Lessons Learned: Lost In Alaska

I was excited about my first big solo trip in the 185. The 185 was the first small airplane I had flown, and I had since been working on my ratings, learning aerobatics and getting tailwheel experience. I started flying in Dillingham, about 300 miles southwest of Anchorage, only accessible by airplane or boat. My job there took me to the region's native villages, and I had to charter a small airplane to get around. On the first leg of my first chartered flight, our Cessna crashed at the end of a muddy airstrip after our young pilot didn't use the entire length of a short muddy runway. We were shaken but not hurt when we climbed out of the upside-down Cessna, and as I walked back to the village, I realized that having been around aviation all of my life and having a deep affinity for airplanes, I could learn to be a much better pilot than this guy. One week later, I met Bob Wagstaff at a dinner party. He had flown to Dillingham that day in his Cessna 185 and invited me to fly with him the next time I was in Anchorage. I couldn't wait to take him up on what would be my first lesson.

The Cessna 185 is a classic bush airplane. It's solid to fly, but is a bit heavy on the controls and can be a bear in crosswind landings. My biggest challenge, however, was its ergonomics. Most Cessnas are designed to accommodate an averaged-sized man; the seats are only so adjustable, and I had to use two cushions to sit high enough to see out the windscreen. But when I was sitting high enough to see, my arms weren't long enough to reach the flap handle on the floor. So to add flaps, which is usually done in the traffic pattern or close to the ground, I had to embrace the yoke with my left arm, then reach down to pull up the flaps while craning my head up to see out in front of me. I found ways to make it work. I also was really excited that Bob agreed to turn me loose with his airplane. I had taken my first lesson in this airplane and now taking it on this trip would feel like an accomplishment, closing the circle.

I flew the 185 from Anchorage to Dillingham to pick up my friend, Sue, who was joining me on a weeklong trip around western Alaska and the Yukon, Denali and then ending in Anchorage. After loading the airplane with our gear, we took off for our first stop about 150 miles to the northwest, Bethel, a village on the Kuskokwim River. The country west of Dillingham is some of the most pristine remote wilderness in the world, including the Wood River Tikchik Lake System, a necklace of clear water with fjord-like lakes renowned for their diverse beauty and fish and wildlife. The weather was clear, and the visibility, as it usually is in Alaska, was unlimited. We continued west toward the scattered Ahklun Mountains, the highest mountains we would have to cross before spilling out onto the wide flat drainage of the Yukon Kuskokwim Delta that would lead us to Bethel.

The weather was clear as we flew west, but just after passing the chain of lakes, the ceilings started lowering, the sky started darkening, and the terrain started rising. The tall peaks of the mountains ahead started disappearing into the clouds. The valleys in the foothills lost their definition because the peaks were their identifying feature, but since I had confidence in my ability to fly by pilotage and IFR---I Follow Rivers---I would bank on my experience, and I continued flying west.

Weather in Alaska isn't like weather in the Lower 48. It's more extreme and changes very quickly. Weather reporting was almost nonexistent, and today is still a challenge. Learning to read weather and knowing when to turn around was a key component to surviving flying in Alaska. There are huge distances between reporting stations or airports, and you're truly on your own. We sometimes filed multiday flight plans with multiple locations, but the state is so big and remote, if you have to land off-airport, it can take days, even weeks, to find a downed airplane equipped only with an ELT, which is why the FARs require, when flying in Alaska, onboard survival gear and food for several days.

As we flew deeper into the rising foothills, I was following a river up a valley that I thought would lead to an exit on the other side, but as the valley was narrowing I started to doubt whether I had identified the river correctly. It all looked the same and then it started snowing. That's when it hit me like a bullet that I didn't know where I was. I had no way of knowing if I was following a river into a valley that would dead-end in a box canyon. I had to turn around. Like I'd been taught when in this situation, I did a quick 180-degree turn before it was too late to do one.

The visibility behind us was better, but the ceilings were low enough that we were hemmed in on all sides and I couldn't see where our "out" was. Which way is out? We circled over a long north-south valley and I was tempted to follow it, but it could have also been a dead end into rising terrain. Having some local knowledge of the area would have been invaluable.

At this point I was thinking about my choices: One, I could land in the tundra, not wreck the airplane and hope someone would find us, a humiliating defeat after a long search-and-rescue mission; two, I could keep trying to find my way out of the maze of valleys and mountains with deteriorating weather and possibly run into a piece of granite; or three, climb into the clouds and try to find our way back to Dillingham. I didn't really have a choice; there was only one way out, so I started climbing. I had my instrument rating but was afraid to fly in the clouds by myself and so had never gotten my ticket wet---flying IFR solo. I'd spent a lot of time flying IFR with my husband, but he was the pro and always flew.

At this point I didn't want to scare Sue or have her doubt me or cause me to doubt myself, so I tried to sound cool. I said I wasn't comfortable pushing the weather so we were just going to climb up IFR and head back to Dillingham. No big deal! I have an instrument rating and the airplane is equipped with two VORs and an ADF. She nodded and smiled and seemed okay.

I'm a very resourceful person. When something starts to go wrong, I'm already looking for the solution and the next step. But to be resourceful you have to have resources. In aviation, you have to always have something in your hip pocket that will get you out of trouble---experience, local knowledge, a 180-degree turn, the rating, an "out." We always carried paper charts with us, and I was using either a Sectional or a WAC chart, where each segment of land is marked with its highest obstacle. I was used to noting this, and instantly knew by my chart that the highest peaks in the area were about 6,000 feet. I spiraled up through the clouds hoping we wouldn't drift out of position very much, but there was no real way of knowing, so I was incredibly relieved when we climbed past 5,900 feet and above all the granite below us. I had already known a couple of people who had run into mountains and didn't want to be one of them.

I climbed to over 10,000 feet where I could start to relax and fly a compass heading toward the east, hoping to pick up the Dillingham VOR. I could have continued on to Bethel but we had no way to know what their weather was like. Still in the clouds, I tried not to let Sue know how I felt but I was tense waiting for the VOR signal to come in. Until then I had no way of knowing how far from Dillingham we were. Finally, I saw the faint movement of the VOR needles and the signal coming in; we were 60 miles out. I started to relax and my view came into focus but looking outside, I saw the left tire had a big glob of rime ice covering it. Did this mean the wings were getting covered in ice, too? I needed to descend into warmer air, but with mountains still below us I couldn't do that. I watched and waited. The ice hung on to the tire and a little on the wings, but it didn't seem to get any worse. I told Sue, "Piece of cake! We'll be home soon."

The cockpit was quiet. The radios were silent. There was no one to talk to, no ATC, no towered airports and no cell phones. On the plus side, we had a lot of fuel and could have flown for a couple of hours more but there was really nowhere else to go. I don't know if I emanated calm and cool, but I think I had Sue fooled. Maybe I was fooling myself, too. The first time I soloed, I thought, "Wow, they let me do this!" as though I wasn't really capable, but deep down I knew I was. And now I was using all of the tools I had learned as an Alaskan pilot to get me out of trouble, so maybe I shouldn't have been surprised that I really was prepared. I had training in decision making, understanding weather, how to get out of snowstorms and turning around in box canyons, carrying the right charts, flying the right airplane.

I wasn't looking forward to shooting the non-precision instrument approach into Dillingham. I had no idea how low the ceilings had gotten and I had never shot an actual approach alone in the airplane, but when we finally got the Dillingham ATIS I think I must have willed it, because it reported clear skies right over the airport. It was hard to believe when all I could see were clouds, but sure enough, when we got there we descended down through with the runway in sight and landed. Afterwards when tying the airplane down, a pilot I knew walked by and asked where we came from. He said, you must have been IFR, in the goo? I nodded, nonchalantly. Yeah, we were. Later, I called Bob and told him about the trip and he was proud of me. He knew I was ready.

I still have the "Lost" in my old logbook to remind me of that metallic taste of fear and disbelief. It reminds me how quickly things can go wrong and how a pilot always needs to be one step ahead and always have an out, as well as how important developing and practicing good procedures is because we always revert to those in a tight situation. Interesting, too, is that I think compassion played a part in my ability to deal with an uncomfortable situation because I wanted in no way to upset or endanger my friend. In the end, of course, luck and fate always play a part. I could have flown one more minute with fatal results, or I could have popped out on the other side of the valley, I'll never know, but I do know it's best to only flirt a little with fate and not tempt it too much.

The next day Sue and I took off again into much improved weather and had a fun and memorable journey. My logbook says Bethel, Aniak, McGrath, Galena, Ruby, Tanana, Fairbanks; Ruth Glacier Amphitheatre, Talkeetna, Merrill Field; Kuskokwim, Yukon, Tanana Rivers. Whenever we landed, people were surprised to see two girls get out of the 185, and I thought it was great. Why not?! The favorite line we heard on the entire trip was after landing in Aniak: "I've seen one girl in a 185, but I've never seen two of them!"

Patty Wagstaff is a 3-time U.S. National Aerobatic champion, and one of the world's top airshow pilots. Visit pattywagstaff.com/school.html or reach Patty via email through pattyaerobatics@gmail.com.

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