An unexpected adventure at Moose Creek

Montana and Idaho are prone to severe fire seasons, much like the rest of the northwestern United States. Big, dense, and dry forests that sit on great sun-soaked mountain ranges supply vast amounts of fuel that lightning strikes and bad outdoor etiquette spark to fire. Blazes are common and destroy millions of acres every year. However, they are also an essential part of the ecosystem. A huge forest fire , along with several unprecedented wind events, claimed part of a remote backcountry airstrip known as the Moose Creek Ranger Station.

Situated in the center of the Selway-Bitterroot Wilderness, the Moose Creek Ranger Station was damaged by the Moose Creek Complex Fire that started in August and  burned more than 14,000 acres. Much of the timber on the edges of the landing strip was blackened, and several ranger station buildings were damaged. A fence that kept animals off the airstrip during the day was largely destroyed, as well as two of the only three outhouses.

The backcountry airstrip is beloved by aviators. Many wilderness seekers have visited. Upon being contacted by the airport, I was told none of this; only “Boy, have I got a story for you.”

Craig Thomas, chairman of the Stevensville Airport Board, designed the replacement outhouses to be built at Moose Creek, He met me at the airport, having promised that great story. According to Thomas, these were no ordinary outhouses. The toilets had to be disassembled for transport and reassembled in the backcountry. In most wilderness areas, power tools are prohibited, except under specific conditions, and most often allowed for the exclusive use of U.S. Forest Service workers. This meant much of the construction had to be done in “civilization,” before the disassembled toilets were flown to Moose Creek. As Thomas explained, a special kind of aircraft would be needed to haul commodes into the wilderness.

The project hinged on a Daher Kodiak 100, which the manufacturer lent to the Recreational Aviation Foundation. Designed in Sandpoint, Idaho, by the Quest Aircraft Company (the type certificate was subsequently purchased by Daher), the single-engine turboprop Kodiak was made with missions like this in mind (if not specifically for the cargo in question).

In fact, it was the toilets that were tailored to fit the aircraft. Each panel of the toilets had to be designed precisely to fit into the Kodiak and be secured with the aircraft seats removed. This would save effort in assembly on location. The temporary assistance from the Kodiak included fuel and the services of a pilot, neither of which are cheap. The airplane was in fact one of the experimental early versions of the design and  utilized by the company to help in endeavors such as the Moose Creek Project.

As I would come to learn, the Moose Creek Project had a number of players involved. Through a loose partnership with the Stevensville Airport Foundation, the Selway Bitterroot Frank Church Foundation (SBFC), the RAF, the Idaho Aviation Association, the U.S. Forest Service, and several other organizations, the project had grown to draft members from across the aviation and backcountry communities in the western United States.

Thomas explained that the toilets were just a small piece of the puzzle. He then insisted that, if I wanted to get the full story, we should jump in an airplane and head out there. I gladly obliged.

Unexpected overnight

Within the next two days, we worked out a flight on a private aircraft bound for the airstrip.  

SBFC, Volunteer Program Director Krissy Ferriter joined the mission. Ferriter organizes the people and volunteers who maintain the airstrip, on behalf of the U.S. Forest Service. Accompanied by her husband, Thomas, they packed gear for several days into the beautiful Pilatus PC–12, which would be taking us out into the wilderness. During the flight, I spoke at length with the Ferriters. This connection would come in handy later, as she was essentially the “boss” of the project. For her, these kinds of projects and partnerships are what keep the backcountry both alive and accessible.

There are only two ways into the Moose Creek drainage: by foot and by air. If one were to walk, or take pack animals, it would be around a four-day trip. By air, from Stevensville, it takes about 35 minutes. Upon circling to land, we hit some turbulence, and upon landing, we were greeted with news:

“Guys, we’re not gonna be able to get you back tonight," said RAF President Bill McGlynn, who met us on the strip. Thomas and I had flown in assuming it would be a simple job of replacing some burned fence and a couple of commodes. We arrived to find more than 30 airplanes and well over 60 volunteers from across the country.

McGlynn later explained to me that, for these types of projects, which are the bread and butter of the RAF, usually 20 people at most will attend. This was one of the biggest responses to help he has seen from the RAF. He, and others there for the project, echoed how important the strip has been in their flying careers. “It’s pretty darn cool so many people wanting to do this,” said McGlynn. Addressing the volunteers later, RAF Chairman John McKenna said, “People came from across the U.S. to put up a fence and some toilets where they will see no benefit. Thank you, thank you!”

Incoming weather grounded the airplanes, at least until the next day. We were stuck. I took stock of my supplies, noting a lighter, a pocketknife, a water bottle, and a coat among them. Thomas and I exchanged a look, sharing a thought that rhymes with “oh spit.”

The news that we were stranded was compounded by the fact that there is not so much as a sniff of cellular reception in Moose Creek. We had landed in the early afternoon and were supposed to be out of there in an hour or two.

 “Oh well,” was all we could say. Over the next couple of hours, I was able to track down a Garmin inReach satellite communicator, which I borrowed from McGlynn. I used it to message my wife to tell her our date night was canceled. With only 160 characters allowed per message, it went something like, “Hey, this is John your husband. We are stranded for the night. They will fly us out in the morning. Front coming in. I’m sorry. Using sat phone.”

Many hands…

It ended up being a godsend to the volunteers of Moose Creek that Thomas and I were stuck there, as Thomas had designed the outhouses, and I had covered the construction of the panels. It later became a running joke that maybe they had planned it that way. Since the Kodiak had flown the pieces in just the day prior, and they had not yet assembled the toilets, it was conceivable they wanted help, or so the joke would go.

After photographing the effort, I rolled up my sleeves and stepped in to help. After all, I had the time. Thomas was already there, having brought some tools just in case; ever prepared. I would learn Thomas always has a plan, even though it always seems like he is flying by the seat of his pants. I believe this is a trait shared by many pilots.

They say, “Many hands make light work,” and so we finished the toilets in record time. We helped with a lot of the project and spoke with individuals from all reaches of the country, all of whom expressed a great liking for the airstrip.

People working the ranger station, and the project volunteers, took pity on those of us who arrived unprepared for an overnight stay. Through connections made with key characters, and much kindness from everyone, we were given the rare treat of being allowed to stay the night in one of the nearly 100-year-old bunkhouses. These are strictly for U.S. Forest Service personnel, but given the circumstances, we were allowed to use one for the night. It might as well have been a five-star hotel, as far as we were concerned. The place was equipped with old metal spring mattress bunks, a wood stove, and four sturdy walls. We were even fed and given pillows and old U.S Forest Service sleeping bags to use.

Throughout the stay, Thomas and I got to know each other very well, and he shared with me his love for aviation and the wilderness. He had a long career working fires and logging in the wilderness. Early the next morning, I spoke up, asking if he was awake. I then mentioned the concept of being “shanghaied,” which had crossed my mind in the early hours. We had a laugh about it. Later, I brought the thought forward to the volunteer pilots of the RAF over early morning coffee in the mess house.

Like the bygone days of seafaring from which the term originates, it was as if we had been convinced to take an easy voyage that our company had no intention of ending until a job was done. Those old salty sailors and foreign kidnappees surely saw the experience as a  run of poor luck. For Thomas and me, it ended up a great adventure: Shanghaied to Moose Creek. After our work was done the next day in the early afternoon, we were able to hitch a ride home on the Kodiak 100 that made the project possible.