Nat Greene Flyfishers    January 2007

We Fly Into the Bush

Note: This is the second in a series of articles describing a trip taken by Nat Greene members Jim Brady and Dick Feulner to an Alaskan fishing lodge in August, 2006.

Our departure from the seaplane base was set for 10:00 so we set out for the airport before 8:00. The Anchorage airport has a spilt personality. It can handle planes landing on the tarmac or water. Two small lakes, Lake Hood and Lake Spenard, were combined to create a seaplane “runway” perpendicular to its terrestrial counterpart. The lakes are surrounded by two concentric asphalt ribbons, one for cars and the other for planes. Dick and I were blindly searching for Regal Air, the air service used by the lodge. We finally found someone strolling out of a hanger and asked for directions. She pointed out that Regal Air was on the far side of the lake from our present location and would we please stop driving on the runway?! At least she was nice about it. We thanked her and steered out of harm’s way. We arrived at our destination, Dick discharged me and the bags and headed back to the rental agency.

This operation was not your mother’s airline. The ‘terminal’ consisted of a single-wide house trailer with a small deck serving as the front porch. Moose antlers hung over the entrance. Open doors revealed a small workshop next to the break room, a soda machine. The restroom (bright yellow porta-poddy) was around to the left. Several blue and tan floatplanes rested in their berths adjacent to small, wooden docks. The dock entrance was demarcated by a freight scale used to weigh all cargo before loading.

The larger tan plane was a Dehavilan Beaver, the standard Alaskan bush plane. It could carry 1700 lbs, and, yes, the weight of the passengers is included. We were to fly in a smaller Cessna 209 with a capacity of 1200 lbs. Surrounding Regal’s setup were hundreds of other planes, mostly privately owned aircraft. Some had wheels, some rested on pontoons. A few handyman specials lacked significant parts, like wings. One had the telltale crinkled signs of a rough landing; you had to be good with sheet metal to salvage this baby. A red and white redneck job sat on blocks – all that was lacking was the front lawn. Some planes looked new but most were veterans of many years in the air. All were colorfully painted and I wondered if the bright colors were a deliberate aid to finding the plane in the event of a crash.

I peeked inside one plane to get a look at the interior. The back seat was a canvas sling behind which the cargo was stowed. Two front seats were separate but identical flight control stations. Each had a small yoke and a set of pedals. Drawing the yoke towards the pilot pulled up the nose of the plane. Pushing a pedal caused the plane to veer left or right. The air/fuel mix was adjusted by a knob similar to an old automotive choke. The dash was crammed with gauges including a GPS screen. I made a mental note of where the fuel and altitude gauges were located. The top of the dash board was fixed to the cockpit frame by two aluminum bars retrofitted to the firewall. Only the firewall separated the engine block from the gauges and the passenger compartment.

Dick returned and we met Dave, a co-owner of the lodge. He had been in town on business for a week and was returning with a load of groceries. An assistant helped our pilot Chuck load the plane and distribute the weight. Chuck was an experienced pilot and longtime friend of Dave. I felt we were in safe, capable hands. As we climbed into the plane, Dick paused in Chuck’s seat, asking “Is this OK?” I quickly replied “In your dreams” but Chuck corrected me saying “That’s no dream, it’s a nightmare!” Everyone laughed and Dick slid over to the co-pilot’s seat.

Chuck turned the engine over and we slid from our berth into the lake. We crawled along in a no-wake zone past an unimpressed Alaskan loon. Suddenly Chuck swung us hard to the right and pulled back on the yoke. The engine roared to life and the pontoons were quickly airborne. We turned to starboard a second time and rose skyward on a parallel track with a 747 leaving the tarmac. That plane veered off to the left while we proceeded due north over the Knik Arm of Cook Inlet, the airport’s natural northern boundary. The first land we flew over was low, swampy ground dominated by pothole lakes and meandering rivers and streams. Unnaturally long, straight lanes of open ground crisscrossed the landscape. These clearings were laid out by energy companies in the 1960’s for conducting seismographic studies in search of oil and gas. That the lanes were still clear 40 years later was mute testimony to the slow growth of the forests in the northern latitudes.

The engine noise was deafening, far too loud to maintain a conversation, so each of us became lost in our own thoughts. The Cessna cruised at only 1000 feet so you had a great view of the ground below. We looked for wildlife and naturally animals were seen only from the other side of the plane. We passed over the Susitna River, the largest drainage in the area and the highway used by thousands of salmon to reach their natal waters. It was hard to believe fish could survive in that opaque, gray water; the gray color was due to suspended particles of rock: fine, dust-like by-products of glaciers’ grinding movement. I followed the changes in plant life from low scrub to patches of fir trees as the ground rose and became drier. Just as the first low hills and rock formations came into view, Chuck swung us into a hard left turn and I found myself looking straight down into the Skwenta River. Our landing site was just upstream and he needed to know it was clear. Sure enough, a yellow plane was tied to the right bank along with several boats. That left the center of the river for us. We completed a full circle to our left and Chuck brought us down onto the river. We taxied briefly to the left bank and settled in a quiet eddy. Chuck climbed out and tossed an anchor to stabilize our position. It was like tying up a boat! Our guide pulled up alongside in an aluminum skiff and quickly transferred our cargo. Chuck backed the plane from the shore and departed as quickly as we appeared.

Our guide Aren had good news for us, saying the river was full of fish. Maybe, for once in my life, ‘I shoulda' been here this week!’ He fired up the outboard and the four of us headed upriver. The floodplain of the Skwenta was up to a mile across, marked by gravel bars sculpted by the sinuous river and dotted with driftwood deposited by former flows. Our destination was the junction with the Talachulitna River. The “Tal” was a clear-water river, truly “a fisherman’s dream” as the lodge’s brochure put it. After so many miles of turbulent, gray water coursing like a flood of wet cement, the Tal was almost culture shock: a clear, spring-fed river allowing full view of the fish. A long gravel bar spilt the Tal’s mouth into two parts. Aren ran the boat close to the far bank on the right side of the river to avoid disturbing fishermen working the left channel. I began to appreciate his respect for other fishermen when my attention was abruptly yanked away. The right bank at the mouth is constantly being eroded back causing the bankside foliage to topple into the river. The resulting deadfall served to provide holding water for the salmon. More precisely, there were hundreds of salmon gently finning in and among the deadwood. And they were huge! I could hardly believe my eyes. It was like the Discovery Channel except it was real. Aren had said the river was full of fish and he was right. I couldn’t wait to throw a fly at them.

Jim Brady

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