Fly By Night

The crisp spring air predicted clear skies.  Our flight from Watson Lake to Whitehorse appeared routine.  We got up early because we hoped to make it to customs in Alaska before they closed.

If we made it to Northway by five o'clock, then we could fly on home to Fairbanks the same day.  Otherwise it meant one more night in a hotel.  We'd been gone for more than three months, and we were very anxious to sleep in our own bed.

Keith preferred to be pilot-in-command.  I could understand that.  The controls were an extension of his limbs, the rudders were his feet and the ailerons were his arms.  He was a true fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants pilot.  He was the only person I'd ever known who soloed his first plane in five hours.

I folded the maps so I could see our route without having to rearrange them again in the cockpit.  I didn't expect to need them because we planned to fly parallel to the Alaska Highway.  We'd fly directly to the mountains and then follow the canyon between the peaks.  After refueling in Whitehorse, we'd fly to Northway, and then it was a straight shot home.

When we got to the mountains, misty snow was falling.  Visibility was still good, and there was no reason not to press on.  The radio was quiet and the omni quit working when were out of line of sight of the Watson Lake VOR.  We still had the road, though, and everything was going as planned.  We should be in Whitehorse in plenty of time for lunch.

Keith had the controls, the map was lying in my lap, and we were chatting about our plans for when we got home.  I was taking more flying lessons because I wanted to get my commercial license.  I was hoping to teach flying.

We could still hear the Watson Lake tower on our radio, so we called back for a weather report.  We were very pleased that our new radio got such long-range reception.  Watson Lake was aware of the snow, but they reported that Whitehorse was clear and VFR.  We pressed on unworried although the snow was falling a little heavier now.  Less conversation and more concentration was required.

I followed our route with my finger on the map.  The only landmark was the road, and everything else was wilderness and mountains as far as the eye could see.  When we were about two hours out of Watson Lake the cloud layer snuggled into the mountains.  We could no longer see the horizon, and visibility forward was barely 10 miles.  We were comfortably flying about 1000 feet above the road.

We considered turning around and going back because of the lowering visibility, but we nixed that idea because we didn't have enough gas now to make it to Watson Lake.  We'd have to land on the road somewhere and hike into town and come back with a can of gas.  Besides, it felt safer to fly straight ahead than trying to turn around in this narrow canyon.

We were no longer in radio contact with anyone.  I turned the omni radio to the Whitehorse VOR and we got nothing.  I turned the voice radio to the tower and occasional we got some static, but nothing you could understand.  Our last weather briefing reported that Whitehorse was clear, so we decided that Whitehorse was the best choice for a destination.

Minutes ticked by slowly and the visibility continued to shrink until we were in a cocoon of snow.  The snowfall wasn't thick, but the only direction we could see clearly was down.  I concentrated on the map.  Keith concentrated on flying.

"Why are we slowing down?" I said.  I was startled by the brake-like action when Keith pulled on the flaps.  He was flying slower but still fast enough that the controls felt solid in his hands.  A slower speed would give us more time to think if anything unexpected came along, like another plane or a mountain.

The road winded around the mountains and soon we had to fly lower to keep it in sight.  We would fly over the creeks and rivers whenever they would parallel the road because they were a lower altitude.

By this time we were no longer flying VFR.  We were in instrument conditions.  I began to worry about what would happen to us when we landed in Whitehorse.  It was illegal for us to be flying IFR in Canada.

The map clearly marked towers and power lines.  I'd alert Keith whenever one was coming up.  He'd bank the airplane in the direction that would give us the most clearance.  Only once did we have to skim the clouds to fly over a tower.  We were grateful that we'd driven the Alcan enough to be familiar with this part of the road.

There was definitely no flying back to Watson Lake now.  We decided that if we lost visibility any further we would land on the road and wait it out.  We didn't see any traffic on the road, and it wouldn't be much different than landing at Uncle Robert's short field at the homestead.

Because of the low cloud cover, it almost looked dark.  The sun was still up but it was totally obscured by the clouds.  We could hear Whitehorse radio and we listened to the recorded weather information.  Then we called the tower and reported, "We are fifteen miles east, inbound to land, and we have information PaPa."

We expected to see the airport any time, but we didn't.  The control tower reported a Wien Air Alaska jet on a ten-mile final.

"Where are we now?" Keith asked me.

"Less than five miles from the airport, but I can't see it," I replied.  Keith didn't dare take his eyes off the road.

"Cessna 3072 Alpha," squawked the tower, "report when you are on a one-mile final."

"We should be there now," my finger told me but we still didn't see anything that resembled a landing strip, let alone an airport.  Suddenly, we saw the runway; we were level with it.  We had expected to come up alongside it downwind, but instead the road took us right to the end of it.

"We're on final," Keith reported to the tower," and in the next five seconds our wheels were rolling on the snow-covered asphalt.  I quickly released the flaps.  We had landed.

"Expedite off the runway, Wien is on a three-mile final," informed Whitehorse tower.  Keith turned left on the first available taxiway, and requested permission to change to ground control.  His white knuckles loosened their grip on the yoke.

When we requested directions to transit parking, ground control told us, "We don't have you on an IFR flight plan.  Where did your flight originate?"

Keith answered, "We are on a flight plan from Watson Lake."

After we taxied to visitor parking, we tied down the airplane and called a taxi.  There was no way we were flying any more that day.  About that time Wien Air Alaska touched down in a swirl of snow.

I looked around and there were no Canadian mounties headed toward us to arrest us for flying through the bad weather.

We took the taxi to a motel and finally crashed.

The next morning the sky was clear and crisp.  The flight home was uneventful.  We made a good team.  Keith kept his eyes on the needle, ball, and airspeed.  I watched the map.  We discussed our options and made decisions before we were in a crisis.

The moral of the story for me is that with a good map, a good partner, and good communication, you can weather the storm safely and live to fly another day.

IFR - instrument flight rules
VFR - visual flight rules