Spring flight lesson
A family flies cross-country--literally--in two Piper Cubs
Many Alaskan pilots use this time of year for recurrent training, flight reviews, and annual inspections. It is also a good time to visit warmer climes.
Like virtually all rural Alaskan families, we rely on aircraft travel. My wife, Rocky, and I are both pilots. We own a Cessna 180, a Piper PA-18 Super Cub, and a highly modified Piper PA-22. Our son, Taj, was a 19-year-old student at the University of Alaska when this article was written and has been intrigued by airplanes his entire life. With the proceeds from two commercial fishing seasons he had purchased a 100-horsepower Piper PA-11 Cub in which I taught him to fly. During the winter he had allowed me to use it to teach his sister Tia, who was 17 at the time, to fly. She had made a couple of solo flights on skis before the snow and ice on our training lake became unusable, but was eager to continue her lessons.
Her maternal grandparents, who live in Florida, offered us a perfect opportunity. They were celebrating their fiftieth wedding anniversary in early June. Rocky needed to be in Lakeland two weeks before the date to assist with preparations. Tia, Taj, and I decided to fly to Florida in our Cubs. The trip offered a unique opportunity to use all the aeronautical skills Taj and Tia had acquired. It also offered me an opportunity to instill in them some of the practical knowledge I had attained in 10,000 hours of bush flying.
As this trip was to be a learning experience, I included both kids in the planning. With the assistance of our mechanic, Jeff Meierotto, the three of us completed an annual on both airplanes.
On May 16, after a few hours poring over charts and weather briefings, and filing an international flight plan, we taxied out to Jeff's dirt strip. Taj departed first in his Cub; Tia, in the front seat of the Super Cub, lifted off shortly thereafter.
There was a 2,000-foot overcast as we flew west toward Northway. Over the intercom I heard minimal radio chatter between the airplanes as both pilots focused on navigation. Both Taj and Tia had grown up flying in Alaska, and the view of the vast boreal forest sliding by a thousand feet below was a familiar sight, as was the sight of lowering ceilings as we approached Beaver Creek, our first stop in Canada.
After three hours in a Cub, the short stroll from the gravel airstrip to the Canadian custom's port of entry was a welcome break. Once we cleared customs we called Whitehorse Flight Service Station for a weather briefing. Their marginal VFR forecast dampened our first day's enthusiasm, as did a rain shower on our dash back to the airplanes.
Lesson one: Waiting out poor weather is never a mistake
The lowered ceilings and forecast of marginal visibility convinced us to unload our camping equipment, heat up supper, and set up our tent. Within the hour the ceiling and the surrounding hills had become one. By morning a thick blanket of fog enveloped the valley.
At 8 a.m. we intently listened to the radio in the flight service station as the low visibility forced an Alaska-bound Ercoupe to land on the highway 10 miles from Beaver Creek. Shortly after noon the fog dissipated, and when the Ercoupe arrived at the airport we received a firsthand weather report from our route of flight. We were packed and anxious to fly. The rugged, spectacular St. Elais Mountains remained shrouded in clouds, but visibility below 3,000 feet agl was excellent. By 8:30 that evening we had our tent set up in Watson Lake.
From Watson Lake our proposed flight route was down the remote, scenic "Trench" route to Mackenzie, British Columbia. The Trench is the northern section of a geological fault line that runs parallel to the Rocky Mountains. It forms a long, straight, well-defined valley from Watson Lake, Yukon Territory, to Kalispell, Montana. Many pilots shun this route because of its lack of roads, settlements, weather reporting, and navigational aids, but it is the shortest route, easiest to follow, and a tremendous confidence-builder for the navigational skills of inexperienced pilots.
The four-and-one-half-hour flight between Watson Lake and Mackenzie carried us down the western front of the northern Rocky Mountains. Brilliant aquamarine lakes dotted the valley floor, and spectacular panoramas of the Cassiar and Stikine mountains slid past our starboard wings. We refueled in Mackenzie. The weather report from the Prince George FSS along our route to Valmont called for continued VFR, although a heavy snow squall was headed northeast, parallel to our route.
Lesson two: Weather briefings can be wrong
The first 45 minutes of our flight was good VFR, although rising terrain and lowering ceiling caused concern. A light snow began, reducing visibility to five miles. As we passed east of Prince George, we expected the snow to dissipate, but it appeared to be falling more heavily. Fifteen minutes later visibility lowered to three miles, and we elected to turn back to Mackenzie. Neither of our Cubs has an electrical system, although both of us were using portable GPS receivers.
Lesson three: Things can go from bad to worse--fast
We were expecting to fly back out of the snow showers, but the snow intensified. We were still in the narrow Parsnip River valley that descended toward Mackenzie. Thirty miles out, the sky darkened and visibility dropped to one mile. A tortuously slow five minutes passed before the snow abruptly gave way to rain. Mackenzie was reporting 20 miles' visibility. We were able to land and put up our tent before our unexpected storm enveloped us for the night.
Sitting in a dark tent, listening to an incessant rain, we discussed our recent predicament. "Were you afraid, Dad?" Tia asked.
"Yes," I answered. I had broken the cardinal rule of bush flying: Always leave yourself an out. We had placed ourselves in a position with no options. Our only choice had been to focus on our objective and fly the airplanes. Taj and Tia had handled the situation with reassuring demeanor, but I reprimanded myself for allowing us to get in such a tenuous position.
The following day offered the flip side of Canadian weather. With a blue sky overhead, flanked by snow-covered peaks and assisted by a steady, 20-kt tailwind, we sailed along 500 feet above the pastoral Fraser River valley. Smoke drifted from chimneys of log cabins situated alongside emerald pastures. Fat, iridescent black bears foraged in clearings along the river. In seven hours we traveled from the scenic, bucolic wilds of Canada to a parking space between two large business jets on the international ramp at Glacier Park, Montana.
We spent the night with friends in West Glacier and after breakfast received a thorough weather briefing. Our intended route was to cross the Rockies at Bozeman and proceed directly across mid-America, but widespread thunderstorms and hail blanketed the region. Weather west of the Continental Divide, however, was clear and unseasonably hot, so we continued on our southerly course.
On the afternoon of May 22 we followed the Snake River south out of Lewiston, Idaho. Winding our way down Hells Canyon, Tia asked if I would fly from the back so that she could give the spectacular scenery the full attention it deserved. It was warm enough at 6,000 feet to fly with our side windows open, and hard to believe that two days before we had been fighting snowstorms. Our fuel stop in Weiser, Idaho, offered another high point for two young Alaskan pilots: The afternoon temperature on the ramp was 105 degrees Fahrenheit.
We stayed with friends in Boise, Idaho; Logan, Utah; and Crawford, Colorado. Showers, clean beds, and home-cooked meals were a welcome change from our camping fare. Long hikes and bicycle rides gave a depth of perspective to the country that we had only viewed from above. For three Alaskans only recently released from a long arctic winter, the clear skies and unseasonably warm temperatures were a pleasing respite. The high altitudes and hot temperatures also served as the basis for another lesson.
Lesson four: Density altitude
Ask an Alaskan pilot to describe density altitude and he will tell you how the cold arctic air, coupled with sea-level altitudes, will improve aircraft performance. Most northern pilots only read about the opposite of the equation; reading about reduced aircraft performance at higher temperatures and elevation is nothing like experiencing it. A 1,200-foot ground run followed by a decumbent climbout is a real eye-opener to an Alaska Cub pilot who considers any level 500-foot gravel bar a suitable airstrip.
Lesson five: Pilots can make friends at virtually every small airport
A stiff crosswind was buffeting the narrow, hard-surfaced runway at Sandia, New Mexico. The owner of the fuel pumps was attending a Memorial Day observation and had closed for the day. We were sitting under the airplane wings debating our options when the airport manager and his wife drove up. It was late afternoon, and they were leaving for a few hours to visit friends. They generously offered us the shower and kitchen facilities in their hangar/home while they were away. We elected to stay. Both airplanes were due for an oil change anyway.
The following morning was warm and calm. We refueled and continued riding our bubble of clear weather toward the southeast. It was 100 degrees at noon when we stopped for fuel at Andrews, Texas. By the time we threw out our sleeping bags in the grass at Stephenville, Texas, it was a balmy 85 degrees. The temperature was descending, but the humidity was climbing.
A weather system was pushing a high overcast inland ahead of it. Smoke, haze, and moist air created a thin veil as we navigated across the verdant forest and swamps of Louisiana. After crossing the turbid, milk-chocolate-colored Mississippi river, we followed a timber-enshrouded section of the Natchez Trace before resuming our easterly heading.
We had hoped to reach Tallahassee by suppertime, but afternoon thunderstorms north of the city halted our progress. As luck would have it, the FBO in Monroeville, Alabama, was courting the military pilots from Eglin Air Force Base in Florida. A full buffet meal was offered to all pilots filling up with fuel--even Piper Cubs. With our bellies as full as the Cubs' wing tanks, we sprawled out on a dense, thick carpet of grass under a roof of tall pines while a night chorus of frogs serenaded us to sleep.
On June 1, under blue skies, we landed at Tallahassee Regional airport. We rehydrated with fresh watermelon while waiting for a welcoming committee of family and friends to arrive. The following morning was a typical Central Florida summer day: a light patchwork of innocuous cumulus clouds dotted a blue sky. With windows and doors open, we followed the eastern Florida coastline toward our destination in Lakeland.
We were able to spend a week with family before having to start back home. Tia learned that she had to be in Fairbanks the following week, and reluctantly took a commercial flight home with her mother. With an empty seat in the Cub, we invited Shannon Geary, a family friend who had recently obtained her pilot certificate, to fly down and accompany us on the return trip.
Shannon, a lifelong Alaskan, had never been east of California. She arrived with the typical trepidation for such an immense trip, but was a quick study and had been trained well. The 10-day, 55-flight-hour return trip broadened not only her aeronautical horizons but her cultural and geographical ones as well.
In all, Taj and I had logged 123 flying hours, visiting 20 of the United States and two provinces in Canada. During our absence summer had arrived in Alaska. The rivers were flowing, geese were flying, and salmon were returning to the streams. It was time to move on to our summer jobs.
Phil Shoemaker is a licensed Alaskan master guide and, with his family, operates a fishing and hunting guide service from their 40-acre homestead. He has 10,000 flight hours and has commercial and flight instructor certificates. The family's cross-country Cub adventure took place in 1992.
Story and photography by Phil Shoemaker
Want to know more?
Links to additional resources about the topics discussed in this article are available at AOPA Flight Training Online.
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