An Alaska barren ground caribou is an incredible animal in stature, heart, and spirit. The unexplainable inner fire that drives it to constant, unsettled movement is what makes the caribou so different from humans. But there is a certain small group of men and women who share that same need to experience what is beyond, what is yet unseen, untouched, and unspoiled.
Mark Lang, a Piper Super Cub pilot, is such a person. That constant itch for adventure, for crossing the familiar limits of the horizon, for putting what Lang calls his "ultimate flying machine" to the task, became apparent as Lang banked the yellow Super Cub hard to skim over a steep, shale-covered ridge. I was in Alaska to hunt caribou, and sharing the adventure with Lang made the months of planning worth the wait.
I wanted badly to find a big caribou bull lounging on the backside of that weathered ridge, but the best I could do was to focus on the subtle colors of the barren tundra below our wing. Lang's Super Cub seems at home driving through the mist and low-slung clouds of the Alaskan outback. The airplane had just pulled us up the steep incline of the ragged ridge line in our search for the wandering caribou of the Mulchatna herd. Now, as we topped the wind-swept ridge within spitting distance of the moss and lichens, Lang pulled the throttle back and let the Cub settle like a hungry eagle into the next brush-filled valley.
Lang's machine followed the contours of the tundra as the remote landscape rolled from barren, ragged ridges to gentle valleys of lush growth.
So this was tundra flying, I thought-the reason I had traveled so many hours from Ohio; from Anchorage and the cluttered air of Alaska's tourist-rich maritime region; and from tiny Port Alsworth, so close to the interior and our final touch with humankind. Lang, a skilled tundra pilot and equally skilled hunting guide, was showing me his neighborhood and showing it well. From ridge to ridge and through every dip in between, we scouted for signs of caribou. Warping our flight to the land, we examined the defined game trails for fresh spoor, and from greater heights we looked over tens of thousands of acres of nothing but rolling alpine tundra, searching for the tiny brown dots that might be the heavily antlered, nomadic animals that we sought.
Lang's Cub is set up for front-seat piloting. I was jammed in the rumble seat, sitting on something sharp, probably a tent pole or a can of beans.
We were already 50 miles from Port Alsworth, maybe three or four times that by the time you figure the wilderness covered, and we had yet to locate a single caribou.
The Mulchatna herd, an expanding herd of an estimated 180,000 caribou, range over a 40,000-square-mile stretch of the Alaska Peninsula. We finally found a sizable group of animals, maybe a few thousand, that seemed to be moving in waves along a desolate, winding river. They seemed unimpressed by the soaring yellow bird above, a mere speck of color in this land of wind, rain, and gray skies.
"They might be here today but gone tomorrow. We don't know why and we don't know where, but we know they never stop moving," Lang said, explaining that our strategy would be to locate a suitable campsite ahead of the herd, a gentle slope or ridge where we could land the Cub.
On previous big-game hunts in the same region, I had flown in float-equipped bush planes, aircraft that were limited to campsites near lakes large enough for maximum-gross-weight takeoffs. I wanted to experience an even deeper wilderness, and I knew from studying topographical maps of the region that some of the more remote tundra had little in the way of usable lakes. I checked with Cabela's Outdoor Adventures consultant Gregg Severinson, a man with a flawless reputation who suggested that I tap Lang's years of experience and the mobility of his Super Cub.
Now, as Lang and I surveyed the wilderness for a reasonable landing site, I wondered just how badly I wanted to find one. I was sitting on enough basic camp gear, food, and other goodies to last alone for at least a few days. How many was the question. If the weather held, Lang would return in a few hours with my hunting partner. If not, he might return the next day, or the next. I thought about the bears that we had seen from the air and the packs of wolves that hunt these same lands. I prayed for good weather, a luxury on the Alaska Peninsula.
Lang finally found what he was looking for, a tundra-covered slope that seemed suitable for landing. After several passes for inspection, Lang throttled back to 40 mph, added flaps, and settled onto the moss with the huge main tires. The Cub's rump dropped after a short roll. It felt good to uncork from my seat and, better yet, to breathe the crisp air of the wilderness. A small herd of caribou drifted by, paying little heed to the Cub or us.
"No time to waste. I'll head back for your partner and, hopefully, I'll be here with him and the rest of the gear today," Lang said, jotting down our campsite's GPS coordinates for his reference and my safety.
The Cub coughed, then roared. Lang taxied uphill and then swiveled to take advantage of the slope. I busied myself with the camera, fascinated to see the little Cub stand up on its mains within a few feet. Lang was airborne in less time than it takes to tell about it. Climbing into the gray Alaska sky, he swung over me and disappeared around the tip of a nearby mountain. Fortunately, he made it back with my buddy and the rest of our gear.
Over the next few days we would experience the wilderness as never before, including grizzly bears that claimed the local watering hole (we used another) and wolves that woke us at night with their wild songs.
Lang acknowledges the verbal bashing that tundra flying gets, accusations claiming that to fit an aircraft with balloon-like tundra tires and to land it on unproven vegetation is as silly as jumping from a working airplane-with or without a parachute.
Actually, the flying is no more hazardous than any other flying. It's the unplanned off-field landings that bend airplanes and break people. After our pre-hunt, preflight briefing, I was glad that I had selected Lang, a man with more than 20 years of tundra flying under his belt. He made it very clear that taking chances was not what tundra flying is all about. In fact, said Lang, it ought to be about taking the chances out of the equation. He considers tundra flying just a fact of wilderness travel, a large part of what he does as a professional wilderness pilot.
Since arriving in Alaska in 1976, Lang has been flying full-time out of Port Alsworth, a runway town of 90 hardy souls on the cobblestone beach of glacier-fed Lake Clark. Lang and his business associate, Glenn Alsworth, the owner of Lake Clark Air, outfit and service big game hunters, anglers, and adventurers on the Alaska Peninsula. The job requires an intimate knowledge of the vast territory, razor-sharp flying skills, and an uncanny feel for the challenging Alaska weather. The machine of choice is a Super Cub equipped with nearly every STOL mod available. Of course, the number one difference between Lang's Cub and the average Super Cub is a pair of huge 30-inch balloon tires that cushion landings on wild ridges and rubble-strewn tundra pastures.
Lang's Cub is a mod-enriched muscle machine that he affectionately calls his "hauler." A 180-hp Lycoming drives an oversized, 84-inch prop providing enough beef to haul a moose-literally. Two extra feet of wing per side, oversized ailerons and flaps, modified wing tips, and wing stall fences add additional control and lift during slow flight. Lang's Cub carries 68 gallons of fuel in the wing tanks and a belly pod; it is also equipped with an oversized rudder for critical slow-speed and taxi control.
The undercarriage of Lang's Super Cub, an impressive mass of tubing, adds not only the strength to protect the airplane, but also the extra height he needs to swing that huge prop. Giant shocks take the brunt of punishment. Of course, it's the huge tires that say "land me anywhere." The idea of tundra tires is to provide enough tread area to distribute the weight of the aircraft over unstable, uneven, and soft ground. "Nevertheless," Lang said, "you can't let the big tires give you a false sense of security."
According to Lang, smart tundra flying starts with a thorough assessment of each landing site, a judgment that starts with color. The tundra-a nearly treeless expanse of open land ranging from swamp-like flats, stone bluffs, and swales to more alpine terrain consisting of picturesque slopes, snaking ridges, and rock shelves-is a mix of color, much of which tells a story to experienced pilots.
Some colors, according to Lang, are better than others. "You just can't land anywhere-not if you want to do it safely, anyway," said Lang, explaining that much of the tundra looks the same from even a few feet in the air. Too much green might mean a moss-like web of tire-grabbing growth or even knee-high berry plants. Gray spots might be shale rubble, and a dark, shadow-like blotch may be a depression. Near-white coloration indicates a low, flat growth of lichens and mosses, a much safer landing zone for sure. Lang has learned about the colors over the years. He and Alsworth have hiked to many potential landing sites to check them out, and on many more occasions they have scouted strips by helicopter prior to using them for Cub landings. The rule, according to Lang, is that if there is any doubt, forget it.
In the course of placing some 200 or more hunters at various campsites across the vast tundra-covered region, Lang lands on new ground one or more times every day. "I think it figures out to be about 70 percent new landing sites for me," he said, listing careful evaluation of each site as his top priority.
"I'd never try a new spot in low light or without making several passes to look for potential problems," said Lang, adding that getting on the ground is just part of it. The rest focuses on return trips and likely crosswinds that might make future landings tough.
"I try to determine what the prevailing wind direction is going to be so that I can be assured of safely returning for later hauls," said Lang. Stiff crosswinds, especially those generated by tundra winds that can and do blow long and strong, have to be respected. Winds to 100 mph are not unheard of.
Alaska's caribou hunting season begins in early August and extends through April. Nonresident hunters who travel to the frontier state most often choose to hunt during a several-week period from opening day until mid-October. After that, the peninsula dishes out weather that even Lang can't handle. It doesn't take a genius to figure out that Lang must handle a lot of flights in a very short amount of time. That takes imaginative scheduling, patience, and flexibility. Flying activity around Port Alsworth, a frontier town frequently socked in by moisture-laden cloud decks, is often described as long periods of inactivity interrupted by short periods of chaos. In other words, when the clouds lift enough to allow a Cub to squeeze between them and the mountaintops, it's time to go.
Although the Cub is IFR-equipped, Lang flies only VFR when working the outback, relying heavily on a panel-mounted GPS and his compass. He often has a faster floatplane deliver his hunters to lakes on the tundra where he can meet them with the Cub for shuttling to spike camps. It's Lake Clark Air's version of tundra-time hopscotch, and it helps to make the best use of busy days.
Lang uses a flag system to check on his hunters in the field. If he is near a campsite, he flies a route that enables him to see the site. More accurately, he checks on the flag that hunters place at an agreed-upon spot. Green means everything is all right, blue means that he should stop to haul out a load of meat and antlers, and red means a lot of things-none of them good. "The flags save me a lot of time and keep me in touch with hunters who are basically on their own," said Lang.
When Lang snatched us from the tundra, we left little to mark our passing-just a few scattered footprints and a set of Cub tracks on the fragile lichens. The wind and rain would soon hide those temporary infringements. What we took, however, can never be lost-great memories of the tundra and a unique flying experience.
For more information, contact Cabela's Outdoor Adventures at 800/346-8747.
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