It seemed like I could land anywhere. One beautiful summer day in 1975, after completing a week-long caribou and raptor survey for the Alaska Department of Fish and Game, Mae, our Labrador Zeke and I took a trip north looking for washed up walrus, shed moose antlers or whatever else we might find. The Cub still had only the standard fuel tanks, with eighteen gallons in each wing, so I took along a few five-gallon cans of extra gas. I intended to make a long day of it.
That day, I’d landed on sand and gravel bars, on beaches with steep slopes, on ridge tops, alluvial fans and other potentially hazardous places. I was feeling like I could land that Cub anyplace and take off without worry.
It was late in the evening as we headed back for Kotzebue when I flew over a small island in the Kuguroruk River and spotted a matched set of moose antlers. They looked like they were in perfect condition. They would make a fine addition to those we’d already stacked in the back of the cabin, and eventually they would be carved into something nice.
My confidence soared beyond my competence.
Conventional wisdom held that at about 500 hours of bush flying without an accident, one tends to get over confident, which inevitably leads to the first wreck. I had over 1,000 hours when it hit me.
A light wind was coming down the valley, the bar had a serious curve to the right, but overall, I assessed the situation as a pretty routine bush landing. The rocks, all polished cobbles, were no larger than softballs and the middle of the bar was composed of primarily sand and pea gravel…or so it appeared to me as I flew slowly over it.
After flying over the spot twice with full flaps, I nonchalantly set up for a full stop landing. I touched down just past the water at the lower end of the bar and dumped the flaps, holding full back on the stick. Before the tail wheel touched the surface, the Cub began to nose up. I had the stick in my belly and still the tail was coming up as the roll-out progressed. The middle area of the bar was way too soft, and the big, soft donut tires broke through a bit of crust and rate of forward speed suddenly diminished. As the nose of the airplane rotated toward the ground, I was yelling “No, no!” but it was to no avail.
We stopped with the prop grinding into the gravel. The empty gas cans, moose antlers and the dog itched forward in the cabin. I popped open the clamshell door and got out, the dog jumped out with me and I helped Mae onto the ground.
I felt lucky that the Cub had not gone all the way over onto its back. The main tires and propeller spinner were in three-point contact with the ground.
We were about 100 miles north of Kotzebue…
Note: Jake Jacobson is a licensed fishing and hunting guide, with more than 50 years of experience in Alaska. If you’re interested in an Alaskan adventure with Jake, visit HuntFish.US
You can also read about Jake’s experiences in his five books – Alaska Tales, Alaska Flying, Alaska Bears, Kodiak Alaska Deer, and Alaska Hunting. Each book has over 200 pages including photos. Shop Now
