Katmais And Cubs: A Desert Adventure

We've come to experience the grandeur of this awesome but unforgiving country in two of the finest machines ever made for the purpose: The Katmai conversion Cessna 182 and the CubCrafters Carbon Cub. In fact, we're guests of none other than Todd Peterson, the man who conceived the Katmai, and who continues to be a respected and innovative figure in aviation with his introduction of the canard concept on the Cessna, and his vast experience in backcountry operations.

Our gaggle of airplanes consists of three CubCrafters Cubs and five Katmais. The trio of Cubs joins us on their way to the Reno Air Races, with Scot Warren---owner and president of Warren Aircraft, a CubCrafters dealer for Texas/La./Okla./Ark.---leading their group.

Peterson briefs our group and makes it clear that this will be a weekend of backcountry fun, with the goal being safety and learning about the capability of these airplanes. Other than Peterson, Warren and Katmai owner Jar Minor, there aren't any heavy-hitter backcountry pilots in the bunch. Experience ranges from 350-hour VFR pilots to others with more time and ratings under their belts.

The plan is to use Canyonlands as a base and strike out daily to a myriad of picturesque strips, with names like Happy Canyon, Mexican Mountain, Tangri-la, and Dirty Devil, that each offer challenges to match their names. Not a contest to pit the Carbon Cubs against the Katmais, it's a chance for both sides to experience what these airplanes can do.

The Strips
It's difficult to describe the characteristics of the vivid desert that encompasses Monument Valley, Arches National Park and Canyonlands National Park near the southeastern corner of Utah. Five hundred million years of geologic upheaval have created a vast panorama of ponderous sandstone formations that glow orange-red in the sun like massive cakes glazed with marmalade. The scale here is stupefying, with a timetable measured in millennia. The formations make you feel not like an ant, but like a sand flea. Among these giants are scores of tiny dirt strips carved out of the rock, which served remote mining outposts decades ago. Today, they've become valued destinations for pilots seeking vistas not available anywhere else on Earth.

The Cubs and Katmais leave Canyonlands at first light, setting out for Tangri-la (UT68), a dirt strip also known as Caveman Ranch. Tangri-la has a colorful history and sits alongside the Colorado River like an oasis rising out of the red rock canyons that surround it. The unique strip and guest ranch is owned by Rod Tangren, and features a lodge and 10 individual guest rooms, which are actually caves blasted into the rock. The rooms stay a consistent 72 degrees year- round because of the insulation provided by the rocks. Tangren built all this with his own two hands and plans for it to become a destination resort.

The 3,000-foot gravel strip is one of the easier backcountry strips to navigate, although silt from yearly flooding on the sides of the strip can trap an airplane. One of our group, David Durham, owns a beautiful Katmai that has kept its stock Cessna tires instead of the marshmallow-like bush tires of the other aircraft. After an easy landing and taxi, Durham parked his Katmai to wait for the rest of the arriving group. Within minutes, the Katmai's small tires sank into the chalk-like sand and took the effort of many to extricate. For the rest of the trip, Durham earned the affectionate call sign of "Little Wheels."

Approaching Tangri-la, a stunning site of geometric azure pools dominates our windscreens. Each is a shade of blue that fades from deep lapis to brilliant turquoise and creates a contrast against the orange canyons that's exquisite. These are potash evaporation ponds built by the Texas Gulf Sulphur Company in the early 1960s. Part of a mine that produces potassium chloride (also called "potash") for use in fertilizers, river water is pumped into the mine to dissolve the potash, after which the brine solution is pumped to evaporation ponds. The different concentrations of potash, copper and other minerals turn the water chromatic shades of blue.

Continuing south, our group blends into a loose formation, with the Cubs scurrying around the sky like ducklings. A 25-year airline captain, Warren flew crop dusters as a teenager, and has an intuitive sense for the backcountry. He sends his relatively inexperienced charges on to Fry Canyon, while he and one Katmai---piloted by Peterson---proceed to Happy Canyon (UT97), a challenging dirt strip that was scraped out of the sandstone to serve a uranium mining operation.

In 1952, a geologist named Charlie Steen struck the largest deposit of high-grade uranium ore in these canyons that had ever been found in the United States. This created a "uranium rush," as nuclear weapons development fed Cold War hysteria and devoured every ounce of uranium available. Landing strips were hastily dug into the red rock to accommodate these operations, and Happy Canyon---like most of these strips---remains a legacy to this time, with a collapsed mine entrance that smells of snakes and buzzes with desert wasps.

Happy Canyon is short, narrow, rutty and dominated by a massive canyon face. There are no go-arounds here. I'm in the Cub with Warren, who puts us down in an impossible 200 feet. Peterson is close behind, sticking the Katmai like a seasoned pro, with Ambats riding right seat. We shut down and break the deafening silence with our footsteps. A crumbling mining shack remains, standing as a testament to the hardiness of those who labored here. They must have felt like outcasts on an asteroid. Inside, timber shelves are still stocked with bottles of liniments and tinctures, long dried out, and companions to rusted cans of beans and empty jugs of whiskey. We've stepped back in time (the Utah Back Country Pilots Association has asked that items at these strips be left untouched).

Takeoff from Happy Canyon is an adrenaline-pumping affair as the density altitude reaches toward 9,000 feet. For the Carbon Cub, it's a moderate task, even loaded heavily as we are. Our takeoff roll is 150 feet, and we climb at 1,500 fpm. Todd Petersen knows his Katmai and calculates a takeoff roll of 600 to 700 feet on the 1,200-foot strip. With his 300 hp IO-550 blaring out its characteristic mid-pitch snarl, and his 29-inch bush tires absorbing the rocks and bumps, he's off in about 600 feet. Below us, the tattered and faded windsock hangs still, a limp gatekeeper to another era.

Remote And Rugged
Some in the group opt for Mineral Canyon or one of many other strips that dot this Martian landscape. Each offers its own story and challenge. General aviation was made for exploring these canyons, and I consider how fortunate I am as we float above a sliding tapestry woven in burnt sienna and ochre. Flying with Warren in the Carbon Cub, our talk turns to emergencies.

"It's all about margins," Warren says as we pass low over the chiseled canyons. "You have to leave yourself an out." He's confident we can find a spot for the Cub if we had to. "But what looks smooth from up here is deceiving," he adds. Flying alone here isn't recommended, and we're reassured by the banter between our group on 130.30, our chosen air-to-air frequency. They'd be our first call in a pinch.

An indispensable tool here is Galen Hanselman's Fly Utah! handbook. Filled with specifications, advice and lore, it's the expert guide for pilots flying these canyons. Hanselman, who's obsessed with accuracy and honesty, lists each strip along with reams of everything you need to know to launch---and get the most from---an adventure here.

Like the blue dart frog of the Amazon, as beautiful as this land is, it can kill you quickly. Water is everything here, and I go through nearly half gallon of it just flying around in the blast furnace heat. We're near the spot where Aron Ralston had to cut off his own arm to survive after falling into a slot canyon.

Smart pilots carry a gallon of water, a PLB (personal locator beacon), survival tools, first aid kit, food and a sleeping bag. It's evident that a search-and- rescue operation here would be like finding a grain of salt on a beach. For 100 miles, we see no structures, roads or any sign of human civilization.

"Whisky Alpha, you up?" jolts us as we approach Fry Canyon (UT74), with its promise of Indian ruins and cave art. Fry Canyon was another strip put here by a booming uranium industry. When the Cold War wound down, it took uranium with it, leaving many of these places ghost towns. "We're here and have you in sight," we answer, and turn a close base leg to the relatively long but rough airstrip. Our bulbous tires make the washboard surface seem smooth and a little bouncy.

A short hike from the airstrip reveals the ruins of cliff dwellings built here by the Anasazi Indians some 900 years ago. Standing on the opposite ledge, we each admire the ruins across the precipice and wonder who these people were, living in this harsh but breathtaking environment. As quickly as we came, we're off to Monument Valley.

Ambats and I switch places so we can experience both types of aircraft. Peterson graciously hands over the Katmai and teaches me a thing or two about backcountry operations. With 11,000 hours of GA flying to his name, he's humble and greatly skilled. He's also a big fan of the CubCrafters airplanes. "When the time comes that I don't think I'd pass the FAA medical anymore," he laughs, "I'm gonna take a serious look at these Cubs." Meanwhile, he demonstrates the superb handling of the Katmai.

The key to the Katmai conversion is the canard concept. A canard is a small horizontal surface (or "foreplane") attached ahead of the main wing, on the nose. A mini-horizontal stabilizer, the canard has a moveable "elevator" section that deflects seven degrees downward at full aft yoke and roughly one degree up when the yoke is forward. The net effect is super-enhanced pitch authority and stunning slow-speed performance, allowing for nearly flat attitudes at extremely low speeds. It makes getting into and out of these remote strips safer.

The regal sentinels of Monument Valley come and go as we catch a bite at Goulding's Lodge, deep in Navajo country, then race the sun back toward Moab. The sand-sculpture mesas occasionally give way to stomach-dropping canyons as the afternoon thermals churn the air around us.

I'm filled with a sense of humility as I survey the desert below. Peterson and I discuss the contrast between the hardships the Mormon pioneers faced when settling this land, and how we glide above it, listening to music in comfort, watching the miles tick away at 140 knots. Only in a small aircraft can we experience the contrasts here.

Back at Moab, we park the Katmai with the sun low behind us. We're tired, thirsty and sunburned. Each of us carries the treasures of the day not in our pockets, but in our memories. We haven't so much conquered this land as we've been guests of it; this living desert allowing us a glimpse from a magic carpet that few will ever experience. With all of us smiling through the red dust that covers us, I'm assured that adventure still lives.