My early flying years had been spent around Seward, a coastal community adjacent to Resurrection Bay in south-central Alaska. The eastern Kenai Peninsula, where Seward is situated, is primarily mountainous with beautiful valleys, passes, and ice fields. The Harding Ice Field is a large expanse approximately the size of Connecticut, nestled among the mountaintops of the Chugach Mountains between Seward and Homer. It was over this ice field that a disaster was narrowly avoided by one last piece of luck.
I met a doctor, whom I'll call Dr. Novice, through my employment as a banker. We established a friendship through common interests in hunting; fishing; and, of course, flying. The doctor was a new pilot and new to Alaska, and he asked me to show him some prime sheep-hunting country. We arranged to meet on a weekend to look around for the trophy he wanted to hang on his wall. The sun rose early, as is normal in summertime Alaska, and on that Saturday we departed Anchorage's Merrill Field in his newly acquired Maule. He wanted to fly his airplane to acquaint himself with the route to the Kenai and get some practical mountain flying experience. Mistake number one was my not flying my Piper Super Cub with the novice in the back.
Our flight to the Harding Ice Field was uneventful, with some casual exploration up several valleys to look for critters such as moose, bear, and the newly planted caribou herd. As we bored holes in the air, the day turned absolutely gorgeous with maximum sunshine, and the temperature rose to non-Alaskan heights. What started out as a very smooth flight turned into a bumpy one with the thermal-loaded air jarring the Maule. No problem, I thought, because we would soon be over the ice cap and the cooler air would be silky smooth.
As we approached the head of the Indian River, we spotted several small groups of rams adjacent to the ice cap at lower elevations trying to stay in the cool air next to the ice. Dr. Novice wanted to take a closer look at the curls on the rams' horns and proceeded to fly toward the mountain. Early in the flight I had told him to fly toward any peaks or hills at 45-degree angles, in case we needed to turn away in a hurry because of winds or downdrafts. He seemed to be remembering my instructions and was watching the peaks and airspeed. I relaxed; mistake number two.
As we flew closer to the sheep, he spotted two rams up a tight valley and turned to enter between the peaks. I shouted at him not to go in there, but it was too late. The floor of the valley immediately began a gradual rise. I shouted to turn back, but it was too late; we were caught in the rush of cold air flowing to the lower elevations. The winds coming off the ice caps reach 30 to 40 knots on a hot day, and we were sucked into the lower elevations of a valley that dead-ended into a sheer vertical wall of ice and rock. No way out, no room to turn. I shouted, "You better slow this damn thing down before we hit."
I looked over and saw that he had pulled full flaps and flattened the prop. The headwind combined with the flaps had slowed us down, and we were hanging on the prop heading for the final moments of our lives. I braced myself with outstretched arms against the instrument panel and thought "this is it."
Just before impact, a small break in the valley wall appeared to one side. The break probably was formed by seismic action long ago and was a separation in the wall not more than 50 feet wide. It acted as a venturi between the ice cap and the valley. Wind was flowing out of it at a tremendous rate. The airplane immediately weathervaned 90 degrees into it. The wind flowing over the top of the peak finished the job of turning the airplane around, and Dr. Novice and his white-knuckled copilot were spit back down the valley from which they had come.
When we exited the valley, I glanced at my friend. He glanced at me, and we both knew how lucky we had been. We landed at an oil exploration strip to calm down and stop shaking. I had braced myself so hard with my arms and torso that when I relaxed coming out of the valley, my entire back went into a spasm and took several days to completely relax.
I flew subsequently with Dr. Novice several other times, and we had several other incidents that made me reevaluate my flying with him. He finally quit flying and took up boating. In fairness to Dr. Novice, he did not panic, which would have been extremely easy to do under the circumstances and probably would have led to the loss of an airplane and two lives.
As for me, this violent encounter with a leeward downdraft reinforced the fact that nobody can get complacent in such unforgiving terrain. With my knowledge of the terrain and how to read the effects it has upon the wind, I should never have let myself get into such a position in the first place.
Patrick J. Alvarez, AOPA 310811, of Anchorage, Alaska, has been flying for 34 years and has accumulated 5,000 hours. He owns a Piper Super Cub.
"Never Again" is presented to enhance safety by providing a forum for pilots to learn from the experiences of others. Manuscripts should be typewritten, double-spaced, and sent to: Editor, AOPA Pilot, 421 Aviation Way, Frederick, Maryland 21701.
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