It was a picture perfect afternoon in May of 2007 and my best friend Chris and I were spending the day burning avgas and sandbar hopping, looking for neat rocks and fossilized bones. When the time came to leave one gravel bar for the next, we had a hard time starting the engine. Chris was also a pilot and we were flying his non-electric-equipped 1941 Piper J-5. We often took turns flying, and on this day it was my turn at the controls.
After hand-propping the airplane for half an hour, it finally sputtered to life. Not connecting the starting troubles with a mechanical problem, I climbed in and taxied to the end of the gravel bar, taking off away from the river now as the wind had changed directions since we landed.
As I pushed the throttle in, the trusty Continental C-90 engine pulled us forward with its typical eagerness. In seconds, the tail became light, and I eased back on the stick to leave the sandbar behind. All was going well until we reached the height of the spruce trees surrounding our little gravel bar. Suddenly the roar of the engine was gone, replaced by the beat of my heart pounding in my ears. We were gliding back to earth, straight into an obstacle course of sand dunes and tree stumps. With no time to react, I banked right to thread the needle and flared, holding the stick back as we bounced twice and came to a quick stop in the deep soft sand.
When we stopped I became a robot and pulled the mixture, turned off the mags and popped the door open. Without realizing what happened, my buddy Chris asked from the backseat if I had aborted the takeoff. Using a few more words I assured him I certainly had not, in fact the engine died. I was incredulous that we didn't flip over on our back, as we were well away from the gravel we had departed from. We were parked in coarse sand that any ordinary 4x4 pickup would have had trouble driving in. Our 8.5" by 6" main tires suddenly looked incredibly small as I looked back at the tracks we left behind on our forced landing.
Only an hour earlier we had departed McGrath, heading upriver to go sandbar hopping. It was a sunny, idyllic weekend afternoon as we soared along over the trees. I had told my then-girlfriend (now my wife) that we would be within about 10 or 12 miles upriver from McGrath. As she worked for the local radio station, she was going flying with another friend in a Cub participating in a moose count survey flying aerial transects close to the airport in order to put together a news story on it. We all left about the same time, and she expected us home around 3 p.m. With two friends aware of our plans I didn't think about filing a flightplan (and the J-5 didn't have a radio anyhow).
Back at the sandbar, Chris and I were pulling the cowling off and looking for any obvious reasons for our failure to launch. We drained fuel from every sump and checked screens and filters. Spotting nothing out of the ordinary, we put it all back together and tried to get it started again. To our surprise, the engine fired right up. Gleefully, we hopped in and I taxied back to the end of the gravel bar, turned around, and poured on the coals. We took off and began climbing gracefully. As we reached about 100 feet above ground level, this time slightly farther than the last attempt, the engine faltered and we began our second unplanned descent for landing. This time making it past the sand dunes and tree stumps, we touched down smoothly and rolled to a stop right next to a semi-dried slough bed.
Not particularly amused with our accomplishment of having survived two deadstick landings in one day, we started the ritual of checking fuel, air, and spark once again before pushing the airplane back to the end of our gravel bar for one last attempt. All through this ordeal we originally suspected water in the fuel, however after draining far more than plenty of fuel and seeing no water, we began to suspect carburetor problems. Without the trained eyes of an aircraft mechanic, we spotted nothing. Once again, the airplane started right up. Reluctantly, I climbed back in and this time I did a full-throttle run-up for almost 3 minutes. Not detecting any problems, I throttled back to idle and turned around to ask Chris if he was ready for another go at it. Getting the nod, I once again shoved the throttle forward and off we went. For the third time the wheels left the gravel and we soared skyward.
As we left behind all our previous tracks, a feeling of triumph filled us until the cold, hard, quiet reality hit us once again. We were heading back to earth, this time with a muddy, half-dried river bed our only option. Seeing nothing but a bad end coming, I pulled the mixture, turned off the mags and shut off the fuel selector faster than the eye can see. Instinctively I yanked the stick back and held it there as the tires touched down in the miry clay. Again we set a new J-5 short field landing record and came to a stop in the middle of a once very wet slough bed. This time all hope was lost and we pushed the stricken bird back onto the gravel bar and commenced waiting.
By now it was going on 4 p.m. and Crystal had already returned home. We were to learn later that she had fallen asleep on the couch. Part of my job as a commercial pilot frequently resulted in my arriving home later than anticipated, so she had no reason to be alarmed. Chris and I meanwhile were now baking in the sun 11 miles upriver. I had brought along a can of Jolt Cola and soon Chris and I were using the empty can to drink Kuskokwim River water from the clear water filtering through a log jam at the upriver end of our makeshift airfield. I figured someone would be missing us (mostly me) shortly, so we settled in, resting in the shade of some nearby spruce trees with a pile of fossilized bones and every neat looking rock within 300 yards resting in a pile at our feet. Yup, we were ready to leave.
Around 6 p.m., our friend and pilot that Crystal had gone flying with earlier called the house to make sure that Chris and I made it back safely. Crystal, just waking up from a nap, of course, hadn't heard from us. She was given the best and most worthless advice she could get, "Don't panic yet". In the next 30 minutes our pilot friend picked her up and they headed over to the McGrath Flight Service Station to get the word out. A local air taxi pilot was departing upriver in his Cessna 185 to Nikolai and was notified to watch for us.
Meanwhile, back at ground zero, Chris and I were making out a passing airplane from every mosquito buzz within earshot. Our minds were playing tricks on us and we began to daydream about what we'd do if we ever got out of here alive. The general consensus was we'd probably have a nice cold beer first and foremost. The riverwater was actually cold and tasted good, however beaver fever weighed on the mind.
Suddenly, we both heard the unmistakeable sound of an IO-520 approaching from the southwest. We stood up and began straining to see over the trees, trying to spot the airplane and figure out if it was simply passing by or searching for us. Not spotting it until it had passed a few miles south of us, I saw it was heading to Nikolai, most likely on a charter. Hit rudely now with the realization that we probably had a lot of spare time on our hands, we began scratching signals in the sand. All the while suspecting a fuel contamination problem, and not considering any humor in our plight, soon the words "HAVE BAD GAS, NEED 5 GAL 100LL" were etched boldly on our sandbar, visible from space. Back in McGrath, a massive search was being planned as no word was heard from the Cessna 185 heading upriver.
I was now resorting to whittling driftwood with my trusty Leatherman® when we both heard the Cessna 185 heading back to McGrath. This time it was fading in and out of range, so it was obvious it was following the river. Within minutes the airplane was overhead, and we watched as the pilot flew overhead several times, perhaps deciding on attempting a landing, or maybe trying to see if we really did have "BAD GAS"...
As suddenly as it arrived, the Cessna left, heading back to McGrath. Knowing someone knew where we were we again settled down and waited.
The pilot of the Cessna 185 called the McGrath Flight Service Station with our location and advised them, much to our later dismay, that we "May be out of fuel". The local State of Alaska Fish & Game trooper took off in the State Super Cub on a "Welfare Check" to see what our problem was.
Now well after 7 p.m., Chris and I heard the distinctive sound of a Super Cub approaching from the southwest. In a few moments the airplane was passing over and set up for landing on our little gravel prison. After the Cub rolled to a stop and taxied over, the door swung open and the engine wound to a stop. The pilot was a good friend and he asked us what was going on. After we explained our situation, he decided to have us drain our "contaminated fuel" and gave us 10 gallons of Certified Pure 100 LL Aviation Gasoline, drained from his wing sumps into a pair of 5 gallon fuel cans.
After about six or eight minutes, the fuel began trickling from the gascolator drain on our J-5 and the trooper figured that perhaps we weren't actually out of fuel, and we dumped his fuel cans into our wing tanks. I fired the bird up, and right away we could tell it wasn't running quite right. While attempting to taxi forward, the engine sputtered and died. The trooper, who is a Cub owner, pilot, and guru, knew right away we had a lean mixture problem. He suggested we tie the old crate down and leave it overnight. Not in an arguing mood, we quickly agreed and I was elected to be the first person evacuated. As we left the sandbar behind, with Chris and his Cub sitting there forlornly, I wondered if we'd ever get that airplane out of there in one piece.
Arriving back in McGrath, Crystal was waiting on the ramp as we taxied up with me riding in the backseat looking sheepish (My first time in the back of a cop car and it happened to be an airplane). She gave me a big hug and wouldn't let go. Apparently, being the optimist she is, she thought I was a goner. We waited while the trooper took off again to fetch Chris. After they returned, Crystal and I headed down to Sand Island to attend a bonfire and I got scolded by all the older ladies. The word on the streets was that I had run out of fuel and it took a while to convince them otherwise.
The next day I caught a ride with an A & P mechanic friend in his Super Cub, along with his A & P brother-in-law who flew his Super Cub, and the trooper flew out in the State Cub back to our gravel bar. Eventually we found that a bolt had worked loose on the Carburetor and a bracket was able to rotate, pulling the mixture when the throttle was applied. So, we safety-wired the mixture at full-rich, and Chris was volunteered to fly the plane out. We all took off behind him, and he didn't level out until he got to almost 3,000 feet, not that I blamed him...Anyhow, we all made it home safely. I live to die another day!
One thing I love about McGrath is that we didn't have to ask for help. Everyone volunteered and was more than happy to be of assistance.
Devon Holmberg is a 25-year-old commercial pilot based in McGrath. Holmberg grew up in Aniak and started flying when he was 12 years old. In an email, Holmberg said, "I love my job, and I'll never fly jet!"