Making the right call

I stood beside my friend Loren Kopseng. He and I have flown the backcountry together for the past several years. The bonhomie he radiates flying the backcountry camouflages an intensity that has served him well in the raucous oil and gas industry. He’s an exceptional backcountry pilot, tells good stories, and appreciates the challenges and rewards of accessing remote strips.

Our flying styles and interests merge, but our airplanes are distinctly different. Loren flies a late model Husky with a 200-horsepower engine, constant-speed propeller, and a panel full of Garmin glass with integrated GPS and weather. It might serve espresso if you touch the right screen. I fly a 1993 150-horsepower Super Cub, not much different than how it rolled out of the factory in Vero Beach. I navigate via ForeFlight on an iPad Bluetooth-connected to a GDL-52 for GPS, weather, and ADS-B. The equipment I’ve kluged together has served me well, and taken me to and from the most challenging parts of the Mountain West backcountry several times, accessing some of the most demanding strips. But I could sure use the extra power and the constant-speed propeller that moves Loren’s Husky. I know, it’s an unquenchable thirst. “I’ve got all the power I need,” said no pilot, ever, but what a difference in performance and options Loren gets in his Husky.

We selected the Grey River valley strip using the same criteria we’ve settled into—interesting flying, new places, spectacular scenery, and a chance to catch a fish or two. We also like to visit friends and share stories, which put us in our current predicament. Earlier in the morning, we stopped at Alpine to visit a friend over coffee. One story led to another and before long, we’d stayed too long and we departed Alpine later than planned.

We flew east from Alpine, then hooked south, followed the bends in the Grey River valley for a bit, and found a friend’s uncharted, paved, short runway, situated at the north end of a narrow valley. To access the strip, we flew overhead the runway, continued south for several miles until the valley widened, and then reversed course, dropped down, and approached from the south to land uphill on the north-facing runway.

Once parked, we admired the stunning setting, and Loren assessed the fishing while I withdrew, distracted by the occasional, faint northern breeze that awakened the windsock. A sharp bend in the valley just north of the runway made it a one-way strip: land uphill to the north, take off downhill to the south, hop above the small berm at the end of the runway, then climb southbound until the valley opens. The field at 6,500 feet msl quickly climbs in density altitude on hot summer days. The high density altitude combined with the potential of a tailwind picking up from the north had me worried. Loren could tolerate some tailwind with his powerful Husky, but it wouldn’t take much wind before I’d be unable to depart. We eyed the mercurial wind sock, limp except for those disquieting occasional puffs. We looked at the pristine river, no doubt teeming with record-size trout, Sirens beckoning us. I shared an experience with Loren from the year before where I landed with friends in Challis, Idaho. We ignored the light puffs and sauntered around the airport, admiring some of the history in the pilot lounge. By the time we departed just 30 minutes later, it was as if someone flipped a switch. Crosswinds howled close to our limits, and we flew a bumpy, uncomfortable trip through the valleys back to Sulphur Springs.

Loren and I decided, reluctantly, to forego the trout and depart. Despite the prevailing calm, if the wind picked up I’d be stuck there, likely until the next morning. I keep a tent and sleeping bag in my Super Cub for contingencies, but I didn’t want to be stuck. We took off south and I cleared the berm at the end of the runway by less than expected. We flew down the valley until it opened, then turned north, flew back over the strip and looked down to see the windsock almost perpendicular. We’d made it out by 20 minutes.

We made the right call, mostly from experience and knowing our airplanes—invaluable elements of any flying. Go fly.

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