangar fee and tied down on the FBO apron.
I was looking forward to getting a good night’s sleep, as I hadn’t slept well for the past two nights. Turns out John was in the same boat, so those memory foam mattresses at the Minot Grand Hotel received two very welcoming backs. The shared shot of our first 16-year Lagavulin after-dinner Scotch wasn’t so bad either.
Monday July 11th, 2016
Minot, North Dakota
We greeted the mediocre Minot morning with optimism and a quick look at the forecast. The local weather was generally agreeable, but our planned border crossing check-in stop in Regina, Saskatchewan, was suffering from a low ceiling and marginal VFR (visual flight rules) landing standards.
We discussed the option of traveling west along the highline into Montana, then cutting north into Alberta and on up to Calgary as a secondary option if the weather was going to continue to be a problem directly north of Minot. There were some pretty strong headwinds coming out of Montana, but the thunderstorm activity seemed minimal if we could get out of North Dakota before late afternoon. Not ideal, but a solid backup. But first: breakfast, coffee, and a return to the luxurious FBO lounge.
Waiting around for weather updates wasn’t terribly hard. I sat on a comfortable leather couch and caught up on some work while John reviewed flight maps, updated his GPS with Canadian maps, and refreshed the METAR reports app every 10 minutes or so. (METAR stands for Meteorological Terminal Aviation Routine Weather Report or Meteorological Aerodrome Report. It’s a cryptic, yet efficient way of delivering automated weather monitoring station data collected by observation stations around the world.)
The weather to the north appeared to clear up a bit around noon, so we decided to get things prepped for departure. Just maybe we could hit the weather window before afternoon thermals shut us down. John notified the Canadian customs folks that we’d be arriving within a couple hours and we strapped in for another takeoff.
Zippy’s battery was fully charged this time, so no prop start needed. Our drama queen gauges were still acting up, but John seemed comfortable with the gentle beating that was required for the Airspeed Indicator to give a half-way intelligible murmur. The cross winds were a bit much on our chosen runway, but John coaxed us into the air before any embarrassing antics played out at midfield.
Finally. Off to Canada. Should be fun, eh?
North Dakota ended up on the short end of the pretty stick, methinks. We crossed the border into Saskatchewan and it looked like Mother Earth got a facelift. Let me explain.
In case there is any confusion about this… Canada is the leading producer of Canola oil. Canola is derived from a beautiful yellow flowering plant known as rape or rapeseed (rape stems from the Latin word rapum, meaning turnip). The low acid oil is harvested from the seed of the plant and is considered to be one of the healthier plant-derived oils. Don’t get all carried away with the exotic marketing hype of Canola. It simply means “Canadian Oil”, as chosen by the Rapeseed Association of Canada in the 1970’s. And you might also like to know that rapeseed oil has been used for centuries for fuel, like lamp oil, and as a lubricating machine oil in everything from door hinges to steam engines.
Trivia aside, the Canadian countryside greeted us with an impressive display of yellow and green fields as far as the eye could see. And the first hour or so of our trek northward was spent marveling at the landscape below. I even got to practice my hand at some straight and level flying. It took awhile before I got the hang of using the rudder pedals and keeping a straight line. Overcorrecting was far too easy! Just needed a little more practice.
But then, the clouds started to come into view. And it wasn’t just dark cumulonimbus with a hint of rain. We’re talking lightning and shifting winds at play between a handful of storm cells. Radio traffic out of Regina was concerning enough to make us consider an alternate landing field. That would probably get us in trouble with customs, but it’s better to be alive and in trouble with the law than turned upside down in an aluminum scrap heap.
We were still 40 miles out from Regina when they were getting battered, but the pilot reports seemed to indicate that the storm was moving quickly to the east, so we pressed on. As we got closer, air traffic control needed us to temporarily change heading to allow for a transport jet to land. This meant we needed to head straight toward an active thundercloud.
Flying in the rain is one thing. Variable winds, ok. But shearing thermals and lightning? Nah, y’all can have it. We were a good 20 miles from the ominous wrath of Zeus, but a hint of turbulence that threatened our wings was enough for me to subconsciously grasp my seat a little tighter. John has a steady hand though, and I’m sure this was nothing compared to the sub-arctic gales he’s faced, so I relaxed my grip and looked for a break in the clouds.
Lucky for us, the storm subsided over Regina just as we were ready on approach. The 27-knot gusts reported minutes earlier had calmed to a gentle six, making the landing one of the smoothest on the trip thus far. Oh, Canada! At last.
That cheer wouldn’t last long.
I learned about “low pressure zones” in science class, but it wasn’t until arriving in Regina that I really gained an informed respect for their staying power.
Before I get too far into that... John and I kept referring to our port of entry host as reh-jee-nah. Nope. It’s rah-ji-nah. Confirmed by the multiple statements from Winnipeg Center control and local tower radio operators. Very well. Regina it is.
Maybe she was suffering from a transitory case of LPZ, but let me tell you, Regina is a bitch. And we would come to know her temperament too well over the next few hours.
We discussed the option of traveling west along the highline into Montana, then cutting north into Alberta and on up to Calgary as a secondary option if the weather was going to continue to be a problem directly north of Minot. There were some pretty strong headwinds coming out of Montana, but the thunderstorm activity seemed minimal if we could get out of North Dakota before late afternoon. Not ideal, but a solid backup. But first: breakfast, coffee, and a return to the luxurious FBO lounge.
Waiting around for weather updates wasn’t terribly hard. I sat on a comfortable leather couch and caught up on some work while John reviewed flight maps, updated his GPS with Canadian maps, and refreshed the METAR reports app every 10 minutes or so. (METAR stands for Meteorological Terminal Aviation Routine Weather Report or Meteorological Aerodrome Report. It’s a cryptic, yet efficient way of delivering automated weather monitoring station data collected by observation stations around the world.)
The weather to the north appeared to clear up a bit around noon, so we decided to get things prepped for departure. Just maybe we could hit the weather window before afternoon thermals shut us down. John notified the Canadian customs folks that we’d be arriving within a couple hours and we strapped in for another takeoff.
Zippy’s battery was fully charged this time, so no prop start needed. Our drama queen gauges were still acting up, but John seemed comfortable with the gentle beating that was required for the Airspeed Indicator to give a half-way intelligible murmur. The cross winds were a bit much on our chosen runway, but John coaxed us into the air before any embarrassing antics played out at midfield.
Finally. Off to Canada. Should be fun, eh?
North Dakota ended up on the short end of the pretty stick, methinks. We crossed the border into Saskatchewan and it looked like Mother Earth got a facelift. Let me explain.
In case there is any confusion about this… Canada is the leading producer of Canola oil. Canola is derived from a beautiful yellow flowering plant known as rape or rapeseed (rape stems from the Latin word rapum, meaning turnip). The low acid oil is harvested from the seed of the plant and is considered to be one of the healthier plant-derived oils. Don’t get all carried away with the exotic marketing hype of Canola. It simply means “Canadian Oil”, as chosen by the Rapeseed Association of Canada in the 1970’s. And you might also like to know that rapeseed oil has been used for centuries for fuel, like lamp oil, and as a lubricating machine oil in everything from door hinges to steam engines.
Trivia aside, the Canadian countryside greeted us with an impressive display of yellow and green fields as far as the eye could see. And the first hour or so of our trek northward was spent marveling at the landscape below. I even got to practice my hand at some straight and level flying. It took awhile before I got the hang of using the rudder pedals and keeping a straight line. Overcorrecting was far too easy! Just needed a little more practice.
But then, the clouds started to come into view. And it wasn’t just dark cumulonimbus with a hint of rain. We’re talking lightning and shifting winds at play between a handful of storm cells. Radio traffic out of Regina was concerning enough to make us consider an alternate landing field. That would probably get us in trouble with customs, but it’s better to be alive and in trouble with the law than turned upside down in an aluminum scrap heap.
We were still 40 miles out from Regina when they were getting battered, but the pilot reports seemed to indicate that the storm was moving quickly to the east, so we pressed on. As we got closer, air traffic control needed us to temporarily change heading to allow for a transport jet to land. This meant we needed to head straight toward an active thundercloud.
Flying in the rain is one thing. Variable winds, ok. But shearing thermals and lightning? Nah, y’all can have it. We were a good 20 miles from the ominous wrath of Zeus, but a hint of turbulence that threatened our wings was enough for me to subconsciously grasp my seat a little tighter. John has a steady hand though, and I’m sure this was nothing compared to the sub-arctic gales he’s faced, so I relaxed my grip and looked for a break in the clouds.
Lucky for us, the storm subsided over Regina just as we were ready on approach. The 27-knot gusts reported minutes earlier had calmed to a gentle six, making the landing one of the smoothest on the trip thus far. Oh, Canada! At last.
That cheer wouldn’t last long.
I learned about “low pressure zones” in science class, but it wasn’t until arriving in Regina that I really gained an informed respect for their staying power.
Before I get too far into that... John and I kept referring to our port of entry host as reh-jee-nah. Nope. It’s rah-ji-nah. Confirmed by the multiple statements from Winnipeg Center control and local tower radio operators. Very well. Regina it is.
Maybe she was suffering from a transitory case of LPZ, but let me tell you, Regina is a bitch. And we would come to know her temperament too well over the next few hours.
The Great Regina Low Pressure Vortex
The weather girl on TV kept yammering on about rain, flooding, and funnel clouds. That wasn’t helpful, so we turned it off.
Had we known that our placid landing between thunderheads would be the last clear channel of sky to behold for the next 36 hours, we probably would have opted to face the headwinds of Western North Dakota and the Highline of Montana. But, we did not. And so we set out on a mind-numbing marathon of METAR report refreshing that would sap the last bit of enthusiasm out of us before the need for food and sleep pushed us out the door toward the generously named Chateau Regina.
Our host’s finest pizza delivery joint was summoned, and one wolf was handily sated. The mentally tired wolf tasked with counting sheep was a tad put out by the box spring mattresses when such recent memory afforded vivid royal bedfoam recollections.
Dreams of wheels up finally appeared. And with the low pressure zone slowly circling above us, there was at least the solace that we could sleep in a little. At this rate we would need it. John had to be back to work on Thursday morning. A flight out of here by Tuesday midday would still make a late Wednesday Nome arrival possible, but it would be tight.
Best not to worry about all that yet though. Sleep first. Weather checks later.
Tuesday July 12th, 2016
Rah-ji-nah, Saskatchewan
A look out the Chateau window revealed a gray parking lot, trembling tree leaves, and a steady tide of rain.
Cold pizza for breakfast? Nah. Better wait this out in the diner next door.
We sat in Smitty’s having our eggs, potatoes, and pancakes while staring out the window and cringing as wave after wave of wind-driven rain smashed against the pavement. After several cups of tableside hotpot coffee and two hours of wistful weather notions, we summoned a cab and headed back to the airport.
Our drive to and from the Chateau Regina revealed a reasonably nice town. Well-kept yards, green deciduous tree-lined boulevards, a college, the stately copper-topped provincial capitol building, and a seemingly diverse culture were enough to make me reconsider my harsh judgments from the day before. But don’t get too carried away, Regina!
There may have been a faint whisper heard back at the Esso fuel station FBO facilities.
“Dear Reginan Weather Gods, it is imperative that this LPZ be lifted today. Let’s not dillydally about it, okay?” It was a hopeful demand more than it was a supplicant prayer. The METAR muse didn’t give a damn anyway.
So let’s talk about this particular FBO. The Regina airport had two FBOs located next to each other. Esso and Shell. Some airports have one, some two, and some perhaps even more. Either way, this is where you go to get fuel unless there is a self-service kiosk in the vicinity.
Prior to our Canadian crossing, we had to declare our first point of engagement upon landing. We needed fuel, so selecting a convenient FBO seemed the logical choice. Two FBOs? Flip a coin. John chose Esso as the declared fuel stop and customs call-out spot. We discovered that it could be worth conducting some Yelp-like recon before the next FBO flip-a-coin scenario.
Shell featured a significantly cozier pilot’s lounge, open candy dish bar, and complimentary coffee-like liquids. Besides being more than a few rungs below Minot’s plush accommodations, the Esso lounge was one short step away from being completely uninviting. It had a roof and rattling windows to keep out the elements. And an Internet connection. But that’s about all I can say for it. The guys were nice, but should a return visit occur, Shell will be the FBO of choice in this town.
A couple of friendly pilots from Vancouver, British Columbia, who were also stranded by weather in a similar cross-Canada transit predicament confirmed our FBO envy and maybe even goaded the embers a touch. Whatever. They ogled over the ever-noble Zippy a bit, and then kindly offered to take our picture.
Cold pizza for breakfast? Nah. Better wait this out in the diner next door.
We sat in Smitty’s having our eggs, potatoes, and pancakes while staring out the window and cringing as wave after wave of wind-driven rain smashed against the pavement. After several cups of tableside hotpot coffee and two hours of wistful weather notions, we summoned a cab and headed back to the airport.
Our drive to and from the Chateau Regina revealed a reasonably nice town. Well-kept yards, green deciduous tree-lined boulevards, a college, the stately copper-topped provincial capitol building, and a seemingly diverse culture were enough to make me reconsider my harsh judgments from the day before. But don’t get too carried away, Regina!
There may have been a faint whisper heard back at the Esso fuel station FBO facilities.
“Dear Reginan Weather Gods, it is imperative that this LPZ be lifted today. Let’s not dillydally about it, okay?” It was a hopeful demand more than it was a supplicant prayer. The METAR muse didn’t give a damn anyway.
So let’s talk about this particular FBO. The Regina airport had two FBOs located next to each other. Esso and Shell. Some airports have one, some two, and some perhaps even more. Either way, this is where you go to get fuel unless there is a self-service kiosk in the vicinity.
Prior to our Canadian crossing, we had to declare our first point of engagement upon landing. We needed fuel, so selecting a convenient FBO seemed the logical choice. Two FBOs? Flip a coin. John chose Esso as the declared fuel stop and customs call-out spot. We discovered that it could be worth conducting some Yelp-like recon before the next FBO flip-a-coin scenario.
Shell featured a significantly cozier pilot’s lounge, open candy dish bar, and complimentary coffee-like liquids. Besides being more than a few rungs below Minot’s plush accommodations, the Esso lounge was one short step away from being completely uninviting. It had a roof and rattling windows to keep out the elements. And an Internet connection. But that’s about all I can say for it. The guys were nice, but should a return visit occur, Shell will be the FBO of choice in this town.
A couple of friendly pilots from Vancouver, British Columbia, who were also stranded by weather in a similar cross-Canada transit predicament confirmed our FBO envy and maybe even goaded the embers a touch. Whatever. They ogled over the ever-noble Zippy a bit, and then kindly offered to take our picture.
James & John with Zippy in Regina
Weather app obsession still held us in its iron grip, so it was back to the Esso. Checking forecasts. Pacing back and forth. Staring out the window. Walking out to look northwest down the runway. There’s one word for all that: futile.
I finally resigned myself to doing some more work. Making another audio training course outline and planning out PowerPoint slideshows was better than this. Somehow.
John continued to consider the vortex of pressure around sweet Regina, conjecturing times, routes, backup routes, and even filing a flight plan with the hopes of actually giving the cold, bored engine a whirl.
That flight plan would go on to be updated five more times before we called into question our waning sanity.
This experience became a touchstone for lessons in obsessive deliberation, and why it just ain’t worth it. Were I to be in this scenario again, I think I’d impose a 2-hour minimum decision hiatus between the compulsory weather check. You just go mad otherwise. We probably lost the equivalent of 2 hours of sleep from the simple act of changing that flight plan so many times.
Yeah, when the weather’s dynamic enough, you gotta be prepared to “shoot the gap”. But a low pressure whirling vortex… Go find some hot chocolate and a good book.
Sample METAR weather report code:
CYQR 130053Z 05020G28KT 3SM +TSRA SCT030 BKN045 OVC100 22/19 A2972 RMK PK WND 02041/0019 LTG DSNT ALQDS RAB24 TSB01 DENSITY ALT 3000FT
As decoded by the pilot:
Regina METAR on the 12th at 7:53pm local time (13th at 12:53am Zulu time).
Wind: from 050° at 20 knots gusting to 28 knots (NE at 23 mph gusting to 32 mph).
Visibility: 3 statute miles.
Precipitation: heavy rain with thunderstorms.
Sky condition: clouds scattered at 3000', ceiling broken at 4500', overcast at 10000'.
Temperature: 22 Celsius / Dew point: 19 Celsius.
Altimeter setting (pressure): 29.72 inHg.
Remarks:
Peak wind: from 020° at 41 knots occurred at 0019 Zulu.
Distant lightning in all quadrants.
Rain began at 0024 Zulu.
Thunderstorms began at 0001 Zulu.
It was 9 PM by the time our lunch-hour pizza snack wore off and the last flight plan was scuttled. The weather reports had been trending favorable for each subsequent hour, but the winds and radar-green storm cells just weren’t looking warm or fuzzy enough for us to cuddle up to.
We needed food, and the only premises to find such sustenance would be the commercial airline terminal next door. Plus, the mild mannered FBO attendant said he had to lock up at 10 PM and we’d need to leave by then.
The FBO fuel stop at our anticipated destination didn’t open until 5 AM the next morning, so there was no good reason to arrive before then, unless we wanted to pay an exorbitant after hours call-out charge or sleep in the plane. I suggested that we go grab some grub in the terminal, find a bench to sleep on, and get up for a 1 AM pre-flight exercise.
I may have had to pull out some big brother supervisional attitude. Not going to apologize for it though. My left seat “keep-me-alive-please” companion would be no good with a wavering hand and heavy eyes.
John wanted to explore the terminal a bit. He’s more curious than I. It’s a good thing though, as some light-hearted photo ops were exposed.
John keeps saying, "We're in Canada now, eh."
|
He must be looking at the weather.
|
You take those moments when you can on a fraught layover such as this.
A Subway foot-long would provide some caloric padding and a future snack. Besides, everything else was closed.
And a quietly situated bench would provide a spot for some shut-eye.
John didn’t waste any time curling up and drifting off. Not sure why I stayed awake for so long, something about sleeping in public spaces maybe. But the clock wasn’t waiting for me, so I reluctantly dozed off sometime around 11:30 PM.
Wednesday July 13th, 2016
Regina, Saskatchewan
An obstinate duck woke me up promptly at 1 AM. That’s always a surprise. Even after several days of this fowl sonic cue, I’m still jumpy at the sound of John’s choice in alarm clock tone. Feels like a bill nipping the ankles or something.
One more METAR decoding session affirms our go-time decision. The happiest pre-flight ever was finally upon us. If there is such a thing as a 2 AM north by northwest pre-dawn glow, we saw it, or made one up.
Wheels up. It wasn’t a dream after all. And just like that, we were Saskatoon bound.
Though not the sanctified capital city of Saskatchewan, Saskatoon sports a far superior verbal ring, and it doesn’t hurt at all to know that it is called the “Paris of the Prairies”. Put that in your pipe and poke it, Regina.
Picturesque and welcoming are the two words for which I’d like to remember the 4 AM cityscape dawn above this idyllic river town.
One more METAR decoding session affirms our go-time decision. The happiest pre-flight ever was finally upon us. If there is such a thing as a 2 AM north by northwest pre-dawn glow, we saw it, or made one up.
Wheels up. It wasn’t a dream after all. And just like that, we were Saskatoon bound.
Though not the sanctified capital city of Saskatchewan, Saskatoon sports a far superior verbal ring, and it doesn’t hurt at all to know that it is called the “Paris of the Prairies”. Put that in your pipe and poke it, Regina.
Picturesque and welcoming are the two words for which I’d like to remember the 4 AM cityscape dawn above this idyllic river town.
Dawn over Saskatoon
I’m pretty sure that Zippy felt the petrol pep as we jilted the gray clouds of southern provincial lands. It was early, but we couldn’t be more awake and ready for the next several hours of landing, fuel, landing, fuel, landing, fuel… You get it.
This time we stopped at the Saskatoon Shell FBO. Yup, nice lounge. Don’t even want to meander over near Esso. Pshhh.
Full tanks.
Next stop: Lloydminster.
This little town and its quaint airfield are situated just west of the Alberta/Saskatchewan border. Flying in, we began to notice more oil and gas well manifolds dotting the otherwise square agrarian-gridded landscape. The FBO attendant tells us this area, and on through Alberta, is known for oil and gas reserves, while much of the Saskatchewan province is heavy into potash mining these days. (Potash is a potassium-based salt that is used extensively as fertilizer. And here again, Canada is the leading producer of this vital resource.)
Wow, splendid weather. Slight headwind, but we’ll take it! Gladly.
At this point, we started to fly a little higher. Maybe in spirit too, but the VFR ceiling and cloud base had lifted, so it made sense to try out the winds aloft for a more favorable current. 6,500’. The next several legs of the trip would be flown at this altitude.
We learned from the Vancouver pilots waylaid in Regina that several metropolitan airports in Canada charge additional landing fees. I’m sure Regina and Saskatoon hit us up for some coin (we won’t know until they levy a charge by mail against the N#), so we decided to find a more rural airport north of Edmonton for our next fuel sip.
Edmonton Villeneuve airport will do just fine, thank you very much.
I finally got to experience some informed flying lessons from John. I mainly practiced some rudder work and coordinated turns. We could have done some stall exercises and other aerial maneuvers, but time was exceedingly tight, and I didn’t really want to waste any precious fuel and energy on joy-ride antics, fun as they may be.
Oh, yeah. Still plenty of rapeseed and Canola oil patches in this part of the world too!
Oh, Canola!
Noon it was, and a quirky FBO owner in Edmonton Villeneuve topped off our tanks, offered a cluttered desk for the flight plan filing, and showed off his hangared Cessna Cardinal RG (retractable gear). Seems he liked his Nissan car seats so much, he had a local upholsterer redo the entire interior of the plane to match. Says he can sit in that thing for hours now.
“Sounds good, buddy. I’ve got a 140 with stock seats to get back to,” I thought as we graciously headed out the door while avoiding the salty local barnstormers BBQ invitation gearing up across the tarmac.
John made a quick phone call to his boss in Nome before departing. It was confirmed that the flight schedule wasn’t all that busy this week and he could have a couple more days to make the trip. Good! Otherwise, we’d have been looking for a hangar and last minute tickets out of Edmonton – two expensive propositions we were happy to avoid altogether.
Northern Alberta.
It just sounds nice, right?
A stop in the righteously named Peace River fortified the vibe that we were indeed headed North.
This little town on the frontier-looking reaches of Alberta seemed to be gearing up for a weekend fly-in, and the airfield was all abuzz with folks running to and fro staking out tent sites and pit stops. We opted to take a few moments to dig into the forecast a little deeper.
It was mid afternoon by this point and a few newly formed thunderclouds appeared primed for action. The choice of the hour would be a battle between two forts. Fort Nelson to the north, and more in line with our direct route, and Fort Saint John directly to the west.
When pressed for time, no one wants to make the call to travel a less-than-direct route. But if there is a fury of north prairie thunder bearing down across the path, take heed. John wasn’t too pleased to head out of the way, but I was more than happy to promote the executive decision of adding a fuel stop to stay safely removed from potentially deadly turbulence. It turned out to be the right call.
The flight to Fort Saint John was generally uneventful, which gave me plenty of time to ponder the strange sights I was seeing below.
Northern Alberta was heavily forested as far as I could see in every direction. The landscape was punctuated by a few carved out sections of agricultural land, dirt roads to oil and gas well patches, and the occasional town with the normal human footprints you would expect. But aside from that, the coniferous jungle below seemed impenetrable – except for the otherworldly pattern of straight lines vectoring in every direction.
I’ve seen a certain amount of human straight line-binging activity in the middle of nowhere before, but this was on a scale that I found hard to comprehend. My mind easily drifted in the direction of the X-Files and DARPA-funded extraterrestrial contact strategy. Or perhaps these perfectly straight lines were the product of a surveyor afflicted with a severe case of OCD.
Oh, I do wish it were the first of my sleep-deprived conjectures. Nearly as hard to believe, however, these lines are indeed the result of our obsessive and increasingly compulsive search for the buried fuel that powers our presently perceived “modern” world.
I could only guess at the time, but subsequent research into this heretofore-foreign sighting from the air confirmed that these lines in the forest were “seismic lines”. Geological surveyors, in a quest for mapping subterranean resources, cut a straight path through the trees, allowing for seismic (sonar) transmissions to be sent into the earth, reflected back, and translated into usable data maps. It’s fascinating science really. But the vastness and sheer scale of what I encountered left a strong first impression!
Seismic lines as seen near Fort Saint John. Image courtesy of Google Earth.
We touched down at the Fort Saint John airport just before a hint of afternoon madness wafted in the western sky above the foothills of the Rockies. We were finally starting to feel the effects of our 2 AM liftoff out of Regina, and a cursory check confirmed that the afternoon weather would only be ramping up over the next few hours, so we decided to leverage the moment and take a much needed nap.
The northern reaches of Canada and most all of Alaska feature small regional and local airlines. Planes can range in size from something like the 8-seat Piper Navajo to the WWII era DC-3 (which I saw land in Fort Saint John), or even larger planes like the popular 50-seat Dash 8 commuter depending on the operator. This FBO shared facilities with one of these local airlines, so the lobby was at least welcoming, and the facility was large enough to make us think a quiet lounge would be available somewhere on premises. We thought correctly.
We decided that a four-hour snooze should allow us to recharge our brain cells as we waited out the weather. It didn’t take long to doze off in the leather sofas of a darkened upstairs lounge with the drone of box fans blowing semi-cool air from the open windows.
It was sometime around 8 PM that I woke up to the sound of wind and rain. My first thought was whether or not the heavy chocks around Zippy’s front tires would be enough to keep our ride in place (there were no tie-down spots here). Indeed they were, thankfully. And the windbreak provided by a nearby fuel truck put me at greater ease with the situation playing out on the field in front of me.
I attempted to casually wake my sleeping pilot, forgetting just how difficult that can be. Ah, now I remember. John doesn’t always respond to a light tug on the arm or nudge of a shoulder. Maybe that explains the rude duck I keep hearing every morning since we left Minneapolis. “Fine. You can sleep a little longer. There’s still a storm out there.”
The downstairs lobby was fairly quiet, and the resident fuel truck attendant was staying busy refueling some of the larger regional planes that were still landing in the middle of this mayhem. These planes seemed like gods, defying the dark forces of skies dead-set against flight. Zippy could only dream.
With the storm beginning to subside, I figured it was time to get John primed for action. Very rare is it that you just decide to go flying, start up the engine, and takeoff, especially in unfamiliar territory. By now I was getting very used to the notion that three hours of flight time could require up to two hours of weather checks, flight planning, pre-flight inspections, post-flight refueling, and other coordination details. This process could take even longer depending on the local variables (mostly weather related). Anyway, it was time for the pilot to get back to work.
Again, a gentle nudge did nothing to wake the slumbering Wasem. I almost felt bad grabbing both shoulders and shaking his entire torso, but then I remembered the morning I doused him with a bucket of water. Shaking shoulders was probably less shocking to the system, even if it was way less fun. Perhaps I’ll revisit that water trick when my life doesn’t so presently depend on his good graces.
The airfield was getting pretty quiet now, and the rain and wind activity had steadily moved south of our position. That was a welcomed observation, as we were headed north. Finally, really, truly north. Everything checked out on the weather reports, so we got ready for our journey to Fort Nelson.
It was about 9 PM when we left the now vacant FBO facilities (I think they forgot about us). Aside from our 2 AM pre-dawn departure from Regina earlier in the day, this would be our first night flight of the trip. However, we were far enough north to the point where summertime sunset and sunrise were still very close together. The sun had recently dipped below the hills northwest of Fort Saint John, but a long twilight had settled in, inviting us up into the cool evening air.
The flight to Fort Nelson was very smooth. Our first glimpse of the waxing gibbous moon was a reflection in one of the many lakes below us. It had a slight orange glow and seemed to rise slowly, though the time it would take to sink out of sight would only be three or four short hours away.
I started to see fewer of the arrow-straight gridlines cut through the trees as the terrain became more mountainous. We were definitely beginning to fly over some remote country, which in many ways made me feel more at peace with the world and my small place in it. And it was at some point along this path that I was able to pull out my phone and exclaim, “Finally! No cell reception!”
Here’s the deal. I had prepared to be in what one could reasonably assume to be some of the most remote parts of North America. In fact, knowing that we would be doing the bulk of our flying through Canada, I was even prepared to have little-to-no availability of cellular phone service. Yes, I figured that the towns and airports along the way would have reasonable communication standards and a basic internet connection, but I just did not figure on using my cell phone all that much. Oh! How wrong I would be!
Upon entry into Canada, Verizon automatically sent me a friendly little text message letting me know that I was now outside of my domestic network and that any calls, text, or data usage would default to the international roaming billing standard. 99¢/minute and other charge details were listed. They followed up that message with a kind offer for me to pay $2/day in exchange for maintaining all my normal domestic rates and benefits while traveling in Canada. Um, yeah. I’ll make that deal. (I’d like to note that John was on AT&T, and he did not receive such a gracious gesture.)
Anyway, it seems that Canada is somehow blanketed in a network of impeccable 4G LTE cellular connectivity. Holy wow! The coverage was even consistently clear at 6,500’ (and maybe even more so, given the lack of obstacles between us and the nearest tower below). This modern convenience did come in handy on our trip, since we could stay up to date on the latest weather, use the mobile hotspot to file flight plans, and I could keep the anxious worries of my dear Kate to a minimum while we were gallivanting in the wilderness. So, yes. I was pleasantly surprised to see that we were really arriving in the wilderness of eastern British Columbia.
“Warning: No Cell Reception.” Now the real adventure could begin.
Thursday July 14th, 2016
Fort Nelson, British Columbia
The midnight moonlit decent into Fort Nelson was breathtaking. A foggy mist had settled over the waters, making the placid lakes and winding rivers glow in the soft white light of the moon. And the vivid orange, blue, yellow, and red colors of the runway lights jumped out in such splendor against the serene night scene that I wished it could all somehow be frozen for a moment. I tried to take a picture, but it just didn’t capture the moment adequately.
A friendly voice on the radio welcomed us to the quiet mountain town and readily confirmed our wise choice earlier in the day to avoid a mid-afternoon landing here. Seems there had been quite a hail storm. “We’re glad we stayed away too,” we affirmed. I think this made John feel a little better about our earlier detour.
The radio operator gave us instructions to call for the fuel truck, as there was no self-service station here. This would be the only time on the trip that we had to pay an extra call-out charge for after hours fuel service.
We had some time to stretch and fend off a few mosquitos as we waited for the fuel attendant to arrive. He seemed in fairly good spirits given the time of night we interrupted. It was probably due to the callout charge he got to pocket in exchange. $78 in fuel plus the $105 wakeup tax, and we were free to leave. It was worth it to be back on our way. The night air here was calm, and we needed to make up for lost time.
The Yukon and Watson Lake to the north would be our next stop, but not before we could witness one of the most spectacular wonders of the entire journey.
Flying at night can be one of the most rewarding experiences for a small-plane pilot and passengers. The air is generally calm. Particulates are settled. And clear skies with a beaming moon can stun even the most verbose into serene respect for the natural still-night beauty surrounding them. In case you were wondering, John and I don’t particularly suffer accusations of garrulous expression. But even quiet minds and mouths like ours were lulled further by the glory of this night sky.
The Northern Lights are seldom seen dancing and waving in the long daylight hours and summertime skies of the North. Winter is generally considered the best season for viewing these mesmerizing magnetic displays, but a mid-July night flight over the Yukon province worked just fine for us! Wow. Simply amazing.
The shimmering green curtains floated like a silk sheet across the sky just above our windshield. Seeing the Lights without the distraction of a horizon made them appear so close that we could be in their midst. Twilight was still fighting for prominence, so the coronal interference would quickly vanish and return, causing us to be spellbound by the sky above. This alone was worth the cost of admission.
With pre-dawn light creeping over the horizon, we prepared for our landing at Watson Lake. We weren’t sure if there was a call-out charge for fuel, but frankly, we didn’t care. After six more hours of flying, another nap was in order.
Now, if this little town hasn’t been featured in a movie, it should be. Watson Lake could be the poster child of the province, with its quaint resort town vibe and rich aviation history.
The historic looking airfield and facilities looked like we had stepped back in time. And in fact, there were still many relics left from the glory days of this air depot’s use during World War Two as a waypoint for the thousands of B-17 bombers en route from Great Falls, Montana, across Alaska and into Siberia (called the ALSIB or Alaska-Siberia route). This was all part of the “Lend-Lease” program that allowed US manufacturers to supply the USSR allied air force with much needed aircraft.
Many planes and pilots were lost in the harsh weather mountain crossings, but the cost was deemed acceptable given the host of German blockades on the Atlantic approach. Of the 8,058 planes sent north by US factories, 174 were scuttled, crashed, or otherwise lost in the transfer.
The radioman camped out in the driftwood colored flight office was efficient enough. We were directed to one of the few self-serve fuel stations found along our Canadian journey, then we went inside to see if there was space to support a power nap.
We briefly explored the historic-looking public terminal facilities before the bored operator motioned that there was a modest pilot lounge in the back. Great. We needed that, since by now it was four in the morning.
Closed door, recliner chair, eyes shut.
Before drifting off to sleep, I set an alarm for 5:30 AM. John would have preferred we stay on the ground for a shorter period of time, but I knew he needed the rest if we were still going to function properly as we headed over mountains and across the border.
What follows is a thinly veiled, not-so-guilty-conscience admission. Yes. My alarm did go off at the aforementioned time. Yes. I registered that alarm. And yes. I failed to fully comport myself in a posture suitable for “getting up”. It was about 6:15 when the faint glow of sunlight through the window blinds cued my internal nerves that something could be wrong.
I poked at John’s torso and informed him of the time as he groggily came to. He jumped straight on up off the couch after hearing that and began a frantic mumbling of “Oh man. We should be gone by now. This isn’t good. We’re burning daylight,” among other well-worn Wasem epithets. Whatever. He needed the sleep and I knew it. That extra 45 minutes of shuteye wasn’t going to hurt anyone. He got over it.
John hurriedly checked the weather reports as I poked around the aging terminal building. There were loads of historic pictures along the walls recounting the ALSIB days of yore. Pretty impressive, really.
Not impressive but way more disappointing was the absence of an offer to the fresh brewed coffee in the radioman’s office (which I could smell). He was efficient at his post. I’ll give him that. He just wasn’t particularly consumed with the gentle affliction of Canadian kindness we had experienced everywhere else in this fine land. My second “whatever” of the day had already been muttered under my breath. “I’m going outside.”
A friendly voice on the radio welcomed us to the quiet mountain town and readily confirmed our wise choice earlier in the day to avoid a mid-afternoon landing here. Seems there had been quite a hail storm. “We’re glad we stayed away too,” we affirmed. I think this made John feel a little better about our earlier detour.
The radio operator gave us instructions to call for the fuel truck, as there was no self-service station here. This would be the only time on the trip that we had to pay an extra call-out charge for after hours fuel service.
We had some time to stretch and fend off a few mosquitos as we waited for the fuel attendant to arrive. He seemed in fairly good spirits given the time of night we interrupted. It was probably due to the callout charge he got to pocket in exchange. $78 in fuel plus the $105 wakeup tax, and we were free to leave. It was worth it to be back on our way. The night air here was calm, and we needed to make up for lost time.
The Yukon and Watson Lake to the north would be our next stop, but not before we could witness one of the most spectacular wonders of the entire journey.
Flying at night can be one of the most rewarding experiences for a small-plane pilot and passengers. The air is generally calm. Particulates are settled. And clear skies with a beaming moon can stun even the most verbose into serene respect for the natural still-night beauty surrounding them. In case you were wondering, John and I don’t particularly suffer accusations of garrulous expression. But even quiet minds and mouths like ours were lulled further by the glory of this night sky.
The Northern Lights are seldom seen dancing and waving in the long daylight hours and summertime skies of the North. Winter is generally considered the best season for viewing these mesmerizing magnetic displays, but a mid-July night flight over the Yukon province worked just fine for us! Wow. Simply amazing.
The shimmering green curtains floated like a silk sheet across the sky just above our windshield. Seeing the Lights without the distraction of a horizon made them appear so close that we could be in their midst. Twilight was still fighting for prominence, so the coronal interference would quickly vanish and return, causing us to be spellbound by the sky above. This alone was worth the cost of admission.
With pre-dawn light creeping over the horizon, we prepared for our landing at Watson Lake. We weren’t sure if there was a call-out charge for fuel, but frankly, we didn’t care. After six more hours of flying, another nap was in order.
Now, if this little town hasn’t been featured in a movie, it should be. Watson Lake could be the poster child of the province, with its quaint resort town vibe and rich aviation history.
The historic looking airfield and facilities looked like we had stepped back in time. And in fact, there were still many relics left from the glory days of this air depot’s use during World War Two as a waypoint for the thousands of B-17 bombers en route from Great Falls, Montana, across Alaska and into Siberia (called the ALSIB or Alaska-Siberia route). This was all part of the “Lend-Lease” program that allowed US manufacturers to supply the USSR allied air force with much needed aircraft.
Many planes and pilots were lost in the harsh weather mountain crossings, but the cost was deemed acceptable given the host of German blockades on the Atlantic approach. Of the 8,058 planes sent north by US factories, 174 were scuttled, crashed, or otherwise lost in the transfer.
The radioman camped out in the driftwood colored flight office was efficient enough. We were directed to one of the few self-serve fuel stations found along our Canadian journey, then we went inside to see if there was space to support a power nap.
We briefly explored the historic-looking public terminal facilities before the bored operator motioned that there was a modest pilot lounge in the back. Great. We needed that, since by now it was four in the morning.
Closed door, recliner chair, eyes shut.
Before drifting off to sleep, I set an alarm for 5:30 AM. John would have preferred we stay on the ground for a shorter period of time, but I knew he needed the rest if we were still going to function properly as we headed over mountains and across the border.
What follows is a thinly veiled, not-so-guilty-conscience admission. Yes. My alarm did go off at the aforementioned time. Yes. I registered that alarm. And yes. I failed to fully comport myself in a posture suitable for “getting up”. It was about 6:15 when the faint glow of sunlight through the window blinds cued my internal nerves that something could be wrong.
I poked at John’s torso and informed him of the time as he groggily came to. He jumped straight on up off the couch after hearing that and began a frantic mumbling of “Oh man. We should be gone by now. This isn’t good. We’re burning daylight,” among other well-worn Wasem epithets. Whatever. He needed the sleep and I knew it. That extra 45 minutes of shuteye wasn’t going to hurt anyone. He got over it.
John hurriedly checked the weather reports as I poked around the aging terminal building. There were loads of historic pictures along the walls recounting the ALSIB days of yore. Pretty impressive, really.
Not impressive but way more disappointing was the absence of an offer to the fresh brewed coffee in the radioman’s office (which I could smell). He was efficient at his post. I’ll give him that. He just wasn’t particularly consumed with the gentle affliction of Canadian kindness we had experienced everywhere else in this fine land. My second “whatever” of the day had already been muttered under my breath. “I’m going outside.”
Watson Lake, Yukon Territory
We were in the air by 7 AM and on the way to our last scheduled fuel stop in Canada: Whitehorse.
John may have been miffed about making up for lost time, but a different kind of worry was soon to replace that concern.
There was a small complaint filed for our attention somewhere in the remote lands east of Whitehorse. It wasn’t long after we had leveled off that Zippy made a little cough. It wasn’t much of anything really, and it could have been easily passed off as turbulence. I didn’t say anything, and neither did John. It was just one of those “perk up and pay attention” kind of reminders.
“Was it the fuel?” I thought to myself. “Or was it the higher altitude?” Nothing was said for fear of some dire consequence legitimizing the words.
It was on a quick descent and gentle bank around another storm cloud when it happened again, this time with a more generous cough and reactive choke. John’s hands darted to the center of the control panel, hovering for an instant above the throttle and fuel/air mixture handles, then resolutely pulling on the carb heat lever.
There was one more very small clearing of the engine’s lungs as heat was cycled back into the carburetor. Nothing after that. Just the familiar steady purr of our one hundred winged ponies under the hood. Smooth-sounding or not, we were now obligated with the cursory task of scoping out alternate landing locations, should any more mechanical congestion persist and the need arise.
Assessing the situation with a little more call-and-response clarity, John reasonably surmised that there had been some ice buildup on the carburetor’s butterfly valve. This can happen in varying temperature and moisture gradients, he explained. The simple application of engine heat returned to the carburetor thaws the ice, and the engine, reasonably enough, chokes a bit on the water-contaminated fuel. It’s really not an uncommon experience. But we’d all rather not endure cross-country mid-mountain jolts like that again, yeah?
Alright, you can put that blood pressure cuff away… for now.
Most towns and fuel stops along our route provided welcoming vistas, friendly radio operators, and a nice FBO staff. Our Whitehorse welcome wasn’t particularly different from all of this, except for the gut-wrenching aerial display we encountered immediately upon landing.
Radio chatter on the approach had suggested some flybys and helicopter activity in the areas adjacent to the runway. Very well. I just wasn’t quite prepared to see a helicopter 20’ off the landing pad swooping, dipping, diving, and spinning in what I considered a rather wild fashion. John and I both did a double take as we taxied past the vicinity and I suggested we may want to hurry on off this runway before the rotors started tumbling by.
Subsequent banter on the airwaves indicated that this was a training exercise. Gosh. That’s one heck of an exercise. Hope they had the right kinda britches on up there.
This was to be a quick stop, but an important one. Besides fuel, we needed to file our final flight plan with the Canadian authorities and then notify US border and customs agents of the planned arrival time. They like to have at least a two-hour notice before you show up.
Our planned flight time was just a hair over three hours, making it one of the longest legs of the trip, so we knew we’d need to top off with fuel and pray for some tail winds to put us in Alaska on time (along with reserve fuel to spare). Everything was looking pretty good weather wise, and afternoon thunderclouds seemed a bit sluggish at first glance.
We were climbing to altitude out of Whitehorse, visually scanning the horizon ahead, and diligently re-checking the weather reports. Being cramped for time and fuel on this route made us a little anxious about any sign of less than ideal flying conditions. Just to be safe, John began exploring some alternative routes and refueling options.
Headwind resistance is something you should always consider when calculating groundspeed and consequential arrival times. And when you’re flying with a 100 HP powerhouse like we were, an increase in the strength of that headwind can cause you to take pause before assuming bold visions of upstream progress.
The winds aloft out of Whitehorse were not all that favorable this time, at least in relation to our direction of flight. It was likely that we would be just fine with the fuel on board, even considering the strong headwinds we encountered, but the apprehension was that we might not fair so well if we had to divert course too far when dodging a rogue storm cloud or unexpected turbulence.
Cell reception was in and out now, but John was able to make a few phone calls and we decided it was best if we stopped a few miles up the road. This road is the famed ALCAN Highway, and it’s the only commercially viable road connecting Alaska with the rest of the continental interior. It was looking like we would need to follow much of the highway in order to pass over the mountains and maintain a reasonable elevation above the higher peaks in this region. So, the small town of Haines Junction made for a logical last-minute top off opportunity before crossing the border.
It was an unplanned stop, but an important one (as would be clearly revealed to us in a few short hours). There are two things worth noting about this stop, one of them may be found more interesting than the other. Thing one: this is the first gravel strip that we landed on during our journey. Heck, this might even be the first gravel strip Zippy’s ever seen! Thing two: this airfield has no fuel station.
The reason for those earlier phone calls was to arrange for fuel at the airfield. There are many small airfields in Northern Canada and Alaska. Some of them do not have official fuel stations. However, small piston planes like Zippy are perfectly capable of running on high octane “mogas” (very technical aviation term for standard terrestrial-bound vehicle fuel).
A local air tour operator was on location at Haines Junction and had offered to truck us the two or three miles into town for fuel when we arrived. He waved us over to a parking spot when we pulled in and loaded up the old Dodge Ram with his four gas cans. We quickly filled up with about 10 gallons of fuel, replenished our meager snack supply, and headed back to the airfield.
We only added about six or seven gallons of fuel to the tanks, but that was the extra hour or so worth of flying that we would need to feel safely within our distance and transit time projections. We donated the rest of our fuel, and the requested Rice Krispy treat, to our friendly mogas host.
Now, with this little delay we needed to update our flight plan and new arrival time in Northway, Alaska. John got on the phone with Edmonton Center and confirmed some final departure information. Seems they recognized that we had made an unplanned stop (they’re pretty sharp folk).
“You weren’t supposed to stop,” was the professional, yet terse statement from Edmonton Center.
“Uh, OK…” John paused. “We did.” Another short pause.
“Needed to stop for fuel before crossing into Alaska,” he continued.
I’m standing there laughing at the notion that there are somehow consequences for making unplanned fuel stops. Sure, you’re supposed to follow a flight plan. But an unplanned stop is, well, unplanned. Yup, these things happen.
It was probably not a big deal, but the official rank and file protocol for border entry/exit makes some officials a little testy I guess. Another half-chuckled muttering escapes my lips. My third “whatever” of the day! Wow, I’m on a roll. One more phone call and we can get underway.
Seems that the gal at the US border office wasn’t so thrilled about our change in plans either. “Wha….” I cut myself off, refraining from a potential full house sweep.
Alright. Tanks full. Confidence boosted. Logistics filed. Good-bye Canada!
The weather over the mountains really wasn’t too bad. We did a little dance with a menacing cumulonimbus, but for the most part we followed the ALCAN and crept up on the foothills of some much larger mountain ranges than we had seen previous to this.
This leg’s cruising altitude of 8,500’ took Zippy a good thirty minutes to achieve. I didn’t hear any objections from the trusty old four cylinder, but ya know… you just sit there… and wait. At this point I was more worried about what kind of good ‘ole TSA-style American pat down I was going to be subjected to at the border.
A few cars were driving along the ALCAN Highway. I think some of them may have even been making better time than our headwind beleaguered Zippy down the straight stretches. But we had the advantage of geographic shortcuts not afforded to the landlubbers below, cutting a five-hour road trip to two hours by air.
Landing at Northway, Alaska, was simple enough. The voice on the radio said to park by the flagpole and wait for the border agent. We taxied by a few run down vacant buildings, scanning for a fuel station on our way to the designated inspection spot. Didn’t see anything obvious. “We’ll go inside and chat with the radio guy after this,” we decided.
An official-looking dark blue Ford Explorer pulled up next to us and we were greeted with a half-tired and almost bored-sounding “hello.” There was a constant chatter from some rectangular machine the uniformed agent was holding. It had a striking resemblance to the Ghost Trap from Ghostbusters. “This thing is always going crazy around here,” he complained as if it was no big deal.
My understanding is that the sheet metal clad box is supposed to detect radiation or something like that. It ain’t supposed to just be going off all crazy-like in the middle of nowhere is it? Our friendly agent didn’t seem very concerned with that, or any other part of this particular port of entry inspection.
He casually glanced at our passports, writing down a few things, then commented on the fact that we were brothers. After that bit of official drudgery he stepped next to the plane with his probably-too-expensive chatterbox and says, “See, it shuts up when I put it next to the plane. But it goes nuts when I lower it towards the ground. I told ‘em it just doesn’t work here. This place is screwed up. Something about how they built the field.”
Uhhhhh. Ok?... I chose not to pry, even though it would have been a lot of fun to learn some new Ghostbusters theory. This guy just didn’t seem to have the energy for that sort of thing.
“Do you have any fruit or food in the plane?”
“Just a couple bananas and some trail mix,” I revealed.
“OK.” And not even a glance in the windows.
Next semi-official-sounding question: “Do you have your entry decal?”
“I ordered it online, but it didn’t arrive before the trip,” John replied. “But I have the receipt with me.”
“Oh, OK,” came the disinterested reply as our new best friend was trying to finally switch off his buzzing Ghost Trap-looking Geiger counter.
John proceeded to comb through a list of emails on his iPhone to find the receipt, which I’m now certain was a complete waste of time given the overly casual demeanor of this particular inspection. In fact, I don’t think the guy even looked at the screen when John placed the phone in front of him to confirm receipt of said entry decal. Well, so much for red tape and a boy-howdy pat down. This was too easy.
It looked like we breezed through the inspection just fine. We shook hands with the agent and then proceeded to walk to the radio building as the blue SUV drove away.
The resident FAA radio operator behind the counter was wearing a blue Montana State University Bobcats T-shirt. “Go Cats,” I cheerfully exclaimed in his general direction. “I’m from Missoula, so don’t tell anyone,” I followed.
Turns out this guy was from Power, Montana, a small farming community north of Great Falls. I told him that I’ve actually been to his old school building there. He was less than impressed. Oh well. It really wasn’t much to be impressed with anyway.
After the howdy-do, where-ya-goin’, get-ta-know-ya pleasantries we finally get down to the nagging question of: Where can we fill up?
It’s at this point that I finally noticed a small hand-drawn poster on the counter that read:
Welcome to Northway, Alaska.
No food.
No fuel.
No lodging.
No reception.
Well, gee. Welcome, indeed!
Good on us for making that last minute stop back at Haines Junction. The town of Tok (pronounced toke) wasn’t more than 40 miles away, but ya just never know when you’ll really need those fuel reserves!
We wrapped up our small talk, and headed out for Tok. It wasn’t far, but there were several storm cells that had been moving around the region. We made a meandering path westward and finally spied the Tok airstrip. The gusting wind wasn’t exactly encouraging of our only choice in landing orientation, but John thought he might be able to correct for the reported 17-knot crosswinds just enough to get us down.
John carefully came down on approach, paying special attention to how strong the wind was pushing us around. We were about 15’ off the runway when he decided to abort the landing. We had a few gallons of Haines’ finest mogas to keep us aloft for a little bit. If we waited long enough, we might just see this storm blow past.
Taking the scenic tour around the area revealed some old forest fire zones, and some that weren’t so old. We saw a nice lake, a few other small airstrips, and then found a Cessna 206 heading across our path, inbound for Tok. John radioed the other pilot and asked for a landing report when he touched down. A few minutes later, the report came back with semi-favorable conditions at the airfield.
All told, we had about a 30-minute detour circling around the area, dodging lightning and chasing mosquitos. A landing to the east proved to be smooth as silk in the after-storm calm that now basked the small town. Zippy made a bee-line for the above ground fuel tanks and John readily obliged the thirsty wings with some proper 100LL AVGAS.
It was time again for all of us to have a small reprieve from the day’s journey from Watson Lake. We were in Alaska now; we could afford such luxuries. We had cellular reception here as well, so we each checked in with our 21st century obligations. And there was a GPS unit to reload with Alaska flight maps. Finally!
The local FBO WiFi Internet connection left something to be desired, but it maintained just enough of a downlink that we could see a crawling progress bar nudging in the right direction. I walked down the road to a convenience store, stretching my legs as I carried back some snacks and hot coffee.
When I returned from my walk about town, I could tell that John was feeling the fatigue that was earnestly catching up to us both, so I told him to go lay down in the grass behind the plane as I monitored the GPS update progress. There were a few phone calls I could make and some antsy relatives I should update with our progress thus far.
A gal at the office desk indicated that the FBO would be closing soon, so I moved the operation just outside the door on the deck while I paced around and yammered on the phone (two more firmly-cemented Wasem family traditions). The update progress bar showed 98% complete an hour later, and John was stirring in the grass, so we started to prepare for our next leg of the trip.
John gave me the decision of either taking the shorter route and ending our trip in Wasilla, where a free hangar space was available, or bearing toward our original destination of Nome.
Uhhhhh… How can there possibly be any honor in my recounting a story in which we travel the better breadth of the continent and don’t end up in historic Nome, Alaska? Yeah, no chance of that! I chose Nome. It’s what the pilot and his plane really wanted anyway.
We figured we could make at least two more flights before the increasingly insistent sandman would finally catch us. A northwest heading toward Nenena seemed reasonable, and we’d bypass the busier air traffic center of Fairbanks to the north.
There were a couple of thunderstorm cells to circumnavigate as we headed out of Tok, but the rest of our straight and level flight to Nenena featured resplendent sunset views of the 20,310’ Denali (North America’s highest mountain peak, also known as Mount McKinley). Majestic. It’s hard for me to imagine a better way to see this part of the world.
Friday July 15th, 2016
Nenena, Alaska
I actually can’t remember a whole lot about our landing at Nenena, other than that it was about 1 AM and the sky was all manner of pink and blue and dusty Alaskan twilight. What I do remember vividly though is the impeccable self-serve fuel station and concrete service apron. This place must have received some recent federal funding! Definitely the nicest fuel stop on the trip.
Alaska’s famous mosquitoes were beginning to make their presence known, but that wasn’t able to distract me from capturing one of my favorite photos of the trip.
Alaska’s famous mosquitoes were beginning to make their presence known, but that wasn’t able to distract me from capturing one of my favorite photos of the trip.
Twilight at Nenena, 1:13 AM local time
One. More. Flight. Before. Sleep. We could do this.
John’s eyes were looking really heavy by now. But Galena was just a three-hour smooth flight away, and the fuel station there didn’t open until 10 AM, so we knew we could catch up on some much needed sleep there. I took over the controls for some more straight and level flying, a mind-numbing chore at this point, so that my pilot could recharge enough to get us safely back on terra firma.
I relentlessly fought with my eyelids. Keeping my eyes darting between the instrument panel and the horizon seemed to help a bit, but the pink haze surrounding us was its own lullaby. John stirred occasionally, probably making sure Zippy hadn’t assumed some magical autopilot mode, then would go back to a blank stare out the window. He must have known that I caught him nodding and bobbing back in an attempt to avoid sleep, later telling me that I shouldn’t let his head “fall over like that again.” I laughed, mumbling that any amount of rest at this point was worth a mild crick in the neck.
He probably wouldn’t consider it a recharge, but an hour break from active flying was enough for John to take the controls back. I wanted to fall asleep badly, but viciously staved off my slumbering tendencies. We were both dog tired, but only one of us needed to land this plane and I wasn’t about to let a little sleep deprivation keep me from making sure that that person was John. He needed to stay awake way more than I needed the sleep.
It was obvious to even me that I was generally incoherent in my mumbling as the early morning dew settled somewhere below us. John seemed to get a special kick out of seeing his brother succumb to the babbling mess that withheld sleep can create. I have no shame on this account. He stayed awake, and I am alive. And it’s a new day, so … mumble bumble mumble… whatever.
Galena finally came into sight. John had been here once before while co-piloting Bering Air’s Beech 1900D and dropping off firefighter crews at the regional BLM base. He says there is a pilot’s lounge behind the cafeteria, and if we’re lucky we may even be able to snag some food in the morning. I’m fine with just the sleep; anything else is bonus.
We tied down next to a couple workhorses in BLM’s fight against Alaska wildfires: The Fire Boss. I’m falling-over-tired by now, but I still can’t help admiring the raw power and utility that these planes exude.
The Fire Boss is an adapted version of the Air Tractor crop dusters that most of us have probably seen buzzing rural fields and showing off a little as they bank sharply and dive back towards the ground for another pass. First reactions to this plane rarely include the word “beautiful”, but its size and demeanor command respect even before it lifts off the ground.
Oh, and this thing can skim the water and scoop up 800 gallons in twelve seconds!
Air Tractor AT-802F Fire Boss, photo by Peter Unmuth
The lounge was dark and unoccupied when we crept through the door at 4 AM. It took more time to untie my shoes than it did to fall asleep in the old recliner by the window.
Not wanting to overindulge, we woke up at 8 AM and nearly sprung through the door with a burst of “almost there” energy. This could be our last stop IF the weather in Nome was inviting. We had a couple hours before the fuel station opened, so we walked across the lawn and popped in the back door of the BLM dispatch building.
We were bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, but the first government employee behind the desk wasn’t so thrilled about the day. And he was probably even less excited about the news that we crashed his lounge last night. Guess we’re not in Canada anymore, eh?
John persuaded our reluctant hosts to let us check the weather on their computer, but what he was unsuccessful at accomplishing was getting the green light on what had to be the eggs and ham we smelled next door. We were just nobodies flying through, even if John was trying to look semi-official with his company jacket. Oh well. There was a granola bar and a customs-cleared banana somewhere in the airplane.
Summertime weather in Nome can be surprisingly temperamental, as I found out. There is often a persistent marine layer and low ceiling that makes the coastal outpost seem a bit socked in. This can make an entry by VFR rather challenging. John might fly through these clouds every other day, but Zippy doesn’t yet have the certifications required for instrument-only operation. METAR forecasts were indicating the potential for higher ceilings, but things didn’t seem to be moving along too quickly.
It was a three hour and fifteen minute flight from Galena to Nome. There was a slight headwind and we knew that our four hours of onboard fuel would quickly run out if we couldn’t find a hole in the clouds to punch through once we arrived overhead. There were a few alternate airports to land at along the way, but only one of them had AVGAS, and it wasn’t entirely inline with our route of choice.
We’d already proved that mogas was a workable second option, so the small village of Elim due east of Nome was our first alternate. Unalakleet to the south with its “AVGAS Here” beacon would be our backup. Both airfields had reports of clear-to-broken skies, and we were confident enough in our odds of making one of them work if the weather in Nome wouldn’t clear for us en route.
Zippy probably never had so full a tank as when we left Galena. We didn’t want any surprises on what could be our last leg of the trip. A heading to the west was all we needed to really feel like significant progress was already being made today.
The airstrip at Elim sits in an area off Norton Sound that seemed to maintain a rather clear ceiling for some reason. Forecasts for that area hadn’t changed much when we checked an hour out from the southeast. Neither did the weather in Nome. Still 600’ ceilings and overcast. Not appropriate for a VFR landing.
John was monitoring the radio frequencies when he heard a fellow pilot from Bering Air announce his departure from Elim. He keyed up the mic and the two familiar voices worked out a few real-time regional weather details.
Seems that the ceiling in Nome was indeed a no-go for us. Elim was clear. And Unalakleet was fair. A moment of decision… Stop in Elim and borrow a gas can from one of the locals? Or head south to Unalakleet, where we could readily find AVGAS and rub elbows with the familiar folks there?
While John was mentally occupied sorting through the merits of landing at one or the other, I was more concerned with the pronunciation of Unalakleet. I’m sure he wanted to reserve his analytical capabilities for more important things, but I just had to know: Why is Unalaska simply pronounced uhn-uh-las-kah and Unalakleet is spoken as yoo-nuh-luh-kleet (and most of the time leaving out the middle “luh”)? I wasn’t too satisfied with John’s explanation, and he was even less thrilled to provide it. Trivial. I’ll discover the etymology someday…
We were welcomed to the small commercial hub in Unalakleet with an offering of some delectable strawberry shortcake. Now, I’m not sure if it was truly that amazing, or if I was finally done with our more than consistent rations of trail mix and beef jerky. Either way, it went down real smooth with that cup of half-burnt coffee.
John chatted it up with his Bering Air buddies in their regional day-trip offices, and then we topped off the tanks with hopes that this would be today’s last pit stop. The cloud base in Nome had been slowly lifting throughout the morning. If the reports were true, it was looking like we might be able to punch through somewhere near Nome and then fly in to land below the now slightly higher overcast ceiling.
That all sounded good enough, but we chose to deliberate a few more minutes, attenuating any potential effects of the Get There Fever that can grip an unsuspecting pilot’s mind during the final stages of a voyage.
No fever. It was time.
A few cloudy wisps had intruded on our Unalakleet airspace prior to takeoff, so we requested special VFR clearance from the regional controllers at Anchorage Center, enabling us to depart under the low broken layer of clouds that hovered near the end of the runway. Blue skies above. And Nome was waiting.
Our flight to the northwest over Norton Sound was beautiful. Blue waters lapping the gravelly shoreline, tundra and mountains in the distance, and the occasional fishing village outpost made it clear: this was Alaska.
We flew directly over the Elim airfield. It was indeed free of clouds. Instead of taking our chances flying directly over Nome and trying to find a clear hole in the sky to drop down below the cloud cover, we decided to scoot under the overcast base west of Elim to follow the coastline into Nome.
In all of our scenic flying for the past 6 days, this was actually one of my favorite views from the right seat. Maybe it was because Zippy was built for this kind of low and slow flying. Or perhaps it was the blue-green water, rugged cliffs, and velvet tundra that extended the unassuming invitation. There couldn’t possibly be any influence of cerebral chemical reactions thundering a chorus of “We’re almost there…” In reality, I’m sure the feeling came from a strong combination of all three.
The coastline just east of Nome
The closer we got to Nome, the more hermit shacks and abandoned mining claims we flew past. There were a lot of stories left on these shores.
Turning inland revealed a few more tales to be told, like the giant iron dredge in the middle of a pond and Nome’s famous “Last Train To Nowhere” steam engine, rusting away the years in its never-finished tracks.
It seemed a little too surreal – the view at 600’ on approach to Nome City Field. Is this what it’s like to log 42.4 hours flying 2,947 miles in a 66 year old two-seat glorified aluminum tube and finally arrive at your destination of choice?
The answer is, “Yes. Amazing!”
This gravel strip landing was the smoothest yet, and the intrepid blue and white tail-dragger had finally touched down. Home at last.
Pointed down the short bush plane-lined runway were a few humble outbuildings under a muted overcast sky. No pomp. No formality. No ceremony. Just Alaska.
And that’s exactly how Zippy liked it.
Zippy’s Alaska
There may be a hint of emotion in there…
Two brothers at 3:49 PM local time on Friday July 15, 2016, having just landed in Nome, Alaska.
The Route
Image Courtesy of SkyVector.com
Lakeland KARV > Crystal Lake KMIC > Wahpeton KBWP > Minot KMOT > Regina CYQR > Sakskatoon CYXE > Lloydminster CYLL > Edmonton Villeneuve CZVL > Peace River CYPE > Fort Saint John CYXJ > Fort Nelson CYYE > Watson Lake CYQH > Whitehorse CYXY > Haines Junction CYHT > Northway PAOR > Tok PFTO > Nanena PANN > Galena PAGA > Unalakleet PAUN > Nome PAOM
About the Pilot
John Sherman Wasem is an Alaskan aviator, flying commercially for Bering Air in Nome, Alaska. Hailing from the Rocky Mountains of Western Montana, he discovered the Alaska way of life in Wasilla after serving nine years in the US Marine Corps. A pilot needs a plane, and Zippy is his first. You never forget your first.
About the Author
James Arield Wasem is an aspiring aviator whose present endeavors include the creation of training resources for live sound system operators and assisting friends and family with their technology integration projects. James and his wife Kate spend their free time traversing the mountains of the Pacific Northwest and reaching out to explore the world whenever possible.
James & John living the high life.