Northern Exposure: Indulging an Obsession With Alaska

 In November’s Taking Wing, I recounted the woeful tale of how my wife, Dawn, and I finally embarked on our long-planned journey north in our Stinson 108, only to break a rocker arm on our old Franklin engine on the second day out. By the time we scrounged the rare part in northern British Columbia and hunted down a technician to install it, much of our time and  confidence in the engine was gone, and we ignominiously beat a retreat back south, vowing to repeat the attempt in 2025. To this end, we planned a full year of flying to test the engine and rebuild trust in it, starting with a long cross-country home to Minnesota to take my nonagenarian grandmothers flying (see Taking Wing, in FLYING Issue 954/January 2025). 

And yet, my focus remained on Alaska throughout the summer, largely because I was flying there so often in my airline role. Despite a mere 10 years of longevity at my current employer, I’ve become unexpectedly senior, currently 23 percent from the top of our Seattle 737 captain list. This gives me a fair amount of control over days off, the types of trips that I work, and where I lay over. During gloomy Pacific Northwest winters, this tends to be sunny places like Phoenix and Cabo San Lucas, Mexico. In the summer, though, I find myself bidding a ton of Anchorage, plus the occasional Fairbanks for variety and a rare Juneau when I can hold it. 

I love the energy of Alaska in the summer. The sun is up 22 hours a day, and everyone seems determined to take advantage of every glorious minute. The city of Anchorage in itself is nothing to write home about (think Des Moines with more strip malls), but the beautiful surroundings, immediate proximity of untrammeled wilderness, and varied activities available make it a really attractive layover. Biking, hiking, fishing, driving, paddling, king crab lunches and growler fills at 49th State Brewing, midnight tipples with new friends at Darwin’s Theory—I’m never bored in ANC. And then there’s the aviation scene. Flying permeates every facet of Alaskan life like nowhere else on earth, with commensurate air traffic. The planespotting is entertainingly varied and invariably constant in all but the worst weather. 

The week before our B.C. misadventure, I was on a particularly lovely Anchorage layover when I decided that the complex Part 93 airspace merited an introduction. Land and Sea Aviation at Merrill Field (PAMR) was happy to lend me a Cessna 172 and instructor for an hour, and I found the experience quite useful. The airspace and the rules seem dauntingly complicated at first blush, but once you see the landmarks and get a feel for the airports’ relationship to each other, you understand how the rules separate the various departure and arrival streams. Of course, I never got there in the Stinson, but it was quite simple to finish the full C172 checkout a few weeks later with 45 minutes of airwork and landings. And just like that, I was free to roam as far across the Last Frontier as I dared—always keeping in mind that my employer would be rather displeased if I got stranded far from Anchorage.

In fact, it was another half dozen layovers before I worked up the gumption. Last summer was unusually cloudy and rainy in Anchorage, my layovers seemed to always coincide with marginal weather, and I didn’t care to press my luck as a newcomer with only a basic understanding of local meteorological patterns. I was also initially trying to fly down the Kenai Peninsula to Seward (PAWD), which is near impossible in the consistent southeasterly flow we were experiencing.

The TAFs for August 29 looked positive, but when I got to Merrill Field that morning, there was yet again a marginal broken layer overhead, and the FAA webcams for the Kenai passes looked bleak. My first officer of the week, Bryn Mayo, had come along. We sat around Land and Sea for a half hour discussing the weather and chatting with idled CFIs. “Why don’t you head up to Talkeetna?” one suggested. “It looks a lot better that way.” Why not, indeed? I’d spent a little time in Talkeetna (PATK) on a motorcycle trip years ago and dug the adventurous vibe. It was a fairly easy 80-mile flight with little prospect of a stranding. And while the Mat-Su Valley and the intricately braided Susitna River lack some of the rugged grandeur of the eastern Kenai, they’d be beautifully cloaked in the golden quaking aspens of an Alaskan autumn. 

The flight did not disappoint. The broken layer dissipated shortly after we scooted across Cook Inlet, and once free of Elmendorf Air Force Base (PAED) airspace, we climbed on top of puffy scattered cumulus. There we got the unexpected treat of a Denali appearance to the northwest. On our right, the gentle slopes of the Talkeetna Range were aglow with fall color, and the higher elevations bore the first wisps of snow. At Talkeetna a steady stream of ski-equipped STOL airplanes hauled well-heeled tourists to glacier landings near Denali, but a quick conversation with the local FSS found us a break to land. That left Bryn and I a good hour to walk into town and wander around and get coffee. The flight back was gorgeous and positively balmy, albeit with a slight headwind, and we landed at Merrill with a good 30 seconds of my reserved flight slot remaining. Ah, the joys of renting. 

Three weeks later, Dawn came along on another Anchorage overnight. By now it was mid-September, which is damn near winter. This time there were no illusions of making it to Seward, but the weather actually proved better than forecast around Anchorage, with 6,000-foot ceilings and scattered drizzle. That was good enough to allow a fairly ambitious local flight to take in some spectacular scenery

From Merrill we headed northeast up the Knik Arm to Palmer and then entered the steep-walled Knik River valley, still draped in late-fall finery. The broad gravel beds here form a veritable Super Cub wonderland. This is where every would-be bush pilot in the area goes to up their off-airport game and put their AB31s to the test. We spotted several of their kind playing far below our lofty perch of 2,500 feet, which still felt quite low beneath the towering terrain of the Chugach Range. I turned south, across the ragged face of the Knik Glacier and over chalky Inner Lake George, for a low-altitude inspection of the steep and wildly serrated Lake George and Colony glaciers. 

I felt rather naked here despite the nearby gravel bars, proximity of civilization, and radio chatter on the area CTAF. The ceilings were lower, it was raining more heavily in near-freezing temps, and I was obliged to use carb heat every couple minutes. Even though the scenery was phenomenally gorgeous, I breathed a sigh of relief when we turned back down the valley to head to busy Palmer Municipal Airport (PAAQ) for a poke around town. I dunno, folks. Some of this is probably age, some is probably an airline pilot’s natural risk-aversion. But my experiences with piston recip singles in my Stinson and my old Pacer have left me distinctly skittish. Maybe I’m finally giving the unspeakable possibilities their proper respect all these years later. 

The time in the rental 172 only increased my desire to finally get our Stinson up to Alaska this year. But our plan to do so was always contingent on putting more time on the engine and rebuilding our confidence in it. Unfortunately, on our homeward leg from Minnesota we experienced another in-flight emergency, leading to a series of maintenance misadventures that shattered our trust in the powerplant for good. That, however, is a tale for my next column. 

This column first appeared in the February Issue 955 of the FLYING print edition.