Friday, December 24, 2021

The Rad Decades and the Columbia Mall

Being a child of the “rad” decades, the mall was a fixture of my youth. I was destined trek the desert, climb mountains, drive racecars, and fly all manner of things, but the Maryland suburb of Columbia didn’t offer much of those (I probably would have got in a lot less trouble if it had). 

Instead, it had a mall: The Columbia Mall.

The Columbia Mall Circa 1979

Opened in 1971 as the centerpiece of the planned community of Columbia, Maryland, the Mall in Columbia (which it is now called thanks to some euphemistic word reversing) was the anchor by which the suburb of both Washington D.C. and Baltimore grew. Unlike the drab fluorescent windowless structures that defined many malls across the country in the latter decades of the Twentieth Century, when the Columbia Mall was opened, it was airy by comparison. The L-shaped structure featured continuous skylights above tiered upper levels and a cobblestone-like floor that was made from a sea of brown bricks.

Its cavernous walls were lined with rad-era retailers like Musicland, Sam Goody, and of course, the Arcade. The stores were separated by courtyards filled with water fountains and concrete benches with a few food courts strewn in between. The Columbia Mall even had its own smell; part chlorinated water from the fountains, part mall food, and part desperation—because, if you were hanging out at the mall, you had nothing better to do...

My teenage years in Columbia were tumultuous ones. I was always skirting the line of rebellion and craving independence, while getting in a lot of trouble in the process. I just didn’t belong in a place like Columbia, but at the same time, I was lucky to have grown up there. My Mom worked hard and sacrificed tons for my brother I, for which I have nothing but gratitude. I even received a good education despite my efforts at trying not to. It was inevitable then, that I would periodically find myself at the mall. If my friends and I were marbles, rolling around the theoretical folds of coming of age in the 1980s and 1990s, at the bottom of those folds was the mall—and when there was nothing else to do, gravity always wins.

When you walked into the southern entrance of the Columbia Mall, there was a certain smell that caught your nose. It stood out from the faint chemical burn of the chlorinated water fountains, the heavy grease of the food court, and even the putrid desperation that settled in the heavy air. It was a sweet smell with a bit of a kick; it was the smell of cinnamon—the smell of Cinnabon. If there ever was a store made for the mall, it was Cinnabon. Founded in Seattle at the SeaTac Mall in the mid-1980s, Cinnabon was a mall niche that satisfied the gluttonous impulses of innocent passersby who had no idea of the bad decision they were about to make. Once they caught the scent it was like an olfactory siren’s call, there was no turning back, their fate was sealed.

I know this because Cinnabon was my first real job. Sure, I’d worked on a cow farm for a few days before that career choice was preemptively ended by almost drowning in a manure pond (always stay on the trail they said, always…). That was followed by a stint as a bus boy at a small restaurant, but I’ll just say that the sit-down restaurant industry and I were an ill-suited match. My buddy Mark got me the job at Cinnabon, where I earned a minimum wage of $4.25 for my hard work. My uniform consisted of dark blue polyester trousers (not unlike the ones that I wear for my current airline), a white polyester shirt, a striped dark blue polyester tie, and a white apron with a blue and pink Cinnabon logo. 

The manager was a woman named Marcy, and she ran a tight ship. Tall and slender with dark hair, probably in her late twenties or early thirties, she set the tone of the joint and held us to a high standard. The entire mall cubby that Cinnabon occupied was white (a poor choice when your main product is brown), so we were always cleaning. You weren’t allowed to sit either, but we overcame that by sit-leaning on the tall plastic trashcans. You always had to test the trashcan before you put your full weight on it. If the trashcan’s max-gross payload had been previously exceeded, then it would fold up like a tin can and you’d be down on the white tile floor. 

Marcy kept us inline, despite most of us having some inherent miscreant tendencies. While not the glowing beacon of robotic perfection that was Chick-fil-a, Cinnabon was far from the grease pits that Roy Rogers or Boardwalk Fries were. I was always trying to fraternize with those Christian Chick-fil-A girls, but their manager kept us heathens at bay. My duties consisted of manning the register, cleaning, taking out the trash (a highly coveted choir thanks to the cigarette opportunity it afforded), and washing dishes, which I did with all of the enthusiasm that a sixteen-year old earning minimum wage would.

The one area that I did excel in was rolling Cinnabons. Despite the early-1990s war on drugs, my skill set at rolling things was precisely honed and refined with the delicate touch of an artisan. The process started by taking a large ball of dough and beating it, then rolling it into flat rectangle. Once it was laid out you unsheathed a literal brick of margin and slathered it in a thick layer on top of the dough. This would be the glue that held a pound of cinnamon in place, spread evenly in another layer on top of the margin. From there the trick was to tuck the end of the sheet into a small fold, which would be the foundation of the role—every great house starts with a solid foundation. Another trick was to pull as you rolled, which made a tightly curled 36-inch log of future Cinnabons. If you did it right, it looked like a “big fatty,” but unlike the reefer variety, you wanted it to be perfectly linear. Then you cut the log into individual discs and put them upright into the oven—six at time. Minibons, pint-sized Cinnabons for those more conscious of their gluttony, were made the same way, but with the initial sheet of dough cut in half.

Once the buns were done, you spread a cream cheese icing on top, which melted into an oozing glaze down the sides. The buns would then be transferred to a hot plate, awaiting their destiny until those lured in by the siren’s call succumbed to their olfactory urges. “For here, or to go?” determined whether you got a box or a plate, the latter best enjoyed by the ambience of the courtyard water fountain. But it was the Cinnabons that never found a home that would play the most interesting role in my Columbia Mall experience. If I were Alice, those poor homeless Cinnabons were the white rabbit that led me down the hole to a secret underground Wonderland. 

Some Cinnabons were boxed up to go and sold for take-home on a rack that also doubled as our only door. We kept them for several days, then they were to be discarded. One of the perks of working at Cinnabon was a plentiful supply of finely aged Cinnabons. The thing about Cinnabons is that they tend to be addictive. Some keen-eyed customers deep in the throngs of their addiction knew that if their timing was right, they might be able to score a free box (those people could care less about how old they were). They would loiter in the mall, lurking in the shadows until after it closed, then stroll up and speak slyly, “Hey man, you got any boxes of Cinnabons you are throwing out?” For the most part, we sent those people on their way, but if you were a mall insider, things were different. 

After the mall closed, there was an entire underground economy that sprung to life; this was the Wonderland. All manner of goods and commodities were traded in those crucial after-hours twilight when the doors were locked and the straggler customers were ushered on their way, but before all of the employees had left for the night. Sam Goody and Musicland had their tapes and CDs on lockdown, and most retail clothing chains were impenetrable fortresses, but the small businesses had more leeway. The folks who owned the hippie store were always up for trading, along with the pet store as well. Other than Chick-fil-a, most of the other food places were keen to trade. The majority of it was trivial and respectful to the business owners if they were not involved directly. 

The currency by which this commerce took place were slightly hardened Cinnabons. They were traded like large poker chips, handed back and forth across the floor of the mall. They found their way far beyond the hands of Cinnabon employees, but that also made us keenly aware of exactly what was going down throughout the mall. Tangibly, the most I ever had to show for it was free food from participating joints when I was too broke to support my munchies and some awesome fish for my aquarium (every teenage stoner needs a rad aquarium). But intangibly there was so much more—we were part of a secret society, one that was predicated on hours of mind-numbing, soul-crushing, ‘90s-era mall retail work. 

That shared misery created a bond within our secret society, one that you could express with nothing more than a knowing glance in-passing. Within the white tile walls of Cinnabon we were a tightknit group as well. There isn’t a person that I didn’t get along with and I’m still friends with some of them two decades later. As the current owner of a small business looking back, Marcy was a great manager; she set a friendly and fun tone, instilled loyalty and good work ethic in us, and kicked us in the ass when we deserved it. 

Eventually, I moved on from Cinnabon. Specifically, just down-mall to the T-shirt cart. It was a solo-gig that gave up the shared misery and comradery of Cinnabon for a director’s-folding-chair to sit in and the conspicuous absence of cinnamon odor on all of my clothes. The woman that owned the T-shirt cart wasn’t down with afterhours trading, and I honored her wishes. As such, I eventually drifted out of the secret society. Coming of age, I had a few more tumultuous years ahead of me, but by my early twenties, I’d cleaned up my act enough to get into flight school and leave Columbia, Maryland. I loaded up all of my humble belongings into my “hardbody” 1993 Nissan truck and headed west to fulfill my destiny, sadly the aquarium didn’t make it.

Two decades later, I can still smell the siren’s call of the Columbia Mall Cinnabon, disturbingly resurrecting it on command. I can also still roll cinnamon buns (careful, not trying to get sued…) and fold T-shirts with alarming precision, but I choose to reserve the former for special occasions. I make it to the Mall in Columbia occasionally when I visit, but like everything else in the world, it is not the same as it was in the 1990s. As much as I detested working at the Columbia Mall, I’m grateful to have done so. The years that followed were dark and formative ones, but I emerged from them with an insatiable drive to pursue a life that I would have never dreamed of back when I was strolling into the Columbia Mall with nothing better to do. 

 

Friday, December 11, 2020

Air-Cooled: To Fly or to Drive

Hidden deep within the geologic folds of the upper Colorado River Basin, along the Utah and Colorado border, is a hidden canyon and one of my favorite secret spots. It was formed when a Colorado River tributary called the Dolores River patiently etched its way through rock and time. As it did so the forested high desert plateaus relinquished their perch to deep canyons, while oxidized-iron painted the rock walls red over the millennia. Nestled at the eastern base of the La Sal Mountains, Gateway had remained largely undiscovered for decades but for those few souls who ventured far off the beaten path. Then John Hendricks, founder of the Discover Channel, did what he does best and discovered the valley. He soon transformed it into a luxury resort called Gateway Canyons Resort and Spa, but thanks to a focus on out-of-state marketing, it is still largely a secret within Colorado. While Gateway Canyons is a few stars up-market from my usual sleeping-under-the-stars accommodations in the desert, the middle-agedness in me certainly doesn’t mind a nice meal and an air-conditioned hotel room at the end of a long day’s recreation.

 

But that’s not what initially drew me to Gateway. I had flown over it for years at my professional flying job, and was inspired by the unique topography and stellar driving roads of the area. After purchasing my own small bush plane, Gateway became a staple destination area thanks to several Bureau of Land Management (BLM) airstrips, one within an easy walk to the resort. From my home airport of Erie, Colorado (KEIK), it’s a short two hour flight—low and slow—over the Colorado high country with a challenging approach and landing to boot. In early June of 2020, a last minute invitation to Gateway Canyons presented itself and a speed run was in order. My wife and I had just flown to it a few weeks earlier, but on this particular weekend the airplane was down for maintenance. I did, however, have another tool in my toolbox and perhaps a comparison was in order. 



The Dolores River Canyon



Gateway Canyons Resort



The 911 SC

 

The 1982 Porsche 911SC came to me several years ago. It wasn’t the first air-cooled 911 that had passed through my side-business, but it was the first one that I ended up keeping. Legend has it that it belonged to a higher-up at the FBI who had owned a string of 911s dating back to the late-1960s. When it came time to order this one, Porsche let him option it in an early long-hood paint-to-sample color called Dark Red Metallic. He built it to an enthusiast’s spec with no sunroof, sport seats, front spoiler, rear “tea-tray” tail, and fifteen-inch Fuchs wheels to keep the rotational mass down. After several decades he also rebuilt the stock engine with a 3.2-liter short-stroke kit. When he took his final drive west, his estate sold it on his behalf and I brought it to Colorado. The only major change I made was to add a set of new-old-stock BBS RS wheels in the most 1980’s color of all—gold!

 

The parallels between driving an air-cooled Porsche 911 and flying a small bush plane are many. Skill is required to push both near their limits, and both are highly visceral experiences. The 911SC is so communicative that you can literally feel the texture of the road as if you are dragging your hand on the surface of the pavement. That is important, as my chosen route consisted of lots of mountain roads with dire consequences should there to be an “off.” The 911SC is also my chosen sweet spot in the air-cooled 911 timeline, being small, light, and having all of the old-school do-not-lift torsion-bar suspension tendencies of a G-body 911. I even prefer the 911SC’s “offer your shift and I may choose to receive it” 915 gearbox over the later G50 gearbox.

 


Similar Cockpits




The Aviat Husky



Alto-Cumulus Standing Lenticular Clouds

(Mountain Waves)



Mountain Flying


The airplane is a 1995 Aviat Husky A-1, an early model in Aviat’s evolution of the iconic Piper Super Cub—a tube and fabric design dating back to the 1930s. My first flying lessons were in a 1946 Piper Cub, the kind that you had to “hand prop” to start. With the Husky, Aviat added several improvements, including a constant-speed propeller and the 180-horsepower horizontally opposed Lycoming O-360 air-cooled engine. Sound familiar? The original owner of my Husky ordered it in a red and white Red Devils livery to match his Pitts S2 sport bi-plane. I added 29-inch Alaska Bushwheel tires for off-airport operations. At roughly 200 horsepower and 2600 pounds, the 911SC has a power to weight ratio of .07 horsepower per pound, while the Husky is at exactly one horsepower power pound (180 horses and 1,800 pounds).

 

Flying a small bush plane in the Colorado high-country is akin to paddling a kayak in the open ocean. Just like the sea, the high mountains must be immensely respected. Experience helps, but every day in the mountains is a new day and even tens of thousands of hours of flight time is little more than a license to learn. The most formidable obstacle from Erie Airport to Gateway (actually to a BLM strip called Hubbard, 9CO3) is the Continental Divide as it travels along Colorado’s Front Range, with peaks averaging above 13,000 feet and Longs Peak at 14,259 feet to the north.

 

The threats of crossing the Front Range in a bush plane are numerous, but the two most formidable are the lack of suitable landing areas should the engine quit (“tiger country” in bush flying speak) and not being able to out-climb sinking air created by the tall mountains. The Husky is perfectly suited to this mission, with the ability to fly slow enough to make a forced landing a survivable proposition and to turn tightly if sink is encountered. Atmospheric winds are no different than water in a river when they encounter a mountain range, with rapids forming after the obstruction called mountain waves. These mountain waves can produce strong lift and sink. Keen awareness of the winds aloft is crucial before attempting a crossing, but there is also an intangible element of how the air feels that only comes with experience. Indeed, every day is a new day when flying in the mountains.

 


Pre-Dawn Departure


Thin Traffic on I-70


I had packed the 911SC the evening before so that my wife and I could make an early departure. The factory tool roll (with a few extras), two quarts of oil, and two duffel bags (just like in the Husky) was all that we needed for a pre-dawn departure. It was the last weekend in May, and not one that I’d normally ever touch Interstate 70 on. I take extreme measures to avoid traffic—including buying an airplane. Thankfully, the lingering effect of the recently lifted COVID19 stay-at-home restrictions had thinned the high-country traffic. The great thing about the 911SC is that, by the lens of the modern world, it really isn’t that fast, which allows enjoyable motoring without egregious speeding. As we made our way to the foothills via Denver’s web of interstates, traffic was wonderfully light and everyone seemed to be a good mood. One particular fellow in a hot-rod Volkswagen Beetle with his dog in the front seat made a great companion for a few miles. He was bent on showing me that his car was faster, which I took the bait on once or twice, and he proved a third time for good measure. But he just loved the 911SC, giving me thumbs up and smiles. I felt the same about his Beetle, and I could think of fewer greater pleasures than being bested in my shinny red Porsche by a man and his dog in a rusty Beetle!

 

Traffic thinned even further as we started climbing up I-70 into the hills—this truly was a rare opportunity thanks to everyone staying at home.



Departing Erie (KEIK)


Crossing the Continental Divide



A tail-wheel aircraft must always be respected during takeoff and landing. It’s like trying to steer a shopping cart full of groceries backwards downhill in a straight line. Get a little off and it’s going to come around on you—just like an old-school air-cooled 911. Smoothly add power, use rudder to maintain the centerline, nudge the nose forward to lift the tail up, and ease the plane off when it’s ready to fly. Even at max-gross weight, this is a sub-500-foot event in the Husky. Departing Erie, my wife and I turned out to the west and settled into a long cruise climb up to the Continental Divide. Rollins Pass is the lowest and most logical crossing point on the Front Range, at 11,671 feet. If the winds allow, I’ll cross at 12,500 feet, but I’ve had the Husky into the upper teens to cross before. Normal technique is to enter the pass at a 45-degree angle on the upwind face of the secondary ridge. This allows a shorter course reversal if an escape maneuver is required—like a good driver, a good pilot always has their “outs.”

 

There is a spookingly wonderful desolation to crossing the Continental Divide in a small plane. Unlike going over in a jet, being down in the mountain peaks is truly humbling. The strong sense of self-reliance that comes with knowing that your survival is directly tied to your decisions and your skill is immensely satisfying. The perspective of literally being on the top of the world is not one that I ever take for granted. The air was glassy smooth as we slipped over the pass, with only a few hundred feet of sink in the down-trough of the primary mountain wave. The terrain fell away from us quickly as we flew west over Winter Park and Granby. Our cruise altitude of 12,500 feet was perfect to cross the Williams Fork and Gore Range mountains. The rocky crags of the Gore Range are some of the most spectacular in Colorado and always worth putting a wing over for a closer look. From there, our course converged with I-70 below.

 

In the 911SC, the descent on I-70 down from the Eisenhower tunnel is a well-handling sports car’s natural habitat. It’s like being a shark in a school of jellyfish made of up top-heavy white-knuckling crossover and SUV drivers. The irony is that such vehicles are sold in the name of safety, despite being riddled with stylish blind spots and festooned with safety nannies to make up for the inherent physical deficiencies of being heavy and tall. Lane discipline is also a, frustratingly, foreign concept to the average crossover / SUV driver. The only driver aid in the 911SC is a passenger to hold your coffee, “Thank you, darling!” Vail Pass and Glenwood Canyon came and went quickly as the world around us was still waking up. We pulled off I-70 in Glenwood Springs for a quick jaunt south on Highway 82 to Carbondale and then another turn to the south on Highway 133.

 

From there, the real driving roads began…



Glenwood Canyon



Stopping for a Stretch Near Redstone



McClure Pass


Highway 133 follows the Crystal River through the White River National Forest from Carbondale to McClure Pass. In late-spring there are dozens of waterfalls cascading off the red-stone ledges where small tributaries fueled by run-off dump into the river. There are even some hot springs right off the side of the road, but don’t expect to be alone due to their easy access. Traffic was wonderfully light as we climbed up the narrow valley, leaving the majority of the road to us and us alone. The small historic hamlet of Redstone (population 130) is always a great stop. Stone kilns in the shape of brick igloos line the roadside, bygone relics from the coal industry of the early last century. We pressed on to a waterfall spot just up-river from Redstone for a bit of a stretch and a picture or two. From there the road continued upstream, eventually climbing directly up the mountainside to McClure Pass.

 

At 12,500 feet, it was a bluebird day in the Husky. Clear of the Gore Range, I throttled back to 20 inches of manifold pressure and 1,900 RPM, which gave us about 110 miles per hour over the ground and a fuel burn of six gallons per hour. Grateful Dead played through the intercom as we picked up the Upper Colorado River and flew it to the convergence of the Eagle River east of Glenwood Canyon. I didn’t know it at the time, but a few months later this area would burn in the Grizzly Creek Fire—one of Colorado’s largest. From there we angled south, passing over the Grand Mesa. The Grand Mesa is a literal example of island-in-the sky-climatology with arid desert ecology at its base that transitions to juniper and pinion forests on its slopes, and finally, lush alpine forests at the top of the 10,000-foot plateau. At Lands End, on the western cliff bands of the mesa, the ground literally fell away from below us from a few hundred feet to thousands in just a few short miles.

 

The 911SC’s engine growled angrily from behind us as we crested McClure Pass—it’s like you are wearing it in a backpack! From there, Highway 133 descends along the southern edge of the Grand Mesa. If I had my way the only music in the 911SC would have been the sound of that air-cooled engine revving to redline, but streaming music the old-school way—via a cord and tape deck adaptor—to the 1980s-vintage Blaupunkt stereo was the least I could offer my wife. She once jokingly said about the 911SC that, “Your job is to drive and my job is to complain.” Today, surprisingly few complaints were lodged, despite the lack of air conditioning and blown out speakers that crackled like a 1940s vacuum tube radio. I was in hog heaven as Highway 133 turned south at the foot of the Ragged Mountains, a fortress-like vertical wall of rock that seemingly touched the sky on the western edge of the Muddy Creek drainage. This stretch of road is near perfection, with tight turns and wonderful flow—the 911SC carved up its curves with near perfection.

 

Life is nothing but a collection of moments in time, and this was a moment of pure driving bliss. On this morning in late spring, with the trees and wildflowers in full bloom I had one of the best roads in Colorado virtually to myself in an old 911. Mother of God it was good! To drive an old 911 in anger one must embrace its rear-engine torsion bar suspension tendencies. There was a certain genius to hanging the engine off the “wrong end” of the 911 and if exploited with proper steering and throttle inputs it is more of an asset than a liability. Sight your line, turn in, roll into the throttle to settle the rear end and pin it for the exit. Then repeat and repeat again, which I did at every apex as the road trickled its way down the valley. From the Ragged Mountains Highway 133 followed the western edge of Paonia Reservoir to join the North Fork of the Gunnison River into to the quaint Western Slope town of Paonia.



Highway 141




Thimble Rock Point


West of the Grand Mesa the final geographic feature to fly over (or more appropriately, fly through) was a canyon in the Uncompahgre National Forest plateau, and here our routes converged. Highway 141 is another of Colorado’s finest driving roads, climbing through red rock crags up from the lower Gunnison River to Juniper and Pinion forested walls on either side of the spectacular canyon. On the ground, Thimble Rock Point is worth a stop, with an historic homestead at its base. From the air, it’s also a great marker to line up on and fly through the saddle between it and the south canyon wall. The air is also the only way to truly appreciate the gravity and relief of this canyon; but it is immensely more fun on the ground thanks to the twisty section of road that follows West Creek down to Gateway. As it does so, the topography changes, once again, from Pinion forest back to red-rock desert. Gateway comes into view with the Palisade, a monolithic red-rock pinnacle that dominates the valley and the resort at its base. Drive past the general store, cross the Dolores River, and make the first right and you have arrived at Gateway Canyons.



Hubbard Airstrip (9CO3)

 

From the air it’s a little more complicated. The landing strip is on a small mesa just above the resort. There is plenty of room to maneuver in the valley, which is the aerial confluence of two canyons. This can create very dynamic air, depending on how much the canyons are “breathing.” In the morning hours katabatic drainage (cold air draining out of the higher canyons) converges with thermals (rising air being heated by the desert floor) in the lower canyons. In the afternoon, nimbocumulus (thunderstorm) outflows can also influence the canyons from miles away and air density is always a performance factor. I like to overfly the landing strip from above to gauge the winds and runway condition before setting up an approach. The windsock is nothing but a metal skeleton, long devoid of any orange canvas, but there are plenty of flags and a helicopter landing pad with a windsock in the resort.



Setting Up the Approach


Skeletal Remains of the Windsock

Arrival by Air




I like to set up the approach crossing over mid-field with a downwind on the south side of the strip, then land up-slope. A go-around from the up-sloping direction is not a good idea. To avoid this, I make my bailout point over the river, after which I’m committed to land. Occasionally, a low approach is needed to scare off tourists on UTVs unwittingly driving on the landing strip (I’d be lying if I said this safety necessity wasn’t also comically fun). Configure full flaps on the downwind—on speed—then turn a tight base inside of the Palisade. Commit to land by the river, turn final, meet the rising terrain of the mesa just beyond the barbwire fence, then pull power and roll it on to save the tailwheel (no need for a 3-point landing here). Back-taxi to tie down closer to the resort and it’s a short walk to the check-in desk. Phew!



Arrival by Land



We made record time on our drive in the 911SC, despite our lengthy—but worthy—detour over McClure Pass. As the engine ticked itself cool while we unloaded our bags, I did my best to hide my over-stimulation from hours of driving bliss and ease back into the normal world. Believe it or not, landing on the airstrip was much less intense, but satisfying nonetheless—there is simply nothing else like the feeling of landing big tires on dirt. The Aviat Husky and Porsche 911SC where both already decades-old technology when they were brand new. They should have both been long eclipsed, but had not been due to the elegant simplicity and focus of their mutual designs. Both execute their missions with near perfection, while unapologetically commanding the driver and the pilot of each to have skill to operate each near the outer boundaries of their respective performance envelops. To fly or to drive, is not so much a simple question, but a choice of experiences—and on these respective trips, there was simply no wrong answer.





Monday, August 24, 2020

Montana Flying

After three days of epic flying in Idaho, Jo flew into Missoula to meet me for the next part of the journey. We spent the night with the Shapiro’s then headed north early in the morning to outrun thunderstorms forecasted by the same cold front that chased Jeff and I out of Idaho. The first leg to Whitefish airport was utterly spectacular as we flew along the steep western slopes of the Mission Mountains. Alpine mountain lakes and waterfalls were the norm off the right wing, with the dark blue water of Flathead Lake off the left. Our first stop was at Whitefish Airport, a 2,500-foot grass strip on the southeast corner of town. 

The Mission Mountains

Finley Point, Flathead Lake

Whitefish Airport 
(Can you see it?)

Whitefish Airport is close enough to walk into town, but there were several ancient bikes hidden in the shed behind a Montana Aeronautics Division tractor. They creaked and moaned like a sinking ship as we pedaled into town for the day. After breakfast and replenishing our supplies, I treated myself to a hair cut at an old timey barbershop, followed by a jump off the dock into the Whitefish River. Afternoon winds made it a good day to stay on the ground, but by evening they had calmed enough for the short flight to Ryan Airport, located near the South Gate of Glacier National Park.

Tied Down for the Day

Montana Aeronautics Division Tractor


Creaking Airport Bikes

Whitefish Lake and the Whitefish River through Town

Ryan Airstrip

Ryan Airstrip is a slice of heaven—quite literally—it’s a small narrow swath of grass situated in a thick conifer forest within hiking distance to West Glacier. The Recreational Aviation Foundation (RAF) has clearly spent a considerable amount of time maintaining the strip and we were grateful for it. The amenities included a large pavilion with a picnic area and a tidy outhouse with a direct hotline to the FAA headquarters! Kathy and some other friends we had met from Idaho happened to be there too. There was even a wild huckleberry patch just on the eastern edge of the field, which made a great appetizer for dinner. It did attract occasional wildlife, which got our attention when we heard ominous noises in the trees--a stark reminder that we were deep in grizzly bear country. We had dinner and a fire together as we listened to the noises from across the runway and did our best not to spook each other with bear stories. Let's just say it wasn't the most restful night's sleep...


The Runway at Ryan Airstrip


Our Spot for the Night


Jo Setting up the Tent


Success!


The RAF Picnic Area and Fire Pit



 
And FAA Hotline in the Privy


Freshly Picked Huckleberries

The next morning we woke up before dawn and grabbed the courtesy car (yes, there was a courtesy car at the small grass strip) and headed into the park. With everyone outdoors this summer, the only way we’d touch a National Park was at off hours before the crowds showed up. Our first stop was on the tranquil waters of Lake McDonald. The water was glassy flat in the still morning air, revealing infinitely colored tiny jewel-like river rocks that had washed down from the peaks over the eons.


Lake McDonald Pre-Dawn


Jewel-Like River Rocks


Turquoise Glacier Water

From there our journey followed the turquoise blue water of the McDonald River and up the Going to the Sun road to the high peaks. The road is literally cut into the steep walls of the Lewis Range, cresting the saddle near Hidden Lake before dropping down the eastern slopes to Rising Sun on the bank of St. Mary Lake.


Going to the Sun Road


We Found it at St. Mary's Lake

We caught the sun at Rising Sun just as the general store opened thwarting a severe lack of caffeine that was reaching emergency levels. Caffeinated and satiated we took in the morning as we reversed our route watching the park quickly fill in behind us.


Florence Falls

Locals

By the time we got back to the airport the winds were ripping through the peaks, which would make for a bumpy flight. It was a sporty departure from Ryan to say the least, but I spent some time watching the field wind trend before we loaded up and took off. We did a quick loop over McDonald Lake above Glacier National Park and then turned south paralleling the Flathead Range over Hungry Horse Reservoir to the South Fork of the Flathead River and into the Bob Marshall Wilderness.


Sporty Departure from Ryan
(Calm wind socks at the surface with 15-20 knot crosswind at the treetops)


Glacier National Park from the Air


Meadow Creek Airstrip and the Bob Marshall Wilderness

Meadow Creek Airstrip is located on a plateau overlooking the South Fork of the Flathead and Harrison Creek. I set up a downwind over the river and landed south, which had a better go-around option off the plateau. It was sporty to say the least thanks to the persistent winds. Meadow Creek was another wonderfully manicured strip thanks to the RAF and National Forest Service. We set up camp on the southeast corner overlooking Harrison Creek and laid down for a siesta. Poor Jo was in survival mode from the bumpy ride.


Tied Down and Camp is Set


Siesta Time

Rested, we set out to explore the area. The trail down to the South Fork of the Flathead is a popular portage around the Meadow Creek Gorge, a Class IV-V section of the South Fork that is described as having "squirrelly boil lines, random surges, enormous whirlpools, and a swim of unthinkable consequences when the flows are high." Where we met the South Fork, the water was tranquil and as clear as a glass coffee table, and the only unthinkable consequence of a swim was the nipple-shattering cold water. The only way in was to jump in and get it over with all at once. I hiked upstream to a small rapid and dove off a rock. It was like smashing into a wall of coldness, some of the coldest water I’ve been in—and it was wonderful! Jo followed, letting out screams of her own as she hit, but after the initial shock wore off it was immensely refreshing. Somehow even our nipples remained intact!


Meadow Creek Gorge Trail


Montana Wildflowers


The South Fork of the Flathead River


The Water was as Clear as a Glass Coffee Table


Ice Cold

At dusk we heard the familiar sound of airplanes echoing off the walls of the valley. It was Kathy and Annie dog, along with a Super Cup piloted by a new friend named Andy. Dinner was Backpacker’s Pantry and soda pop; I had Sweat and Sour Chicken, while Jo enjoyed Pasta Primavera. I built a fire using a flint and tinder bundle as we watched the sunset with conspicuously less Grizzly Bear noises outside of the tent than the night before.


Dinner, a Fire, and Sunset





In the morning, the previous day’s angry skies had given way to calm and inviting air. We broke camp and departed to the south over the South Fork making a stop at Spotted Bear Airstrip just downstream. From there we climbed into the Bob Marshall Wilderness over some serious “tiger country” to the Great Bear Wilderness and Schafer Airstrip.


Spotted Bear Airstrip


Spotted Bear Landing Up the River

Schafer is located in a small valley at the headwaters of the Middle Fork of the Flathead River.  I set up a downwind to land uphill, turning around a small hill and flying final up the river. After we landed a friendly park ranger named Emily welcomed us to the airstrip and to the historic Schafer Ranger Station, the latter being established in 1925. Schafer airstrip was grandfathered into the Great Bear Wilderness and is the only area within miles that allows wheeled vehicles (those being airplanes). All other work is done and supplies are ferried using horses and pack mules. As we landed a team of rangers were headed out on horseback to do some trail maintenance down-river. We hiked down to the Middle Fork and dipped our toes in before bidding Emily farewell and getting “on-the-wing” before the day heated up any more.


Schafer Airstrip in the Great Bear Wilderness


Landing at Schafer


Schafer Ranger Station



I took off downhill, following the river before making a 180 turn and climbing out upstream over another long stretch of tiger country. As we turned southwest it was quintessential mountain flying over the vast expanses of the Bob Marshall Wilderness. It’s funny how a pilot always seems to listen to the engine a little more closely over tiger country. I was glad to have a fully stocked survival kit, firearm, and a GPS spot locator onboard. The Chinese Wall loomed to our distant south, a massive rocky feature jutting up in the southern Bob Marshall. Soon, we left the Bob Marshall and crossed back over the Mission Range to Finley Point on Flathead Lake.


Schafer Takeoff over the Great Bear Wilderness


On the Wing Over Tiger Country


Hungry Horse Reservoir


Feet Wet Over Flathead Lake


Navigating to Polson


Final to Polson

Our next stop was Polson, Montana, a paved airport on the southern shore of Flathead Lake. Polson is a quaint resort town that is refreshingly less up-scale than some of the other towns in the area. We landed, topped off the tanks, threw the Frisbee for Annie Dog, who was there with Kathy and Andy, and then grabbed the old airport operations cruiser turned courtesy car for lunch in town and a dip in the lake at the town beach.


Annie Dog Surveiling the Airport at Polson


The Polson Courtesy Car


Beach Bound!


The City Swimming Dock


From the Air on Departure

It was a bittersweet moment, as it would be our last swim of the trip and the beginning of our first leg home. A line of thunderstorms was blocking the direct route to Colorado over Yellowstone National Park, with another line encroaching from the West over Southern Idaho. I plotted a course to Salmon, Idaho, from which we could pick a route through the cells and turn east. That took us along the Mission Mountains one last time and its spectacular waterfalls.


Alpine Lakes in the Mission Mountains


The Longest Waterfall

A few hours later as we neared Salmon, it looked like a there was a nice “sucker hole” between thunderstorms if we pointed to Driggs, Idaho. We’d also heard rumors of a newly opened RAF campground on the airport at Driggs. On the way the landscape turned from high mountains to the moonscape of Central Idaho’s lava fields under smoky skies from distant forest fires. I spotted the RAF campground from the air and landed on the newly finished grass runway paralleling the taxiway. Just like the other RAF spots, it was a wonderfully maintained campsite, complete with a pavilion and fire pit surrounded by Adirondack chairs.


Lava-Scape in Central Idaho


Driggs, Idaho and the Teton Mountains


RAF Campground at Driggs



The next day we were up by dawn, in time to watch the sun rise above the Teton Mountains to the east. We climbed out to the north, crossing the formidable boundary that the Tetons impose on the northern edge of the mountain range. That afforded us an incredible view as we turned south over Teton National Park and flew the eastern face of the Tetons at 11,500 feet, with the Grand Teton still towering well above us.


Hot Air Ballon at Dawn


Holly Lake in the Northern Tetons


The Grand Teton




The Snow King and Jackson, Wyoming

At the bottom of the valley we turned southeast and flew the western slope of the Wind River Mountain Range to the Cirque of the Towers. At the Cirque, we climbed up to 13,500 feet and crossed over the peaks before descending into Lander, Wyoming for fuel and breakfast. We took the courtesy car to a quaint café downtown for some much needed caffeine. The last leg home was a bumpy hot ride across the flatlands of Central Wyoming. As we crossed into Colorado, there were more storms building over Rocky Mountain National Park. I stayed east of the cells, but I did find some residual showers blowing out over the Front Range, which I used to give the Husky a much-needed rinse. We were wheels-down by mid-day.


Cirque of the Towers






Breakfast and Caffeine




A Free Airplane Wash in Colorado

Between Idaho and Montana, I flew over 30 hours and thousands of miles. We covered what would take weeks or months on the ground in seven days, chalking it up to one of the best adventures we’ve had yet. The Husky never let us down and easily delivered everything I asked of it—even in burley mountain air and short backcountry airstrips. This will be the first of many.


Ready for the Next Adventure