Motor Oil mixed with Grinding Abrasive, Challis, Cabin Creek Airstrip, a Cessna 172, a Fuel Leak, and a Friend

Motor Oil mixed with Grinding Abrasive, Challis, Cabin Creek Airstrip, a Cessna 172, a Fuel Leak, and a Friend

by James Wiebe

I had developed a habit of flying into Idaho, nearly every summer, to go camping in the Wilderness. 

This trip would follow in the annual tradition.  I was flying with Mike Andrews, my pastor friend from Colorado, and we were headed to Cabin Creek airstrip, near Big Creek, home of world class cutthroat trout and world class cabin.  Cabin Creek is a gnarly little airstrip, and curls up the side of the hill like a well used jeep track, hidden in a mountain valley.  It curves, it climbs, and it ends abruptly.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Challis, Idaho is a very important little town to me.  It's where I learned the ins and outs of mountain flying, way back in 1996, at a mountain flying school.  It's close to the backcountry, where wilderness, rivers, wildlife, and airstrips intertwine, but no roads:  there are no roads in the wilderness.

Challis has a diner or two, a couple of motels, a great airport, 2 or 3 FBOs, a backcountry air taxi service (or two), an outdoor store and some houses.  Maybe a gas station. 

Challis is an excellent spot to spend a last night, before hopping into the wilderness.

The weather was perfect:  blue skies, reasonable winds.
The airplane was packed with all our camping equipment.   Backpacks, flyrods, water bottles, food.
The airplane itself:  my old friend, a 'Superhawk' Cessna 172:  180hp in a light airframe:  great performance, great useful load.  A superb backcountry bird.
The friendship:  Mike and I are tight.
The destination:  as good as it gets:  fishing, camping, wilderness, isolation, friendship, a fire under a sky as black as coal; stories between friends. 

Mike and I were nearly ready to depart.  I walked into the FBO, and requested a quart of oil before we departed.

I unscrewed the lid of the oil container.  I found it odd that the lid snap ring was already loose.  I was too stupid to make this stop me from what I did next.

I started to pour the quart of oil into the engine.  Oil came out; also a white milky substance in the oil.  I watched the white milky substance run down the funnel and into the engine.  I stopped pouring the oil into the engine.  I walked back to the FBO, and told them what I had just seen entering my engine from the oil bottle they had just sold me.

The FBO Man immediately knew that he had committed a great sin.  He had sold me a bottle of motor oil, except that he had given me a used bottle of grinding oil, filled with grit from an abrasive wheel.  He confessed his sin to me.


HE HAD GIVEN ME A USED BOTTLE OF GRINDING OIL, FILLED WITH GRIT FROM AN ABRASIVE WHEEL.


I HAD POURED IT IN MY ENGINE.

The weather was no longer perfect:  blue skies, reasonable winds and an airplane with an engine filled with grit.
The airplane was packed with all our camping equipment.   Backpacks, flyrods, water bottles, food, and engine oil contamined with grit.
The airplane itself:  my old friend, a 'Superhawk' Cessna 172:  180hp in a light airframe:  great performance, great useful load.  A superb backcountry bird, especially when the engine does not have grinding grit in it.
The friendship:  Mike and I are tight.  That is not affected by grit in the engine oil.
The destination:  as good as it gets:  fishing, camping, wilderness, isolation, friendship, a fire under a sky as black as coal; stories between friends, and all of it hopelessly unattainable, due to the damn grit in the engine. 
The FBO Man said:  "I will thorougly flush your engine and refill it with oil; I will fly you and your friend into the wilderness, I will make this right."

FBO Man began his repairs.

Mike getting in the Superhawk; cowling removed and engine flush under way.

Later in the day, he flew us into the backcountry.  We landed at Cabin Creek airstrip later that afternoon. 

Looking uphill at Cabin Creek; watching a departing aircraft; the black strips are rubber water diversion drain strips.

FBO Man dropped us off, and Mike and I started the hike from the airstrip down to the river.

We ended up at an ideal camping spot, not more than 20 yards from Big Creek.  Our tent was pitched under some trees.

Over the next few days, Mike and I entered into an easy routine of fishing up or down the river, using a mostly grasshopper imitations and other high floating dry flies.  Fishing was easy; cutthroats kept coming to the fly. 

Big Creek is an extraordinary river.  Upstream, it falls over boulders and descends so that pools and bends are hard to find. 

Downstream, it gathers itself in a sharp run that might fish well.  Inbetween, it wanders through a series of cuts and bends that kiss the opposite bank.  Tall grasses flop over the edge of the river.  Cutthroats hide under the tall grass edges. 

A beautiful hole is in the mid-valley.  Far deeper than most of the river, it's occupied by some trout that love depths and disappearing.

Cabin Creek (of which the airstrip is named after) flows into Big Creek.  Cabin Creek is a tiny trickle of water, and surprisingly, it holds big trout as well.

Now it's night time.
The sky is coal black.
Mike and I settle into our sleeping bags.
Mike asks questions about my spiritual condition.  He helps me focus on my faith in Christ.

The weather has been perfect:  blue skies, reasonable winds.
The airplane will once again be packed with all our camping equipment.   Backpacks, flyrods, water bottles, food.  Except we've eaten the food; not much is left.
The airplane itself:  my old friend, a 'Superhawk' Cessna 172:  180hp in a light airframe:  great performance, great useful load.  A superb backcountry bird.
The friendship:  Mike and I are tight.  
The destination was as good as it gets:  fishing, camping, wilderness, isolation, friendship, a fire under a sky as black as coal; stories between friends. 
It's time to go home.

FBO Man has flown my Cessna Skyhawk into the airstrip, and it is waiting for us.  (I will not pen the logistics of how all that happened, or how we communicated with the outside world.  It's not worth it, and besides, this story is a little more mysterious if you don't know all the details, such as how I had a satellite phone and used it as necessary.)

I start the engine, and taxi it from the low end of the airstrip up to the high end, so we can turn around and takeoff downhill, into the valley.  It's impossible to take off uphill, just look at the first picture in this blog.  Uphill takeoffs are impossible!

At the top end of the airstrip, I turn the engine off.  In hindsight, I don't know why.  I guess I wasn't ready to take off.  I got out of the airplane, and looked at the engine compartment.  While inspecting the nose wheel, I notice that it has a drip of liquid running down it continuously.  If I had taken off, the gas would have run out the front of the airplane, and the engine would have soon quit.

Gasoline is running down the nose wheel.!! This was the second breakdown of the trip.  This time, I was in the wilderness.

FBO Man flew back into the airstrip, in his Cessna 206.  He brought tools and parts with him.  He proceeded to disassemble the gascolator on the airplane and replace a gasket.  The fuel leak had absolutely nothing to do with the oil flush and replacement he'd done with the airplane earlier in the week.

So he billed me for this wilderness gascolator gasket repair:

Flying into the wilderness:  $280 roundtrip from Challis in his Cessna 206  (a bargain).
His time:  2 hours;  $120 total. 
One 'O' Ring gasket:  $1.

Total bill:  about $400.

Mike and I headed home.

First Flight, Circa 1970; Cessna Aircraft teaches me to fly; more.

A reminder:  this work is (c) 2010 by James Wiebe.  Reproduction is prohibited.  You may link to this blog or this posting.

Chapter 1:  First Flight

I grew up in Hillsboro, KS -- a town of about 3000 people in Marion County, Kansas.

Having lost my father before my fourth birthday, I have treasured experiences which I was given by other male figures in my youthful years.

I attended Parkview Mennonite Brethren Church in Hillsboro.  There was a man there, by the name of Dave Breese.  He was large man -- not necessarily in girth, but certainly in height, and also certainly in stature within that Church.  He was an 'evangelist', a radio speaker, an author, and -- a pilot.  I remember an odd characteristic of Dave Breese:  he attended our Church, but he was not a member.  Odd.  I don't quite know how to explain it.

As it pertains to flying, I do not remember how the invitation was made, but I do know that one Sunday afternoon, probably when I was 12 years old, he offered to give me a ride in his twin engine airplane.  This was an opportunity nearly on the level with Red Ryder BB guns.  An airplane ride.

I am positive that afternoon was a sunny day with bright white cumulus clouds.  A perfect flying day.

I do remember being in the airplane as he started each engine -- and I remember my anxiety that the engines wouldn't start.  But they did.

In those days, the Hillsboro airport was a grass strip.  In later years, it was paved; it suffered a fatal aircraft accident; (hence it's name, Alfred Schroeder field, honoring one of the dead) and I flew often from it.
 

Cessna / Carolina Liar / Show me what I’m looking for

In this part of the story, I am roughly 43 or 44 years old and CEO of a rapidly growing computer forensics company.

I have to go to Washington, DC for a series of meetings with my clients. They are large federal agencies, like the FBI, IRS, even the Secret Service, perhaps the....

I am under enormous pressure to grow revenue and increase profitability.

As usual, I book travel to Washington DC through either Delta or Airtran Airways. Both of these carriers have routings to DC which hub through Atlanta. This looks simple: a quick trip to Atlanta, a quick flight change, and I’m on my way to DC.

Except, this time, the trip takes a detour. My flight routes to Atlanta, and is very late. I miss my connection to Dulles airport. Instead of arriving around 10:30pm on my scheduled flight at Dulles, the carrier ‘graciously’ reroutes me to Reagan National on another flight. This alternative gets me to DC much later, and at the wrong airport, perhaps 25 miles from my hotel.

The flight arrives DC around 12:50 in the morning. We are probably the last flight of the day to arrive at Reagan.

I trudge to the rental car kiosks, across from the arrival concourse. They are closed. I have no rental car.

It is 1:15am. I am tired.

I go to the cab line location. There is no cab line. Reagan airport has gone dark, it is a virtual ghost town.

I pull out my cell phone and start calling 411 for cab phone #s. All have answering machines or answering services. They are booking cab rides for early morning rides; but none are operating now.

I call my wife. We have friends in the DC area; she calls them and they are willing to put me up.

I pray. Please God help me.

I cry. Literally. I am a middle aged business man, sitting in a dark airport, with no one around. I am crying.

A police officer approaches from nowhere. A cheerful black woman, I ask (beg) her to help me. Does she know of any cab companies which operate at 2:00am? Yes, she does.
20 minutes later, a cab pulls up.

I am on my way to my hotel. I arrive there at 3:00am. I had smartly prepaid for my hotel room (Priceline, I think.)

As luck would have it, Priceline had put me into a Marriott (Fairfield? Courtyard?) property. It would be a nice room, if it was waiting for me. But it wasn’t, my room has been sold; there is no room. The fact that my hotel room is prepaid is irrelevant. The hotel clerk is probably shocked that I showed up. But NOT TO WORRY, another cab is ready to take me to another motel, perhaps 6 or 7 miles south of Dulles area hotel. (Many hotels are full).

I check into my new no-brand motel. I see an insect move across the floor of my room. I call my wife; I settle into bed at 4:00am in the morning. I rise at 7:30am to prepare for my first meeting of the day. I am furious, beyond tired, and pissed.


Now I am one or two years older.

I purchase a nearly new Cessna T206H airplane. It hauls me, my sales people, and 300 pounds of trade show gear direct from Wichita to Dulles (940NM nonstop). I never again miss a flight. I always arrive when I want, where I want, and I never again go through security. My dispatch reliability is excellent, and I always found a way around bad weather. When I needed to, I delayed my own departure to accommodate safety. I exercised my instrument rating, and flew in the flight levels. Once, I cruised along at 300 knots groundspeed, in part due to a 130 knot tailwind.

I flew the plane 900 hours over a 3.5 year period.

I often arrive at Signature Flight Service at Dulles. I enjoy free ice cream, the serious, professional atmosphere in the lobby, and the fact that I am rubbing shoulders with Gulfstream drivers.

Once, I see Harry Reid (Nev – D) from 15 feet away in the Signature lobby. He is with private security (or Secret Service agents?). He does not seem to mind the fact that he is preparing to get on a jet and head home, while converting thousands of pounds of Jet A into vicious carbon. I will not remember this when the auto companies are pilloried for flying their jets to DC, so they can testify before congress.

Mostly, I enjoy the freedom and convenience of flying my efficient GA airplane.


Now I am 48 years old.

Kathy and I sold the business. 4 months later, I looked at the airplane, and realized that I had flown the T206 less than 2 hours in 120 days. Two months later, I spot my plane on an internet tracking website (www.flightaware.com) and it is running around the Bahamas. The wholesaler I sold my bird to told me it was headed to South America.


Now I am 51 years old.

I arrive at IAD, on a commercial flight which routed through Chicago. The flight was over an hour late, because of a mechanical issue. Thankfully, I am not rerouted to Reagan. My flight arrives Dulles late. I get in the cab, and provide the driver with my destination hotel in downtown DC.

The cab driver turns left, and we pull directly in front of Signature Flight Service. A lone Cessna is parked on the flight line. It is surrounded by dozens of jets, of all sizes. The tarmac is thick with jets.

I sigh.