Up and over - it's as easy as falling off a cliff

MAT-SU - It was a bright, sunny day in January. The mid-winter days are short in the Mat-Su Valley, and beautiful weather such as it was that day rarely falls on a weekend.

My 1946 Taylorcraft was equipped with 2500 straight-board skis, which provide plenty of flotation on nearly any type of snow conditions. I parked my plane on Finger Lake, where there was no tie-down fee, but it did require a fair amount of time for preflight preparation.

The skis might freeze down or a sheet of ice might form over the entire upper surface of the airplane. The engine would certainly require preheating, and the plane may even be partially covered by drifted snow. On this particular day, though, none of the time-consuming delays were present except, of course, the need to preheat the engine.

I was anxious to fly on such a beautiful day in what most consider to be among the most spectacular scenery in the world. After preheating my 85-horsepower engine and securely tying the tail wheel down, one manual spin of the prop was all it took to make the engine purr.

With Bear, my trusted flying partner (a half husky, half terrier that looks like Benji), beside me we took off to explore new places to land on skis. We did touch and gos on Finger Lake, Wasilla Lake and Lake Lucille before deciding to look for someplace a little more challenging.

We didn't have to look far, for just to the north is Mount Baldy. The rounded top, far above tree line, looked very inviting. We climbed to about 4,000 feet and circled what looked like a good landing spot. I could tell the wind was calm, as there were no wisps of snow blowing off the peaks that stood even higher.

I decided to do a high-speed "drag" of the surface to determine the snow conditions. My suspicions were confirmed - the snow was dry and settled, making for an excellent condition to land.

After circling again, we made an uneventful landing, stopped and got out. The panoramic view was awesome. Cook Inlet lies to the southwest, with the Chugach Range rising above 7,000 feet to the southeast, the Talkeetna Range to the north and Sleeping Lady off to the west, providing a breathtaking view of God's country in the far north.

We stretched our legs, took some pictures and were again on our way. The takeoff was straight-ahead and normal. In fact, it wasn't very challenging, so we looked higher. Directly to the east, the mountain is about 1,000 feet higher and has a gentle slope on the south side that rises to the ridge that runs in an east-west direction.

On the west end of the ridge stand two small buildings with antennae on their roofs. The north side of the ridge has a sheer cliff that drops about 600 feet before becoming a gentler slope, running toward Willow Creek.

We circled twice to get the lay of the land. My plan was to land uphill toward the ridge, taxi to the top, turn east and take off again. It looked simple enough, for I'd landed uphill in the mountains before on wheels many times. I would simply determine where I wanted to touch down, pick up the desired altitude, slow the plane to landing speed and fly it right onto the mountain slope.

The landing went just as I had planned, and we taxied to just above idle up toward the ridge. I could tell where the edge of the cliff was, but the little buildings were fast approaching on my left.

I decided to turn east for the takeoff. At the same moment I began applying pressure on the right rudder, the cliff appeared directly beneath my nose. It was too late to prevent the inevitable fall. All I could do was hold my breath and wait for the plane to crash hundreds of feet below.

As the plane went straight off the cliff, I heard a loud crash that prompted me to look to see if the wings were still there. They were. I wondered about the tail.

About a second later, another banging sound pierced my ears. Still, I could see no damage as I held the yoke tight to my chest, hoping for the plane to fly.

Suddenly I remembered one of my first flying lessons, when I made a very hard landing that bounced the airplane high into the air. It was coming down fast as I held the yoke all the way back. My instructor forced the yoke forward, applied power and we settled to the runway no worse for wear.

I now realized I needed to push the yoke forward in order to gain sufficient air speed to fly. Not knowing what damage had occurred, I gently applied forward pressure on the yoke while pushing the throttle.

To my surprise, the engine started up. (I hadn't noticed that it had stopped.) We began to pick up speed, but were still going straight down. As the speed increased, so did the control. I eased back the yoke as we gradually began to level off. By manipulating the controls, I felt for any loss of control that could have been caused by damage to the plane. Everything felt normal, except my racing heart.

We did a gentle climbing turn until we reached the top of the mountain. From above the ridge, I could see two ski tracks that led straight off the cliff, and about 30 feet below a huge rock jetted out from the face of the cliff. There was snow on the rock, with two ski tracks in the middle of it.

I don't know when or why the engine quit, but the first loud noise was the underside of the fuselage hitting the ground as we went over. The second was when the skis hit the rock, which apparently thrust the plane away from the wall and allowed me time to recover.

I returned to Finger Lake, examined the plane and found no evidence whatsoever of our close encounter. While tying the plane down, I realized that an experienced stunt pilot wouldn't deliberately do what I had done by accident. I decided right then and there that I would not tell anyone of this incident.

As I entered the house, however, my wife took one look at my face and said, "What's wrong?" I knew then I wouldn't be able to hide it.

Lesson learned - Even though I knew the cliff was there, once on the ground I couldn't see it until it was too late. A high-speed drag while maintaining flying speed would have prevented the fall and allowed a closer look at the lay of the land.

It was pure luck. Had I decided to turn east a moment sooner, my turn would have been halfway completed and resulted in a fall over the cliff sideways, with almost certainly a fatal outcome.

Joe Pendergrass, born and raised in Alaska and a longtime Valley resident, has been flying for more than 30 years. He says despite this close call in 1984, his dog Bear continued to fly with him for many years after.