In November 1992, I had about 15 hours of solo time under my belt, of which probably five hours were on skis. I was on my way to becoming a bush pilot. However, given my experience level at the time, an explanation of that claim might honestly read, "rarely takes off and lands straight, uses sides of airstrip bordered by brush to complete takeoffs and landings." Still learning, I would go flying at any opportunity, and it wasn’t so much a blatant disregard for the weather as just the sheer excitement of flying that got me into my first brush—excuse the pun—with weather.
It was a cold winter day and after completing the ritual of warming up the airplane and freezing various parts of my anatomy, I was ready to go. I had purchased a 1954 Piper PA–22/20 to begin my flight training, and by this time I believed that if I could master this twitchy little beast, I could probably tame almost any taildragger.
I didn’t bother to call for a weather briefing or forecast, as I was staying in the local area, practically in sight of my home airstrip. And after all, wasn’t I going to be a bush pilot? There was a solid overcast, with an estimated 3,000-foot ceiling, but I could see the local mountains, and it was even clearer farther to the south. The fuel tanks were full, and off I went.
The farther I got away from the familiarity of the training area that we used, the bolder I became. I had never flown east of Alaska’s Tanana River, so as it came under the nose of the airplane, I decided to walk on the wild side and go over Healy Lake and into the hills beyond. After an hour or so, as the light began to fail, I turned around to head for home. With a shock I realized that a snow squall had moved in behind me, and I couldn’t see what I thought might be the general area, much less any sign of home. I pushed the Piper over and headed for the tops of the trees in hopes of sliding under the snow and making it home.
Now I had really joined the ranks of the top bush pilots; I had become a scud runner. I soon realized the foolishness of this idea. I had virtually no forward visibility and although I could still see below somewhat, I knew that was not good enough. I let the squall force me to the south in hopes of maybe getting around it and making it home. Talk about "get-home-itis." I could see that the squall was spread across the entire Tanana Valley, and since I had never flown outside of the local area, I didn’t know what lay beyond; with the failing daylight, I didn’t want to find out.
As I passed over the Alaska Highway, I could look down and see it clearly, but then I made another mistake. I turned again into the storm and tried to follow the highway into town, thinking that if I could do that, I could then follow secondary roads home. I flew perhaps five minutes into the storm and ran into a total whiteout. I was now more than a little anxious; I was scared. I maintained the presence of mind to execute a one-eighty and glued myself to the instruments. I was able to fly into the clear again but hadn’t the foggiest idea of where to land. All I knew was that I wanted to get this thing on the ground—and soon.
I hadn’t landed anywhere other than the local airport or at home, so I believed my only hope was to fly south along the Alcan Highway to Dot Lake and land there, since I remembered seeing an airplane parked there once. Then it dawned on me that my Piper was a ski-equipped airplane, and maybe I could land on one of the fields below me.
Once I realized this, I became a little bolder and decided to find a field with a house that looked occupied. I located a trailer on top of a small rise and after buzzing the house a couple of times, I made a less-than-perfect landing.
After the squall passed through, I knew that I had had enough for the day—and then some—so I re-quested my neighbor’s assistance; he is an experienced pilot. After the third attempt, we made it out of the little field, and he flew my Piper home. As I look back on the incident, it’s pretty humorous, but I realize that I was given several opportunities to become an ugly statistic. At the same time, though, I was also given several breaks, and I learned some very important early lessons. I also have realized that although I no longer utilize the brush for takeoffs and landings, I will never become a bush pilot.
Brett Hulen, AOPA 1235564, of Delta Junction, Alaska, has logged 250 flight hours and owns a 1954 Cessna 170.
"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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