The south side of Mount St. Hellen.
Mount Rainier is in the background.We awoke at Prineville and did our usual morning chores: coffee, toilet (don't ask where), breakfast, cleanup, and camp breaking. Packing always took about an half hour or more but we got so we could break camp and pack pretty quickly after we each had our jobs understood.
As we were having breakfast, a car drove up to the big hanger next to the one we were near. It turned out that central Oregon's biggest tire dealer, Les Schwab, has its headquarters in Prineville and this was where they kept their Citation corporate jet. We were worried that 1) we were in the way and 2) the jet, when started, would blow us away. Neither was a problem and we spoke to the two pilots who turned out to be very friendly and interested in what we were doing.
One of the pilots had a lot of Alaska experience. He offered one piece of advice that proved very helpful (this very day, in fact). When learning that I was instrument rated and that the airplane was appropriately equipped, he advised us not to be afraid to fly on instruments in Alaska. This went against all the previous Alaska wisdom I had heard. I listened and, as it turned out, we did a lot of instrument flying. Without instrument flying we would have been stuck on several occasions or would have had to resort to low visibility low altitude flying.
Our next leg took us to Abbotsford near Vancouver and into Canadian airspace. The high point of this trip was a flight around Mount St. Helens. The area around the mountain still looks devastated and the Spirit Lake area is just a mud flat.
The south side of Mount St. Hellen.
Mount Rainier is in the background.
Getting through the Seattle TCA (Terminal Control Airspace) was
an exercise in patience as they didn't want to talk to us at
first. We persisted and finally they let us fly over the TCA (our
right anyway) and right over downtown Seattle. Puget Sound was
beautiful and since the weather was absolutely clear we could see
quite a bit from Mt. Rainier to Mt. Olympus.
We arrived at Abbotsford at about 12:30 and customs consisted of a phone interview. We were advised that handguns are prohibited in Canada and could cause the confiscation of our airplane if found. We assured them "no handguns".
Landing at Abbotsford revealed a curious Canadian custom. When cleared to land they always say "Check gear down". When I heard this for the first time I became quite concerned since I thought there must be some problem with the gear which, so far as I knew, was down and locked. I quickly checked and learned later it is a routine reminder for all aircraft, sometimes even those with fixed gear.
We had lunch at a little coffee shop at the airport and prepared for out departure at about 2:45 pm. One difference between US and Canadian flying is that VFR (visual flight rules) flight plans are mandatory in Canada. So we filed our flight plan to Fort St. John which is basically at the start of the famous Alaska highway. Our route of flight was to be up the Fraiser River Canyon to Williams, Quesnel, Prince George, and then by a highway pass across the Canadian Rockies to "John" which is on the plains to the east of the mountains. I grumbled a bit to have to add another quart of oil to the airplane after only two hours of flight.
Since our departure was well into the afternoon there was increased turbulence and cloud buildups. The weather forecast indicated the possibility of some afternoon thunderstorms.
Our navigation methods changed a bit from this point on. We were definitely using the road as our guide. Also we started using our ADF (low frequency receiver) more. This instrument is rarely used in the U.S. but it quite necessary in Canada because of the large separation between the more usual VHF navaids. Tory had designated herself as chief navigator so she was giving the directions.
We followed the Fraiser River Canyon for about 100 miles after leaving Hope, BC. It is really rugged with steep walls and a rocky angry looking river. On both the east and west sides are unbroken steep mountains. A roadway is gouged out of the canyon walls. Every so often there is a flat space big enough for a town. This canyon would be a bad place for a forced landing.
All went well until I glanced over at the map and noticed that we had just gone past a critical right turn in the canyon. Tory had not really gotten the feeling for how fast the airplane goes in relationship to the map and thought we were about fifty miles further back. We did a timely course change and were soon out of the canyon and over flat ground once again. Thereafter Tory's navigation was right on. The turbulence in the canyon was mildly annoying.
We were awed with the fact that we were flying over "Sparsely Settled Areas". We hugged the road as if a grizzly bear would attack if we got off course. This was all by the book. Frankly, there was a sense of foreboding as we headed into the "unknown". The ironic part of this behavior was that during our return flight over this same area we felt we were nearly home and flew direct from one navigational fix to the next. By then we knew what sparsely settled area really were.
Although there weren't many towns, there was always some sign of human habitation. Most of the land that wasn't swampy was farmed or mined.
As we proceeded north over this relatively flat land, the clouds increased. There were occasional rain showers most of which we were able to avoid and still stay near the highway. As we went by Prince George at about 4:00 pm there was real gully washer in progress over the town. We missed most of it by keeping to the west and got some good pictures of the resultant rainbows.
Thunderstorm over Prince George, British Columbia
as we pass by five miles to the west.
Rainbow from thunderstorm over
Prince George.
But it was clear that the weather was somewhat worse than forecast.
We proceeded north to a town called Mackensie at the southern tip of Williston Lake. At this point we planned to leave the flats and follow the highway through the Rocky mountains for about 100 miles. But there was no way. The clouds were nearly on the deck and the pass was clearly closed. The choice was to land at Mackensie (private airport), thread our way back through the rain showers to Prince George or try to fly IFR over the Rockies to St. John.
I chose the latter option. It appeared I would be heeding the advice of the Prineville pilot (was it only this morning that we had that conversation) sooner than I thought. This plan was aided by one fortunate circumstance. To continue on instruments we needed an air traffic clearance. To get a clearance I needed to talk to an air traffic controller at Edmonton Center. At Mackensie there was a so-called RCO (Remote Communication Outlet) connected to Edmonton. In spite of being in the wilderness and in the mountains, I could talk to ATC as if I were on the telephone.
I called Edmonton Center and requested a clearance to Fort St. John. Within minutes we were on our way up into those dark ugly swirling clouds. The weather wasn't that great but there was no serious rain and no thunderstorms. A few times we got a look down through a momentary break in the clouds to the even uglier Rockies below us. And they weren't that far below us in spite of being at 9,000 feet.
The only possible problem was airframe icing. The temperature at 9,000 feet was exactly 0 degrees Celsius and there was plenty of moisture. Although it was a bit warm for ice, I wished I had left a little greater margin to react (descend) if there was icing. On the other hand, I was in a no descent situation for only about 75 miles (30 minutes). I figured we could tough it out with ice for a little while if we had to.
It took about forty five minutes to get to St. John. The weather lightened up after we crossed the Rockies and the actual weather at St. John was good enough to shoot a visual approach (600 foot scattered clouds, 800 foot broken clouds, 40 miles visibility). We landed and tied down at the Northern Caribou hanger next to a red Cessna 170 and pitched our tent before the heavy rain hit.
Our second campsite was in a grassy area in the lee of a big Northern Cariboo (sic) DC-3. I felt we had really rejoined an earlier age of flying. We had landed at about 6:30 pm. We set about getting oriented, talked to two older men in a red Cessna 170 tail dragger (also enroute to Alaska), made dinner (entirely within the tent because of the rain), washed up in the airline terminal, and were then about ready to turn in. But something was wrong, it was 9:45 pm and it was still light is spite of the gloomy weather. We were going to have to get used to this.
Our Campsite at Fort St. John near
the DC-3 belonging to Northern Cariboo Airlines. Note the gloomy
skies. We had just landed after our IFR flight over the Rockies.
We awoke at Ft. St. John ("John to everybody up here) to find the airport surrounded by mist and low clouds. The weather was just plain lousy. A check of the weather didn't forecast any improvement for a day or two. But the bad weather was localized and was much better to the north. It looked like more instrument flying.
I noticed more oil leaking from the cowl and decided to take this opportunity to have a mechanic look at the engine. I walked over to Northern Cariboo. Their operation looked top notch, clean and modern with several mechanics busily working on various aircraft. The chief mechanic was very friendly and said he would be happy to look 08M over. Would I taxi it over right away, he suggested. We did and Tory and I went off to check the weather and buy some ice.
I returned about 45 minutes later. The mechanic called me over. Our conservation went like this:
"How's your engine been running"
"Just fine"' I replied.
"Are you sure".
"Yes, I'm sure. Why?" I was getting suspicious.
He went on to explain that they had found oil leaking from one of the two magnetos. When they handled the magneto it was loose to the touch. It should have been firmly bolted to the engine. He said any further loosening and there would have been the possibility of a catastrophic engine failure as the gears sheared off.
I was stunned. I recalled the last hour of flying over the Rockies in the clouds. The last few days the engine was trying to tell me something. "Look at me you dummy, I'm leaking oil". And I was thinking it was nothing to get worried about.
Then I got to thinking. How did these bolts get loose. They are supposed to run thousands of hours and never loosen up. Then I remembered. Del Monte Aviation had removed the magneto to replace the oil line. Those turkeys. They forgot to tightened the bolts. Damn! I would deal with them later.
Did somebody (up there) make the weather marginal so that I would have time to get the engine checked and repaired? My reaction was somewhat strange, I thought. I should be shaking, but instead I was so relieved to discover that there was an explanation for the oil leak and that it was now fixed. I felt a supreme confidence in my engine. I felt like the wretch who was lost but now is found. Amazing Grace.
The weather was truly evil looking. There were wisps of fog hanging down nearly to the ground. The clouds were black and turgid in just the direction that we wanted to travel (North).
I pondered the filing of an instrument flight plan. All the admonitions in favor of contact flying came back to me. "Stay in contact with the road". To fly IFR we would have to fly the airways, 30 or 40 miles to the east of the Alaska Highway which loops off to the west. The spirits whispered in my ear. "If you go down, they'll never find you". The two old codgers in the red Cessna shook their head and headed for the tourist delights of Ft. St. John.
Fog and clouds obscured the skies as
we prepared to leave Fort St. John on our next leg to Watson
Lake. It looked worse than it really was.
I decided to file the instrument flight plan. We were to follow the low frequency airways which were lower. We took off into the gloomy north and were soon enveloped in the clouds. It was good flying. Only a few bumps and occasionally we got a glimpse of the ground below. It was truly empty. Rolling ridges. Forests. Muddy rivers. Swamps.
As we approached Ft. Nelson, the halfway point, the weather cleared up and we were only occasionally in the clouds. Although we were navigating by the ADF, we were out of range of the DME for only a few minutes and never lost the VOR signal. The voice communication with Edmonton center was also pretty good. We were feeling pretty good to have proven the contact flyers wrong.
At Ft. Nelson we turned westward and the airways followed the Laird River Valley. The highway swung away to our south and once again the clouds took over. The occasional break showed a dark mountainous bleak terrain below us as we recrossed the Rocky Mountains, this time going west. We climbed up to the MEA (minimum enroute altitude) of 8,000 where the temperature indicated 0 degrees Celsius (the freezing point).
The clouds were getting darker. We were in and out of light to moderate rain. The turbulence was picking up. All of a sudden in the middle of a heavy rain shower the airplane vibrated like a snare drum. The noise was deafening. Tory turned to me with some alarm. "Hail", I said trying to be professional. ("Ladies and Gentlemen, we are passing through an area of light hail. There is no danger but there will be some noise. We will soon pass clear. [sotto voce] Hopefully the hail will be small and light because large hail make the airplane look like a golf ball and will render it unairworthy". As soon as it started, the hail was behind us.
After nearly three hours in the air we approached Watson Lake. Watson Lake is on the extreme southern boundary of the Yukon Territory. This is the land, I thought, of Sergeant Preston and his wonder dog King, sourdough bread, the Klondike, Sam McGee, and gold. We had really made it into the "far north". As we approached the airport, the ground we could see was verdant and lush. It was rich with fecundity as only 22 hours of daylight can make it. The airport itself is nestled on the very edge of Watson Lake, a body of water of considerable size and beauty.
I reported my position twenty miles to the East and was told I was cleared for "an approach". We now had one of those Canadian American misunderstandings due to different procedures and practices in the air. I asked which approach was I cleared for (they have two). In the U.S. I had always been cleared for a specific approach. He said, much too critically, I thought, that he didn't care and that I was cleared for THE approach and would I please read back the clearance. I complied and then cancelled IFR as the airport was now clearly visible. We landed and taxied to the gas shack.
The Watson Lake Flight Service Station (FSS) is located in one end of the commercial terminal. Since the air terminal always seemed deserted, the FSS is the center of activity at the airport. It seemed to be manned by two specialists and a dog at all times. In the remote areas of Canada, the FSS also perform elements of air traffic control when radio contact with Edmonton Center is not possible. In addition, they perform a social function on the airways with the numerous transient aircraft both native and tourist. We spent a fair amount of time in the FSS and found them superior to their US counterpart.
Shortly after we arrived, the heavens opened and poured for over an hour. Five centimeters in one hour they said. During that time some guy in a Cessna was orbiting "out there" unable to get in. He had a cool head and got a lot of support from the FSS. As the thunder and lightening moved off, he flew in, none the worse for wear. I wonder how I would have handled that one.
As the rains let up, we taxied over to the campground on the other side of the airport right next to the lake. This campground was, without doubt, the best we found during our trip. There was a wooded area right next to the campground that contained the privy and there was fresh water and picnic tables. The best feature, though, was the beautiful lake. We slogged through the puddles and pitched camp.
The view from our campsite across
Watson Lake, a place of particular beauty.
As soon as the tent was up, I assembled my fishing rod and small collection of lures. As a total non-fisherman, I had spent several hours in Sydney Australia (the prior week) practicing casting into the Macquarie Resort Hotel's olympic sized swimming pool. I thought I was pretty adept. I fished with no success for some minutes and Tory requested a try. She was as inexperienced as I and made one tentative cast about ten feet out. I could tell she was having some difficulty reeling it in but to both our surprise, her first cast landed a fish. That was the good news. The bad news was that it was about six inches long. With much tenderness, I removed the hook and set him free to float away belly up. We did get him turned right-side-up and he revived after awhile.
I took over again and soon bagged an eight inch fish. Since this poor guy was hooked in the eye, we couldn't put him back in. Therefore I cleaned and scaled him and we had him for dinner (along with some other things). It was really quite tasty.
The big game fisherman holds up
dinner. This was the big one
.
At this point a "dune buggy" ATV came cruising toward us on the small road that ringed the airport. I was very worried about the legalities of fishing without a licence. So I pitched the rod in the bushes and we stood there like two Cheshire cats who hadn't been doing anything.
The man on the dune buggy came by and wanted to talk. We were thinking fish warden and were very non-communicative. Just when he looked like he was getting ready to leave he asked "You guys got a fishing rod". "Oh my god", I thought, "We're Caught". At least two days in the Watson's Lake civil gaol. I sputtered out my answer (I was never good at lying), "Yeeees..Sir". "Well", he said, "You should try that dock down the lake a bit". He sped off on his ATV.
I looked over at Tory. On the front of her shirt, as plain as could be, was caught the fishing lure with the line trailing off into the bushes. I was glad I hadn't told a lie. The man certainly would have wondered why we had fishing lures on our clothing without a fishing rod somewhere.
After dinner (fish and pasta), we walked back to the air terminal/FSS. We called Tory's aunt Hillary in Anchorage. Hillary was just a little girl when I last saw her in New York twenty years earlier. She was now the mother of two small children and neither Tory nor I knew whether or not we would be welcome visitors. Tory had a pleasant talk with Hillary's mother-in-law (who apparently lived with Hillary and her husband) and it seemed we would be welcome. Anyway, we were to call when we got to Anchorage. This was a great relief to us both.
I also called Gayle back home in Salinas who told me that all the checks were bouncing and that I had obviously made some dreadful mistake. I asked her to move some money between our accounts. Later I figured out that I had recorded the deposit of my last paycheck twice and my company had, of course, only paid me once.
We returned to the campground just as a Bonanza (or "V-tailed doctor killer" as Gordon Baxter calls them) rolled up. Out jumped three men. One was about seventy five, the second was a younger crippled man, and the third (obviously the pilot) was yelling at the other two. This plane had flown up VFR through the trench, gotten lost, run short of gas, and had somehow found an airport to refuel and had continued merrily on their way. The crippled man confided in me that "Bill" was a hell'va pilot or else he wouldn't fly with him because otherwise he was a miserable human being.
It turned out that they were off for two weeks of camping, fishing, and boozing. Great fun. At eleven o'clock Bill was still ranting and raving (in a very loud voice) about how you can always pick out a New York Jew-boy because....(I can't remember how) but he had the system down pat, it appeared.
At Watson Lake we felt we were really in the Arctic. At ten thirty we watched a beautiful sunset. Then it got really cold. The night was not a happy one.
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