Touchdown in the Backcountry

My trusty 1957 Super Cub on the sand bar

In terms of aviation firsts there are three notables that stick in my head: my first solo, my first loop, and my first crash. Two I managed way back in the 1990s. It took another 15 years before I achieved the third.

Then, last week, I finally hit another aeronautical milestone: my first off-airport landing. On a gorgeous sunny day I put my 1957 Piper Super Cub down on a dry lakebed in a valley not far from where I live with not a windsock or runway marker in sight.

In retrospect I realised I have been working up to this moment for years.

While taking lessons from an old ag pilot (the industry term for those who fly cropdusters) I landed several times on a disused airstrip that had a nasty prevailing wind and a bump in the middle that catapulted you back into the air if you hit it the wrong way.

Another time we landed on an abandoned airfield where the wind blew in opposite directions at each end and the grass was up to my waist. Both times I acquitted myself, if not with distinction, at least well enough to get a grunt of approval from the old-timer.

After that, confidence now growing, I attempted a landing on a rough-hewn stretch of dirt and rock I had carved out of the bush on a corner of my land. (Old Ron, a neighbour, and his vintage digger and bulldozer did the real work.)

Once, twice, three times I approached my new runway. But by the time I was ready to touch the wheels the ground was running out and the river at the end fast approaching.

The ag pilot barked at me to abort and give the plane full throttle.

Chastened and humiliated – what kind of pilot builds a strip and can’t land on it? - for several years I stuck with aerodromes. I occasionally landed alongside the main asphalt runway on the dirt or grass. But I did little to justify my huge Alaskan bush tyres.

Perhaps my caution was justified. The ag pilot wrecked two airplanes in the year after we flew together. In one he was attempting to ‘waterski’ on a river when the engine blipped and the plane went arse-over-tit. He ended up in the drink but made it out alive.

Meanwhile, even as I was puttering around the patch – and a pretty nice patch it is – Rocky, my flying buddy at the local airport, was being more adventurous. He has the same model plane that I do and kitted it out with floats and skis.

In the summer when I was still land-lubbing he would be flying off remote lakes and inlets. In the winter, as I traipsed around eastern Europe earning a crust as a reporter and a university lecturer, he landed on glaciers and frozen bodies of water.

Among the pilots I know some are cowboys. A willingness to take risks, an inattention to detail, and a stubborn disposition makes for a perilous mix.

Last week as I sat with Rocky in a local diner he recounted to me all the pilots – and passengers - he knew who had died in what is, after all, a fairly unforgiving part of the world for light planes.

Rocky is definitely not a cowboy. A quiet-spoken man who spent years working in the bush he embraces flying missions that would make most pilots blanch, but weighs the risks carefully. His two planes are meticulously maintained.

Even so unpredictable weather, high winds, rugged terrain and always being far from help carries its own dangers.

Last winter Rocky had a close call after landing on a mountain lake and becoming trapped there in a snowstorm for the best part of a day.

Every couple of hours he would start the engine to stop the oil freezing, chip the ice off the wings and propellor, and then huddle back into the cockpit as the temperature dropped below minus 20, the wind howled and the snow fell.

By morning the plane was encased in inches of snow and ice. For hours Rocky hacked away the ice. Then he stamped out a take-off path in the snow – he had two sets of snowshoes in his emergency pack – and finally managed to get airborne and limp home.

I have, of course, as readers of this blog will know, just bought another plane. It is called a Maule. It is a more sensible aircraft than my Cub. It has four seats and all manner of luxuries the Cub doesn’t: electrical fuel gauges, an engine monitor, even a key.

For speed, range, load-carrying ability, and comfort, the Maule beats the Cub hands down. I have put around a dozen hours on it since getting back to Canada and am beginning to get used to its heavier controls, constant speed propellor, and exotic throttle system.

But for sheer old-fashioned fun it is impossible to match the Cub. It’s like being let loose in the sky with a dodgem.

So when Rocky asked me last week if we should take our two Cubs up for a spin I barely hesitated. The keys to the Maule went back on the hook and I was in the Cub and had it fuelled and fired up in no time.

For an hour we played around, sometimes only a hundred or so feet above the ground, and flew the little planes tight against the glaciers. And then, on the way back, as we crossed a dried up lake bed, Rocky said: “Ready to put her down on the sand?”

A far more seasoned pilot than me, he went first, executed a perfect landing, and taxied his plane to one side. “Aim for me,” he said when it was my turn. “I’ll get out of the way.”

And so I took the plane up the valley, made a wide turn, throttled back to 41 mph, as slow as I dared go and only a sliver above the stall speed, and lined her up. I took in the tree stumps and debris but there was a clear path down the middle.

And so it was: my first off-airport landing - captured on Rocky’s phone and proudly displayed here. Safely on the ground, we shared a lunch from his emergency pack and admired the views. An hour later we were both back at home base.

Of course the Cub should be on the auction block by now. There is no way someone of my means can afford to keep two airplanes in the air. Spring, they tell me, is the best time to sell.

But each time I sit at my computer and prepare to post the ad I have drawn up I find myself pulled away by a more urgent matter. And then, a few days later, to my surprise the ad is still in the drafts folder.

I know, of course, it’s a ridiculous luxury for a freelance journalist and two-bit wilderness guide to have even one plane. I’m no longer a spring chicken and should be thinking about a pension and a health plan.

But, just for now, every time I get to the airport I have two steeds to choose from. And I am going to enjoy it while it lasts.

+ Next time I promise not to write about flying. A couple of days ago we walked over a condemned bridge and seven miles into a valley shut off from the rest of the world. It is one of British Columbia’s greatest ecological treasures. More on that soon.