Red Carpet treatment at Prince George, British Columbia,
with the Trench safely behind us.After 200 nm and 1:20 minutes from Watson Lake, we were at the northern end of Williston Lake. This lake is man made and is formed by the damming of the Peace River The dam formed a massive lake in the form of a "T" lying on its side. We were traversing the top of the "T" from north to south while the dam was at the base of the "T" at the eastern end of the lake near Fort St John. The length of the lake is 150 nautical miles or 170 statute miles. Apparently, when they flooded the valleys they didn't cut down any trees so the lake is useless for fishing since all fishing lines get tangled in the tree trunks below. Boating, too, is nearly impossible since they are always hitting submerged logs.
The most significant impression of Williston Lake is of logging operations. Vast tracts of land surrounding the lake are clear cut. It really was quite ugly and served to remind us of the realities of modern life and our impending return to civilization. The lake itself serves as the shipping route for the logs. We saw one vast raft of logs being towed south by a boat. Apparently Mackensie is the mill town for Williston Lake.
We motored down the western edge of Williston Lake trying not to think of a forced landing in the lake. I had all sorts of visions of getting tangled up in submerged pine trees long since drowned in the murky waters and looking for revenge on the human race.
As we reached Mackensie, the enormous pulp plant and the highway welcomed us back into the modern world. It was here, ten days earlier that we had made the decision to fly IFR over the Rockies to Fort St. John In retrospect, it would have been far safer to have flown up the trench to Watson lake. We followed the highway for another 35 minutes and landed at Prince George at about 10:30. On our trip north, Prince George had been shrouded in a violent thunderstorm and we had skirted it by ten miles to the west. As we pulled up to the gas pumps, we were greeted by two post adolescent line boys who rolled out a red carpet at our feet. Commercialism was back in full force.
Red Carpet treatment at Prince George, British Columbia,
with the Trench safely behind us.
We had lunch in the shade of the gas shack. God bless Swiss Army knives. We went over to flight service to get a briefing for the rest of our trip. The weather in the Vancouver basin was poor: a low stratus overcast. So we filed an IFR flight plan requesting customs in Bellingham.
We took off a little after noon. The weather after takeoff continued beautiful with a few distant CBs (building future thunderstorms). We retraced our route of ten days earlier but there were major differences. The land which had seemed so foreboding, isolated, and hostile on the way north seemed as friendly and familiar as the Salinas Valley. In contrast to the Yukon and Alaska, it was. Unlike our earlier transit when we trembled to venture three miles from the umbilical of the highway, we boldly flew the airways from one navigational fix to the next.
The entire trip was 330 NM and was scheduled to take 2:35 minutes. We were right on flight plan. We initially flew at 9,000 feet and at the northern end of the Fraiser River Canyon we were given a climb to 11,000 feet. As we climbed to 11,000 feet, the stratus clouds filled in below us and totally obscured the rugged features of the canyon.
It looked benign, but I knew the horrible mountains that lurked below the fluffy stratus. This would be the worst place to have a total engine failure, since there would be little way to avoid the mountains in the clouds. Bad thoughts, so I put them out of my mind.
But it does make me think, why do I fly airplanes where there is the possibility, however slim, of death or injury? Why risk oblivion for myself and the same for innocent passengers? These are heavy thoughts. But the answer is clear and consistent. For the present, flying gives me more satisfaction and sense of accomplishment than any other thing that I do. For the long term, I don't want to be sitting in the old people's home thinking "Why didn't I experience more during my life". The memories that are associated with flying and flying trips are worth the risk. As for others at risk, I rationalize that flying is quite safe statistically.
We followed the low frequency route B22 since we were below the MEA (minimum enroute altitude) for the more commonly used Victor airways (which use the VHF VOR/DME stations). As we approached the US border at the Canadian town of Hope we were given vectors for the ILS approach to Bellingham. We descended into the clouds and transitioned to instrument flight. I felt a lot of confidence since I had more recent instrument flying than at any time since I owned Mike (the airplane). We broke out at 1,500 feet and made an uneventful landing at about 2:40 pm.
We taxied to the custom's area and parked outside in the designated areas. Remembering the regulations about not leaving the airplane until under the supervision of a customs agent, we just waited for one to show up. We waited and waited. We could see a person lounging at a desk just inside the building, but could not get his attention. Airplanes do not have horns, nor did I think they would have needed them, before this moment. After about ten minutes (which seemed much longer) he noticed us and came out to inspect us. Unlike the Northway man, he was pleasant, apologetic, and thoroughly professional. We were soon cleared and officially back on US soil.
We found a pay phone and called Robin giving our ETA at Blaine. After a potty stop and refueling, we fired up Mike for the thirty mile trip to Blaine. We took off to the north and with the clouds having lowered to 1,000 feet, we maintained 500 feet and followed Interstate 5 north. From that altitude (as with Merril Field) you can't see much. Finding Blaine airport would have been a problem except for the fact that I had been there the previous year. Its approximate location was a mile south east of the border crossing on the interstate. So we swung around in a low pattern for the airport I couldn't yet see and flew a slow approach for a landing to the south. Like magic, the airport appeared on our nose about a mile off and we landed on the 2,000 foot runway without problem. It was, no doubt, the heaviest landing of the trip (and for that matter, the heaviest landing for Mike) since we had just loaded full fuel and were probably one hundred pounds or so over legal gross weight. Oh well, as they say, any landing that you walk away from is a good landing. It was now about 4:00 pm and we felt that we had had a long day.
We waited a few minutes for Robin to arrived with son David in tow. We loaded up a small subset of our gear. Robin felt comfortable enough to tell me that I needed a bath. This confirmed my own suspicions on the limitations of deodorant. We passed through the border crossing without any discussion of why we had been in Canada an hour earlier. The first order of business was a long luxurious shower for the two of us (separately, of course). Then we sat down with a glass of wine and talked.
We had a lovely visit with Robin. Steve was away on business. Robin was very attentive and hospitable and David and Jennifer were fun.
Robin asked us what parts of the trip we liked the best. This question caught us off guard since Tory and I hadn't discussed it among ourselves. Nor had either of us thought about it much. Our answers were tentative since neither of us knew very much what the other thought. In fact, since we were still on the trip, I was not sure just what the lasting value of the trip would turn out to be. No doubt, we had had an interesting time, but I did not yet have the perspective to know with conviction that the trip was worthwhile.
There is no doubt in my mind that the best part of the trip was spending over two weeks with Tory. We had a great time together in a new type of relationship: adult to adult. She is a very congenial interesting person and we had fun sharing the experiences of the trip and each other. She was, in every sense, an equal partner on this trip, a real friend.
The flying was, in itself, a major experience. We spent over fifty hours in the air and the airplane performed perfectly. It was a challenge to do this trip safely and without stress and we did that. Never, were we uncomfortable in the airplane (except maybe for a few minutes of unexpected IFR enroute to Ft. St. John). Tory wasn't as caught up in the techniques of flying as I was but she seemed to enjoy the uniqueness of the experience and our seven league boots.
The most interesting flying legs were.
In terms of the touristy things we saw and did, in my opinion the best were:
In terms of complaints about the trip:
Showered and fed, we had a wonderful night's sleep. We awoke the next morning to cloudy sky with the promise of broken sky conditions at our time of departure. We had a nice breakfast and at about 10:00 left for Blaine. It was a relief not to have to pack the plane for once.
Vancouver was nearly socked in with low stratus, but I could see some breaks in the overcast. So we took off to the south. Blaine airport, at 2,000 feet in length, is none too long in our heavy takeoff condition. We had no problem but a small bank right to skirt the tall trees at the southern boundary of the airport was required. I looked up for an accommodating "hole" and saw a peek of blue sky above. We spiraled up through this small crack in the clouds. It took about ten tight spirals to get above the overcast which topped out at about 2,000 feet MSL. It was definitely not legal in terms of 2,000 feet horizontal separation from the clouds, but what the hell! Getting an instrument clearance from Vancouver Approach control (in Canada) for an ascent from Blaine (in the US) enroute to a US destination is awkward (having done it once).
We settled onto our southerly heading at 4,500 above a solid undercast. However, in all directions, magnificent volcanos poked up out of the clouds. We tried to contact the ever busy Seattle Center who ignored our calls. Thus we had to skirt the Seattle Terminal Control Area (TCA) to the west. That put us squarely on the flanks of Mt. Rainier which sits to the west of Seattle. We found ourselves momentarily squeezed between a segment of the TCA above us and the foothills rising to the mountain below. We snuck through without busting any airspace.
We headed south to Portland and climbed to 8,500. This route differed from our route northbound in that we were now on the western (rainy) side of the Cascades. After Portland, the undercast completely disappeared and it was a severe clear day, visibility at least 50 miles. Lots of logging was evident in Washington and Oregon. It's no wonder the spotted owl is having a rough time. The flight was smooth and uneventful but it seemed very long (3:38). By Medford we were really dragging. We crossed the Syskiyou Mountains into California and began a long descent into Red Bluff for fuel.
Unlike in Vancouver it was HOT in Red Bluff. As we descending we could feel it getting hotter and hotter. On the ground, out thermometer read 95 degrees. It had been regularly going over 100 degrees all week in Red Bluff. We had a dilemma. We were hungry and in a hurry to get home. We were not sure we had enough time to visit with George and Juanita (Gayle's parents) who live just a block from the airport. We decided it would be best to eat first and then give them a courtesy call. So we put together another (our last) sandwich of the trip and ate quietly at the park bench next to the flight line.
I called my in-laws and George answered. He said Juanita was baking and couldn't come over, but that he would be right out. Sure enough, in three minutes, his white car showed up. I dug out Don's rifle and gave it to George to pass on (since they see Don and Shelly in Susanville every few weeks). George is a man of few words, so our greetings were short and the conversation brief.
We took off and began our slow hot climb to 8,500 feet. I chose the altitude more for the temperature (cooler) than for the ground clearance since 6,500 would have done just fine. The short flight seemed much longer since the route is very familiar (and boring) and the accumulated fatigue of our three day flight from Dawson was beginning to have an effect.
The intrepid pilot feeling very butt
weary.
Salinas was overcast as the stratus had come in early. We skirted the fog to the west over the foothills and ducked under the overcast for a straight in landing to runway 26. We couldn't see the airport at all until we were about two miles out. The controllers were having some trouble sorting out the (mostly student) traffic blundering around in the haze. We landed without fanfare. I wanted to say "Hey, you guys, we've just arrived from Alaska", but resisted the urge.
The truck was snugly stored in the hanger where we had left it. We quickly unloaded all our gear into the bed of the truck. We drove home to Gayle who, we hoped, was waiting for our arrival. She was.
We were very tired. But of course we had to tell Gayle all our stories and she listened patiently.
We had spent 44 hours in the air since leaving Salinas 13 days earlier (an average of 3.4 hours per day). I estimated we had covered more than 6,000 miles over the ground.
The trip was over. Time and memory would prove it worthwhile. It has given me a great deal of pleasure thinking about it since and planning for the next one.
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