Backcountry Pilot

Part 1 The new challenge

My wife Erin and our 6 month old daughter.

The trip to Anchorage's Lake Hood for the Alaska Airmen Association trade show has become an annual tradition. The immersive experience in the scene at the world's largest floatplane base, coupled with the opportunity to meet new BackcountryPilot.org members and visit with the usual suspects, is just too much fun to pass up for the price of an airline ticket and a few nights' hotel stay. And if the weather is agreeable, we often pair up with local members after the show weekend for some backcountry flying fun, like last year's 170s in the Wrangells. This year though was a little different as I decided to tackle a new challenge, possibly the greatest yet: Bringing the family along. The result was nothing like the flying-focused year prior, but it was rewarding all the same.

Lately I find myself thinking: I've flown too close to the sun, like Icarus. I've always wanted a family, but also a job, an airplane, and a lifestyle that allows me to seek fun and adventure; some of these things just don't mix well without some serious practice. In fall of last year, my wife and I had our first child, and suddenly the flying adventures and airplane building were pushed to the back burner as life was upended in the best of ways. But, clinging to the tattered carcass of my freedom, I insisted that the Alaska trip happen.

Erin has always wanted to see Alaska and couldn't stand to see me have yet another adventure in the last frontier without her. Our experience traveling with the baby prior to this trip consisted of loading my canopy-covered pickup bed with every possible thing we might need, but any kind of air travel requires a spartan approach, though you wouldn't know it if you saw the mountain of gear we brought aboard the Alaska Air 737. It's the first time in my 25 years of flying commercially that I've broken down and used a Smart Carte.

It's in her blood: Eager to go flying, even if it means being trapped in that can for 3.5 hours.

I'm happy to say the flight to Anchorage went extremely well: smooth air, happy and content baby, and the poopy diaper change in the lavatory was executed without incident. Unbeknownst to us, the first real challenge wouldn't present itself until that evening. At the end of a day filled with new experiences, new faces, new places, and a sun that just won't go down, our daughter had a serious meltdown at bedtime. The established schedule of naps, feeding, and bedtime were under assault from the old adage about landing zones: If it looks smooth, it might be. If it looks rough, it is. We were tangled in the first half of that saying like a pair of straight skis on some wind-scoured sastrugi. While we thought we had it made, we actually spent the next few days battling to acclimate our baby to a new world of traveling, while trying to retain our own sanity. Prior to becoming a dad, a rant like this would not have resonated in any way, but I'm positive the parent/pilots reading this will relate.

I was starting to see the fun of being at Lake Hood slip through my fingers; what a fool I was. That's when the phone rang.

Knik and Colony glaciers by DHC-2 Beaver

Devon Holmberg, a long-time BCP member who goes by Born2FlyAK, is now a pilot for Regal Air at Lake Hood, flying any one of their fleet of Beavers and Cessna 206s, when he's not flying his own 182. As far as I can tell, he's been flying Alaska since he was a sparkle in somebody's eye. He even has a Live to Tell story published here from several years back.

"I've got an open seat on a sightseeing flight in the Beaver in 20-30 minutes if you want to go."

I'll spare you all the details of the dilemma and the devils and angels on my shoulders. My wife was getting a little cabin fever but she could last another 2 hours, and she understood perfectly well: Beaver fever trumps cabin fever.

The mighty N9877R on Aerocet 5850s waiting at the Regal docks.

Pilots the world over, and especially those of our ilk, have glorified the de Havilland DHC-2 Beaver to the point of legend status. And it is well-deserved. The 450 horsepower supercharged Pratt and Whitney R985 9-cylinder radial is a glorious beast, swinging a 96" 3-blade Hartzell prop, dragging the long wing and roomy fuselage out of most tight spots with authority. It's a legend of the bush, an incredibly capable aircraft, but today it is was just taking 5 dudes out to Lake George at the foot of Colony glacier for a look-see.

Holmberg at the controls, taxiing for takeoff and warming up the 6 gallons of oil to keep the supercharger happy.

As with so many flights like this before, I was only half-present. My world is often seen through the viewfinder, and if I am looking outside, I can't stop thinking about how to capture the moment in video or photograph. Of course, I only suffer this issue if I'm not the one at the controls.

Flying up the Knik river valley toward the glacier. Thousands of tourists enjoy this short flight every season.

The Knik river valley is a virtual playground for off-airport pilots, with miles of exposed gravel bar just inches above the glacial runoff, running milky blue with rock flour created by the incessant grinding of ice on rock upstream. In just minutes we had come upon the Picnic Strip at the foot of the Knik glacier. A few Super Cubs taxied out as we flew directly overhead; Devon called our intentions and we continued out over the miles of fractured seracs and melt pools of the Knik glacier.

My friend Bigrenna, a photographer by trade, often makes good-natured fun of my shooting, explaining that it's the elation of access, the awe of being in a wondrous place, that makes tourists shoot photos that are often mediocre and forgettable, while sacrificing the real experience taking place around them. I'm a slave to the phenomenon and make no excuses as I shoot through the snot-smeared plexiglass side window of the Beaver with my $1,000 lens. One really should just enjoy the sight and commit it to memory, but occasionally I return with a decent photograph, something I do cherish.

I imagine Superman's fortress of solitude is down there somewhere.

Beyond the foot of the Knik glacier lies the smaller Colony glacier, calving its product into Lake George. Devon flew out over the dirty ice, did a few more recon circuits over the lake and its huge central iceberg, and set us up for an approach to land.

The winds were blowing down-glacier, which dictated a final approach staring into the cliff-wall of ice at the glacier's foot, and Devon expertly slowed the friendly beast down and let upon the lake surface, which had lots of little ice chunks and mini-bergs floating here and there. Before I could contemplate the hull penetration strength of an Aerocet float, we were stopped, prop still and the aircraft sailing in the breeze with the sound of water lapping.

Devon, chill as ever, deftly crossing from left float to right across the walk wire. All I could think about was swimming in that ice water.

It was such a surreal moment. Here we were, 5 guys walking the floats of this Beaver, shooting the breeze as a light mist peppered us with water droplets, all the while the aircraft was steadily sailing backward toward the northeast end of the lake. One of the passengers brought his DJI Phantom drone with him and launched it off the port float, shooting some footage from an impossible vantage point. What a time to be alive.

Apparently having determined that we'd drifted enough, Devon gave the call to load up. One of the other passengers turned to me and asked: "Hey, I bought this ride for my buddy. Do you mind if he sits right seat?"

I felt terrible. Here I was the non-rev pax hogging the front seat, waving my BackcountryPilot.org patch around, so without hesitation I climbed into the way back and put on the old David Clamp missing one earcup seal, and captured another perspective I might not have seen otherwise.

We landed back at Lake Hood after racing an inbound Korean Air flight on final into Anchorage International. Watching the massive aircraft out the right window, it occurred to me how difficult it is to describe to someone who's never visited this area what an amazing convergence it is of all types of aviation, from heavy cargo-hauling 747s to Super Cubs on floats. And then, if you keep your eyes peeled, you might even see a moose walking around. Many thanks to Devon and Regal Air for allowing me to tag along on a such a fun flight.

There's no rest for a dad. I had a text waiting for me with a grocery shopping list, so I went to Safeway and Walgreens before returning to the hotel.

Speaking of moose...

Lake Hood scene and The Great Alaska Aviation Gathering

Perhaps my favorite part about this trip is the social experience of being at the Lake Hood floatplane base during the show weekend. The plan usually involves a bunch of guys and gals converging at The Fancy Moose on the ground floor of the Lakefront (formerly Millennium) hotel, looking around awkwardly for a face you recognize, then joining the gang to sit around drinking Alaskan IPA while speaking as loud as humanly possible over the roaring thrum of 20 other conversations. A cross section of folks comprised of Internet personalities and tuned-in locals mix to become a single community of like-minded pilots. There really is no substitute for meeting people in person. I highly recommend joining in next year if you can.

What's actually at the Alaska Airmen Association show, also known as The Great Alaska Aviation Gathering? It's a gigantic hangar that normally houses 747s for maintenance, but for one week a year it's a maze of booths manned by purveyors of all things aviation and bush flying.

Dee Hanson, in her final appearance as Executive Director of the Airmen Association, gives an interview in front of a new player in the Alaska air taxi scene: The Australian-built Airvan.

For me, it's a chance to walk around and fondle all the goodies you see in magazines(like these Beringer Aero gear), and ask questions in person. There are some cool static displays of aircraft, and companies that support BCP like Alaska Airframes, CubCrafters, and Flight Resource all attend to represent their fine products.

Alaska Airframes team members Gabe Niesen and Tyler Jazo man the static display of their new 4-place Super Cub prototype.

4 seats, center stick, optional certification as PA-18, and a stealthy black finish.

And of course, there's the Super Cub raffle. I'll never forget the collective groan of the entire FedEx hangar last year as the winner was announced, and it was revealed that they were from California (no offense to Californians.)

Post-show, we wandered off to a hangar party and stood around drinking beer until it just seemed like a good idea to go exploring. That's the beauty of Alaska this time of year: The light lasts until midnight to facilitate any airplane gawking that must be accomplished. And you see a little of everything; Skywagons and Super Cubs so numerous that they seem to lose their novelty; it takes at least a Helio Courier to extend my gaze longer than 10 seconds.

At risk of waxing too philosophical or becoming prematurely sentimental, I realized while walking around with this small group of guys that these are the golden moments among pilot brethren: telling stories, swapping knowledge, and joking around. If my wife hadn't been texting me that she was hungry and trapped in a hotel room with a fussy baby, I would have allowed the moment to go on for another 45 minutes at least. I was tired.

BCP members Larry the Lurker, AKGreg, Bigrenna, Prosaria, Zzz, and Squash.

Sunday morning arrived, and signaled the beginning of the next chapter in this story. With my wife and daughter along, we visited the show one last time for a quick second look at some goodies (Desser 31" tires), and of course a John Hume poster for the shop wall. We checked out, loaded up in AK Greg's truck, and headed south to Kenai.

Part 2 Kenai peninsula flying

Two years in a row prior the gods had smiled upon us, granting nearly perfect crisp, sunny skies and light winds as a high pressure system moved in and camped on the region. It was an unrealistic picture of flying life in Alaska, and this year we finally experienced some reality. The weather wasn't terrible but there was a little of everything: wind, low ceilings, showers, rain, and just general unpredictability. Except for Monday; it was the only clear day in the forecast, and mere hours before Bigrenna was scheduled to fly home to Boston, we jumped on the opportunity for some flying. Larry, Bigrenna, AK Greg, and I paired up and flew a big loop around a portion of the Kenai peninsula, starting in Soldotna.

Bigrenna, digging for a good idea while the 7:30am sun is already high overhead.

The area around the communities of Kenai and Soldotna is rather flat, the beautiful Kenai river, famous for its sport-fishing, winding its way toward the Cook Inlet through miles upon miles of marshy wetlands. Flying northeast toward the Skilak glacier and beyond that the Harding ice field, the flats soon give way to rolling hills, huge stands of the wispy Black Spruce darkened by the fires of the previous season.

The two ships we commanded, both 180hp Cessna 170s, have gained some notoriety since last year's report, with Larry's distinct "denim" patina finish, and Greg's slick and glossy white/blue replete with white MT prop. I've had people write to me to say they parked next to Larry here or there, and while he's the most modest guy alive, I think he enjoys it a little. He's got a head full of solid 170 knowledge and is always happy to share.

Larry and Bigrenna amidst a backdrop of Skilak Lake and Kenai flatlands, with the Iliamna and Redoubt volcanoes visible in the distance.

What an incredibly beautiful morning, not a lick of wind. I was experiencing that cozy state where it's cold outside but the heater is working well, the Rosen is positioned just perfectly to block the morning sun, and there's a clarity of mind that comes from having authoritatively jettisoned some unnecessary cargo in your buddy's hangar toilet. We floated on, out past Sterling toward Skilak lake. Then suddenly, big terrain: green foothills began rising from the rolling topography, becoming real snow-covered mountains. Skilak lake ends at a mile-wide headwater, hundreds of small tributary channels filling the lake from the glacier above. We flew on, intent to stick our noses into some mountains on this clear, windless morning.

A river of perpetually compacting snow and ice: The Skilak glacier.

As usual, I swapped lenses rhythmically, alternating between shooting air-to-air of the Denim Dream, the terrain ahead, and AK Greg's new stunning cockpit. Since last year, he'd redone his instrument panel, gutting many of the gratuitous steam gauges and extra radios, resulting in a VFR pilot's ideal clean setup. Some may long for more, but the simplicity and weight savings of a few basic flight instruments, a Garmin AERA 796, and an Electronics International MVP-50 is a home run for the kind of flying we like. Here's the old layout for comparison.

The clean and simple new panel of N4406B.

After a few laps around the glacier we headed up over Russian lake and began climbing into the higher terrain, which is solidly blanketed in snow and ice year-round. The thing was though, despite the mountains and their extreme rise, the elevation of the ice field is only around 4,000-5,000 feet, with the tallest peak poking up to a whopping 6,300. This is one of the many beauties of Alaska, in my opinion. At least in the few places I've explored, you can be at sea level and then into 6,000 terrain in just a few miles. It makes for a grandiose display of topography and some really fun flying, as the performance of your aircraft doesn't have to rival that of a turbine Otter. Density altitudes are, more often than not, on the favorable side of standard conditions.

Once again, I enjoyed the flight through a viewfinder while the calm and focused Greg guided us through the mountains, Lycoming O-360 purring along, MVP-50 engine monitor steady but occasionally alternating like a stock ticker.

That's only 5,300 feet tall.

Larry and Bigrenna pulled up alongside for some more air-to-air photos, and I realized that the denim patina is probably the best possible camouflage for ice-covered rocks. It was really hard to pick his plane out from the background, and so I bided my time until he popped out and pulled a big turn with the snow in the background. May the gods smile on Larry if he ever has to put it down in a snowy and rocky area. There's a reason so many Alaskan airplanes are painted bright red.

Where's Waldo?

Too much goofing around in the mountains; we had a loop to complete. We pointed the 170s southward, across Tustumena lake, and picked up the Fox river which flows south into Kachemak bay. This would be actually be the destination for Part 3 of this story, so I'll hold off on describing that for now.

We hugged the shore as we continued southwest toward Homer, my first glimpse of this magical part of Alaska that looks like a home for sea-loving hobbits with its lush green hillsides rising gently up from the steep bluffs that plummet to the water; the opposite side of the bay a wall of huge white mountains shrouded in wispy clouds. We passed the long skinny Homer Spit, and Beluga Lake, and turned the corner northward as we descended to fly the beaches and look for a lunch spot.

Larry lifts a wing in dramatic fashion and peels away for the shot.

Playing on ocean beaches with an airplane requires one to become well-acquainted with the concept of tides. This area of Alaska has some of the most extreme tidal swings in the world, upwards of 20-30 ft in some places. Being the local, as well as having years of experience piloting seagoing vessels in this part of Alaska, Greg had the tides worked out. Our timing would be perfect for landing the shallow but fairly level beaches between Clam Gulch and Kasilof.

We descended further, only slightly higher than the plateau of land atop the steep seaside bluffs. We were looking for a good beach without too many VW sized rocks and a more shallow slope to the water. The bird activity was making me sweat a little, with tons of gulls and quite a few bald eagles doing their thing in apparent aimless fashion. I kept my eyes peeled for any dive bombers but everybody seemed to remain calm. The last thing anyone wants is a face full of plexiglass, feathers, and blood at 100 mph. Before long I was looking directly out and up at the bluff.

Greg seemed to already know where his favorite beach was, and he set us up to do a low pass, which is a diligent tactic to verify that a spot you once found to be perfectly smooth hasn't undergone some reshaping by Mother Nature, either by erosion or driftwood deposits. I think he was just excited to land because our low pass turned into the landing. The bushwheels smoothly found the mix of sand and round gravel, and we rolled out far enough that Larry had plenty of room behind us. To be honest, you don't really need big tires for this stuff. A beach where the water has recently drained off the sand is as hard as concrete, and often as smooth. But it's nice to have those big tires in case you find another beach covered in bigger rocks.

All the while, in the back of my mind, I was aware of the family fuse burning. Leaving the mother of a young baby, supposedly on her vacation, alone at the house while I joyride airplanes with my buddies was a questionable move. To stave off the guilt I simply found a nice gravelly spot, sat down, unwrapped my turkey and brie baguette, and gazed west across the Cook Inlet at the wall of mountains.

The Cook Inlet is a massive body of water dividing the Kenai Peninsula from the Aleutian range at the northern end of the Alaska peninsula. On a clear day the mountains seem omnipresent, much closer than they are. The conservative procedure for crossing the big body of water is to fly a little north to a natural draw called the Forelands, which minimizes time spent over open water to about 10 miles. Some pilots just don't care and will fly direct across wider portions of the inlet upwards of 40 miles over open water, apparently enjoying great confidence in their powerplant and fuel system. I shiver thinking about ditching out there on wheels.

I was a bit disappointed that we weren't able to recreate the amazing trip we'd enjoyed the previous year, but circumstances seemed different across the board in our little group. Obviously, for me it was a trip to test traveling with our daughter and allowing ourselves just a little adventure, which meant the flying and camping and exploring were minimized. Bigrenna was on a short schedule himself, due to some circumstances of his own that really make me smile: He'll soon be following in my footsteps testing these waters with a little one of his own. He was homebound to Boston on the evening flight to rejoin his wife.

Greg and Larry though, I think those guys would have done anything we'd asked of them. With their flexible schedules I think they were ready to go wherever, whenever. I can't express how lucky I feel to have buddies like them. But just prior to this trip, knowing that the family would be along, Greg had arranged a bit of an alternate adventure for us, something that would allow us to see another side of Alaska, even if it wasn't exactly flying. So with the tide coming in and the sense of borrowed time weighing more heavily on my shoulders with every minute, we climbed back in the 170s for the final stretch back to Soldotna to start preparing for Operation Fox Farm.

My new thing is shooting photos of people shooting photos for Instagram.

Part 3 Homer and Kachemak Bay by sea

Bigrenna and Larry disappeared into the distance as the ceiling began to descend, the weather slightly ominous to the northeast. They were en route to Lake Hood where they'd part ways; Bigrenna catching his flight home to Boston and Larry continuing home to Fairbanks.

Greg and I packed up our gear for the Homer adventure, loaded the family into his big pickup, and hit the Sterling highway south, bound for the very tip of the Kenai peninsula.

Fair warning: From this point on in the story there's no airplane flying, despite lots of talking about it. Homer is the base of operations for my BCP friends Trent and Wes, both air taxi operators who own their respective businesses. Trent flies a Cessna 205 and 185 Skywagon as Adventure Airways, Wes a Beaver on floats as Beluga Air. These guys are living in a pilot's paradise, doing a variety of jobs: taking customers out to view bears, or transporting them to the small coastal towns and remote coves inaccessible by road. I was excited to finally pay them a visit and check out the scene.

Unfortunately, schedules didn't align, but over a few beers during "pilot night" at Beluga Lake Lodge, I did get an offer from Josh at Smokey Bay Air to ride-along in the right seat of one of their 206s on a hourly village loop to Seldovia, Port Graham, Nanwalek, and back to Homer. The dilemma was killing me this time. I was trying to qwell my annoyance that I was being put in a position to turn down opportunity, and feeling guilty for it. But there was just too much to do after 6 days traveling. We had to collect ourselves and prepare for the weekend boat adventure to the Fox Farm. So, I took the dad high road and treated my family to an exciting trip to the laundromat where I spent $20 for one jumbo-size load of laundry. That's 80 quarters. Then, it was on to the grocery store for camping food.

Staying at the very end of the Homer Spit easily ranks in my top 5 hotel locations ever. The hotel itself was nothing to write home about but our magical view of the Kenai mountains across the bay was obscured only by some of the low clouds that loitered over the peaks, and the occasional bald eagle camping outside our balcony. The gravel beaches of the spit made for great walking and the high tide was nearly at the edge of the building. This was starting to align with my dreamer's Hollywood vision of what Alaska was: The mountains starting and ending at the water's edge, green and lush flora with real timber, and a personal bald eagle for each resident.

The view from our hotel balcony in Homer.

Since first meeting him at the Airmen show in 2014, "Big" Greg and I have become good friends. There's something about the guy...he has this competence about him in most every way I can think of. His airplane is dialed-in and immaculate, his custom home that he built in Kenai is so well designed for the practical adventurer that I felt deflated walking through my own front door returning home. He works as a sole-proprietor general contractor, and just sort of possesses every construction/mechanical skill that counts. He's even counseled me frequently on my own home remodel projects. But when we arrived at Homer harbor to go out for an orientation spin in his boat, I was blown away.

Greg's sea machine is a 2014 Bay Weld custom aluminum build, 30 feet in length, with twin 250 horsepower Suzuki outboards. Greg designed this thing for exactly what he does: Fishing and landing beaches. It has a walk-through bow with a ramp that can be lowered for easy beach-storming. It has dual helms, one primary in the cabin and one on the rear deck, making single-handed operation of the downrigger system and several fishing rods possible, while still controlling the boat.

We loaded Erin and our baby daughter on board and motored out of the harbor into the bay, where Greg poured the coals to it, headed southeast toward Yukon island and the entrance to Sadie Cove and Tutka Bay. We really had no mission other than to get our sea legs, but if you're anything like me, you know what I was thinking: I love this. I want a boat.

Drake, the first mate, relaxes while the captain does the hard work.

Crappy weather for flying, drizzle, low overcast, and here we were still exploring these beautiful inland waterways off Kachemak Bay, ripping along at 32 mph. I couldn't stand it, I asked Greg if I could man the helm. A testament to his patience and generosity, he gave me some dual instruction on the beast. We all know that operating a powerboat isn't difficult, but I had literally zero hours at the wheel; all my nautical experience, what little there is, involves sailboats. And when you're in command of $50,000 dollars worth of finely-tuned Japanese horsepower (the engines alone), it's good to have a knowledgable hand. I cut some hard turns, learned how to use the bow and engine trims to efficiently plane, and to follow the Raymarine electronic chart in front of me to stay in the safe deeper water. It was so much fun. I'm on a boat!

View from the cabin on the Wag More - Bark Less.

So this is where the story officially departs from having anything to do with flying; the mission objective would be carried out by sea as we ventured northeast into Kachemak Bay for a small settlement called The Fox Farm, located in Bear Cove, a roughly 17 mile voyage on the water. Our plan was to load Greg's boat with our gear and supplies, which included food for 3 days, as well as kayaks and our portable crib. Greg and his wife Jenny spoiled us with their overwhelming hospitality, but I think we finally started to wear them down by the end of the trip with the amount of crap we brought. A baby can only buy you so much patience. Loaded heavy and full of fuel, we launched for our destination late in the afternoon, powering across the wind-swept water which was just starting to develop a little chop.

Despite sounding like a creative name for a Nevada brothel, the Fox Farm actually was a fox farm in the early 20th century, a decidedly grisly thought. In the 1970's a group of friends went in together to purchase the 180 acre property and built a 6-cabin village on a small hillside above Bear Cove, a modern day Hobbiton amid the lush green undergrowth peppered with spruce, birch, and a variety of other species. It's a purely private vacation spot, open only to friends of the owners, and we were tagging along as guests of Greg and Jenny, who were guests of owners Chuck and Kelly Wirschem, air taxi owners/bush pilots from a former life.

As we pulled into the little cove, Greg went into captain mode and started barking orders for the unloading of the boat. He chopped the power at just the right spot and the bow gently ran aground on the gravelly beach. Jenny was poised and ready, and dropped the ramp of the walk-through bow. She then hopped down and we began bucket-brigading the gear off the boat.

Welcome to the Fox Farm, a quaint group-owned settlement in cozy Bear Cove.

The tide was on its way out, and even after we'd unloaded all our gear in a scant 6 minutes, the water had receded enough that the beached bow was now firmly on gravel. It took Greg and I pushing at full hernia-busting power to free it. He climbed back aboard and reversed back out into the bay as we dealt with our gear.

The tide for the weekend was forecast to be a rare minus 5, which meant it would be 5 feet lower than the median low tide. If you've ever had to moor your craft in a confined, rocky area with such a huge tidal swing, you know that the scope of the bowline on the mooring is pretty important. Too much line to account for the water moving out, and the boat could free-drift too far or into an area you don't want, or into other boats. Too little scope and the boat itself could become a buoy standing on end as the tide comes back in. I know Greg watched it like a hawk over the next 36 hours, but he seemed to have set it up perfectly.

I felt truly honored that we'd been invited to experience such a unique and idyllic little slice of Alaskan living. We were given our own cabin, titled the "Fox Den", complete with kitchen, propane cooktop, and a ripping woodstove. Several big rounds of seasoned birch and a splitting maul sat outside the door, the jingling wind chimes and many southern-facing windows completing the spell of poetic ambience.

I'm obviously no Robert Frost and so struggle to articulate what a happy place we'd found ourselves. Joining us for the weekend were some of the other owners, among them Jerome Near, a long time bush pilot from Soldotna whose repertoire of been-there-done-that tales could make for a good read. In fact, his account of recovering a Super Cub from a frozen lake after an encounter with overflow was published by the Redoubt Reporter a few years ago. It's a humdinger of a tale, and hearing his personal account made me feel like I was in the presence of one of my heroes from the bush flying biographies that line my bookshelf. He makes a mean rack of spare ribs in the smoker, too.

My wife and daughter enjoying a sunny Saturday in the Fox Farm's fairytale setting.

I indulge in trips like this partly for my own selfish reasons of course, but also because with the increasing popularity of this website, it's an excuse to do something worthy of writing down or turning into a film. It's my hobby business when I can escape from my real job as a software developer. Perhaps I've fabricated an unrealistic sense of significance to my adventures, but to hear people say that they crave to do what I've portrayed always reminds me how fortunate I am to be in such a role. I couldn't shake the feeling though that no one would care about this if no airplanes were involved. Was Zane slipping, desperate for a story? Should I have hired a floatplane to bring us out here to legitimize this adventure? There was an airstrip nearby, a mere 30 minute walk through the woods to Pomeroy International, long enough to accommodate a 206 or Beaver, according to Chuck. Should have just landed there.

But I came to peace with the fact that any adventure that takes you to a sparsely populated and beautiful locale is a story worth telling. We did our flying on this trip, and nearly at the end of our vacation I realized there was more to being at the Fox Farm than just being there. I had transported my family via plane, automobile, and now boat across one of the most beautiful regions and waterways in the world, and it was culminating in a feeling of arrival. Roads and shopping and crowds and the general buzz of society was nowhere to be found. We were isolated with everything we needed, our love and our little one, and among friends. The peaceful static hum of the woodstove crackling and the occasional plane flying overhead was only interrupted briefly by the tiny crack! of Jerome sighting in his squirrel rifle.

The airstrip on the other side of the hill.

Many thanks to the owners of the Fox Farm for sharing a brief slice of their treasure. We won't soon forget it, and now I fear I'm ruined and must seek out my own remote Alaskan refuge upon which to build a cabin.

We drove back to Kenai where on Monday morning, Greg played sherpa (again) as he helped us wheel our mountain of gear into the little Kenai Airport to catch our shuttle flight to Anchorage. We'd gone farther and learned more than I expected, finding a better balance of parental responsibility and personal indulgence. And while I know some parents may read this and laugh at the big deal I've made of it, remember that improvement is relative. The worse you are at something, the more significance improvement has. And the more I think about it, the more I realize I'm one of the most fortunate people in the world. The adventure has only begun. Time to quit whining.

See you next year, Alaska.

The trip has come full circle. Time to go flying!