Do-over

The coastline itself is vast and awe-inspiring with towering mountains, glaciers, icefields, abundant wildlife, and—in sunshine—mesmerizing colors. The Caravan is an unparalleled adventure machine capable of covering long distances comfortably and reliably, landing on runways or water, and it can carry enough gear and provisions to fill a mansion.

This ferry trip was especially enticing because it included longtime friend and AOPA colleague David Tulis, a skilled photographer, fellow pilot, and a generally fun, upbeat, enthusiastic traveling companion. And on a personal level, flying the Alaska coast would allow me a do-over of sorts for my one and only previous flight there—a 2016 ferry trip that nearly ended disastrously.

Back then, I was bringing a Citabria from Anchorage to the Lower 48. Fair skies turned stormy near Glacier Bay, and I was caught off guard by a powerful headwind in a rocky, uninhabited region devoid of airstrips or even precautionary landing sites, and low on fuel. Thankfully, the Citabria made it to a runway without running out of avgas, but it was an unnervingly close call. And watching the needles on the fuel gauges bouncing around near empty while flying over a frigid, windswept ocean was terrifying.

Memories of that first ferry trip kept cropping up on the Caravan flight, and in my mind’s eye I could picture the sporty blue-and-white taildragger crossing the same inlets and following the same coastline. Both trips took place during summer and were flown at about the same altitude (1,000 feet agl) at similar speeds, and mostly in the same serene conditions. Both trips shared the same astounding landmarks: Mount St. Elias, Mount Fairweather, and the Bering and Malaspina glaciers.

But flying a Caravan with amphibious floats, a 675-horsepower Pratt & Whitney PT6A turboprop engine, IFR instrumentation, deice boots, and massive range and endurance is altogether different than making the journey in a tube-and-fabric, four-cylinder Citabria. One’s like being at the helm of a cruise ship, and the other is a skiff.

People’s perspectives naturally change over time, and that’s especially true of pilots.

In flying, I was initially drawn to single-seat aerobatic airplanes that contained few if any creature comforts. A heater, an alternator, even a battery and starter didn’t justify their own weight, and I was glad to do without the performance compromises (and convenience) they bring. Similarly, many formerly hard-charging ex-fighter pilots eventually come to extol the virtues of flying widebody airliners equipped with galleys, lavatories, and espresso machines.

I haven’t gone completely soft and still look forward to some of the more rigorous forms of flying. But it’s hard not to look back at some of the flying that I’ve already done and realize I’m not anxious to do it again.

The Citabria ferry flight, for example, is one that I’d still do—but differently. First, I wouldn’t take the coastal route unless the weather was perfect. The forecast was good on the day I went, but rain and low clouds were expected later that night, and they showed up a half-day early.

Next, I wouldn’t bypass a fuel stop. On that day, I could have topped off the tanks (at Yakutat) before continuing southeast, but I assumed that benign conditions and favorable winds would prevail all the way to my destination. I was already an experienced general aviation pilot at the time of my Citabria misadventure, but I didn’t appreciate then just how different flying in Alaska really is. Now, I’m more cautious.

On this trip, we timed the recent Caravan’s departure to take advantage of a rare window of exceptionally good coastal weather, and the forecast turned out to be spot on. It was sunny and 70 degrees along the coast for two full days in a row—a rarity in summer. Those picture-perfect conditions gave Tulis the chance to capture some remarkable shots, just as we'd planned.

We arrived in Anchorage a full day before the ceiling dropped and the skies turned to their customary seasonal gloom. But with lessons from the Citabria trip taken to heart, I didn’t allow myself time to dawdle on the ground while ideal flying conditions beckoned. The weather was too good to last and too rare to waste.

I’m sure I’ll never fully exorcize the demons of my frightening first flight along the Alaska coast in the Citabria. But the Caravan trip allowed me to revisit that incomparable area and appreciate its rugged uniqueness with a fresh—although older and hopefully wiser—set of eyes. FT 

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