"What's the deal on this next strip?"
I look at the marked page in my "Fly Idaho" backcountry flight guide. "Orogrande," I answer. "Elevation 4405. Runway is either one or one-nine, 2900 feet long. Notes say 'New tree growth on sides of runway limit usable width to 50 feet.'" I glance out the window at the long stretch of yellow wing extending into the Idaho mountain air. "What's your wingspan, again?"
Harrison keeps looking straight ahead, eyes on the two Huskies we're following. "Fifty feet," he answers, deadpan.
"Serious?" I ask. It's hard to tell, with him.
He shrugs. "Pretty close," he says. "Better check it in the manual. The military one." He rummages blindly behind his seat with one hand and pulls a flight case out within my reach. "It's in here, somewhere."
I flip open the military operations manual for the De Havilland DH-2 "Beaver" and fumble my way awkwardly through the first section in my haste to find the right page. The strip is just ahead of us, and the Huskies are already in the pattern. Ah. There it is. Diagram and dimensions.
"Wingspan … 48 feet," I report. We both look down at the narrow stripe of grass and exchange a brief glance. "Your call," I say cautiously. Harrison hails the lead Husky, which is already rolling out on the strip.
"Uh, Beaver One, this is Beaver Three. Is that strip as narrow as the book says?"
"It's pretty narrow," Spike reports.
Harrison nods to himself, decision made. "Roger that. Beaver Three is going to stay high. I don't think I need to be flying into a 50-foot strip with a 48-foot wingspan."
I breathe a relieved sigh. I couldn't agree with him more. This is only my first day on this backcountry flying safari, but it's already blazingly clear to me that this is no place for egos or heroes. The Idaho mountain wilderness is an unbelievable wonderland of steep valleys, colorful mountainsides, crystal-clear waterways and rocky canyon vistas. But the consequences for mistakes or trouble here are as breathtakingly awesome as the scenery this kind of flying allows you to experience.
The Backcountry Safari is the informal invention of two pilots named Rich Sugden and Roland Turney. Six years ago, Turney, who had a lot of experience flying into the small, challenging strips in Idaho's "River of No Return" wilderness, took Sugden and a couple of other friends on a four-day flying trip into the backcountry. They had such a good time that they've made the trip an annual event, with a few more planes joining in each time.
"Every one of these strips is unique," Turney says. "They've all got different layouts, hazards, approaches and departures. So the best way to teach people how to do this safely is something like this, where they can fly in with people who've done it before. Rich and I had this idea that this could be a good educational thing as well as a fun trip."
Both Sugden and Turney stress to all the pilots they invite that the trip isn't a flight school, or appropriate for anyone who isn't already pretty comfortable with short-field operations. But, Turney says, "You can take pilots who are experienced, but who haven't done much backcountry flying, and get them experienced pretty quick, doing this kind of trip."
