Parallax doesn’t lie

With a turbocharged 300-horsepower Lycoming, anything was possible. The club-style seating was great, once the kids agreed on an arrangement for their eight legs in the passenger area.

When a Labor Day weekend opened up with no obligations, we decided to fly to Meadow Creek, a 2,800-foot turf field near the Bob Marshall Wilderness in northwest Montana. We’d camped there several times—beginning as a young couple flying our 135-horsepower Tri-Pacer. Now we were eager to share the experience with our kids.

With attention to power loading and winds, Meadow Creek is manageable for most GA aircraft. It’s recommended that landings and takeoffs are to the north to avoid rough surface, tall trees, and ascending terrain at its south end. Northbound departures put you over a broad drop-off, and you’re heading downstream over the South Fork of the Flathead River if density altitude exerts a heavy hand on your climb-out. In the backcountry, one heeds pioneer mountain pilot Bob Johnson’s “100-foot rule.” His pilots were to get their aircraft down in the first 100 feet. “Land short. Whatever’s behind you is wasted,” he said.

Our plan to depart early in still air had given way to holiday casualness. Years of enjoying these mountain strips without incident probably led us to be complacent this time. It was my husband’s turn to fly, and by the time I latched the cabin door, it was well past noon. We ignored the fact the airplane had full tanks—excessive fuel for the 25-minute hop over the Mission and Swan Mountain Range.

The flight began in smooth air. The kids became unsettled as the winds started tossing us around east of the first ridge. I watched patches of sunlight racing down the mountainsides. Although dramatic and colorful, it became a jarring ride. I bagged my camera and tightened my seatbelt again.

Sighting the field, we descended, expecting the turbulence to abate. It didn’t. Like many mountain strips, there’s a windsock at each end of the runway and pilots should check both, hoping for some level of agreement before setting up an approach. Today’s wind favored a southbound landing. Not a preferred setup, in case of a go-around, with those 70-foot trees at the end. My husband flew a nonstandard pattern, sidling the limestone ridge close to the east side of the field, extending downwind, then made a U-turn for a long, stabilized final approach. He lowered the gear.

We were suddenly over the field. We’d expected the trees lining the field to tame the surface winds. But the wind had become demonic, flattening the prairie grass in the direction we were speeding. We blew past Bob Johnson’s “land short” threshold. With full flaps, our airspeed read 65 knots, but the turf rushed under us much faster. We knew we couldn’t stop by the rough end of the field, nor by the approaching forest barricade. My husband pushed the prop and manifold pressure full forward, bled some flaps, and pulled up. The Lance started a sluggish climb. The stall horn howled. Trees filled the windshield. My unblinking eyes opened wide, trying to will more space between us and the trees. Parallax doesn’t lie. It told us we were tree-bound with no more power to add; no airspeed to coax into climb.

From our nose-high position I expected to hear the sound of trees scraping aluminum, but all I sensed was a hush. We seemed to be flying inside a hole in the air. I could see the needles of pine, spruce, and tamarack branches as they passed us on both sides. From within this void, I watched the dark trees drain from the windshield as it slowly filled with sky. I became aware of the roar of the engine filling the cabin. Our airspeed increased. There was no more stall horn.

Loaded as it was that day, we were asking the Lance to deliver us safely with a weight that did not allow for a safe go-around into ascending terrain. The experience glowers at me still, a stern teacher. With an hour’s fuel reserve, we only needed half-full tanks. Our excess fuel was nothing more than a wallowing 300 pounds of useless weight. Departing after mountain winds turned volatile was another factor tallying up on the liability side of the safety balance sheet.

Carmine Mowbray is a pilot and now owns a Sportsman STOL-equipped 1960 Cessna 182.