More Bush Plane Terror In The Skies Over Alaska

The following appears in the August issue of Alaska Sporting Journal:

SECOND OF TWO PARTS

BY SCOTT HAUGEN

Live in or travel throughout Alaska long enough and you’ll log many hours in a bush plane.

The bush plane is the most efficient way to navigate Alaska and is an essential part of daily life for many people and small communities. But these planes – be they on wheels or floats – aren’t without risk, especially when it comes to facing storms and all the other elements that nature can dish out.

In this second of a two-part series, we pick up where we left off in last month’s issue.

BEATING THE STORM

My buddies and I were in a rush to leave moose camp early after being alerted via satellite phone that a major storm was fast approaching. When one of the two Cessnas sent to pick us up bucked extreme wind shears and slammed hard onto the gravel bar we stood on as we awaited pickup, we didn’t think much of it. Pat, Tim, the pilots and I quickly loaded the bush planes with all our gear so we could get airborne before it was too dark and the storm engulfed us.

I climbed into the copilot seat of the 180 and Pat crammed into the back. Most of our gear and Tim were piled into the 206. With both planes loaded, it was time to take off.

While our Cessna slowly taxied to one end of the gravel bar, Tim and the 206 pilot finished tossing some big rocks out of the way on the far end of the crude runway all the way to the water’s edge. Right then I knew something wasn’t right. Those rocks should have been beyond the 180’s reach upon takeoff. Extending the end of a runway by mere feet is rarely a good sign.

After punching the throttle, the Cessna struggled to gain power. It was so weak that the pilot aborted the takeoff attempt halfway through. My concern spiked.

“Don’t worry,” Pat consoled when I turned back to check his reaction. “I’ve been flying with this guy for 15 years and he’s the best of the best!” That’s all I needed to hear – or so I thought.

SPUTTERING ENGINE

I’m not a pilot, but I’ve flown enough to recognize engine sounds. I know when gauges aren’t properly registering and, worse yet, when pilots are nervous.

“I don’t know what’s wrong,” the pilot shouted to me as he turned the plane around, heading back up the gravel bar to attempt another takeoff. He revved the engine. It got louder, but the power gain was insignificant.

The pilot hopped out, inspected the engine along with the 206 pilot, then climbed back in. “Everything looks all right,” he shrugged. “Hang on; we’ll try it again.”

The gauges worked and there was no smoke or off-putting smells. The pilot gunned it one more time, but it again lacked the usual power. “Hang on,” he ordered, “we might catch the tops of those alders at the end!”
Speed was slow to build and the power was still weak. This time we were fully committed; either the plane was going to get airborne or we were going to end up in the river.

Mere feet from the end of the gravel bar, the plane slowly caught air. The climb was painstakingly gradual and dangerously slow.

WRONG TURN?

We barely nipped the tops of the alders. The pilot didn’t say a word. Nor did I. The moment he banked left instead of right, I knew something was very wrong.

We should have banked right, heading straight south toward town. Instead, we turned left, heading north, then followed the Wulik River to the southwest. Slowly we gained elevation, the pilot pushing and pulling levers, checking and double-checking gauges.

Seven minutes into the flight we leveled out at 300 feet.

“I’m not going any higher and we’re following the river as far as we can in case I have to put this thing down,” the pilot hollered. The river was winding, its level very low. It was a smart move, for should something go awry and he had a chance to land the plane, there were enough exposed gravel bars to increase the odds of safely doing so.

Just as things seemed manageable, the engine sputtered. The gauges shorted out, the readings popping up and down. Power suddenly waned. The pilot aggressively moved levers, flicked switches, punched buttons and pumped a handle between our seats. We were losing elevation, but the pilot was able to regain power and level out.

While cruising at 100 feet, the pilot positioned the plane directly over the river, sticking to every twist and turn. It was nearly dark. The 206 was somewhere behind us, but we didn’t have radio contact with them.

SILENT FLIGHT

The gauges on the dash were again working, and though the ride was smooth, there was clearly a lack of power. No words were exchanged; none were necessary. Pat and I had flown enough and knew the situation was out of our hands. All we could do was pray and allow the pilot to do his job. He was a grizzled man – just who you’d want in this situation. Having spent more than half his life doing what he loves, we had utmost confidence in him.

We cruised smoothly. My hands sweating, my heart pounding, I attempted to take in the beauty from above. But no matter how hard I tried to take my mind off the plane’s problems, it wasn’t happening. Thinking of my wife and two sons back home, I was glad they weren’t with me.

FIRE IN THE SKY

All of a sudden there was a loud pop and a blaze of fire shot past my window as the engine cowling pulsed under pressure. We instantly lost power. The gauges on the dashboard flatlined and the lights went black. It was dark and silent inside the cabin. A peaceful, tranquil feeling washed over me. The calmness of the moment caught me off guard. My senses of sight and smell escalated to a level I’d rarely known. “Is this what it feels like to die?” I thought.

Quickly, the pilot banked the plane into the wind, heading back upstream. We were quickly losing elevation. At the last moment the pilot regained enough sputtering power to keep the plane level. There was one little gravel bar in front of us and he was able to miraculously hit it. Upon touchdown we lost power and never regained it.

The 206 passed overhead and saw we had been forced to make an emergency landing. The pilot was able to land nearby. We packed all the gear we could into the 180, putting the raft, tent and some bulky camping gear beneath it, hoping grizzlies didn’t find it. Then we piled into the 206 and headed for Kotzebue.

The alternative would have been to pitch camp, but with one plane down, a storm approaching and the wind chills already taking the temperature well below zero on this late September day in 2013, there was really only one choice. Flying over the tundra, lights flickering from distant villages, things were finally good.

SOBERING SIGHT

Fortunately, the storm swung to the north and the next morning a mechanic was sent to fix the broken-down plane and return our gear. What he discovered was a blown engine on the 1950s-era Cessna, bringing home the fact we were fortunate to walk away from what could have easily been a catastrophe. The plane would have to be airlifted back to town by helicopter to be fixed. The majority of our gear remained with the plane. We spent the next few days at Pat’s home in Kotzebue. Our moose season was over.

Three days later the skies cleared. We heard a helicopter thundering into town and stepped out to see what we presumed would be our plane being towed. From a distance we could see it was towing a bush plane, but as it neared, we saw that it wasn’t ours.

As the chopper got closer we could see it was hauling a totaled bush plane. One wing was missing. The plane being hauled in by a search-and-rescue team came from the same area we had hunted. It had crashed when the pilot attempted to land on a gravel bar in high winds. The last we heard, both the pilot and passenger of the plane had been airlifted to Anchorage and were in critical condition. I never got the final details.

Later, our plane was hauled in by the same rescue helicopter. Reflecting on what could have been – especially after having seen the demolished plane up close – made me realize how fortunate we were to walk away, plus how valuable experienced bush plane pilots truly are.

During my years of traveling and hunting throughout Alaska, I’ve always said this: The success of a hunt is measured on whether or not you come out alive, not if you filled a tag. ASJ

Editor’s note: For personally signed copies of Scott Haugen’s best-selling book, Hunting The Alaskan High Arctic, visit scotthaugen.com.