Survival story
The costal rout on floats is one thing and the interior on wheels or skies is another. This was a return from Felts field in Spokane back to Homer. It was early in my commercial flying career. I had had some body repair redone following my purchase of 54Whiskey, and had had a pair of small penetration skies mounted for my return. It was February and I was concerned about cold weather operation as well. The school had found a passenger, unsolicited by me. They were anxious that I take him and had made some claims that were hard for me to deliver. He said that he had a teaching appointment in Fairbanks and wanted the first hand experience of bush flying. He was the brother in law of one of the mechanics. This was a pushy guy, pleasant enough, but a professor of history with a goatee who got under my skin from the start. He was ready to pay big bucks for the adventure. I did not want to disappoint him in that regard, but my License was for on demand air carrier intrastate Alaska. We had a long ways to go before we got to Alaska.
When we worked out a cost sharing arrangement that was not common carriage and was thus legal, it was such a good deal for him that he wanted to take his 11 year old son along too. I agreed before I found out he weighed nearly 180 pounds. The father was a lightweight though, so I thought it would work. Little did I know what lay ahead.
“I’ve got my own survival kit,” he said.
“Oh, yea,” I replied. “Do you have two blankets and two weeks supply of food?” At this point, I was only concerned that we be legal when we got into Alaskan air space. I had calculated the weight and fuel requirements through each leg of the journey and calculated them again. It was close but we had an hours reserve most of the way.
“Yes,” he said. “Two blankets and enough power bars for us all.”
“How much does it weigh?”
“20 pounds, but I have it packed in my other bag.”
“What bag? I told you 25 pounds apiece.”
“That’s just my carry-on. My cameras weigh 25#. My suitcase is just a small one, and I have a backpack. Same for my son, only his carry-on is a bit over.”
So around and around we went. “If you really are an air taxi. You have to carry our luggage.”
“That’s for the next flight,” I answered. “You will have to ship your luggage air freight and as for the carry-on that’s going to be 20# each with your survival kit.
We were about to leave. The aircraft was fueled and ready, wings brushed off and looking good. I re-weighed everything and the extra baggage was shipped commercial. The school was good about holding the bags for pickup.
Washington north west of Spokane is mostly flat and relatively dry. There was a scattering of snow on the ground. It was a pretty flight up into the Columbia River into Canada. We cleared customs in Castlegar and headed on up the Columbia.
The boy, Charlie was getting on my nerves. He breathed through his nose with a snort that was more affect than necessity activating the intercom with each breath. When activated the intercom amplifies the background engine noise into the headset. I had a noise-canceling headset, which made the contrast all the worse.
The penetration skies seemed to slow the plane a bit more than I was lead to expect, so it burned a bit more fuel for the leg than I had planed, but at this point, I hardly noticed the difference. I recalculated and saw no problem so we were on to Prince George. The longer flight took significantly more fuel, and I thought the rigging of the penetration skies was out of alignment. I seemed to hold rudder and aileron to keep the plane straight. There is a small fixed base operator in Prince George and a mechanic who seemed to recognize the problem.
“We’ll have you fixed in a jiffy, A.”
There is a great little lodge just outside of Prince George on Frazier Lake. I know the owner and his wife. A retired Russian Naval officer and his wife run a very European like Lodge and three star restaurant. We had a great meal and good night’s sleep under Eider Down in the grand manner. That was to be our last comfort for eleven days.
From Prince George north, direct to Watson Lake is a long flight and for the most part away from roads. They’re a few native villages but not much else. As we climbed out it became immediately apparent that the problem was much worse not better. We stopped at McLeod Lake, the last stop at the south end of Williston Lake. We refueled and I had a go at making the adjustments myself. I thought I could see the problem and made some bailing wire repairs, actually safety wire of which I had a spool in my tool kit. I flew it around the patch a couple of times and the problem seemed solved. I had lifted the front of the left ski just a bit and that seemed to take care of the yaw. There was not a phone at the field nor could I reach Prince George radio on the VHF. The operator agreed to call in my delay to Canadian flight service and give a new ETA for Watson Lake. We refueled as well so the flight looked much less daunting.
That was my fifth mistake. A little over a hundred miles north the engine started missing. The short cut North from Prince George is called the trench. Actually, the whole Columbia River rout is a bit of a trench. This area is so called for its lack of roads and desolation. The timid or prudent follow the highway in winter. We did not.
The fuel may have been bad or there may have been water condensed in the fuel tank. Everything else checked out. To keep it running I was on full rich and full power. This did not look good. I remembered a small field from a previous trip, not far ahead. I did not remember any village close by, but there must have been a reason for the strip. I could not believe my eyes when I spotted the outline in the snow on the East side of the lake. Some one had plowed the strip but it had snowed a lot since but the outline was clear. The engine was too rough to chance a ski run to check out the snow, pack a landing area so I committed us to a full stop full flap straight in landing, and trust the ground beneath was as smooth as it looked. It was a piece of cake, but then what?
Charlie was crying and his father was indignant. The snow was knee deep with burmes of snow surrounding the small strip, white as far as the eye could see, a gray cloudy sky and high mountains to the east. The silence was defining except for Charlie’s crying. I asked him if he was a Boy Scout yet.
“No,” he said.
“Here’s your chance.”
He stopped crying. His dad straightened up too. I was joking because I did not have a clue. We moved from complacency to this survival environment in a matter of only a few minutes.
For lack of answers, I offered, “Lets review what happened and where we stand. We should have an amended flight plan. When we fail to arrive in Watson Lake, they will send a helicopter. We have some survival gear and a good radio. I will trip the ELT now so it will be heard by aircraft flying over if they monitor 121.5 which most of them do. So lets look around while it is still light. I see something yellow over there, where there is a break in the snow.” I dug out the snowshoes and went over to look.
The something yellow was a Caterpillar tractor. That means someone may come around. Looking past the Cat it became apparent there was a small shed buried in the snow. I went back for the ax to knock the lock off the shed and for my passengers. They were getting cold. The inside of the shed was no warmer, clapboard sides. The ceiling was low. I had to stoop. It could not have been bigger than eight by eleven. There were barrels lined up roughly along one wall. There was a window above them, covered with snow. Was this AV gas or diesel? The barrels were not blue. By now, I was starting to think.
Back to the plane with J. Peterson, that’s my professor. “Just call me JP.” We bring in the survival gear and the carry-on bags the AC tool kit. I can’t drain the engine oil. I don’t have anything to drain it into. I bring the engine blanket as well. I see no way for a restart. The master is off and the ELT is transmitting. Inside the shed, the ceiling is low. There is a dirt floor. We pry the cap off one drum of what smells and feels like diesel fuel. Having mastered the technique with ax and screwdriver, we check all the barrels. All are the same. At least we have fuel if we can rig a stove. There are three sections of stovepipe and parts of an old drum that looks like it was converted to a wood stove at one time. There was a crude door and welded on legs but no wood that we could find. There were a couple of two by fours in the corner, not much else, a crow bar and a shovel. We needed to do something soon; Charlie was starting to complain of cold feet.
Fortunately they had followed the advise about arctic gloves and parkas but Charlie’s shoes were on the light side. I wrapped him in the engine blanket while what’s his name and I tried to rig the stove. There was a small square board nailed onto the underside of the roof where a stovepipe had once been. We pried it off but the stovepipe was not long enough. There were sections missing. The question was how to start a fire with the diesel fuel and not smoke ourselves out of there. Just getting the stuff to burn in this temperature was a challenge.
My pack had a small primus stove, which we started. There was plenty of AV-gas in the plane. We put the primus stove in the oven with an empty oilcan on top. I pried the top off the can and punched a small hole in the bottom. The primus stove I hoped would get hot enough to work as a “chuf-chuf” stove. We propped one of the Fuel drums over the stove, punching a hole in the bottom and punching a corresponding hole in the top of the stove so that the oil would drip onto the hot oilcan. The diesel fuel would not flow, however. It was too cold. J. P. had a big propane lighter which did barely work and his effort to heat the oil by holding the lighter under the hole was met by oil dripping on his glove. He finally mastered the technique and oil dripped on the now fairly hot can. Nothing happened. Out of frustration, or maybe desperation I splashed some AV-gas into the hot oilcan and whoof we had ignition. It was a delicate balance. The cold oil had to be persuaded to drip in a regular flow to keep the flame going. The hot can heated the fuel oil enough that it would burn. Too much or too little and we would be out of business. I hoped the hot oilcan could maintain combustion without the primus underneath. We had enough AV-gas to keep up the process but refueling the primus stove would stop the process. Fortunately, the drip drip and chuff chuff burning of diesel fuel was self-sustaining and I could remove the primus stove. The heat from the stove eventually heated the drum of fuel oil above so the drip from the barrel was sustained as well.
From new book on Alaskan Floatplane operation, all rights reserved
When we worked out a cost sharing arrangement that was not common carriage and was thus legal, it was such a good deal for him that he wanted to take his 11 year old son along too. I agreed before I found out he weighed nearly 180 pounds. The father was a lightweight though, so I thought it would work. Little did I know what lay ahead.
“I’ve got my own survival kit,” he said.
“Oh, yea,” I replied. “Do you have two blankets and two weeks supply of food?” At this point, I was only concerned that we be legal when we got into Alaskan air space. I had calculated the weight and fuel requirements through each leg of the journey and calculated them again. It was close but we had an hours reserve most of the way.
“Yes,” he said. “Two blankets and enough power bars for us all.”
“How much does it weigh?”
“20 pounds, but I have it packed in my other bag.”
“What bag? I told you 25 pounds apiece.”
“That’s just my carry-on. My cameras weigh 25#. My suitcase is just a small one, and I have a backpack. Same for my son, only his carry-on is a bit over.”
So around and around we went. “If you really are an air taxi. You have to carry our luggage.”
“That’s for the next flight,” I answered. “You will have to ship your luggage air freight and as for the carry-on that’s going to be 20# each with your survival kit.
We were about to leave. The aircraft was fueled and ready, wings brushed off and looking good. I re-weighed everything and the extra baggage was shipped commercial. The school was good about holding the bags for pickup.
Washington north west of Spokane is mostly flat and relatively dry. There was a scattering of snow on the ground. It was a pretty flight up into the Columbia River into Canada. We cleared customs in Castlegar and headed on up the Columbia.
The boy, Charlie was getting on my nerves. He breathed through his nose with a snort that was more affect than necessity activating the intercom with each breath. When activated the intercom amplifies the background engine noise into the headset. I had a noise-canceling headset, which made the contrast all the worse.
The penetration skies seemed to slow the plane a bit more than I was lead to expect, so it burned a bit more fuel for the leg than I had planed, but at this point, I hardly noticed the difference. I recalculated and saw no problem so we were on to Prince George. The longer flight took significantly more fuel, and I thought the rigging of the penetration skies was out of alignment. I seemed to hold rudder and aileron to keep the plane straight. There is a small fixed base operator in Prince George and a mechanic who seemed to recognize the problem.
“We’ll have you fixed in a jiffy, A.”
There is a great little lodge just outside of Prince George on Frazier Lake. I know the owner and his wife. A retired Russian Naval officer and his wife run a very European like Lodge and three star restaurant. We had a great meal and good night’s sleep under Eider Down in the grand manner. That was to be our last comfort for eleven days.
From Prince George north, direct to Watson Lake is a long flight and for the most part away from roads. They’re a few native villages but not much else. As we climbed out it became immediately apparent that the problem was much worse not better. We stopped at McLeod Lake, the last stop at the south end of Williston Lake. We refueled and I had a go at making the adjustments myself. I thought I could see the problem and made some bailing wire repairs, actually safety wire of which I had a spool in my tool kit. I flew it around the patch a couple of times and the problem seemed solved. I had lifted the front of the left ski just a bit and that seemed to take care of the yaw. There was not a phone at the field nor could I reach Prince George radio on the VHF. The operator agreed to call in my delay to Canadian flight service and give a new ETA for Watson Lake. We refueled as well so the flight looked much less daunting.
That was my fifth mistake. A little over a hundred miles north the engine started missing. The short cut North from Prince George is called the trench. Actually, the whole Columbia River rout is a bit of a trench. This area is so called for its lack of roads and desolation. The timid or prudent follow the highway in winter. We did not.
The fuel may have been bad or there may have been water condensed in the fuel tank. Everything else checked out. To keep it running I was on full rich and full power. This did not look good. I remembered a small field from a previous trip, not far ahead. I did not remember any village close by, but there must have been a reason for the strip. I could not believe my eyes when I spotted the outline in the snow on the East side of the lake. Some one had plowed the strip but it had snowed a lot since but the outline was clear. The engine was too rough to chance a ski run to check out the snow, pack a landing area so I committed us to a full stop full flap straight in landing, and trust the ground beneath was as smooth as it looked. It was a piece of cake, but then what?
Charlie was crying and his father was indignant. The snow was knee deep with burmes of snow surrounding the small strip, white as far as the eye could see, a gray cloudy sky and high mountains to the east. The silence was defining except for Charlie’s crying. I asked him if he was a Boy Scout yet.
“No,” he said.
“Here’s your chance.”
He stopped crying. His dad straightened up too. I was joking because I did not have a clue. We moved from complacency to this survival environment in a matter of only a few minutes.
For lack of answers, I offered, “Lets review what happened and where we stand. We should have an amended flight plan. When we fail to arrive in Watson Lake, they will send a helicopter. We have some survival gear and a good radio. I will trip the ELT now so it will be heard by aircraft flying over if they monitor 121.5 which most of them do. So lets look around while it is still light. I see something yellow over there, where there is a break in the snow.” I dug out the snowshoes and went over to look.
The something yellow was a Caterpillar tractor. That means someone may come around. Looking past the Cat it became apparent there was a small shed buried in the snow. I went back for the ax to knock the lock off the shed and for my passengers. They were getting cold. The inside of the shed was no warmer, clapboard sides. The ceiling was low. I had to stoop. It could not have been bigger than eight by eleven. There were barrels lined up roughly along one wall. There was a window above them, covered with snow. Was this AV gas or diesel? The barrels were not blue. By now, I was starting to think.
Back to the plane with J. Peterson, that’s my professor. “Just call me JP.” We bring in the survival gear and the carry-on bags the AC tool kit. I can’t drain the engine oil. I don’t have anything to drain it into. I bring the engine blanket as well. I see no way for a restart. The master is off and the ELT is transmitting. Inside the shed, the ceiling is low. There is a dirt floor. We pry the cap off one drum of what smells and feels like diesel fuel. Having mastered the technique with ax and screwdriver, we check all the barrels. All are the same. At least we have fuel if we can rig a stove. There are three sections of stovepipe and parts of an old drum that looks like it was converted to a wood stove at one time. There was a crude door and welded on legs but no wood that we could find. There were a couple of two by fours in the corner, not much else, a crow bar and a shovel. We needed to do something soon; Charlie was starting to complain of cold feet.
Fortunately they had followed the advise about arctic gloves and parkas but Charlie’s shoes were on the light side. I wrapped him in the engine blanket while what’s his name and I tried to rig the stove. There was a small square board nailed onto the underside of the roof where a stovepipe had once been. We pried it off but the stovepipe was not long enough. There were sections missing. The question was how to start a fire with the diesel fuel and not smoke ourselves out of there. Just getting the stuff to burn in this temperature was a challenge.
My pack had a small primus stove, which we started. There was plenty of AV-gas in the plane. We put the primus stove in the oven with an empty oilcan on top. I pried the top off the can and punched a small hole in the bottom. The primus stove I hoped would get hot enough to work as a “chuf-chuf” stove. We propped one of the Fuel drums over the stove, punching a hole in the bottom and punching a corresponding hole in the top of the stove so that the oil would drip onto the hot oilcan. The diesel fuel would not flow, however. It was too cold. J. P. had a big propane lighter which did barely work and his effort to heat the oil by holding the lighter under the hole was met by oil dripping on his glove. He finally mastered the technique and oil dripped on the now fairly hot can. Nothing happened. Out of frustration, or maybe desperation I splashed some AV-gas into the hot oilcan and whoof we had ignition. It was a delicate balance. The cold oil had to be persuaded to drip in a regular flow to keep the flame going. The hot can heated the fuel oil enough that it would burn. Too much or too little and we would be out of business. I hoped the hot oilcan could maintain combustion without the primus underneath. We had enough AV-gas to keep up the process but refueling the primus stove would stop the process. Fortunately, the drip drip and chuff chuff burning of diesel fuel was self-sustaining and I could remove the primus stove. The heat from the stove eventually heated the drum of fuel oil above so the drip from the barrel was sustained as well.
From new book on Alaskan Floatplane operation, all rights reserved
posted by Clancy Hughes | 5/28/2004 11:34:00 AM
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