We are a diverse lot, we pilots. While there are numerous jokes about pilots with large watches trying to cash a check, we are, in reality, an amalgamation of all colors, religions, backgrounds, political points of view, and economic standing. Despite this, we share a very powerful common bond—a delight in viewing our world from aloft. We have watched the sun rise over the curve of a secluded beach. We have viewed, among vast mountains, valleys hidden from the view of all but the few who venture aloft. We have known the sharp pleasure of watching a forest turn to orange as the last light of a sunset catches the trees. And, almost unanimously, we seek to share these visions with those who are important to us. We plot and scheme to get our friends or families into airplanes at just the right time of day—to show them the morning fog nestled in the lakes of northern Minnesota; the silvery thread of a long, slender Colorado waterfall glistening in the afternoon sunlight; or the serenity of a Louisiana bayou at dusk.
Because we are pilots, we have also seen scars on the land and stains on the water, the signatures of poor stewardship of our world. We have recoiled at the sight of denuded hillsides and the resultant mud slides fouling the streams below; of carefully hidden illegal dumps; and of the sprawl of our cities, diminishing productive farmland as we increase the number of mouths to feed. Rather than look away to happier scenes, many pilots have wondered what they can do about what they have seen. Most pilots have children or grandchildren, and they want their loved ones to be able to see the land as they have seen it, to keep it from being further desecrated.
We pilots share another trait: We have a surprisingly large selfless streak for a group oft-labeled tightwads. We look for ways to make a difference, to cause things to happen, using the skills we have acquired and knowledge we have gained in our airplanes. We are used to accomplishing things. We volunteer our time, money, and airplanes to make medical mercy flights; we join the Civil Air Patrol and perform search-and-rescue missions; we show up in droves to deliver Christmas gifts to foster children for state welfare agencies; and a small but growing number of us have decided to follow the path blazed by Charles Lindbergh when he took to using airplanes as a tool to support his work in conservation. This group of volunteers has evolved into a de facto environmental air force, using general aviation airplanes to support conservation efforts in the United States, Canada, Mexico, and Central America under the name of LightHawk.
LightHawk was founded more than 20 years ago by a charismatic, slightly eccentric professional pilot named Michael Stewartt. Through sheer force of personality he convinced influential people to get into little airplanes and showed them some of the more egregious examples of misuse of public lands. The result was pressure on those in power to be more responsible in the management of those lands.
After about 10 years Stewartt moved on to other challenges but left behind a functioning, nonprofit charitable organization that had a few full-time pilots, three airplanes, and a growing corps of volunteer pilots with a shared sense of adventure and a determination to make a difference. Those volunteer pilots knew that there was nothing quite like a small airplane to let the world see what the unscrupulous try to hide. In one example, a LightHawk volunteer pilot helped show that a Chicago politician who was getting public money for a "recycling facility" was really just dumping recyclable materials on a farm that he owned. Trees and fences around his property prevented investigators on the ground from seeing what was going on, but couldn't protect him from exposure by a LightHawk volunteer flying a thousand feet above with a camera.
Currently, LightHawk has its main office in San Francisco. From there it coordinates the efforts of its volunteer pilot corps to assist with conservation efforts. Its staff, headed by Dr. Marty Fujita, works to keep track of conservation groups and projects all over the hemisphere, and to pair pilots with projects where it is felt an aerial perspective would be beneficial. When called upon, LightHawk volunteers regularly use their own or rented airplanes to take reporters, politicians, scientists, researchers, law enforcement officials, and others over sites of abused or endangered lands and waters. LightHawk pilots show again and again that fly-dumpers, secret polluters, and other environmental miscreants simply cannot hide from the observation power provided by GA airplanes. There is nothing more economical for exposing environmental improprieties than a light airplane and a good video camera. An open door in a Piper Super Cub or Cessna 206 is the door through which the world can see what is going on in even the most remote area.
Who volunteers to fly for LightHawk? As with all pilots, the volunteers come from an interesting mix of backgrounds: Some are active airline pilots, one is a city manager, another is a pharmacist, one was the first woman to fly helicopters in Antarctica, some are doctors or lawyers, at least one flew a crop duster, and others have made their living as bush pilots or running small FBOs. Most enjoy the outdoors, particularly hiking, camping, and often hunting and fishing. All are dedicated to conservation and, although they completely cross the political spectrum, they share the love of flight.
When LightHawk volunteers are called, the resulting flight could involve almost any sort of conservation work imaginable. One pilot was asked to use his airplane to fly a sick, confused dolphin from where it had beached itself to a facility that could treat it. A few months later the pilot flew the dolphin back to be released. Another pilot made flights with photographers for National Geographic magazine to get footage of whales migrating. One pilot received a call during a lull in the storms that caused the Midwestern floods of 1993 to fly a camera crew over the swollen Mississippi from Keokuk, Iowa, to south of St. Louis at 500 feet to help determine what materials were getting into the river while it was five miles out of its banks.
A LightHawk pilot who had taken photographers over the lead mines in the Mark Twain National Forest in southern Missouri was asked to speak at a conference in the area some months later. He donated his time and airplane to get to the conference and showed slides taken from the flights. One picture showed 55-gallon chemical drums on a hillside. The vegetation on the hillside was gone. In the audience were state inspectors who had visited the facility a number of times. They asked for and were given a copy of the picture. Using topographical maps they determined where the picture was taken, found the drums, and assessed the mine owner $300,000 in fines for violations of various state laws. Half of the money went to the local school district. The state inspector informed the LightHawk pilot afterward that until he had seen aerial photos of the area he hadn't realized that mine officials had been giving him a "guided" tour of the property each time he went in to inspect.
Some of the volunteer pilots give up their annual vacation to fly in Canada, Central America, or Mexico to assist anyone from researchers to government officials with conservation projects in those countries. Accommodations may involve sleeping under mosquito netting and showering under a tank that collects rainwater. To service the airplane they may strain fuel through a hat and use runways barely wider than the landing gear. It surprises no one that those volunteers tend to return to fly under such conditions year after year. There is something about the challenge of a 1,700-foot-long runway surrounded by water on three sides that attracts certain pilots.
LightHawk often asks a volunteer pilot to work with a local conservation group on an area of community concern. The pilot generally gets to know the group and learns about the project before agreeing to assist. An interesting side effect is that pilots report establishing enduring friendships as a result of this process.
Those who want to become LightHawk pilots can make a phone call to the home office in San Francisco at 415/561-6250 or go to its Web site ( www.lighthawk.org). Because LightHawk seeks experienced pilots who are extremely safety conscious, the organization insists on a minimum flight time of 1,000 hours for its volunteers. It wants pilots who can look at passengers eager to go on a flight and tell them that the flight is canceled. Frankly, LightHawk wants pilots who have had the bejabbers scared out of themselves a few times and therefore fly conservatively. They don't need time builders or immature types who take unnecessary risks. The purpose of each flight is to educate and observe as clearly as possible. A scared passenger is neither a good observer nor a good photographer.
Once the pilot has signed up with LightHawk, he or she is referred to an experienced LightHawk volunteer or staff pilot for an orientation flight. LightHawk does not feel that it is in a position to second-guess the FAA on whether a pilot is capable of handling an airplane; however, it does want someone to fly with a volunteer to give an introduction to the rather specialized nature of LightHawk flying. Carrying photographers, journalists, and politicians is not something most volunteers have done with any degree of frequency prior to joining LightHawk. A pilot has to be able to safely position the airplane for effective photography while acting as a guide to give background information on the subject of the flight. A LightHawk pilot is expected to know how to juggle the demands of flying from a primitive airport that may not have fuel; position the airplane over a specific area efficiently while never worrying about fuel exhaustion; and never, ever fly the airplane outside of the weight-and-balance limits. As a result, the orientation flight usually consists of the volunteer's demonstrating that he or she can fly the airplane slowly while maneuvering; put the airplane where needed for photography while avoiding obstructions; do short-field takeoffs and landings without fuss; and simultaneously tell a professional photographer that no, the airplane is not going to be flown any lower. Volunteers learn quickly that there is truly an art to both positioning an airplane where a professional photographer wants it while tactfully telling that same photographer that certain photo angles are simply too dangerous and are not going to be included in the flight.
Once on the LightHawk list, a volunteer pilot never knows when the phone will ring with a request to make a flight. As with any volunteer endeavor, it may happen several times a year or it may be frustratingly infrequent. No matter when or where the pilot winds up making flights, how challenging the living conditions, or how difficult it may be to explain a concept to an on-board TV reporter, volunteers report that the opportunity to show others the honesty of an airborne view of the world is intensely rewarding. More than anything, they say that the chance to use the power of flight to make a difference makes it all worthwhile.
Rick Durden, AOPA 684126, is a contributor to AOPA Pilot, holds an ATP certificate, and practices aviation law in Grand Rapids, Michigan. He is a volunteer pilot for LightHawk.
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