Northbound by Arun J. Jain

Background

The North country is a place where for many, aviation is still a necessity rather than a luxury. It is a place where the characteristics of both self sufficiency and reliance on others are simultaneously emphasized. And, it is a place where nature is still the undisputed King, sometimes despite the best efforts of Man.

Late in July, 1994, a long-time friend, Steve Klotz, and myself, set out on the adventure of a lifetime -- a month of flying in Canada and Alaska. As we were both the pilots and the passengers, our itinerary was bounded only by vague notions and rough airfields, and our beds were often sleeping bags under the wings of the Cessna 182 which we flew. The pictures below highlight but a few of the unique features which we had the privilege of experiencing in the lands of the North.

See more photos from this trip

See photos from Alaska flight #2!

Images

"Float plane on Watson Lake, Canada". We arrived at Watson Lake after following the Alaskan Highway up from Dawson Creek, where it had been raining the night before. Forest fires in the area were rampant and the air was thick with smoke. The airport, though huge, was all but deserted -- the only other plane there was a Piper Arrow, also up from the States, stopping in briefly for fuel. After fueling up our own plane, we taxied to the far side of the airport, where we taxied onto a small dirt area with a couple of old tie-down rings. A gazebo, midway between us and the lakeshore about 100 feet distant, had a sign next to it which proclaimed "Campground". We soon had our tent up and our swim trunks out. Wandering down to the lake shore, we found a conveniently flat beach and took the plunge. The water was utterly calm, surprisingly warm, and incredibly refreshing. Later, eating dinner over a roaring fire, we watched a truck back a trailer loaded with a float plane down the beach into the lake. The pilot and a mechanic offloaded the plane and started it up. The pilot taxied slowly out into the center of the lake, sunlight gleaming gold from his wake. He revved up his engine, and was almost off the water when he suddenly throttled back, slowed down, and taxied back in. The mechanic opened up the engine cowling and adjusted something. The plane taxied back out, revved up again, and this time took off, banking sharply after take-off to buzz us. A farewell rock of his wings to the mechanic, a turn towards the highway, and he was quickly out of sight in the smoky air.

"Painting on the side of a cabin in Whitehorse, Canada". Whitehorse was just a couple of hours flight north of Watson Lake, flying low above the Alaskan Highway. In contrast with Watson Lake, Whitehorse was a busy airport with a control tower and a large tourist-oriented community. Most of the buildings of historical interest had been renovated, and the streets were clean and orderly. One building, near the visitor center along the river, caught my eye...

"Residential cabin in Dawson City, Yukon Territories, Canada". Dawson City was a sharp contrast to Whitehorse. In place of the busy airport and control tower was a gravel strip planted next to a mountain and populated mainly by old DC-3s to combat the forest fires. We hitchhiked into town, and instead of clean and orderly streets and carefully restored houses were rough gravel roads and dilapidated, leaning buildings, often propped up by wooden supports. Wooden boardwalks bordered the streets, and school children ran and played next to old, rusted, mining equipment, their original purposes obscured by time. Highway through-traffic was obligated to wait in turn to drive onto the ferry, which steadily chugged back and forth across the Yukon River. While we were there, the ferry boat broke down for several hours and stranded cars lined up for probably a mile on either side. The overall atmosphere was relaxed and casual and appearingly much more accepting of the influence of nature on the affairs of man. The wooden cabin pictured was a fully lived-in home, just a couple of houses away from that in which the famous poet, Robert Service, lived.

"The midnight sun from Inuvik, NWT, Canada". From Dawson City it was a four hour flight in instrument conditions to the northern city of Inuvik. Of those four hours, about three were spent in solitude -- just Steve, myself, and the steady drone of the engine above a sea of clouds, puctuated only occasionally by a solitary finger of rock protruding through the clouds from the unseen mountains below. All but one of the navigation receivers (the low-frequency ADF) were dead still, and even the communication radios were silent. A strong contrast to IFR (instrument) flights in the "Lower 48", this one was was almost completely along NDB-defined airways in uncontrolled airspace, with no radar or VHF communications coverage. Coming from the relatively well-travelled southern lands, Inuvik appeared as a frontier town on the northern edge of civilization. Loud and rowdy residents roamed seemingly aimlessly out of boredom, and houses appeared rough and functional. Our first night on the town, we eschewed camping food in favor of a Caribou Burger apiece at a local hamburger joints. Children played outside until well after 10:00 p.m., and it was about 11:40 p.m. by the time the sun finally gave up and slipped beneath the horizon. Even so, at our latitude above the Arctic Circle, it never did get any darker than what I, a "Lower Forty-Eighter", would normally associate with twilight.

"Local business in Tuktoyaktuk, NWT, Canada". From Inuvik, it took just over half an hour to fly north to Tuktoyaktuk, referred to by most locals as "Tuk". On this flight, the fact that we were in the Arctic truly sank in, for the view was of nothing but endless tundra and countless unamed lakes. Occasionally, a building surrounded by vehicles and equipment, presumably a home, would appear on the edge of a lake, completely isolated and far from any and all signs of civilization or even roads. Tuktoyaktuk itself, populated mainly by natives, is accessible only by air or by water -- no roads to it exist. In the winter, the MacKenzie River freezes solid and becomes a highway of ice, over which supplies are transferred by truck from Inuvik. Landing on the short, narrow gravel airstrip, bordered on the approach end by the Arctic Ocean, we tied down our plane and walked into town, stopping along the way to gaze at such wonders as the hills formed through natural lifting action known as Pingos, and at the bright red mobile home which functioned as the sole motel. Standing in the background and appearing strangely out of place, a Distant Early Warning radar site attested to national tensions and politics of a government far away in distance and further away in thought. Structures were spartan and functional, and few people were to be seen. Numerous fishing boats, rocking gently in the swells of the Arctic Ocean, gave evidence of a still prevalent way of life.

"Bush plane flying hunters from Gulkana, Alaska". Gulkana provided our first glimpse of Alaskan bush flying. We had just flown down from Inuvik, Canada that morning and this was our first day in Alaska, having cleared customs in Northway. The view was spectacular. We had been following the Copper River, and visible to the east was Mt. Sanford, a pyramid of snow and ice towering over the rest of the Wrangell-St. Elias National Park at over 16,000 feet. While we refueled and planned the rest of our day's flight to Anchorage, which was to be on instruments, we chatted with a backcountry ranger, who performed all his wilderness patrols at the controls of a Piper Super Cub. Soon, another Super Cub appeared, this one apparently chartered by hunters, as a backpack and rifle was visible tied to the struts outside underneath each wing (the Super Cub, known as the "Jeep" of airplanes, carries two people, with limited space for cargo inside). Another hunter/hiker lounged nearby next to the airport terminal building, backpack and rifle casually leaning against the wall. No one was shocked or even looked twice.

"Overlooking the Exit Glacier, just north of Seward, Alaska". After landing at Anchorage International, we tied down the plane and abandoned it for four days in favor of a rental car, in which we could explore territory which had never even heard of an airport. We didn't spend any significant time in Anchorage itself -- big cities always seem to have too much in common. Drifting southward and checking out Seward, we drove several miles along a wide, well-travelled dirt road which put us at the base of the Exit Glacier, a beautiful cacophony of turquoise ice towering above the scenic overlook platform. A trail winding uphill alongside led towards the top of the glacier, 3000 feet above. On a whim, Steve and I took it. As the afternoon quickly progressed, we kept telling each other that we needed to turn around soon, but the view became increasingly spectacular, and we soon found ourselves at the top, overlooking the entire length of the Exit Glacier. The Harding Icefield, the source of the glacier, stretched for 20 miles to the southwest, while above us on the alpine slopes Dahl mountain goats grazed peacefully.

"Thatched roof corner, Fairbanks, Alaska". Landing at Fairbanks International Airport, we taxied straight into the campground on the airport. Each campsight was complete with a plane tie-down area, a clearing for a tent, and a centrally-located covered patio with wood burning stove. There was even a stack of neatly piled wood and boxes of neatly planted flowers, courtesy of the local 99s (a women's flying organization). Deciding to call this "home" for two days, we quickly procured a rental car and proceeded to visit the nearby attractions, including the Alaskan Pipeline and Alaskaland. Another tourist attraction, a riverboat tour, proved especially rewarding. After boarding, passengers were treated to a float plane demonstration, and various displays including sled dogs and recreations of Indian crafts were presented as the boat wound its way slowly along the river. The thatched roof was part of a wood cabin in a re-created Indian village, where all the passengers temporarily disembarked and stretched their legs amongst the wood cabins, thatched huts, and corrals.

"Moored floatplane, Fairbanks, Alaska". One beautiful clear evening, Steve and I, both being airplane fanatics in the truest sense, decided to wind down by wandering from our campsite to the float plane docks. Fairbanks International was an interesting airport. Besides the on-field campground in which we were staying, it also had multiple runways -- one of which was a long narrow strip of water for float planes. Lining this lake were the float plane docks, each complete with a storage locker for assundry pilot gear. As the sun dropped beneath the horizon and the sky lit up with color, the planes almost seemed to absorb the sunset and radiate it themselves, and for just a moment the scene was surrounded by a peculiar stillness. And then it was back to the tent, where I slept soundly despite the periodic thunder of departing jetliners.

"Scrap metal, Alaskan style -- McCarthy, Alaska". From Fairbanks, we flew south, following highways back to Gulkana, where we were disappointed to discover that all the coastal airfields we wanted to visit were weathered in. On the recommendation of the lone weather specialist manning the tiny Flight Service Station hut, we decided to fly to McCarthy, although the specific weather conditions there were described as "unknown". Arriving overhead the McCarthy airfield, the weather almost clear, we looked down to see a long dirt strip, half of which had been cordoned off lengthwise with orange pylons. On the right side of the usuable landing area, in the closed section, bulldozers and road equipment roared up and down, stirring up a huge cloud of dust, and workmen wandered back and forth across the line of cones. The left side, a few wingspans away, was lined with 50 foot high trees. It took three passes to land -- the first one to buzz the field and alert the workmen of our presence, the second one aborted at the last minute when a workman walked onto the runway, and finally the successful third one, with many nervous glances at the heavy road equipment which unabatedly continued to blaze away at the dirt directly on the right. The town of McCarthy was a couple of kilometers walk up the washboard dirt road. As we walked, we could catch glimpses through the thick trees on either side of strange assortments of old mining hardware, railroad equipment, and broken, rusted equipment whose use we could not even guess at. A narrow, rutted side road led towards an old cabin, about which was strewn what appeared to be the Alaskan equivalent of having junked cars in the backyard -- mainly consisting of more mining equipment and various pieces of disassembled and wrecked airplanes. Further on, the town of McCarthy proper soon came into view. Walking through town took no more than few minutes, and we were soon across the log bridge and camped on the far side of the stream from which the entire town's source of drinking water was derived.

"Deserted hallway overlooking glacier, Kennicott, Alaska". Kennicott, a huge company-owned mining camp which saw its heyday in the early part of the century, stands on the side of a steep mountain overlooking the lower portion of a large glacier. It was abandoned almost overnight in 1939, and long-time residents of McCarthy related tales of still being able to find food on the tables and mail in the mailboxes up until only a few years ago. Kennicott is still privately owned, and a lodge has been established for visitors who wish to spend the night in luxurious comfort. As it was a 5 mile trip from McCarthy, Steve and I elected to rent mountain bicycles at a local outfitter, and rode up the steep, rough, and occasionally washed-out road to the mine. Arriving, we leaned our bikes against a tree and went exploring on foot. The site was a strange constrast of buildings and equipment, some of which were almost perfectly preserved, and others which were nearly completely destroyed. In one room, old piles of inventory documents lay strewn about the floor, many still with their dates in the 1930s stamped clearly on them. In another, slowly rusting nuts, bolts, and various small pieces of hardware were still organized neatly in parts bins. Often, one half of a building appeared intact -- yet the other half was completely filled with mud and gravel from the landslides which were gradually taking their toll. Climbing the surprisingly stable stairway in what appeared to be business building lined with small offices, we looked down the empty hallway, through the broken window at the end, and onto the glacier outside. And it was here that the impact of Time suddenly struck -- the building, made and used by Man, now abandoned and yielding gradually, year after year, to the same unrelenting forces of nature which slowly changed the course of even the mighty river of ice below.

"The Miles Glacier, seen from above the Copper River, Chugach National Forest, Alaska". On the day of our departure, we again worried about the weather. After all, weather reports consisted mainly of looking out the door of the tent. However, although official weather reports were not available from McCarthy, due to the lack of telephones and electrical lines, luck was with us and we soon found ourselves droning toward the coast down a narrow valley above the Copper River with only patchy clouds above. On both sides, the view was spectacular. Towering waterfalls poured down steep precipices lining the canyon, and numerous glaciers flowed in from either side. Approaching the coastline, the valley began to widen, and it was here that the Miles Glacier drifted into view, a sight so staggering in its enormous scale that we found ourselves flying in circles as we tried to convince our eyes that a field of ice so large could possibly exist. Later, even after the flight in the comforts of civilization, it was hard to forget the incredible image of that 30 mile-long flow of ice.

"Serene sunset over the harbor, Sitka, Alaska". As we banked over the Copper River Delta to follow the coastline southward, we noted that the weather was closing in and the cloud ceiling was already noticeably lower. Continuing south, we found ourselves flying lower and lower to avoid the clouds. Crossing Icy Bay, a large and very cold looking inlet only 400 feet above the water, we decided that enough was enough, and landed at Yakutat to reform the plan. Most of the airfields along the coastline were closed due to weather, including our goal, Juneau. Sitka was anticipated to still be open when we arrived; if it was not, we would have to continue another 150 miles south to Ketchikan, the only other reasonable alternate airport. We decided to give it a go, and were soon cruising on instruments in grey splendor. Fortunately, the weather was just sufficient to allow for an uneventful landing to instrument minimums at Sitka, and the friendly fuel truck attendant drove us a couple of miles in drizzling rain to a warm, quaint hotel in town. The next morning, we walked outside to find warm, sunny weather -- perfect for some sightseeing on rented bicycles. Later that evening, the weather still clear, we wandered around the docks below the slowly reddening sky, and envied the relaxed, unharried lifestyle of those who called this home. At that moment, looking out at the Alaskan sunset for the last time on our trip, it seemed hard to believe that in just another couple of days we would be back at work in our respective offices, focused once again on financial realities, with the adventure of the north both a memory of the past and a hope for the near future.