Stick back, a few beeps of the stall warning and then came the satisfying swoosh of a smooth touchdown on good grass. Instantly I knew I'd made it. The surface was excellent. Firmly planted and tracking straight, the Husky rolled out happily up the slope. I smiled. I grinned. I grinned like the confident architect at the opening of a building, but unbeknownst to him, his unthinking design compromises were destined to lead to catastrophe.

We were flying a wildlife survey flight, searching for eagle nests in the cliff sides and cottonwoods of high mesa country in southern Montana. It was early summer and the high country was glowing with green shortgrass. The draws were thick with leafed-out cottonwoods, and the distant mountain ranges were still snow-capped. We spotted several black bears with cubs running for shelter from our yellow sky-beast as we went about our low-flying work. It was the sort of work I'd dreamed of for years while I confined myself behind a desk. It was the work that I knew I could do, but fearfully waited years to. It was the work I finally left a good-paying job at a Denver energy company and close friends for. It had proven to be all I'd wanted it to be and more. I could not have been happier to be flying low over Montana's wild land on a hot summer day. Duke, the biologist seated behind me, was in high spirits as well. He loved flying and his unkempt mane was blowing in the breeze from the open door as he made notes and took GPS points. We were both nearly giddy with excitement for the job, for the bears, and for the day.

The A1-B in happier times, equipped for wildlife survey.Photo: Ryan Lunde

Confessing to too much hotel coffee and knowing the rugged nature of the Husky, Duke asked me if we could set down on the mesa for a break. At that moment, my usual better judgment immediately vacated my thinking. We'd been flying over perfect country all morning. The Husky could land almost anywhere out here, so let's do it! I chose the closest finger of the mesa and set up an approach across it, landing up-slope. I flew one practice approach to check the surface, pulled up and set up again for the actual landing. In my mind I could see the plane sitting atop the spine of the mesa through my new camera's viewfinder after landing. That was my goal, the only outcome I considered. Using a full-flap approach at 60, I soon found myself grinning and rolling out on the mesa after touchdown.

The first bounce wasn't even a bounce, more like a skip. Some slight and unseen undulation in the terrain caused the Husky to hop back up and I kept smiling. I kept the stick back and we touched down slightly harder than I'd expected, but this was no cause for alarm. After the touchdown, we found ourselves back in the air, higher than the first time, and very short on airspeed. The nose pitched down and the next impact was somewhat violent. I felt the tightly wound bungee gear flex more than I'd ever experienced. When the bungees contracted once more, we bounced higher still with no speed for control. There was no more smiling. The Husky felt helpless in my hands. The stall warning beeps seemed much louder than normal as though it were shouting at me to fix the situation. OK, then. I'll fix it. Exhausted of airspeed, I went for the one reserve that was untapped. I shoved the power forward faster than any of my students have when I'd chided them for applying power too abruptly. The engine scoffed its objection to the sudden influx of fuel before finally developing as many horses as the hot, thin air would allow. When we touched down this time, it was in a level attitude on the main gear and the power allowed for a much gentler impact. I held the stick forward and had a sudden thought. "This was foolish. Let's get out of here!"

Still climbing up the slope, I intended to remove myself from the situation which had so quickly evolved from the sublime to the frightful. This was hardly an ideal location to abort a landing. Christ, I hadn't considered aborting or going around. Too late, we're committed. For the time being I had the Husky under control, but we sure weren't at flying speed. A few times I applied a bit of back pressure to check for lift. I felt just as I had at the beach on Matagorda when my Champ was nearly stuck in wet sand. After we'd freed it enough to move under her own power, we hopped in and my words were like a jockey's whip. "Airspeed! Just a little more airspeed and we're free!!!" The Champ summoned her strength, got light enough on the wheels to loosen the suction of the sand and enter ground effect. We were free of that salty piece of land and climbing skyward as though the tide was never at risk of swallowing the little flying machine.

Surely this would be another close call, but come on, little Husky! You've got great power! Let's get out of here! Mush, damn it!

Flying low over the country near the accident site; the terrain here is very similar to the terrain of my attempted landing. Looks inviting, doesn't it? This photo was taken the day before the crash.Photo: Ryan Lunde

The crest of the ridge was only a few plane lengths ahead. I could see nothing on the other side, but surely once we were headed downhill, speed and lift would come. Cresting the ridge came with a moment of relief, but then horror as our future was laid out ahead of me in the windscreen. The downslope ahead was not nearly as long as the slope on the other side of the spine which we had just climbed. Our trajectory was tragically aimed for the shortest distance of slope available as an incised ravine lay just ahead. At the head of the ravine, a mere 60 feet or so from the propeller, was what I was later told to be an alpine prickly currant, a savage looking bush about six feet tall. Had we been 20 feet to either side of our line, the bush and the ravine would have been no factor. I felt my grip on control sickeningly loosen as we careened toward Ribes Montigenum. Just prior to impact, in a final act of desperation, I pulled full back on the stick. The Husky honestly felt as though she was apologizing and begging for just a few more knots of airspeed, but she couldn't give me the lift I had patiently tried to build in the last several seconds and now demanded.

Working the cliff sides and drainages looking for eagle nests. Taken on the day of the accident.Photo: Ryan Lunde

The windscreen was dark with leaves and branches. I felt the fuselage and landing gear impact the bush as the propeller became a buzzsaw. I felt branches break and fabric tear. In that moment, I was overcome with clarity of thought. This is what it feels like to wreck an airplane. This is the moment that my close calls are catching up with me. This is me busting through the envelope of my capabilities and the poor Husky's. This is what it feels like to fuck it all up. This is how little respect I have for my choice to make my living flying airplanes and the high price I've paid for it. This is the position in which I've placed my passenger, my passenger who trusted me with his life. My life didn't flash before my eyes, but I had every one of those thoughts as we crashed through the bush.

The windscreen lightened. We had passed through the bush and the ravine fell away from us. We were airborne, but there was no joy in it. The bush had absorbed too much energy to allow lift and not enough to stop us. We were in free-fall. I felt the ground drop away from us momentarily as we began our arc downward. My hands were still on the stick and throttle, my feet still on the rudder and the engine was still howling, but there was no feel in the controls. As we began to travel downward, I felt light in my seat. There was no shower of thoughts, just a single realization. This is no longer an airplane wreck, but an airplane crash and it could end very badly. Resigned, my mind allowed the final descent, the the bending steel and the crunching aluminum to wash over it like a crashing wave and only resumed processing thoughts after we came to an abrupt stop in the ravine, a mere fifteen seconds after the initial touchdown on the mesa.

Rescue

The clearest memory and the first sensation I was aware of was the smell. The summer air was hot and sweet smelling from the new-cut foliage. It combined with the hotter air from the suddenly-stopped engine and then the the alarming smell of smoldering green leaves on hot engine components.

Everything still looked normal at first glance. We were upright. The panel was still in front of me. I was still seated. All of my limbs were attached. I started to process a few thoughts. I'm alive! I'm still here! Good. Am I hurt? I don't think so. Wait. "You OK?" I asked. "Yeah, I think so." "We gotta get out of here" Duke groaned. "I'm bleeding pretty bad."

I noticed more of my own surroundings. There was blood on the instruments. Then there was blood dripping in front of my eyes and into my lap. I looked back. That image will stay with me forever. There was Duke, wild-haired and wide-eyed, looking back at me, blood running down his face from a huge gash above his eyebrow. Oh my God.

"My back hurts," he said, moaning. "Can you get out?" "I think so. Hit the help button," he said, referring to my SPOT emergency locator device I'd briefed him on prior to departure. I unstrapped my harness, grabbed the SPOT and climbed out the door, noticing only then that the right wing had collapsed. I hit the SOS button on the SPOT and I helped Duke out from the rear and was happy to see that he was able to move on his own, though not without pain. I helped him through more currant bushes to the clear hillside next to the floor of ravine. I was instantly thankful for the relatively survivable terrain around us. It was a bit steep, but clear. I instructed Duke to lie down on the grass and I went back to the wreck to get the first aid supplies out of the baggage compartment. I nearly tripped over the twisted propeller behind the airplane in the process.

In the ravine waiting for help. The currant bush at the head of the drainage is clearly visible and thinned after the Husky passed through it.Photo: Ryan Lunde

Bandages. Medical tape. Water. Diapers? I cleaned Duke's wound with water. It was long and ugly, but it wasn't going to be fatal. Other peoples' blood has always had a near paralyzing effect on me, but I told myself that I could handle this. I don't have a choice. This is my job now. Using my Leatherman, I cut a section of diaper that would contour to his head and pressed it firmly despite cries of pain. I wrapped tape around his head to hold the bandage in place. I laid out a sleeping bag and instructed him to lay down on it and used the pack the supplies came in as a pillow to keep his head elevated. I asked him to move his feet and he had no problem, but still complained of back pain. He told me he was good for the time being and told me to take care of myself. Damn it, I'm dripping blood everywhere! My cell phone was still in my pocket. After the disappointment of the "No Service" message, I reversed the camera to show my face. My wound was similar to Duke's, but not as long. It was a J-shape right above my right eyebrow, still bleeding bad. I poured water over it and pulled off my shirt, my favorite shirt, to keep the blood at bay while I fashioned another bandage out of a diaper.

What do you say when there's nothing to do but wait? We talked in shock about what had just happened. I made relentless apologies. Duke asked me not to feel bad about it. It didn't help. We tried to make light as much as we could. "Well, I guess I can take that piss now," Duke said.

I walked back to the carcass of the Husky to get a few things. I began to assess the wreck as I approached and noticed that as the right wing collapsed, the struts folded against the fuselage at the door opening. Had the door been closed during flight, exit would have been much more difficult. I noticed that the windscreen and the skylight were shattered. The interior was spattered with more blood than I'd ever seen. My Canon camera was bloody, but in once piece. Both headsets had come off during the impact and they lay bloody on the floor. I gathered the headsets, camera the portable aviation GPS, Duke's notes and his survey GPS and headed back up the hill. It was hot, there was no shade and we were both bloody and sweaty. Rescue couldn't come soon enough.

The day after. I took this from my boss's plane flying over the site on the way home.Photo: Ryan Lunde

Thanks to the SPOT, an hour and a half after the crash, a helicopter came into view. It flew in low, directly at our position. There was no question that the pilot saw us. In no time, it landed on the mesa above, right where I wanted to park the Husky for a backcountry portrait. Three crewmembers scurried down the hill toward us. The sudden appearance of kindness was overwhelming. The medic and the nurse immediately began to assess our conditions, administering concussion tests, asking all of the questions we'd get used to hearing for the next few hours. Despite the nature of their work, there was not the normal cold and clinical feel about how they treated us. They were smiling from time to time and almost joyful. They later explained that they had no idea to what they were dispatched and feared the worst. When they found two battered but otherwise ambulatory men, they were relieved and said they didn't rescue many patients in our conditions. Duke required more care than I and the pilot and the nurse helped him up the hillside. When we made it to the welcome shade of the helicopter, there was more poking and prodding and tests from some of the onboard medical equipment. After a brief discussion on weight, the pilot declared that the five of us could all board and still be under the helicopter's maximum gross weight. They loaded Duke on a stretcher through the rear clamshell doors and I was seated amidships. The turbines spooled up and we lifted off, heading for safety and care and an uncertain future.

Photo: Ryan Lunde

CHIEF COMPLAINT: Airplane crash.

HISTORY OF PRESENT ILLNESS: The patient is a 30-year-old-male who was a pilot in a small plane crash. He was restrained. There was no loss of consciousness. The patient was ambulatory at the scene. Complains of pain on the forehead. The patient was brought in to the emergency department as a level II trauma activation.

HEENT: Curved laceration of approx 5cm on front right aspect of forehead with underlying hematoma. TMs pearly gray without effusion, no hemotympanum bilaterally. Nose symmetrical, intact, with no intranasal drainage, no blood.

SECONDARY SURVEY...No cervical spine tenderness… No blurry vision or diplopia. No facial bony tenderness or deformity… Cardiovascular: Reveals a regular rate with no murmurs… The back is without lacerations or tenderness or abrasions… There are minor abrasions on both knees. No joint swelling or deformity. Full range of motion of all extremities. The patient moves all extremities to command. Motor exam is normal...

Chest X-ray was reviewed. This was a normal chest x-ray. CT of the head was normal as well.

The patient's facial laceration was closed in the emergency department. No other injuries at this time.

SPIRITUAL CARE: Sources of meaning and hope: Autonomy; Family. Services provided: Presence. Patient Behaviors: Cooperative. Coping Behaviors: Managing well.

RECOMMENDATIONS: Discharge.

The medical records tell the story of an awfully lucky guy, but the pieces were scattered all over the ER floor. Despite my close scrape, I was crushed on the bed as the doctors and nurses pulled, poked, and questioned. The kind chaplain talked with me and then called my parents to let them know my condition. At that point I broke down for the first time. What had I done? Separated by only a curtain I could hear the doctors as they evaluated Duke. He was in a great deal of pain. X-rays revealed a cracked vertebra. I kept envisioning his face of blood and fear. How could I have done that to another human? How did my hands allow that to happen? How was I so near euphoria a few hours ago, joyfully working in the summer sky and how did it lead so quickly to this? It was one of the best mornings of my life and certainly the worst afternoon.

Guilt is a powerful emotion. It is most often taken on unearned and I've always taken exception when told that I am responsible for another's misfortune due to some original sin which I had no say in. I've hurt feelings and felt terrible about it. That's bound to happen in life. I've never taken someone's health and it's a devastating realization. To know that Duke would require months of immobility and painful physical therapy while I would walk out of the hospital with only a few stitches in my forehead felt unjust. I should have been the one in pain and not just because I was in charge, but because I was seated up front. Accidents in such airplanes nearly always injure the front seat pilot more severely than the rear seat passenger.

What do you tell your boss when he shows up in the ER and looks down at you, grinning? "I'm so sorry" was all I could muster. He'd flown with Duke many times and almost immediately he was giving us both shit and annoying all of the nurses. It was his way. He and one of our other pilots had flown from our home airport in Wyoming to the scene as soon as the SPOT operator let him know of our distress signal. They arrived over the crash site just as the helicopter was lifting off. I was grateful for his presence, but solemnly anxious the next morning when I recounted the events of the previous day over a cold hotel breakfast. He then gave me the ass-chewing I deserved for about 30 seconds.

"So you mean to tell me rather than land at an airstrip five minutes away, you chose to set a plane down on a hillside on an Indian reservation and then wreck it? And did you see the site you chose? Why wouldn't you have picked any other site on top of the mesa that would have given you more room to work with? There were plenty of better places to land. But now you've seriously injured a client and cracked up an airplane. This is a big deal... Not big enough for you to start thinking about going back into coal geology, but this is a big fuck up."

And that was that.

Aftermath

I was always the safe pilot. I knew my limits and I flew up to them, but not past them. I routinely poured over NTSB reports and tried to put myself in the pilots' positions to see how I would have prevented the accident. Flying low-level survey flights always comes with a great deal of risk and I prided myself on my thoughtfulness and impulse control while flying low. A mentor once told me that one needs to be well acquainted with the edge of the envelope so as to better prepared for a sudden and unexpected departure outside of it. I lived that philosophy. I knew how any plane I flew felt at the edge of a stall and I knew my personal limits. It was my pride to know my abilities and those of the airplanes I flew. Still, there was always a part of me that knew I could dart outside the limits for a bit and sneak back in quickly. Landing on the beach at high tide didn't teach me, neither did getting a Cessna stuck in a shallow ditch next to a county road when trying to turn it around after landing on a lark.

Without clear negative consequences, my past scrapes seemed more like fodder for good stories rather than lessons. On the mesa in Montana, I knew I was taking a risk. I knew I was landing on unexplored terrain. I thought that my practice approach and site survey would be all of the diligence I needed. My failure was to consider the broader picture. I became so focused on proving to myself that I could land on the nearest piece of ground that I did not consider how unsuitable the upsloping area was for a go-around, particularly with the ravine at the far end. The high density altitude brought with the hot weather and the corresponding performance loss did not factor into my decision making. I failed to consider how much more suitable most of the rest of the nearby country was. To accommodate my passenger, I could have easily chosen a public airstrip only a five minute flight away, but that never entered into my decision making. This was a revenue flight with a paying customer. Why would I have taken a foolhardy risk of landing off-airport? I wanted that photo of the yellow Husky on the green hilltop. I wanted to do it and to say that I'd done it.

A healthy ego is critical in any activity that involves skill, risk and split-second decision making. Self doubt can cripple a pilot flying low level, a rock climber on a technical route, or a soldier in battle. Still, an objective mind must keep ego and impulse and invulnerability in their proper places. Had I bothered to ask myself the bigger questions, I would have never set the Husky down on that mesa. A professional aviator does not fulfill his boyhood fantasies at the expense of undue risk to his passengers. The price I paid to finally make a living flying was high, and it's still sobering to see how careless I was knowing how hard I'd struggled to make my passion into my daily work. I think back to the years of training, the doubts of leaving a good career and good friends and jumping into the unknown. After landing firmly and making my own way, I shudder to know how close I came to losing it all. Keeping my job was the single greatest example of grace I've known. I fully expected to be shown the door and I could have harbored no grudge.

Author Lunde with his trusty Aeronca ChampPhoto: kestrelaerial.com

Thoughts

The NTSB and FAA investigations were necessary, but were relatively small hurdles. I took full responsibility and all the FSDO cared to do was go around the patch a few times in a Citabria. The investigator asked me to calculate the density altitude at the time of the accident, but he gave me an elevation figure for the site that I later found to be a thousand feet too high, and my corresponding incorrect figure went down in the NTSB report. Density altitude absolutely played a major role, but it wasn't 9000 feet as stated in the report.

Returning to the sky couldn't come quickly enough and I've never been scared of it since, but to this day all of my landings have been on a designated runway, although some have been quite primitive. I may find myself operating off-airport again, but for now I can't justify the risk to myself. The sky welcomed me back with open arms and I was happy to be back home, but it wasn't until the following winter doing eagle surveys in a new Husky that I began to know that I'd legitimately returned. There's never a time when I feel like I've done as much of a good day's work than when I've been flying low over beautiful country spotting wildlife.

The guilt I feel over Duke's injuries has not faded. I still see his bloody face almost daily. It is a talisman I carry to prevent careless thoughts from becoming actions. Thankfully, he recovered and is back in the field, but he'll always carry his scars, seen and unseen. Hurting him is the single biggest regret I know. To avoid these sorts of pain and regrets, while performing any activity that involves danger, the value of a proper risk assessment cannot be understated. Flying, rafting, mountaineering, and space travel are all supremely rewarding adventures. None should be attempted without thoroughly considering the factors of equipment, environment, and the individuals involved. Things can still go wrong, but the likelihood of an accident drops dramatically when decisions to proceed are based on sound judgement rather than whimsey or external pressure.

When flying in remote areas, minor problems can have the serious consequences in the absence of any help. A successful landing following an engine failure can suddenly lead to a serious survival situation. Injured survivors of a crash can face a much more grave outlook if not found soon. 121.5 ELTs don't cut it. The technology is now available that no plane should go missing and if help is needed, it can be summoned immediately. My SPOT locator was absolutely pivotal in getting us off the hill and I can't speak highly enough of their technology and their emergency dispatchers. Anyone travelling in remote areas should carry some sort of comparable device. Reasonable prices dictate that there is no excuse not to go prepared anymore. First aid and survival supplies are also a must. I was so grateful to find our kit so well-supplied. We had ample provisions to stop the bleeding and I'm confident that if we'd had to stay overnight, we would have been no worse for the wear with the sleeping bag, food and water. One thing I'll do differently is use a well-stocked survival vest. Though not a factor in this accident, had there been fire or if the plane were in a more precarious position, our survival gear and first aid kit would have been useless in the baggage compartment.

All I ever wanted to do was fly. Flying is my dream, my happiness, and my life. I carry the crash with me. It would be so nice to say that it's behind me, but the reality is that I've learned to live and to fly with it in the back of my mind. I blame none but myself for the injuries to my passenger and the loss of the airplane. The crash will define how I fly forever forward. There is still joy in the sky, still great fun. It's still the place I go to when I want to be free from all those little things on earth that I worry about but matter so little. If anything, I've learned that I took that freedom for granted too often. I worked so hard to get where I am and to realize that I put it at such risk for so little is still heartbreaking. The sky is a gracious host to those who come with respect, but the most unforgiving prosecutor of carelessness. I'll never lose that respect for flying or myself again.