Never Again

"These blind canyon stories have me somewhat upset."

I was reacting with this comment to a series of remarks on a favorite Internet site where former Navy and Air Force Douglas Skyraider AD pilots reminisce. These now old and now not-so-bold pilots (the survivors) were recalling young companions then, 30 to 40 years ago, who did not survive flying low-level into blind canyons.

One of the crazy things we did, without charts, was to fly independently through a mountain range from one side to the other in a friendly contest to see who had the lowest altimeter reading on the other side. Ah, youth!

The discussion reminded me of the fateful day I flew my airplane and crew up the wrong canyon despite the most careful planning. Maturity from 18 years of military flying had by this time changed my daring-do outlook.

We were flying a Coast Guard Grumman Albatross (HU–16E) on a search in Canada for a downed American airplane. The search consisted of running valleys where the mountains rose from just above sea level to more than 7,000 feet. It was fairly simple and straightforward. We would orbit outside the valley and Stew Rumley, my copilot, and I would go over the chart carefully. We agreed to each take a turn through the mountains and noted the elevations where we had to climb in advance of flying into the turf (a climb of 1,000 feet took about two and one-half miles' distance over the ground). After we were fully comfortable with our plans, we would charge into the valley at about 1,000 feet agl. We did this successfully for about five hours and were picking the next valley. We had recently switched roles. Rumley was now navigating for the last four hours of the flight and I was flying.

The valley route we chose showed up at the very bottom of the chart. Its opening was followed with an almost immediate right 90-degree turn followed by a left 90 after about two miles. This meant two steep turns where a standard-rate 180-degree turn covered a diameter of about 1.3 miles. Following this dogleg entrance the valley then went straight through the mountains to the exit, 20 miles on the other side of the range. Fifteen hundred feet msl would be minimum altitude. The precipitous mountains rose to more than 6,000 feet on either side of us.

We started in. Everything looked as expected. We executed the first right 90 against the mountain rising ahead of us, then down the short valley into a steeper, higher mountain. I had to start my left turn around a near-vertical outcropping well before I could see into the valley that I expected to carry us through the mountains. We were flying about 1,500 feet msl, or 800 feet agl. The ground was rising faster than I expected. This made me uncomfortable. The valleys were correct according to the chart; however, the rising terrain was not. I did not like our situation. The mountains seemed too close. But now I did not have the room to do a 180 anymore as the valley closed in on us. We were committed.

Just as I cranked it up in a left turn, but before I could see around the corner, I knew it was all wrong. Then I saw it!

We entered a giant bowl of vertical granite walls about a half-mile in diameter. The bottom was at about 1,500 feet msl, our altitude, with granite rubble piled at the base of the sheer walls that rose up more than 6,000 feet to the jagged tops of the rim.

At that instant, I knew we were dead. We were going to live for only the few seconds it took, flying at 160 kt, to reach the unclimbable wall. My feelings went beyond fear. It could be described as terror but not terror as anyone alive has described. I expect few lived who have ever experienced this kind of fear.

I continued to fly the airplane. I commanded (I thought quite calmly under the circumstances) but my copilot Rumley later told me, "I knew we were in trouble by the sharpness and tone of your voice when you called, ‘mixtures, rich; rpm, full increase.'"

I eased out of the left turn slightly to close on the right-hand side of the cauldron-like bowl until we were feet away from the wall to give us more turning room to the left. Then I started a chandelle as the granite filled all the windows. (I had taught aerobatics for five years as a Navy flight instructor.)

Methodically (and it seemed so slow for the circumstances—time was going so slow now) I added power, watching the manifold pressure carefully to see that I did not exceed the 51.5 inches maximum allowable. The engines in 15 seconds were going to be garbage, and I was concerned about damaging them by overboosting! That is the rigidity of years of training. There was nothing but gray granite—no horizon, no attitude reference.

Nose up higher—steeper bank. Back, back on the yoke—granite, no horizon, just granite filling all the view. Through the 90, we hadn't hit. Maybe there might be a chance? "What a stupid way to die—Don't stall," I thought. There was no way to tell attitude. I could only now just feel the airplane through.

Suddenly I could see the valley entrance coming over my left shoulder through the side window—green. Trees. Don't stall—don't stall—don't stall.

The granite disappeared below the nose; we were around. I dropped the nose slightly. I could not afford excess airspeed to increase the radius of the turn. I started breathing again.

We were around. We were alive!

I flew out of the valley and home. No one spoke. I got a chewing out from my commanding officer for claiming crew fatigue and leaving the search that day before my eight hours were up—this was our third scheduled eight-hour day on this search. I stood before his desk in a daze. Behind him out the window the world looked so peaceful—I had never seen it so beautiful. His words were only a drone—I was alive.

We had flown into an adjoining valley with an identical entry, but which ended in a blind canyon. Landmarks for the two entrances, about three miles apart, were identical; each started at the northern tip of a small lake. We apparently drifted three miles south as we flew in lazy circles, examining the chart to determine our route. We hadn't flipped the chart over to check the terrain south of our intended valley—and our transgressions placed us on the other side of the chart that we didn't examine.

Maybe there is a lesson here for the young and bold today. I did go on to do more mountain flying. Because I had "extensive" mountain flying experience, I was the one selected to do mountain rescues later when I qualified in helicopters. However, no one but Rumley and my crew knew how much experience—until now.

Barrett "Tom" Beard, AOPA 846644 , holds ATP and commercial helicopter certificates. He is a maritime historian. His latest book, Wonderful Flying Machines (Naval Institute Press), recounts the history of the development of helicopters. His articles appear in maritime and aviation history publications. Stewart L. Rumley, Beard's copilot at the time of the incident, contributed to the story.

"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.