March 8, 2008.

I rarely remember exact dates, but this day sticks in my mind, engraved permanently...I had over 1500 hours in the Cherokee 6 at that point, and wind wasn't a big deterrent anymore. It could handle a 35 knot direct crosswind if landing/taking off on gravel, as was the norm for Nixon Fork mine. It would skid sideways at about a 45 degree angle, but it would do it.

The sun rose slowly that morning, peering over over the horizon almost cautiously, as if wondering if it should come up or set again. I arrived to an empty office, loaded the coffee pot, checked the weather, and prepared my airplane for the day. The first trip on the books was to drop off two FAA technicians at the Sparrevohn Long Range Radar Station, which is about 110 miles southeast of McGrath, and pick them up again later that day. The weather looked great, so we all climbed into "Six-Oh-Six", and blasted off. Climbing south over Roundabout Mountain into glass-smooth air, I looked towards the Alaska Range, and noticed a wall of weather approaching from the east. The flight to Sparrevohn was uneventful, and after depositing my passengers at Sparrevohn, I started on my way for home. Once airborne, I was able to see that that weather had creeped in behind me. After scud-running up the west flanks of the Tatlawiksuk Mountains, I cut across and picked up the Selatna River, and followed it downstream to the Kuskokwim. I followed it up, past Sterling landing, and was able to pick up a Special VFR clearance into the McGrath class E to land.

Holmberg on approach into SparrevohnNo sooner had I climbed out of the plane, Kathy, my boss, told me that an Iditarod Air Force Cessna 185 had crashed in Takotna. There were two minor injuries, and one seriously injured. Without asking any questions, I climbed back in, got a SVFR clearance to the west, and left. The 10 minute flight to Takotna lasted almost 20 minutes as I had to swing to the north around Porcupine Ridge, and followed the Takotna valley towards the village. The airstrip sits about 600 feet above the valley floor, and at the time, about ceiling height. Snow was falling in 2" flakes and reduced visibility to less than 1/2 mile. I spotted the road up to the airstrip and followed it up the hill, circling overhead once clearing the peak and spotting the downed airplane about 100 yards off the east end of the airstrip. The wings were separated, but the fuselage remained in one piece. I circled over and landed to the east, braking hard, and taxing to the ramp slowly to avoid the large group of people crowded on the ramp and at the end of the runway. I shut the plane down, and hopped out to get the story. Apparently, the pilot attempted to depart to the east after back-taxiing only halfway down the 1700' runway, in icing, and with a load. Somehow...he stalled it into the trees off the departure end. One passenger ended up with a broken arm and a collapsed lung. They were all down at the village health clinic, and none were prepared to board another aircraft, for any reason. Not blaming them after just landing in the snow storm, I made sure that there was another airplane available to fly them to McGrath when they were ready, and took off again into the blizzard to head home.

Once arriving back in McGrath, I had time to scarf down my usual cheeseburger and fries from the local greasy spoon before refueling for my second trip to Sparrevohn to retrieve my passengers. I called the site chief to get the latest weather report before taking off, and the conditions sounded like the best I'd seen since that morning. In about an hour I was 10 miles out and called the site for the latest weather report. Ceiling and visibility were VFR as advertised, and they reported winds as 020 at 12 knots. I crossed over the mountain and descend into moderate turbulence, noting that both windsocks indicated about 10 knots. The uphill indicated a 10 knot down-slope breeze, the downhill sock indicating about the same, in an uphill direction. In the worst judgement call of the day, I made the approach as I usually did, wasting half the runway. I began my approach hot and high, aiming for my usual touchdown point of about 1/2 way up the strip. Descending into the flare, the airplane began bucking wildly, and I was immediately kicking the rudder from stop to stop to hold the nose facing somewhat in the direction we were heading. Suddenly, the aircraft lifted violently, and at about 15 feet above the ground, the bottom dropped out. (The airplane I was flying that day, a Piper Cherokee 6, had recently had a new prop governor installed, and it had yet to be adjusted correctly. It would overspeed to about 2900 RPM at max throttle, so, until the next 50 hour inspection, the operating procedure was to apply throttle until rpm reached 2700, and no more.)

Feeling a crash imminent, I slammed the throttle to the stop, and the airplane screamed to life, to no avail. The airplane slammed into the ground hard enough to bottom out the main-gear struts, and re-injure my lower back, a pain that would continue for weeks. As fast as I was on the ground, the airplane leapt back into the air, not by the bounce, but by another gust of wind. The airplane had no tendency to "stick" to the ground. By now, I was about 1,000 feet from the 20 foot rock wall blasted out of the mountain at the uphill end. Leaving the throttle where it was, I commited myself to the "improbable" go-around. I raised the nose and let off a notch of flaps, yet held the button and "played" the handle, yanking it between full and half flaps as the airplane buffeted on the edge of the stall. Each time the stall broke and the nose dropped, I pulled full flaps and relaxed the yoke pressure, and vice-versa when the nose came back up. I began a gentle bank to the left, hanging on the prop, and followed the contour of the canyon in ground effect.

Not exactly a clear shallow climboutI began thinking, "This is it, I'm gonna wreck an airplane". VW bus-sized boulders began filling the windscreen and streaked by within feet of the right wingtip. I then started thinking, "Awwww shit, this is gonna hurt." I glanced over my left shoulder back at the ramp to see the site truck parked, both doors open, the passengers standing next to it, watching me, and waiting for the crash. I looked forward again and continued the gradual left turn, still hanging on the prop. I made the nearly 180 degree turn and cleared the ridge on the left side of the canyon by no more than 10 or 20 feet. Relaxing the back-pressure on the yoke, I leveled off and let the engine have a break. The whole go-around lasted about 15 seconds, but felt like an hour. I looked down to see the truck driving back to the station. Moments later I heard the chief ask on the radio, "Are you going to try again?" I replied as calmly as I could that it was time for me to call it a day...but I needed them to drive back to the strip and see if I knocked any landing gear off. I was completely serious, and they could hear it. They drove to the end of the strip and back, only to report they didn't see anything. I let them know I'd be back in the morning, and began the flight home, incredulous that I didn't crash. I arrived back in McGrath, stepping onto firm ground on wobbly knees. The next morning a head-hauncho for the Alaska Radar System called the office and I had explaining to do. I learned that I was the second pilot to ever make a successful go-around at that airstrip, the first was a C-130 back in the 1960s, and they barely made it too. I felt more and more like a damn lucky fool than anything. I explained that I was not trying to prove anything, I wasn't pushing the airplane or my experience, and was just humbled by the power of that mountain and its ability to take "12 knots" of wind and wreak havoc. The next few days brought terrible weather and my passengers ended up catching a ride directly to Anchorage. My next trip to Sparrevohn months later gave me a cold sweat, even though landing in calm winds. That runway will forever have my utmost respect.

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