Never Again: Close call

In the summertime I flew off the lake and landed on Merrill Field’s pavement on a set of Wipline 3730 amphibious floats. Daylight was plentiful and operations were routinely completed under VFR conditions. The amphibious floats gave me lots of options along the 26-nautical-mile route. If I needed to set down and wait out 15 minutes of bad weather along the way, plenty of small lakes allowed me to do just that. I became very familiar with the terrain along the route and could navigate low level between landmarks in marginal weather.

Wintertime operations were completed in the Cessna 185, now equipped with a set of hydraulic wheel skis. The main difference during winter operations was the availability of daylight. In the Anchorage area on winter solstice the sun rises about 10:15 a.m. and sunset comes about 3:45 p.m., which meant most of my winter flights were completed in the dark. Flying inbound toward Merrill Field was fairly routine because the glow of the city lights allowed for a definable horizon. Flying outbound toward home was a very different experience because of the lack of perceived horizon. The snow-covered ground was both a blessing and a curse depending on the sky cover above.

With clear skies and a full moon to reflect off the snow below it was bright enough to see shadows being cast from the trees, and those experiences remain some of my most enjoyable flights. Dark winter night flights with low, overcast gray skies on a snow-covered landscape can create very challenging flight conditions because of the complete lack of a horizon, and for that reason they were some of my most challenging and least enjoyable flights. During early morning and evening winter flights into and out of Merrill Field, sometimes I was the only pilot on the frequency.

My requests and movement around the field toward the active runway became so routine that clearances and altitude deviations were typically passed to me without my specific request. At times I’d simply report my current position to the tower and I would receive a clearance to land as well as a taxi to parking, all in one sentence.

Merrill Field sits amid some of the most active airspace in Alaska and clearances to deviate from specific altitude restrictions must be received along with a transponder squawk before the altitude deviation can be approved. The altitude restrictions are in place to accommodate the neighboring Elmendorf Air Force Base’s instrument approaches. Flights in and out of Merrill Field had to be flown either below 600 feet msl or above 2,000 feet msl unless you had a Part 93 deviation for flight between those altitudes.

The wind was out of the north and it was both winter and dark. I was given taxi instructions by Merrill ground control for a Runway 33 Ship Creek departure along with squawk code and approved altitude deviation. Since I typically completed my run-up sequence on the way to the assigned runway and would call ready for takeoff as I approached the active runway, my tires usually never stopped rotating. I’d roll onto the runway, check my heading bug, confirm my altimeter was set to field elevation, apply full throttle, and check fuel flow (pressure).

In the lightly loaded Cessna 185 I was airborne and climbing quickly. My attention was now on raising flaps, power and prop settings, and lowering my wheel skis in preparation for landing on my frozen lake. All of this may have taken maybe 30 seconds, but near Ship Creek I was rapidly climbing through 1,200 feet msl as I approached the restricted airspace. My initial heading on a Ship Creek departure is basically westbound with a northerly turn toward home base once I reached Point McKenzie. Pilots don’t typically fly low and slow during this 2.5-nautical-mile stretch between Merrill Field and Point McKenzie. It is open water, so you’re holding your breath.

Unbeknownst to me and at the same time I received my Merrill tower clearance, Elmendorf Tower released for departure on Runway 23 an Evergreen Boeing 747 flight loaded with troops outbound for the Gulf War effort. The tower typically lands and departs traffic on Runway 5, which meant we would see only landing traffic in the restricted corridor.

Our flight paths met just prior to Point McKenzie. All I can figure to this day is that because we were both on parallel westerly headings, I missed seeing this massive aircraft. I didn’t see the other airplane first—I heard the whine of the turbine engines approaching. My Cessna 185 has three skylights just over the pilot and co-pilot seats, and what I saw next was the inboard left side engine nacelle pass directly over my head. I honestly thought it was over. I was directly underneath a Boeing 747 and was sure I knew what was going to happen next, when I encountered the wake turbulence from this aircraft.

My instinctive reaction was to chop the power and push the yoke to its forward stops. On the near vertical descent to 500 feet msl I don’t think I took a breath. It wasn’t until I leveled off on a northerly heading that I felt under control and safe again. As this was all unfolding I remember hearing in the background the various controllers calling for immediate evasive actions. I made the rest of the flight safely and by the time I landed at home and got into the house my phone was ringing with apologies.

I knew good people had made mistakes and appreciated the acceptance of responsibility, but I also knew my failure to be more aware of my surroundings played a significant role in what could have been an unthinkable tragedy for all involved. The 747 captain’s and my estimation on how close a near miss had occurred for the official record (if there even is one) differed by 300 feet, but I know full well the sound and sights from my pilot seat—I was close enough to count rivet heads.

I learned a valuable lesson with regard to complacency and situational awareness that evening. Fifteen years later I’m still flying into Merrill Field occasionally and can’t remember a time when I pass through this slice of airspace without looking both ways.

William (Bill) Kramer is a commercial airplane and helicopter pilot living in Big Lake, Alaska.