Actually, it would be difficult to define the main problem for pilots flying in Alaska. There are so many of them. And there is an additional problem that is created by the sheer existence of all the other problems: a certain style of flying and acceptance of risk arising from the combination of urgency and improvisation that backcountry operations entail.

In December 2000, a Curtiss C-46 called Maid of Money—a twin-engine World War II-era transport similar to, but larger than, a DC-3—collided with a mountain ridge. It was destroyed and its two pilots killed. The airplane was returning from a round-robin trip out of Kenai delivering fuel to Big River Lakes and Nondalton. It left Nondalton, empty and light, at about 15:40 local time, bound for its home base 113 nm distant. The flight would take it eastbound across the Alaska Range and then across Cook Inlet, a body of water about 30 miles wide. The winter sun was setting, but darkness was still far off, so the flight would take place in the lingering Alaskan twilight.

• READ MORE: A Night Flight Leads a Pilot to a Tragic End

There are two ways to fly from Nondalton to Kenai. One, through Lake Clark Pass, follows a river and allows low-altitude VFR flight under an overcast, preferably in stable weather. (The crew may have used the Lake Clark Pass route to fly from Big River Lakes to Nondalton.) The other is the straight line over the Alaska Range, whose highest peak, Mount Redoubt, an intermittently active volcano, rises steeply to more than 10,000 feet. Most of the terrain in the area, however, although quite rugged, is lower than 4,000 feet.

The pilots, both of whom had logged more than 600 hours in the C-46 in just the past five months before the accident, must have known the route intimately. They had briefed the weather for the out-and-return flight and were aware of an AIRMET for turbulence and mountain obscuration. Nondalton and Kenai were VFR, but as they prepared to depart, the pilots must have seen that the weather was rapidly worsening. Shortly after they left, snow began to fall, and the surface wind picked up to 50 knots. A person living 30 miles south of the accident site described the storm as the worst he had seen in 25 years. The conditions were not ones in which the Lake Clark Pass would have been a good choice, so the C-46 took the straight shot over the mountains instead.

The crew did not file an IFR flight plan. Its transponder failed to deliver any Mode C information, but Air Force radar evaluation specialists concluded that the airplane had climbed to a maximum altitude of 10,800 feet msl and subsequently descended. The last altitude that could be determined was 8,800 feet. The National Transportation Safety Board’s report does not say where along the route these altitudes were measured.

We don’t know what the pilots saw or did along the way. They may have circled to climb, or they may have had a strong easterly headwind, because when the accident occurred, around 16:20, they had gone only 70 nm in 50 minutes. Mount Redoubt would have been abeam as they approached the accident site, and so if they climbed to 10,800 feet and didn’t stay there, it may be that they were on top and could see the tip of the peak and the clouds dropping away ahead of them. It is also possible, however, that they were in cloud, on the Kenai 227 radial, and uncertain how far they had come. The NTSB report states that the airplane was equipped for IFR flight but does not say whether it had GPS or DME. Still, the Homer VOR, 50 miles away on their right, could have provided cross-track guidance.

• READ MORE: Something Happened: Wind Shear Takes Down a Grumman Trainer

One thing that seems obvious is that the crew must have been in cloud when it hit the ridge at 2,900 feet msl. To judge from the condition of the wreckage, the pilots were at cruising speed, and if they had been a few yards higher, they would have cleared the ridge without ever knowing how close they had come. They were under a Victor airway, but all the minimum safe altitudes in the area were above 12,000 feet, and so they may have felt that the risk of meeting someone else in the clouds was negligible. The fact that the transponder was not reporting altitude is suggestive, but who knew that some Air Force boffins in Utah could somehow extract posthumous altitude information from raw radar returns?

That they descended so low—2,900 feet—when they were still 43 miles from Kenai is hard to explain. They evidently didn’t know their position. Kenai was reporting 2,000 scattered. Perhaps they wanted to get below clouds covering the western side of the inlet so that they could make a plausible case, in the event that someone asked, that they had been in VMC all along. Perhaps they misread the radial from Homer that would mean they were safely over water. Perhaps they did not consult a sectional and forgot that there was one more little ridge before the shoreline. Perhaps they had flown this route so many times before, in so many kinds of weather, that they had lulled themselves into a feeling that nothing could go wrong and began the descent after a certain time had elapsed, as they had countless times before, without checking the Homer radial at all.

In all flying, we rely on certain assumptions: Engines will keep running, weather will be as reported or forecast, and insurgents will not have seized the runway. Gradually, pilots who fly certain routes over and over again develop a sense of what to expect. As “old hands,” they have a sixth sense about what lies beyond the next mountain ridge or bend in the river. Assumptions begin to take the place of up-to-date information.

Lacking CVR records, we cannot know what the C-46 pilots were thinking or saying to one another, or whether they even discussed the question of when to start the descent. But it’s not too hard to imagine a pilot glancing at his watch 40 minutes into what would normally be a 50-minute flight and saying, “Let’s start down.” After all, who ever heard of a C-46 making a groundspeed of only 84 knots?

Editor’s Note: This article is based on the National Transportation Safety Board’s report of the accident and is intended to bring the issues raised to our readers’ attention. It is not intended to judge or reach any definitive conclusions about the ability or capacity of any person, living or dead, or any aircraft or accessory.

This column first appeared in the December 2023/Issue 944 of FLYING’s print edition.

The post Only Assumptions Can Be Made About What Took Down a Curtiss C-46 in Alaska appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

Today’s Top Pick is a 1965 Piper PA-18-160 Super Cub.

Piper’s PA-18 Super Cub evolved from the legendary J-3 and the PA-11 Cub Special that followed, but with flaps, electrical systems, and engines typically in the 150 hp range, the Super Cub performed like none of its ancestors. Known for taking off and landing within a few hundred feet or less, these airplanes came to define STOL and backcountry flying. Many wound up on oversize tires, skis, or floats, plying the Alaskan bush and other challenging environments.

Modification was the name of the game with Super Cubs, with owners tailoring the aircraft to their specialized needs. Indeed, it is difficult to find a stock Super Cub these days. Most will have at least a few upgrades to their engines, fuel systems, and airframes. Mods range from high-performance propellers and exhaust systems and lightweight starters to extended baggage compartments, external racks, and cargo pods. 

This Super Cub has 10,060 hours on the airframe and 50 hours on its Lycoming O-320 B2B engine. The aircraft received new paint and interior in 2011. Its basic VFR panel includes a Becker com radio and intercom.

Pilots looking for the singular experience of flying what many consider the grandfather of backcountry aviation should consider this 1965 Piper PA-18-160 Super Cub, which is available for $112,965 on AircraftForSale.

You can arrange financing of the aircraft through FLYING Finance. For more information, email info@flyingfinance.com.

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The post This 1965 Piper PA-18-160 Super Cub Is a Backcountry Pioneer and an ‘AircraftForSale’ Top Pick appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

It’s where the spirit of exploration reigns, a world apart from congested flight paths and bustling airports.

Whether you’re an intrepid adventurer yearning for the solitude of wild frontiers or a seasoned bush pilot looking for a fresh bird to tame, here are five backcountry aircraft with current listings on Aircraft For Sale, each with their unique character and capabilities, ready to amplify your flying adventures.

2023 Zenith CH 750 SD

Taking the pole position, we’re stepping into the future with the 2023 Zenith CH 750 SD. This light, yet robust aircraft, is perfect for those who love a nose wheel in the backcountry. With a high-lift wing design and user-friendly controls, it’s designed for low and slow flights, letting you soak up every moment.

2019 CubCrafters Carbon Cub FX

Next up, meet the muscle of the lineup: the 2019 CubCrafters Carbon Cub FX. Outfitted with a powerful CC363i engine and an ultra-light carbon fiber frame, this speed demon offers top-notch STOL capabilities, making it a match in heaven for any backcountry flying enthusiast.

Pilots also read: We Fly: CubCrafters Carbon Cub EX-3 & FX-3 Made for Backcountry

2007 Aviat A-1B Husky

Coming third is the trusty 2007 Aviat A-1B Husky. With a robust Lycoming O-360-A1P engine and a tailwheel configuration, this Husky still has much to offer. Reliable, strong, and ready to rough it, it’s the perfect companion for the wild at heart.

1962 Piper PA-18-160 Super Cub

Taking the fourth spot is a blast from the past: the 1962 Piper PA-18-160 Super Cub. As a stalwart of backcountry aviation, this Super Cub is a testament to timeless design. Equipped with a Lycoming O-320 engine and the iconic high-wing, it’s ready to take you wherever the wild calls.

2018 Aviat A-1C-200 Husky

Closing our list is the 2018 Aviat A-1C-200 Husky. This rugged beauty, fitted with a 200 hp Lycoming engine, is built for those seeking an aircraft that’s as adventurous as they are. Boasting a modern cockpit, the A-1C-200 Husky ensures that your forays into the backcountry are comfortable as well as exciting.

Each of these aircraft, with their unique characteristics and capabilities, stands ready to take your backcountry adventures to new heights. From vintage classics to modern marvels, there’s a plane for every pilot’s passion and price point.

Whether you’re ready to embark on your maiden flight into aircraft ownership or want to diversify your fleet with a new airborne chariot, remember that each journey begins with a single flight. Discover all these airplanes and more on Aircraft For Sale, your portal to the next chapter of your flying adventure.

When you’re ready to take the next step towards airplane ownership for your backcountry dreams, we have you covered. Getting pre-qualified is easy with FLYING Financial Group; simply fill out an application in minutes, speak with one of our aviation experts, and get closer to your dreams today!

The post Top 5 Backcountry Airplanes You Can Own Today appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

• READ MORE: Soaring Comes Close To Being ‘One With the Sky’

We’re flying over a prominent ridge that’s not quite perpendicular to the wind. I think strong lift should be here somewhere, but so far it’s been inconsistent. My wife, Dawn, seated in the back, spots a turkey vulture soaring a few hundred feet to windward. I turn that way and soon there’s a deep whump! as a gust slaps the fabric like a drum and the wings load up with a metallic shudder. There’s no electronic vario to chirp a happy song of lift, but you can feel it in your bones and in the stick. This is old-school soaring, and though it’s not terribly sexy, it has a simplicity that is hugely appealing to me. Over the last decade, I’ve done a lot to channel both my life and my recreational flying in this direction. It’s appropriate, then, that I should spend the weekend of my 41st birthday enjoying simple communion with the sky in three different ways.

The festivities started on Friday with getting tailwheel current in a borrowed Piper Super Cub. We’re excited to move into our new airstrip home this fall for many reasons, one of which is that we have pretty great neighbors. One of them, Ken, generously invited me to occasionally exercise his nicely upgraded 1957 PA-18-150. Between the scuzzy weather and my work schedule, I’ve only been able to fly it a few times this winter. So I took off from our airstrip, did some airwork to get reacquainted with the old gal, and headed over to Bremerton National Airport (KPWT) for a few landings. Newly current, I stopped back at our airstrip to pick up Dawn, and we launched for a quick adventure across the Hood Canal and up the Olympic Peninsula’s Dosewallips RiverValley to scout out some hiking routes for this summer. 

A few hours later we caught a flight to Phoenix, Arizona, and on Saturday morning, made our way to Arizona Soaring at Estrella Sailport (E68). The friendly operations manager/chief instructor, Shad Coulson, introduced himself and got down to business. After a primer on the busy gliderport’s traffic procedures, we headed outside to preflight the venerable 2-33. My initial thought was that someone mated a Cub fuselage with Cessna 150 wings—and forgot to add an engine! My second impression was of the apparent toughness of the design. And lastly, the utter simplicity of the cockpit. No radio and no electronics at all. Airspeed indicator, altimeter, analog vario, compass, and yaw string. Stick, rudder pedals, spoilers, 4-position trim, and tow release knob. Amazing. Preflight done, it was time to strap in, hookup, and go flying.

My first surprise was the jarring sound of steel on pavement as we started the takeoff roll. Oh yes, the 2-33 doesn’t even have a nose wheel—it has a steel-faced wooden nose skid. Within seconds, I had control authority to raise the nose and run on the single landing gear. The next revelation was just how eager the 2-33 is to leap off the ground, and on the first takeoff I got slightly high—a surefire way to scare a tow pilot. Once I settled down, though, I found the 2-33 a nice-flying ship, if a bit sleepy in roll. It has much less adverse yaw than higher-performance gliders. And even the dowdy glide ratio felt better than expected. Keep in mind, an L/D of 22:1 is still 2.5 times that of a Cessna 172 with the prop stopped.

Shad was satisfied after two flights and turned me loose for an enjoyable solo, after which I took Dawn for several 30-minute rides, with tows to 4,000 feet. Despite finding several strong areas of ridge lift, they never lasted very long and were offset by equally strong sink. All the circling in hot, bumpy air did a number on Dawn’s stomach, so we decided to call it quits by mid-afternoon. Now that I’m checked out at Estrella, though, I’ll bid KPHX layovers and get in more soaring practice there. Besides the Schweizers, they have a PW-5, a lovely single-place ship I’ve flown before.

My brother Steve flew into Phoenix that afternoon, and we joined him and our mutual sailing friend Amanda for a lovely birthday dinner. Early the next morning, we headed to Skydive Arizona in Eloy. Now, the last time I wrote about skydiving, I had just finished the seven-jump AFF course and was unsure whether I would continue in the sport. Since then, I’ve earned my A-license and logged 48 jumps. My early enjoyment of freefall has only increased; it really is the purest form of flying, with your body as airframe and the relative wind 90 degrees to the horizon. I dream about it often, as I once dreamed of bird flight.

• READ MORE: Falling with Style

Over the winter, I hadn’t been able to skydive much, and it is a sport that demands a high degree of currency, particularly when new. Being out of practice increases your chance of a malfunction, and also makes it less likely that you’ll respond to one quickly, calmly, and appropriately. The equipment is complex, the procedures are intense, and there’s a great deal of technique and muscle memory to flying well. Whenever I haven’t jumped for 40-plus days, the minutes before my next jump feel really, really uncomfortable.

Except this time, that is. I inspected my rig, put on the equipment, and went through my gear checks and emergency procedures, and it all felt good and natural. Steve and I were full of happy anticipation as we clambered aboard the full Cessna Caravan. There were good vibes all around on the ride up. From the moment we exited, the jump went perfectly. I was relaxed, my control was good, we did everything we briefed and mocked up. We broke and pulled at our planned altitude, and then we had a couple minutes to chase each other around under canopy, laughing and shouting across the sky.

As soon as we landed and gathered up our chutes, we were high-fiving and excitedly debriefing the jump, and planning our next one. My packing was slow—that’s really not a thing to rush when you’re new—but we still got in four fantastic jumps. Dawn has no interest in skydiving but is a supportive DZ spouse, and she claimed a shady spot on the lawn to watch experienced jumpers swoop in and film my and Steve’s more modest landings. It was a really nice day spent with her and my little brother, and a fine way to cap off a fantastic aerial weekend of pure, simple flight, celebrating 41 years of adventure on—and above—our wondrous planet.

The post In Search of Simplicity appeared first on FLYING Magazine.