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 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.
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.
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
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
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.
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.
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!
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.
