Hello - new to this forum although I've been reading for several months. I'll contribute a post in the vein of maulmaniac's 'fun with dead stick landings' ... hope it doesn't bore anybody to death:


Fun With Overflow

My husband and I live in Alaska and have a SuperCub that's a member of the family. If I were the jealous type, she'd be in trouble as there are weeks when she sees more of him than I do, especially during hunting season. I spend my share of time in the backseat, and it's a treat to live here and fly in this country. We'll never see it all, but we're giving it a darn good try!

Winter flying, although a lot of work, is great. A heated hangar is still beyond the budget, so pre-heating is a necessity as is plenty of survival gear. We both fly in full cold-weather gear plus fanny packs of survival gear, and there's a duffel bag full of stuff that lives in the baggage compartment all winter long. We probably go 3-4 times a week, sightseeing, ice fishing, or bird hunting. There's also deer hunting until December 31st and the occasional winter caribou or moose season. There's never any shortage of places to land on skis, but it does take a little planning to keep from spending fun-filled days winter camping if overflow is a problem.

For those of you who aren't familiar with this beast, overflow is water on top of ice. It can happen on rivers or lakes and be anywhere from 3" to 'oh s**t' deep. If you are lucky, you can see the nasty stuff BEFORE you try to land (or drive a snow machine through it) but sometimes it has a crust of ice or snow on top of it, rendering it invisible. So, you have ice, a layer of water, and then more ice or snow on top of that. Got it?

If this doesn't sound like something you'd want to land in, you are so right. We always test a landing spot by dragging the skis on the first pass, then circling around a couple times to see if the tracks darken or fill in with water.

As I discovered last winter, this isn't always foolproof.

Let me explain for a moment: I am not a pilot. I am probably the world's best-trained passenger and have more hours in the backseat than some pilots I know. Actually being in charge scares the daylights out of me, for reasons I don't even understand, so we won't go there. My dearly beloved husband has put up with this idiosyncrasy for many years, and doesn't pretend to understand it either. He was adamant that I learn to handle the plane in flight and land on both wheels and skis "just in case."

That's the extent of my flying ability. I am grateful to have a husband that puts up with this and is willing to haul me along. He was born and raised here and has many thousands of hours all over the state in all four seasons, so I don't worry.

My experiences with overflow, until last winter, had been limited to snow machines. Mostly nasty surprises that I was able to power out of or get around the edges quickly enough to not have any major problems. I know my husband has dealt with it in planes, but I'd managed to not be along for any of the excitement. He spent a few extra days camping a couple winters ago, but really didn't say much other than he was glad to be out of it and home.

So, it's a lovely February day, about 6 above zero, with a gorgeous sunrise promising a clear blue sky. Hubby pre-heats and we are in the air by 11:00 a.m. with sort of a plan to head north. Get out a couple hours, time for a potty break and leg stretching. Two hours or so is about my limit in a Cub before my butt goes to sleep. Hubby can go 4, but he's got the heater up front and definitely a bigger bladder.

Pretty little lake off the left wing looks perfect. Hubby drops down and takes a couple low, slow passes. We’d had a stretch of below 0 weather with not much fresh snow, so everything should be frozen nice and solid. No other tracks in sight except moose. We make one long slow pass dragging the skis and then climb to wait and watch a few minutes. Still looks good, but we make one more pass dragging the skis a little closer to the shoreline. Still looks good, so hubby sets down gently, still prepared to take back off.

No surprises, so he commits and we stop easily. He taxis a couple times back and forth then begins to turn in a bit closer to the shore to park. With no warning, the starboard ski drops through up to the axle into overflow and everything comes to an abrupt halt.

Now, I didn't think this was such a great thing. For one, how deep is the damn overflow and are we going down? I also thought that this would be a good time to maybe get the door open at least … hubby sits there calmly, looks around, shuts the engine off and says, 'well, honey, this looks like a good spot to have lunch.'

He climbs out and does some acrobatic thing so he's sort of hanging off the cowling testing to see if the ice will hold him. He only breaks through a bit and scoots around to the port side that's still on solid ice. I try to do the same thing and kind of succeed. Glad I don't weigh any more! Now what?

Hubby circles around to find the edge of the overflow, looks like it's a pocket about 20' by 20' with the port ski just barely on the edge. So we have to get the plane about 15' to solid ice. I'm told to crawl back in the baggage compartment and get the axe and shovel, while he unties both pairs of snowshoes from the struts. Off we go to cut down a half dozen dead spruce trees 6" – 8" in diameter and haul them back to the plane. That will keep you warm.

If we weren't having fun before, we are now. We lay out spruce poles and branches in front of the starboard ski and hubby tries to pry up the ski enough to get some underneath it, while I'm out on the end of the wing trying to lift. Hubby's already broken through and is about knee deep in the overflow. He's in Carhartts and bunny boots, I'm in RefrigiWear and bunny boots. I give my best heave on the wingtip and promptly break through, too. Thank god for bunny boots, I can feel the water in my boots and it's damn cold, but I know the boots will let it warm up pretty quickly.

This isn't working very well that I can tell. We make a few tries but we just don't have enough mass to lift the old girl up. About then, hubby points out how lucky we are to have a plane that weighs less than 1000 lbs. I'm thinking this is a brave man, using the term 'lucky' to a woman with wet feet at 6 degrees, 80 some miles from home, an axe in reach, no civilization anywhere in sight and daylight fading fast. He's remaining remarkably calm and unruffled over all this, so I have no choice but to go along. We're in no danger and the plane's not damaged, so I guess it's time to relax.

Next plan. He climbs in and fires up, I'm supposed to stand by with spruce poles and when he powers up, I'm going to shove them under the ski to help get to solid ice. Great idea except the plane doesn't know she's supposed to come up and out of the overflow. She just plows a nice trench in a half circle with the starboard ski that stubbornly refuses to come out, even with the engine revved plenty high. Fortnately, the port ski stays on solid ice and she finally gets to semi-solid ice and shallower overflow and gives me just enough of a chance to get two poles jammed under the starboard ski. There will be no laughing at the short woman dressed like the Pillsbury doughboy slogging through knee-deep overflow trying frantically to catch up with the plane while dragging 6' long spruce poles. Good thing heart problems don't run in my family. With a few more spruce poles laid out, we get her up on solid clean ice.

It's almost dark now so we're spending the night. We've got the gear and there's lots of firewood, but wait, the overflow fun's not quite done yet. We spend a couple hours painstakingly cleaning every last bit of slush off the skis, gear, belly and tail feathers so it doesn't freeze solid and cause unpleasant problems upon takeoff tomorrow. Most of this was done with bare hands and a spruce bonfire felt awfully good when we were done. Hot tea and freeze-dried lasagna took care of the last of the chill, along with dry socks while the bunny boots were hung on sticks by the fire to dry out. The plane's got the engine cover on with the little heater to keep everything toasty and we have good down bags and spruce branches to lay back on and watch the stars.

Fortunately no one is going to be worried about us, my best friend knows we're out flying but won't start panicking for 24 hours or better. She knows we have excellent survival gear and lots of experience in the back country.

Hubby was up a few times in the night to check on the plane and rock it to make sure the skis didn't freeze to the spruce poles. At dawn we both tromped a few hundred yards in every direction on snowshoes to make sure no other pockets of overflow were lurking about. Everything was solid, as it should be at –12. More gourmet freeze-dried for breakfast and we were in the air as soon as there was enough light for take off. Another beautiful flight home with a story to tell.

My husband's theory on life is that when it's all winding down, you'll remember the 'adventures', not the trips where everything went as planned. This was one trip I'll remember, mostly because I learned a lot. I'm not sure there's any one lesson here, except that overflow can be anywhere and no matter how much effort you've put into avoiding it, be prepared to deal with it and not panic. We had the gear, my husband had the experience and I managed not to panic.

Ha! Excellent story. I'll add this to the articles page when i can (I'm at the folks place in Oregon on dial-up.) Maybe squeeze a photo in there if you have one.

Zane

I love this woman! You need to meet my wife!
We have a cabin on Shell Lake and know the over flow intimately. It is an insidious being and can rear its head at the slightest hint. Drop us a note if you get a chance. We will be up during the Iditarod and would love to see you.