The wind currents seemed to wake up and grab my airplane in a tight fist. We were rolled up on one wing and then the other as I fought for control. I could see the small air strip lying beside the stream below us but there was simply no way that we were going to land on that narrow track in this kind of a cross wind.
“Enough of this”, I shouted over the intercom, “let’s get out of this damn canyon now!” I executed a very bouncy and sloppy 180 degree turn to the left and held on the east wall of the steep canyon to gain some lift and avoid the terrible down drafts that it seemed I could almost see boiling down the west side. We turned west at the mouth of Copper creek and headed into the teeth of the wind. We struggled over the two small lakes and lined up on our alternate airport. From here it looked ridiculously small and very rough. Without enough fuel in the tanks to get back out of the mountains we were committed to a landing of some sort.
Coming in on final, I fought to maintain directional control then gasped to my dad “where do I land”? We had parallel tracks in the tundra before us. “On the right looks smoother” he said. I agreed and brought us in. Over rough brush I pulled off the power. Our ground speed was very slow and our air speed a bit high. We flared and the plane refused to settle. As the end of the strip rushed up we bumped once and bounced back in the air!
This story started I guess, many years ago when I first felt the need to fly. I progressed through my training fine, just long periods of time between steps. Ground school in Haines, Alaska, then eighteen years after that I finally purchased my trusty steed, a 1947 Stinson Voyager. I had been practicing short field work for a couple of years and then set up a hunt for my father and myself to go after one of the beautiful white Dall sheep of Alaska.
Dad drove up from his home in Idaho and we got ready to go. 343 Charlie had just received a top overhaul on his 0-435 Lycoming engine and I was still running off the break-in time. With enough hours to feel comfortable we took off from Haines with a full load of hunting gear, extra fuel, and food.
We flew Alaska IFR, or I Follow Roads, in great conditions, to our jumping off point near Koidern on the Alaska Highway. Here we turned off and headed into the mountains, I had been here the week before in my friends Commanche, scouting and looking for the landing strips, so I was familiar with the terrain below us. The flight up was exciting and enjoyable as we spotted game in the mountains around. Flying at 6,000 to 7,000 feet we had a great view of the Kluane Lake region. We flew by Haines Junction, Burwash Landing and up near Beaver Creek in great flying conditions.
I turned “Charlie” toward the mountains, and with a fingertip on the chart, flew into the high country. Copper Creek, where we intended to go, lies in a beautiful north-south valley with the strip at 4200’. We had located one strip at Horse Prairie from the Commanche, but had not found Copper Creek. We hoped with our slower speed and better weather, to find it easily, and so it proved to be.
We came in high, at the level of the peaks (I remembered never fly up a canyon), and circled over Horse Prairie then down over Bear Lakes and looked for the second creek on the left. We found it easily, and spotted the strip almost immediately. We made three circles over the ridges and peaks dropping lower and lower as we looked for game. The tiny white dots resolved into bands of Dall sheep scattered over the grassy ridges and slopes. Not wanting to frighten the animals we kept our distance from them. Several high passes and the strip looked good, one more low pass from the upper end, then flying down-canyon and everything looked OK. We made a right hand turn to line up and came in for a landing. All my practice on the bush strips at sea level seemed totally inadequate now. We floated in over the threshold with a good low approach, everything looked good, two notches flaps, full flaps, trim, power, mixture, the procedures and training took over and as we crossed over the brushline I cut the power and plopped down, a little hard, but right on target, and in line.
As we rolled out toward the uphill end, the runway got narrower and narrower finally coming into about 12’wide with 18” berms on each side. The wings cleared the brush fine and we taxied up to a good parking and turn around spot. We had done it! We were in great sheep country, my trusty bird had brought us in with nary a whimper. As my nerves settled, I felt at least a little like a true “Bush Pilot”, despite the fact that I knew this strip had been used to haul freight for a gold mining operation for several years. It was about 1600’ long, very narrow with short brush and grass growing in the strip, it was a challenge. I felt great! Hooray!
As we got out and stretched our legs, we looked around us. Some old fuel drums, part of a sluice frame and some scraps of lumber were all that was left of the old mine. Copper Creek ran a hundred feet to the right, up on the ridges we could see where the sheep lived. We unloaded and sorted our gear, then decided it as so early in the day that we would backpack several miles up the creek to set up our camp. We couldn’t hunt on the same day that we were airborne but we could walk! We loaded up with about 40 pounds apiece, including our rifles, and headed out. A moose trail led us out to the creek and then we traveled up the rocky streambed.
Typical of a glacier system, the stream wandered around all over a wide gravel and rock bar. Fair traveling, but watch those ankles. The country was gorgeous and the weather remained fine. As we walked, we looked around and mostly up. The first thing we spotted were two other hunters just topping out on the ridge to the east. “They must be from that tent at the other end of the strip”, Dad said. When they hit the top they turned north. “They shouldn’t go that way up there”, I said, “the wind will carry their scent right along ahead of them.” Dad agreed, “Greenhorns” he grunted.
We continued on up the creek, stopping frequently to rest and to glass the ridges. We made good time for about three miles, then, while resting; we looked at the lower slopes and saw four of the most breathtakingly beautiful Mountain Caribou bulls that either of us had ever seen. We had been so intent on the ridges that we had looked right over them. As we walked further along we discussed whether this area was open for caribou right now, the more we talked the less sure we were of anything. After another mile we stopped for a break, the bulls had kept pace with us right along. One more close look and I couldn’t stand it anymore. If the season was open we could stay right here and collect the trophy of a lifetime. The only trouble was the regulations were back at the plane.
“Damn” I said, “You stay here and take a nap Dad, I am going back and check the book. If I go back I know the season will be closed and if I don’t we will find out too late that we could have taken them.” I didn’t look forward to the distance, but could not see any way around it. I took off and alternately running and jogging made it back to the plane. A quick look at the Alaska Hunting regulations showed that while many areas of the State were open, this area opened in two weeks. Oh hell, now four miles back to Dad and continue our climb.
“The only thing open now is sheep and wolves,” I croaked as I reached for the canteen. The bulls had fed even closer and looked magnificent. We took some pictures of them and with some grunting and groaning started out again.
One more mile brought us to the point where we had planned to leave the creek, and a quick look to the east showed that sure enough; here came 15 sheep trotting around the end of the ridge. They had winded the two guys on the ridge top and left the area.
I had managed to keep my feet dry so far by jumping from rock to rock, but now we had to cross the main channel. Dad had new ten-inch high climbing boots and he did fine, I got wet. “This is the last trip I will ever make without good boots,” I swore, “it’s pretty miserable climbing with wet feet.”
Now we needed only a short climb, a quarter of a mile perhaps, and a thousand feet up. It seemed like a lot more. We followed sheep trails along the edge of a vertical face, one slip and drop three hundred feet before the first bounce! Ouch! Finally we reached the little bench where we wanted to be. Suddenly the light breeze turned and hit us, cold, with a few fat drops of rain. Dad said, “Let’s get this tent up quick, here or over there might be better.” We dumped our packs and threw the tent up. Rain pelted us and the temperature had dropped to near freezing. By the time the tent was up and packs heaved inside we were wet through and chilled to the bone. With nothing else to do anyway, we rolled out our pads and bags, stripped off our wet clothes and climbed in. A few minutes of active shivering warmed things enough to take a catnap. The wind snatched and buffeted our tiny tent and the rain beat on us hard enough to splatter through the tent roof.
About two hours later, the wind backed down, the rain stopped and the cold front moved on past. We got up and emptied the tent so we could set it up properly. Dad moved rocks and cut lumps of sod while I went to the last bush at timberline and gathered an armload of dead wood. In a short while we had a cheery fire, a good camp and a great supper with a million-dollar view. We sat and looked with glasses and spotting scope at the mountains around us. Just as we had hoped, this little bench allowed us to see in all four directions. Before it got too dark we had spotted over forty sheep! Mostly lambs and ewes of course, but several young adult rams as well.
Morning came with the light touching the blue nylon tent. “Drag your butt out of that sack”, I said, “OHHH AHHH MMFF”, was the reply. A moment later, ‘Time to get going Shane”, Dad said. I crawled out and got dressed, it was chilly but not too bad. We cooked a good, quick breakfast and glassed the hills.
Immediately behind camp we spotted 15 head of sheep, they turned out to be ewes and lambs, probably the same band that had been spooked off the ridge the day before. Across canyon we found three separate groups, two had five members, and one had eight. Again, no big horns showed among them.
We climbed a couple of yards and glassed some more. Suddenly, I spotted two sheep crossing the rocks above us. Horns! Visible even at four hundred yards, a close look with the scope showed both to be smaller rams, one half to three quarters curl. Just moments after these two walked around the point out of sight, Dad spotted sheep standing right on the skyline, one, two, five, more showed up each minute! Some proved to be rams, some ewes and a couple of lambs. God, the excitement was high. Each time we turned we spotted white dots somewhere.
We had been discussing the notion that if all these bands of sheep were mixed age groups and therefore not the bachelor band we wanted, the rams must be in a little pocket all by themselves. While looking into the entrance to just one such pocket, we both spotted a sheep that had not been there just moments before. A quick inspection through the spotting scope showed a good sweep of horn, very light colored with the sun shining behind him, but better than anything we had seen yet.
“He doesn’t look very big”, Dad said, “You better look through this spotting scope”, I replied, “I think he may be a legal ram. Anyway, I think we need a closer look.” We dropped down into a ravine and moved 150’ closer where we could look again. Now we could see two more rams bedded just below the first one. This time, we had to climb up the chute until we could cross into the next one out of sight of the sheep. We were now almost within rifle range. Long looks and much discussion followed. According to Alaska law the ram had to be a full curl, the tips of the horns had to come up past the bridge of his nose to create a full circle. One of the now five rams before us had very good mass, and lots of length in his horn but we needed a better look to be sure of curl.
The rams got to their feet and slowly fed out of sight, actually moving toward us.
“Let’s chance a run over open ground while they are out of sight”, I whispered.
“OK let’s go” said Dad, tired legs forgotten for the moment. We scurried over the open ridge before us and had just gotten short of a group of rocks on the next little ridge when Dad hissed, “Freeze, they are coming down!” Caught in the open we dropped to the ground and lay still. The lead sheep stood for a second and then walked on down into a tiny water course, then one by one, four more filed out and down. When the last one was out of sight we crawled as fast as possible into the rocks just ahead. We were in place only seconds when the sheep showed up again. Maybe 100 yards away and slightly uphill, they filed into sight.
As they fed down the tiny valley they spread out and began looking for the choicest bits of grass to eat. They each drank from the trickle of water and after a bit they all lay down and began to chew their cud. The one ram, quite a bit older and larger than the others, was breathtakingly beautiful. His horns arched up high, rolled down and started back up, then flared out until they reached a spread of at least 20”. I looked until my eyes ached! He would tip his head just a little and the tip of his horn tip slid down under his throat. At seventy yards with a thirty power spotting scope, and due to the way his horns flared out, I could not tell if he was legal or not!
Dad looked at me and mouthed, “Well, shall I take him?”
“I can’t tell,” I mouthed back. One of the smaller rams was staring at us with all his concentration. We had been spotted! We held our breath and froze in place. To duck down or move an eye would have spelled disaster. Finally, he shook his head and looked away.
“I need a side view”, I whispered, “Just be ready.” I looked, trying to see if the horn tips might be broken off, thus being legal even it not quite full curl. I tied repeatedly to count annual rings on his horns to see if he was eight years old. The horn tips were perfect; they went out and did not get in his way so had not been broomed at all. I could count six rings easily but could not be sure of anymore, those near the base are very close together. “Look with your rifle scope, lay the horizontal crosshair on the base of the horn and see if the tip comes back to the line,” I whispered.
“He won’t turn his head right,” Dad whispered back.
We studied that ram at no more than eighty yards, for nearly half an hour, and finally, regretfully, let him go. He was majestic, he had more than enough horn to make full curl and then some, but the way the last ten to twelve inches flared out made it impossible to be sure.
We had had a great hunt, seen a lot of game, had a fantastic stalk, and enjoyed it tremendously. Alas, we decided that we did not have sufficient time or legs left to leave and climb a whole other mountain. From all that we had been told about sheep hunting, we had found the bachelor band, we had seen the lead ram, and there was not likely to be another one in the same small valley.
We rested up and then I could not resist one more climb into the pocket that the rams had come out of just on the off chance that the biggest, oldest ram might have stayed in there, no luck.
We returned to camp, fixed a large meal, (easier to eat than to carry), broke camp and headed back down the mountain and back to the plane.
We poured in the extra fuel from the “jerry” cans, loaded up and got ready to go. By dragging the plane back until the tail was in the brush we got all the run there was. After a good warm up we cinched up our seatbelts and smoothly advanced the throttle. Because of the narrow track and dirt banks I very carefully built up speed. A slight swerve would have been real bad.
I thought we were going to come out just fine when we sort of quit accelerating. We were running along just not quite fast enough to fly, the short brush and grass kept dragging on the landing gear and holding us back. The end of the strip was coming up fast. I jerked full flaps and popped the plane into the air knowing it would not fly but trying to gain just a little more speed. We came back down but it had worked, we had gained a few miles per hour. Once more and we were actually flying, I held the plane in ground effect for a little longer and then as the end of the strip flashed by beneath us I turned down the creek channel until I could release the flaps and fly out.
Tired but happy we flew into Northway Alaska for fuel and food before starting the four hour flight home.
