All roads lead to Rock Springs

And that’s why Rock Springs, Wyoming, a town of about 25,000 people in the southwest corner of the state, shows up so regularly in my pilot logbook. Whenever I’m ferrying a light GA airplane across the country, a fuel stop there is frequently warranted—and it’s often memorable because of the extreme weather.

I’ve landed at Rock Springs (elevation: 6,388 feet) in the bitter cold and blowing snow when bringing an Aviat Husky from the factory in Afton, Wyoming, in winter. I’ve stopped by on a gorgeous autumn morning in a Cessna 180 during a trip from Montana to Colorado. I was there in an amphibious Icon A5 during a long trek from California to Pennsylvania when the summertime density altitude was nearly 9,000 feet. And I dropped in most recently in oppressive heat and swirling, gusty winds when taking a Van’s RV–6 from Bend, Oregon, to the East Coast.

Rock Springs is synonymous with turbulence in my mind. In summer, thermals rise from the high desert all the way up to the flight levels, and wind blowing across the Rockies is seldom smooth.

Pilots are wise to cross Wyoming early in the morning or in the evening when they’re more likely to encounter smooth air. Fate conspired to prevent that on my last trip, so I landed at Southwest Wyoming Regional Airport (RKS) in Rock Springs at noon when the wind was gusting to 27 knots and variable in direction from 200 degrees to 270 degrees. The windsock favored Runway 21 when I entered the traffic pattern at the nontowered airport, but by the time I touched down on that runway, it had switched to a nearly direct crosswind. Things worked out OK, but I sure would have preferred less-demanding conditions for my first landing in the little red tailwheel RV–6.

The Sweetwater Aviation FBO at Rock Springs does a terrific job for transient pilots. As many times as I’ve landed there, it’s always been a quick turn. I’ve never even stayed a night. This time, line service workers were able to fill my portable oxygen bottle, and that gave me hope that I could climb high enough to reach smooth air on the next leg.

Sadly, for me, that didn’t happen. Even at 15,500 feet (density altitude: 19,000 feet), I was still spanked in the thin air, and billowing cumulus clouds reached all the way up into the 20s. All I could do was cinch down my seatbelt harness tight, make sure my oxygen bottle was secure, fly level, and point to Nebraska, where the flatlands took the edge off the worst of the bumps.

Interstate 80, the transcontinental railroad, and portions of the Oregon Trail all follow the same high plateau that stretches from Salt Lake City, Utah, to Cheyenne, Wyoming, and Rock Springs is right in the middle of that long, lonely stretch. Pilots only half-jokingly call I-80 the “world’s longest runway” because the paved surface is likely the best option in a forced landing. That’s where most of us would go if we absolutely had to. So far, thankfully, I’ve never had to.

Rawlins Municipal (RWL) and Laramie Regional (LAR) airports are also regular stops for ferry flights in this region—but not Casper (CPR). Wyoming pilots accustomed to strong winds avoid Casper because it’s too windy even for them. When winds are 20 knots across the plateau, they’re twice as strong in Casper.

East-west ferry trips commonly follow the seasons north in summer and south in winter. Interstate 10 through El Paso, Texas, is a reasonable cold-weather choice. Interstate 40 through Albuquerque is an option during spring and fall, and Interstate 90 through Spokane, Washington, can be spectacular in summer.

I’ve flown open-cockpit Waco biplanes through the Guadelupe Pass in Texas and around the Sandia Mountains in New Mexico—and their heaters are remarkably effective at keeping the pilot’s feet toasty, even in subfreezing temperatures.

The most difficult ferry trips typically involve airplanes with extremely limited range. Aerobatic aircraft like a Pitts biplane or a Sukhoi Su–26 can only fly about 90 minutes between fuel stops, and in wide-open spaces like West Texas, there’s seldom an airport exactly where you want one. In real life, that means you often have to stop short of the optimal distance. I once flew a Russian aerobatic airplane with a small fuel tank and a thirsty radial engine from Atlanta to San Jose, California, and it required 19 fuel stops, with half of them in Texas. (By the way: Winkler County (INK) is known for both rattlesnakes and incredibly inexpensive avgas.)

Airplanes with long range are relatively easy because they provide so many more options for suitable airports and going around bad weather. A Beechcraft D17 Staggerwing, for example, can go five hours or more; an RV–10 with extended-range tanks can typically fly about six hours; a Cessna 182T can fly at least that long; and a Beechcraft Baron 55E has a no-wind range of more than 1,000 nautical miles.

No matter what I’m flying, however, at some point, I’ll almost certainly program its GPS to take me to Rock Springs. Maybe I’ll even spend a night there sometime. I hear the Wonder Bread store there is not to be missed.

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