The first time I heard of Dick Williams was when I caught a glimpse of his mountain flying instructional video, "Flying Idaho," produced by the Idaho Division of Aeronautics, featuring him flying around the Frank Church wilderness visiting some of the places we all know and cherish today. He was also one of the first members to join BackcountryPilot.org back in 2004.
With decades of backcountry flying experience under his belt, and seemingly countless stories to tell, Williams has compiled and published his memoirs as an adventurous charter pilot in Idaho, flying everything from Super Cubs to Skywagons to Twin Otters. Notes from the Cockpit: A Mountain Pilot's Perspective, is 400+ pages of great flying stories about his beginnings as a student pilot until his later career flying the Twin Otter, as well as his accomplished pilot son Patrick who is a F-22 Raptor pilot. Fresh off the press, Notes from the Cockpit can be purchased on Amazon.com
I've picked a few excerpts from the book to whet your palates. Enjoy! -Editor
Purity in Slow Flight: 1973 to 1986
Although backcountry flying might be down and dirty in the canyons, it is also stick and rudder flying, without autopilot, flying visually with basic radio and navigation equipment. My first seven or eight thousand hours were in this regime, landings (mostly in the dirt) averaging more than one an hour. The airplanes were mostly single engine, fixed gear craft. Even the twins were fixed gear and non-pressurized.
This is flying at its purest and simplest, most challenging and most rewarding. This is the backcountry.
Fasten your seatbelts and enjoy the ride!
Author Williams in his favorite Super Cub
It is a perfect beautiful sunrise in Salmon. The sun pokes through Lemhi Pass, where Lewis and Clark first crossed the Continental Divide, lights up the Salmon River and shines over the valley and surrounding hills. The air is a clear crisp forty-five degrees as I load up two backpacks and their unwitting beasts of burden (unwitting, for the vast steepness in the backcountry has to be experienced to be understood) for the Soldier Bar airstrip in the Frank Church River of No Return Wilderness (known simply as "The Frank"); the largest contiguous wilderness area in the lower forty-eight states. The craft of choice today is a Cessna 185 equipped with a belly cargo pod. The big six cylinder motor growls to life and begins warming to operating temperature, fuel and oil moving through the various lines, ports, and bearings.
That first early morning takeoff is always exhilarating, accentuating the sunrise as we climb up the hills to catch the rays, while using sight, touch, smell, hearing, even taste (ah, yes, the occasional dry cottonmouth) to assure all is well within and around the machine. Thirty minutes later, after crossing Panther Creek, Hoodoo Meadows at the head of Wilson Creek, through the Bighorn Crags, and crossing the famed Middle Fork, we survive another one-way landing over the approach ledge and through the bumps at the front end of the strip (now mostly smoothed over), past Private Eagan’s monument from the Sheepeater War, to a bumpy dusty stop atop the hill at Soldier Bar.
I unload the poor backpackers, who are staring around slightly bug-eyed at the steepness and beauty of the country, and leave them in peace with a roar. I know the silent emptiness I leave them with, for I have enjoyed this land from the ground as well. I hope they come to love it as I have.
But now I am airborne, continuing my perfect morning. I drop into the Taylor Ranch, just upstream from the Bar, a "private" ranch owned by the University of Idaho, to pick up a couple of Fish and Game biologists who have been snorkeling Big Creek to count fish. I had dropped them off at Big Creek a few days earlier. I enjoy a cup of coffee with the caretakers in the still cool morning air as we gaze at some bighorn sheep across the creek in the rocks.
I’m taking the biologists to Lower Loon, formerly known as Simplot, one of the smallest airstrips on the Middle Fork, where they will continue their work. The air is still solid (heavy, cool, and good for flying), and it is not yet eight o’clock. It needs to be so, because this airstrip is short with no go-around. This is the place where almost every professional backcountry pilot has had an "issue" at some time or another, the place I used to lose sleep over the night before a flight. But it is a special place. It owns the best hot springs on the river, a memorable pack bridge I once pulled a mule across by tying him to my horse, and a view of Martin Mountain where I wish to have my ashes scattered.
I make the familiar turn downriver, aim for the slot between the trees on short final, and head for the flat spot at the end of the strip. The brakes work and all goes well as we stop before the small irrigation ditch at the strip end. I nod to Gary Madsen, the mumbling taciturn outfitter, as we unload.
Parked at Simonds for a photo op
Next flight we are on the low left-hand downwind approach to Indian Creek—opposite the one the Dorris men like to use, but low enough to keep the airstrip and traffic in sight, rather than going over the spur ridge and into the "hole" at the mouth of Indian Creek. This is my normal approach to Indian Creek, and I have done it literally hundreds of times. We are at gross weight or better, but the strip is a mile long, and the steep turn from downwind to final is done with the wing "unloaded," or at a low angle of attack to prevent stall.
I do much of this early flying with the unwieldy Cessna 207, a stretched, clumsy, and underpowered 206. On this day a couple of my passengers happen to be airline pilots with their families, going in to start a six day float trip down the famous Middle Fork of the Salmon River. As I begin the steep diving turn to final, one of them turns back to his buddy and howls, "Now THIS is flying!"
It is a proud moment for a lowly backcountry pilot...
I blast off shortly after, to do the backbone work for the day, hauling tourists on and off whitewater rafting sites, doing United States Forest Service (USFS) fire reconnaissance flights during the bumpy afternoon, and hauling boat gear into Indian Creek late in the evening for the guides to ready for the next day tourists. But I still have that last flight of the day to look forward to: with the sun low in the west, the air cooling and becoming still, the last load of the day unloaded at Indian Creek, I am empty and light with the sun at my back for the last leg back to Salmon. The tune "when do YOU say, Budweiser" is going through my mind as I take the last of the days’ ridge lift to climb towards Mahoney Lookout for a cruising altitude of 8,500' home.
This was my perfect day flying the Idaho backcountry.
The much-heralded de Havilland Twin Otter that Williams flew later in his career.
Carl spends the night out
In November of 1979, the local outfitter wanted his camp flown out to Salmon after hunting season was over. We had been operating out of there for the previous three weeks on wheels in five inches of snow and slush, and the night before we were scheduled to fly the camp out, it snowed all night. The Root Ranch, nearby and a thousand feet lower, reported six new inches of snow, but they could pack and roll their airstrip. Cold Meadows reported six inches of powder, total, and they were packing it with mules. We knew that couldn't be right, and also that there was a local Cessna in there at the time. We decided to wait until that airplane returned to Salmon to get an actual pilot report. The outfitter was not happy with our decision. He wanted his hunters out now!
The pilot couldn't get his airplane started and requested help. Another local Salmon pilot flew in with a Cub, got the Cessna started, and attempted a takeoff in the Cub. He got out of the tracks and nosed over and bent the propeller. He measured fourteen inches of snow where he tipped. They cut a slot in a log, straightened the prop, and flew both planes out.
At that point we refused to fly the camp out and the outfitter contacted Carl Branham, who had recently started up a business with a ratty old Cessna 206. Carl made two trips successfully and had one more to go. The snow was getting soft and he wanted to wait until morning to finish, but the outfitter urged him on. I talked to Carl before he left on the last trip, and asked him how it was. He had nothing good to say. Carl was an experienced Alaskan pilot and he was dressed in all his woolies, but told me to come drop him a sleeping bag if he didn't get back by dark. I didn't take it seriously, but sure enough, Carl's wife Dorothy called me that night to tell me he wasn't back.
Carl Branham's 206 on its back at Cold Meadows, November 1979
After making some phone calls to try to borrow an airplane, I finally called Carol Jarvis, my boss, and he said to go ahead and take a 206 to check on Carl. I rounded up Doug Holee to go with me, and Dorothy had a survival pack made up.
It was a clear night, but black with no moon. We found the strip, white outlined by the dark trees. We kept the cockpit lights low, just enough to see the outlines of the airspeed and altimeter needles, and descended for a low pass from north to south. It was very black, and very tight flying. Both Carol and Buck Holt, an old Alaska bush pilot who lived in Salmon, had recommended against going in that night. Carol doubted that we could even find the strip in the blackness. But I had a strong hunch that Carl was down, and had to see if his airplane was at the strip.
On the first pass we saw the plane on its back in the middle of the strip, about a third of the way down. We had planned to make the pass without landing lights, but it was too dark to see anything without them. We saw the 206 as soon as we flipped the lights on. Doug thought he had seen a small campfire up at the outfitters camp. On the second pass we dropped our survival pack. On downwind Doug had suggested taping a flashlight to the pack, which we did. It felt like a good drop, and we decided to make a third pass because we hadn't seen Carl yet. On that pass, Carl was down in front of the plane, waving. That made us feel like a million bucks, and we headed home with the good news.
Bill Dorris, former Johnson pilot and the owner of McCall Air Taxi, went in the next morning from McCall to get Carl with his 185 on skis. I talked to Carl on the radio while he was en route to Salmon and I was doing another flight. He was in good shape but said he knew now why they called it Cold Meadows. Stanley had dropped to minus twenty degrees that night, so Cold Meadows must have been close to thirty below. When I asked him how he was doing, he said in his deep melodic voice, "Well, I could have used some cigarettes and whiskey..."
When I heard his whole story later, over a few beers, he said we had scared the hell out of him when we appeared out of nowhere with the lights blazing. He thought we were a UFO, and we scared him on every pass because he thought we had left and could not hear us coming because of our long patterns behind the ridge. He never saw us make the drop because of our lights, but finally figured he should go down and wave after our second pass. After we had left, and he was back at his fire, he saw a small light glowing down by the airplane, thought he might have left the master on, and reluctantly and wearily trudged back down through the snow, only to find the flashlight we had taped to the pack. He saw our N# on the light, shone it around and found the pack about ten feet from the airplane. If the pack did not save his life or prevent some frostbite, it surely made the long night a little more bearable.
Years later, he told me I had saved his life that night, and insisted on giving me a beautiful handmade belt buckle from a lodge he flew for in Alaska.
Stranded Pilot
I got a ski lesson one late November at Cold Meadows, trying to fly Cal Stoddard's hunting camp out. Luckily we had all the hunters gone, with just the outfitter’s three kids, wife, and two guides remaining, along with most of the camp equipment. The snow was about two-and-a-half feet deep on the strip, and of course hadn't been packed since I had been in last. Bill Dorris's son Mike (McCall Air Taxi) was doing some ski flying by that time, and he had the crazy luck of always coming in after I had just been there to pack it down. I never did get to come in and use one of his packing jobs.
To start with, I had a rotten trip getting in to the Meadows. It was late in the day, there was a ferocious headwind, I was heavy, and the skis created a lot of extra drag. I tried to get over the ridge near the Kitchen Lakes and got knocked down pretty hard. The wind on the lee side was just too strong, but like a determined fool I tried it twice before scaring myself and being resigned to going around to the north by Butts Point. That little fiasco cost me another ten minutes of fuel and daylight at least.
Workhorse Cessna 185 with belly pod
But I got in, unloaded, reloaded, took two passes to pack the strip and was ready to go when a big squall moved in and dumped about three inches of snow. I knew then it would be dark by the time I had the strip packed, so I settled in for the night.
I parked the plane, raised the skis so they wouldn't freeze to the surface, and covered the cowling and wings with outfitters tarps, called mantis. Then I got out my snowshoes and packed the strip until after dark.
It was a comfortable camp, and I had fun playing cards with the kids. I got up about three times to start the airplane to keep it warm. The temperature hovered down below zero.
I slept warm but awoke to about four inches of new snow. It was still snowing lightly, so I waited until after breakfast to start the airplane and use it to pack the strip. You use a lot of gas using full power to bore back and forth, but I still had enough to get home. While I was still prepping the strip the ceiling lifted, but it was back down again by the time I was ready to leave.
And so it went all day. That night I drained the oil and pulled the battery so I wouldn’t have to keep getting up and wasting gas. The next day was the same thing. Squalls, pack the strip, more squalls! I must have put thirty miles on the snowshoes—the strip was about a mile long. Eventually I started getting worried about my fuel, spending most of my time on the shoes, and the rest on the radio talking to Salmon. Twice I was all set to go but Salmon and Challis were socked in.
It got worse in the evenings, too. Cal's kids won all my money in penny ante poker. It was just as well—it cleared off and was getting real cold and I decided I better drain the oil and take out the battery again. It was a good thing I did, as it got to twenty below that second night.
Departing Cold Meadows, Idaho
The third day was another battle. I would just conquer a squall by packing the new snow, and another one would move in to win the war. By late afternoon, though, we finally got a break. I got out with Cal and his family, but was low enough on fuel to want a little at the Root Ranch, just over the hill. They had a tractor and roller to groom their strip, so skis weren't needed most of the time and Roger could be counted on to keep the strip in top shape.
All they had was car gas, though. I evaluated the situation: The engine only had about ten hours left before overhaul, I had flown 185s before on car gas without disastrous consequences, it was cold which should prevent vapor lock, I could put the gas in one wing tank and takeoff using the other tank, and I really wanted to get home. So I put fifteen gallons in one tank and we launched for Salmon, arriving uneventfully forty minutes later, tired, dirty, unshaven, and probably a little testy.
My boss flipped out when I told him about the car gas, so I just went home for a shower and a drink. We later got things patched up, at least for the time being.
The next November, when my daughter was due to come into this world, everyone remembered the story of me getting stranded, and I wasn't allowed to take any trips that might result in an overnight. I took a lot of ribbing on the radio, people wondering when I could get serious about my flying again.
The Race to Indian Creek
McCall Air Taxi was in Salmon helping us fly boat gear to Indian Creek. I was flying a 207 and the others were in 206s. I was the last of three off the ground, and the Cessnas were flown by Rod Nielsen and Mike Dorris. We decided to have a race.
I was almost five minutes behind Mike, and about three behind Rod. I had the advantage, though, knowing the house thermals in the valley, not to mention my several hundred trips along that route. Sometimes my old sailplane instincts would have me circling on the other side of the valley in a thermal while everyone else took a direct line into the downdrafts, and I would soon pass 1,000' over them at cruise speed. Mike knew that and told Rod to keep an eye on me. After climbing they headed directly for the mouth of Camas Creek, though, and my route had me going directly to Pungo Saddle, just above Indian Creek. By the time Rod realized it, he was out of the race and well beaten. It was between Mike and me, and it was too late for Mike to alter his route going up the Middle Fork by then.
Williams with his dog Pepito at Indian Creek, 1979
I had an Idaho Adventures boatman in the front seat with me, and he was madly cheering me on. He got right into the spirit of it. I dove over the saddle at about 75' and lowered the nose. Mike was coming around the corner just downstream of the mouth of Pungo Creek. We were both whipping and spurring. The excitement of a close race is wonderful, no matter what the transportation mode.
Neither one of us believed in or had been trained to do straight-in approaches, however. They are just too dangerous with too many variables. We did have our own individual approaches, though. Mike preferred a low right downwind with a turn in near the mouth of Indian Creek. I favored an even lower left downwind with a turn inside the ridge and a landing at least halfway down the strip.
Mike beat me to the downwind and called it just before I did. The adrenaline was rushing. More excitement than we had had for days. I called downwind.
"I think I've got you," Mike said, but then paused. "But you shoot that real short approach, don't you."
"Yup, and I'm turning base. Gotcha." My boatman was cheering, I was gloating, and Rod owed me a six pack. He still does, come to think of it.
These are just a small sampling of Williams' stories in his new book, Notes from the Cockpit: A Mountain Pilot's Perspective. The 430 page softcover can be purchased at Amazon.com
