Backcountry Flying in Idaho

Idaho is the Mecca of backcountry flying in the lower forty-eight states. Outside of aviation, the only way to access the vast mountains of Central Idaho without being on foot and or hoof is via a few sparse roads or jet boat on the deeper rivers. Aviation has and continues to play such a critical and historic role that when areas became protected as wilderness, dozens of airstrips were grandfathered in—an unprecedented inclusion to the normal stringent wilderness rules. Once overhead, it’s easy to see why. The entire geography is a labyrinth of steep, rugged, narrow river valleys bordered by towering peaks, some reaching to five-figure heights. What could take hours in a vehicle—if there is a road—or days to weeks on foot, is accomplished in minutes by the air. The term airstrip has a whole new meaning too, which can range from long and flat manicured grass runways to narrow swaths of “land-able” terrain on hillsides of the ski-slope variety. Many require blind approaches due to being situated in narrow river valleys, with the runway coming into view just before the turn to final. One-way-in, one-way-out, no-go-around strips are the norm, not the exception. For a backcountry pilot, there is simply no place else like Idaho—it’s fantastic!

Departing and Forming up with Jeff Shapiro's Backcountry Super Cub SQ 

Lost Horse Canyon to the Idaho Border

After a long day in the saddle to meet Jeff Shapiro in his Backcountry Super Cub SQ replica at Stevensville, Montana the day before, we had a great springboard over the Bitterroot Mountains into Idaho. We were wheels up just after dawn, which put us into Lost Horse Canyon as the sun was cresting the eastern horizon in smooth morning air. Lost Horse is gently sloped canyon that allows a long cruise climb up to its rocky saddle just below 9000 feet, which helped keep the engine temps in check as we were loaded down with gear and full fuel. Over the pass, on the Idaho side, is a significant swath of “tiger country” down the Bear Creek drainage until you reach the Selway River. The landscape turned as well from the darker forests of the Bitterroot to lighter and thinner forests of the Selway and Frank Church River of No Return Wildernesses. We were tempted to stop at Shearer Airstrip on the banks of the Selway River, but rumors of tall grass to chest height kept us going. We hopped one more pass dropping into the Middle Fork of the Salmon River, following the river until a more direct route would have us climb again up to 9,500 feet to clear the saddle north of the small encampment of Yellow Pine. From there our destination of Johnson Creek Airstrip was just a few turns up the canyon, right on Johnson Creek. 

Landing to the North at Johnson Creek

Wheels Down on Johnson Creek Airstrip

Johnson Creek Airstrip might as well be the international airport of the area. Its long manicured grass runway is smooth enough to accommodate a surprising variety of airplanes. You can camp in the grass under the wing or in ample campsites dispersed along the creek. There is also a large pavilion, bathrooms, showers, and even WiFi. We descended on a high downwind to scope the strip, which showed winds out of the north, so we set up to land on runway 35. This is not the preferred landing runway because there is a cabin on short final, but for slow fliers like our planes there was plenty of room to jog around it at a neighborly distance. We landed long and parked next to a great campsite on the northern end of the strip right on the creek. 

Setting Up Camp

The aviation community could be summed up as a bunch of friends you haven’t met yet, but that was especially true at Johnson Creek. There were easily two dozen airplanes there ranging from Cessna’s to experimentals, a pair of V-Tail Bonanzas, to beautiful radial engine cruiser. When I asked the strip-keeper where most people were from he grumbled about a huge increase in non-working airline pilots futzing about. I chuckled and grumbled sympathetically. We spent the day setting up camp, meeting our new friends, and just relaxing as the pace turned down a notch from normal life—a much needed reprieve for both of us.

New Friends We Hadn't Met Yet

The Coolest Plane on the Strip

Old Man, Old and Bold, Himself

I made it about two hours before jumping in Johnson Creek, finding a deep spot near a trout study wheel, and let me tell you it was COLD—the kind of cold that shocks the life out of you and will take it if you stay in too long. The water was clear enough to study trout on foot, as they were plentiful and visible, nearly swimming between your feet. That evening we got some recent beta from our neighbor Kathy on the strips down Big Creek. She was flying a Piper Clipper with her dog Annie, who in typical healer fashion, could never get enough Frisbee. As the sun set, the stars were some of the brightest I’d seen, only interrupted by the occasional pass of the International Space Station, the second brightest object behind Jupiter. 

The Clear Cold Water of Johnson Creek



A Deep Spot Near a Trout Study Wheel



Shaprio Sunning Himself

Annie Patiently Waiting for More Frisbee

We woke up at dawn to airplanes covered in dew. Departing to the north we followed Johnson Creek to Yellow Pine then hung a right and climbed over a pass dropping into the Big Creek drainage. Cabin Creek Airstrip was our first stop, a 1,700-foot strip nestled a few miles up a side canyon of the same name and wilderness access point. Cabin Creek isn’t a particularly hard airstrip, but it does have consequences if you don’t get it right. There is no go-around, so you need to be in the altitude “slot” on approach, which is marked by three pine trees on the ridge to the south. There is also a kink about halfway down the strip, where it narrows with trees on both sides. The notes in the guidebook warn of pack animals, wildlife, and lots of rattlesnakes. 

Airborne Over the Pass into the Big Creek Drainage

Cabin Creek Airstrip on Paper

And from Above

We circled the strip up high and the surface looked land-able with calm winds. Part of the challenge of flying in Idaho is the dramatic terrain relief, often requiring long legs down the river valleys to lose enough altitude to be in the slot on approach. For a bush plane, an early Husky like mine, is actually pretty slippery, making a steep and slow descent a challenge. I spiraled down over the river, rolling out right at the three trees as I turned up the canyon slowing to 60 mph and full flaps. Being on-speed on final approach is also key in an early Husky. A slight angle of attack change can easily result a five mile per hour speed gain depending on where you are in the drag curve. Energy doubles with the square of speed, meaning that being five miles per hour too fast can exponentially increase the distance required to stop. But, that’s also part of the challenge of flying an early Husky, and even here in Idaho, its STOL performance easily exceeds my talent. I slowed to 50 mph on short final, but there was plentiful distance to land, so I rolled it on sparing the tailwheel and expediting my rollout for Jeff. On the ground you can only see half the airstrip at a time because of the trees at kink. Once I was parked, I could only listen to Shapiro land, but soon enough he emerged from the trees grinning from ear to ear. 

Landing Cabin Creek



Wheels Down at Cabin Creek

Once we were shut down, the morning went quiet with only the sound of Cabin Creek trickling just beyond the trees. Shapiro spotted what looked like a black bear and two cubs high on the ridge to the West as I splashed some water from the creek on my face. Oddly, once I was at the creek, the sound of water trickling was behind me. I turned around to see fuel pouring out of my right wing. If the Husky isn’t parked on level ground, fuel can drain out of the vent in the wing, which was an easy fix by rolling it wings-level. An outfitter landed as we were preparing to takeoff, but we were easily off before the kink so there was no traffic conflict. 

Solider Bar Airstrip





Jeff Landing Solider Bar



The Husky Landing Soldier Bar

The next stop was just downstream on Big Creek; an elevated aircraft-carrier-type airstrip called Solider Bar several hundred feet above the river. Solider Bar Airstrip is really three 500-foot sections connected by large humps, with a kink at the end. It’s best to pick one section to land on so you are below “jumping” speed when you hit the next hump. To get in the slot, you fly downstream and descend, turn base and final in the next canyon over, then fly upstream blind before you see the strip. It comes into view with plenty of room to adjust and you can always bail out over Big Creek if you don’t like something. Jeff landed first, as I flew over breaking right into a downwind over Big Creek. I set up on the first 500-foot section and drug a wheel, but didn’t like my speed, so I took back off and landed on the second 500-foot section. The guidebook warns of rattlesnake infestation, but as we stopped for a stretch, we didn’t hear or see a thing—the silence was piercing. Taking off, we were both airborne in the first 500 feet, which made for a great flyover off the rocky ledge before turning back upstream over Big Creek.

The Soldier Bar 1 Departure

The next stop was Mile High Airstrip. Mile High is on a different level—quite literally, being at almost 6,000 feet elevation. It also is only 590 feet long with a staggering 16% grade. The grade is so steep that you have to add significant power once you touch down or you will not have enough energy to taxi up the ridge—even with full power! If you don’t, and you get stuck, your plane will be stranded on the hillside without enough room to turn around and take back off. But don’t add too much power, because after the crown of the ridge, the hillside drops off precipitously into a cliff band. If you come in too fast, there is a kink at the top with more run-out up the hill, a comforting alternative to going over the edge. On a scale of 1 to 50, the guidebook calls Mile High a 50, but in actuality, it’s pretty straightforward if you keep your energy state in check. In hang gliding we call landing uphill on a steep slope a “fly on the wall,” and having done hundreds of those with no engine to help out, Mile High didn’t look that daunting.

Mile High Airstrip

First we had to find it, which from the air it can be identified by a windsock perched on a ridge seemingly in the middle of nowhere. Up until short final there is bailout option by diving off the ridge to the left, which adds margin if you end up high or fast. We both made several low approaches to practice the setup and sample the air, and then Shapiro went in first. The threshold is marked by three white rocks, which he stuck just beyond as I flew overhead. As I rolled out on final, the steepness of the runway was astonishing, but I was on-speed and in the slot, and could still bail out to the left if I didn’t like something. I always take a mental beat-pause on short final of any landing to make sure my “house is in order.” My rational voice may have been inclined to ask, “Why are we doing this again?" but now was not the time for such philosophical questions. A good pilot always listens to their instinct, and although I had no emotional investment in landing, everything felt spot-on. I committed, dove into the slope, adding power during the round-out and rolled it on to a perfect stop at the top of the hill. 

Jeff Landing Mile High



Landing the Husky at Mile High

Parked on the Top of the Ridge

You could argue that the landing was the easy part, as looking down the short slope my first thought was that there is no way we are getting out of here. But, extra runway could be added by taxing further up the kink on the run-out hill. This added to the challenge of not being able to see most of the runway when you started the takeoff roll, but we picked landmarks on the horizon to use as targets. Jeff took off first, being easily airborne in a fraction of the 590-foot strip. I taxied farther up the hill, calmed my nerves, and added power. By the time I hit the kink, the tailwheel was already up, and I flew off with plenty of extra runway left, turning out through the slot just for the fun of it.

Looking Down the Strip at Mile High



Jeff Taking Off at Mile High



Mile High Takeoff

Our final stop of the day was at Big Creek Airstrip, another manicured runway that serves Big Creek Lodge. Lots of the pilots from Johnson Creek were there for breakfast. Shapiro and I joined the fold, sipping fresh coffee on the porch of the lodge while sharing stories from the morning. On the flight back to Johnson Creek we had to delay our departure as a black bear crossed the runway, which was unsurprising given our surroundings.

Landing Big Creek



Big Creek Lodge

Once back at Johnson Creek we finished the day with a hike to the local hot springs (where you could have your choice of an old bathtub that somebody dragged up there or a rocky pool), another frigid jump in the creek, a campfire, and more stargazing. 

One More Leg Back to Johnson Creek





Landing Johnson Creek to the South



The Hot Spring Trail



Where You Could Have a Bathtub or a Pool



One Last Night at Camp

The next day the skies had turned cloudy ahead of a shortwave cold front with thunderstorms in the forecast. We packed up our gear and headed north and east, back into Montana, but not before hitting one last strip called Wilson Bar on the Middle Fork of the Salmon River. Wilson Bar is 1,500 feet long on a small plateau just above the waterline. It requires descending downstream and flying up the river just above the trees with a short jog to final. At that altitude, you won’t see the strip until you are almost on top of it, so memorizing trees and landmarks are key. Once in the slot, you make the turn, “goal post” the trees on short final. If you don’t like it when you get there, there is an easy bailout option by just continuing down the river, climbing out, and going around. I went it first, followed by Shapiro. 

Wilson Bar Airstrip





Flying the River to a Landing at Wilson Bar Airstrip

Taking back off is the opposite of the arrival, jogging up the river and climbing out over the water, while announcing your intentions on the multi-com frequency for anyone else flying low in the canyon. I took my time climbing out of the canyon, enjoying the contrast of the dark blue water and yellow mountains. From there we had a leisurely flight back over the pass into Lost Horse Canyon and Montana, getting on the ground before the heat of the day set in. 

Jeff and I Departing Wilson Bar

In our short trip, we had sampled just a little of what Idaho has to offer, but had no shortage of variety. Backcountry flying is an intersection of passions; it’s a tool, a challenge, and a reward. It allows access to incredibly beautiful areas that would otherwise be remarkably difficult to get to, while challenging you as a pilot in the process with high stakes if you get it wrong. The reward is the solitude of some of the most remote wilderness in the country. We were only in the bush for a few days, but it was quality not quantity, and easily enough to wash the stink of the modern world off—and develop a proper stink of my own! 

Where is that river again???