My trip to the beach

It sounded simple enough at the time.

Late last week, I knew the weather was going to be spectacular for the upcoming weekend. Mid-90’s in the valley where we live, and comfortable 70’s out at the Oregon coast. As is my regular habit when the weather looks nice outside, I quickly reserved an airplane for Saturday afternoon with visions of a midday hop around the valley for a $100 hamburger while giving me a few hours of flight time to enjoy the sunshine.

The allure of those 70-degree temps on the coast came calling into my head on Friday night as I talked over the flight plan for the following day with Andrea. I checked the schedule again and found that nobody else had bothered to reserve the airplane for Saturday, so I expanded my reservation to start at 10:30 am, and we went to sleep with visions of flying to Seaside for the day in our heads.

The day started normally enough. By 9 am we had already finished breakfast and were getting ready to go. We stopped by a local sporting goods store to pick up a SportBrella, a clever hybrid of sunshade and umbrella that would just fit in our little Cessna 152. Arriving at the airport, we found our little white and blue airplane low on fuel from the previous flight, and proceeded to wait 15 minutes for the fuel truck to arrive. As we waited, a check of the weather on the coast showed some patchy fog lingering, but it was expected to burn off by the time we crossed the coast range. Astoria (about 10 miles north of Seaside) was already reporting clear skies.

We finally left the ground at Troutdale just after 11 am. A nice, smooth takeoff as the air was just heating past 70 degrees and we had just the slightest hint of a breeze rolling across the field. Everything was looking great and the trusty 152 surged upward and to the north, over Lacamas Lake as we maintained 1500 feet to stay below Portland’s airspace.

Over Battle Ground, after picking up flight following from Portland Approach, we began our slow climb to 6500 feet to cross the coast range. There were relatively few airplanes in the sky. Radio chatter was quiet, just us, a Horizon jet, and a Delta heavy descending into PDX from the east. We passed over the Scappoose airport at about 4000 feet, watching the airplanes below do touch-and-go’s, a reminder of my student pilot days where I did the same thing while thinking about weekend trips like the one I was on. Portland Approach handed us off to Seattle Center and I pointed the nose just to the right of Saddle Mountain for our destination.

With the coast in sight, the engine decided to sputter. Once, then again. I reached out for the carburetor heat control and pulled it out, thinking the transition to cooler, moist air may have caused the engine to begin accumulating ice. My suspicions were confirmed when about 15 seconds later, the engine decided that it wasn’t going to be able to combust water and had a brief but very significant loss of power. The call came over the headset from Andrea immediately, “everything ok?” She could tell that the power loss had caught my attention too, as I was working to keep the engine running. Mixture to full rich, throttle in, and hope for the best. After about 2 or 3 seconds of sputtering, the little 100 horsepower pony roared back to life and I advised Seattle that we were starting our descent to the coast. By this time the coastline was within reach even if the engine had stopped, so it was time to descend anyway.

Our next problem came into view as we were now on the descent and could see Seaside airport lying just under a fog bank. Clear to the north, a solid layer of fog to the south. Andrea snapped this picture as we maneuvered to survey the height of the clouds and discuss the situation.

We estimated the clouds at about 500 feet above the ground. Not quite high enough to give us room to move around if we had to go around. Going around was a distinct possibility too, as Seaside has a short 2,200 foot runway and the wind was likely to be coming from the north – creating a tailwind situation for the landing. Not a major wind, but enough of a light breeze to factor it into our decision. We also considered that the fog might clear up, if given just a few more minutes. Looking to the north revealed a much better view.

We decided in the end to divert to Astoria, just to the north, choosing to keep our options open and ensure we had all of them when arriving in the airport environment. There is always a part of your brain that tells you that you can make it in those situations. Sure, I probably could have taken advantage of the fact that the north end of the runway was clear, that I had a 500 foot ceiling, and that I would have likely executed a good short field landing. All of this is well within my skill level, but the decision always resides with the what-if’s. What if I had to go around? What if there is an obstruction on the south end of the runway that I can’t see until I get down there? What if I have to climb through the clouds – what can’t I see? It’s the ability to weigh these questions that I believe that separates pilots between good and risky. On Saturday, I opted for the good and hope I always will.

Astoria is a major airport on the coast, and had the usual mix of student pilots and local aviators flying in and out on this day. A quick call to the unicom and we made a straight in for runway 31. I decided to make a short field approach to the large and wide runway just to keep my skills sharp for the next time I get a chance to go to Seaside. Full flaps and a steep approach gave way to a perfect 54 knot approach speed and a smooth touchdown with the stall horn in its full chorus of squealing.

Airplane, fog, and engine fun aside, our real adventure was about to start. We taxied in, tied the airplane down, and both slung our beach supplies over our shoulders in anticipation of the day ahead. It was now about Noon, the cool breeze of the coast providing a stark contrast to what the weather was like back home. We walked to the terminal building, me with the 10 pounds of umbrella and another couple pounds in my camera, Andrea carried the blankets, towels, and my iPad, thinking and talking about the flight behind and the beach ahead.

The terminal at Astoria had been remodeled since I last visited this airport many years ago. Gone is the welcoming airport restaurant; a place where I had pancakes and bacon one morning on a solo cross-country flight during my training while watching other pilots battle the coastal breezes. The same building is there, but its insides now replaced with a sterile airport terminal environment for a local airline. I asked the receptionist, who didn’t seem at all impressed with my shorts and hat, umbrella on my back, and smell of fresh AvGas about the local options for getting into town. She had nothing to offer except the rental car service that had also moved into the building with the airline. No FBO car, no local taxi service, no bus information.

Unsatisfied, we headed for the other FBO on the field. We found them, canning fresh tuna in the hangar. Unfortunately they had no help for us either in getting to town or the beach. Our way in to town was to be on foot. I had researched on my phone that we could catch a bus to the coast by getting to the Fred Meyer on highway 101, just about 2 miles away. The time was 12:30 already, so we set off.

We walked the long airport road, across a cattle guard, up a little hill, and arrived at the supermarket just after 1. Andrea ducked inside to get us drinks, lunch, and some chips while I sat outside with our beachgoing gear. I watched as two drivers exchanged information and apologies with a local police officer after having a collision in the parking lot as I looked over the local bus schedules for our options. Those options were very limited, as a once-per-hour bus loop would get us within a couple miles of the beach. We briefly discussed giving up and heading back to the airport but the allure of the beach called us forward to the bus stop. After all, as Jeremy Clarkson would say, “how hard could it be?”

We finished our sandwiches about the time the bus was ready to go. It’s now 1:45. We knew we would have a half hour ride to the coastal bus stop, but things were looking up. I had extended our airplane reservation to later in the evening, so nobody would think we were overdue. The bus driver turned up the CD player playing The Beatles “Let It Be” album. Things were looking up for us. We were on our way to the beach.

The closest bus stop to the beach in Astoria is outside of Fort Stevens at Jetty Road. This is a crazy thought. How could an oceanside community not have a bus stop that goes to the beach? From this point, as the bus driver told us, the beach is just about a mile walk and then over the dunes. We weren’t exactly excited about another mile of walking, but why not? The beach was within our grasp. We set off down Jetty Road in search of the Pacific Ocean.

A sign quickly alerted us to the growing problem. A little ways in, as the cars whizzed by on the road at high speed, the ocean beaches were not one, but two miles ahead. A look at the phone confirmed this fact. It was now about 2:30 and we considered heading back to the bus stop to go back. The weight of the beach gear we had been carrying now for hours and the hot sun bearing down was starting to make our spirits waver.

I had been apologizing to my bride all day for subjecting her to the long walks, rides, and general disorganization of this diversion. I don’t know if it was the heat, the fact that she’s 4 months pregnant, or just her general positive view of the world, but she continued to press on and all the time was smiling and happy for our trip.

We continued walking, past the Battery Russell, a WWII era coastal protection fortification. There were numerous paved bike trails and we took to walking on them. At one point, the road straightened out and provided a demoralizing long stretch into the horizon towards our goal. I kept hoping some kind person would see us walking, beach bags in hand, and offer to give us a lift the remaining mile or so to the beachfront.

At last, the tall conifers gave way to smaller scrub brush and the sound of the ocean waves could be heard in the distance. A dune was spotted above the horizon, and the road turned into a parking lot where a sandy path led up a steep hill to the crest of the dune. We stumbled up it, excited, elated that we had actually made it. After leaving the house at 9:30 this morning, walking, flying, and riding, we had finally reached the beach 5 1/2 hours later.

It didn’t matter that in the time it had taken us to get to this particular beach we could have driven from our home, and back. It certainly didn’t matter that our feet hurt and our backs were sore from carrying our things all day. We had made it. Was it great? No. It was your typical Oregon coast day – very windy and only in the mid 60’s. The water was colder and the strong wind embedded sand everywhere in our clothes, bodies, and bags. We sat down and enjoyed 20 minutes on the beach, both of us quietly smiling about the day we were having. Andrea enjoyed a sand sprinkled potato chip from our bag. I worked to erect the umbrella in the 30+ mph winds. We watched the kite surfers enjoy the breeze and shared a giggle at what our day had been like.

The time went by quickly on the clock, but seemed to last much longer to me. The sense of relaxation was enormous. After only just a short while, it was time to start our long journey home.

After packing our things, we pulled ourselves to the top of the sand dune and took one last look back at the ocean. Turning around, I pointed out Saddle Mountain in the far distance, the location of our first troubles of the day and a bold reference for how far we had come. Looking south, we could see that Seaside was still under the fog, a recognition of our good decision to not land there earlier and ultimately what set the events of the day in motion. We hiked down the land side of the dune, shook what sand we could from ourselves, and began to walk the road back out of Fort Stevens.

At Battery Russell, the need to wrap up the day feeling good took hold. I caved and called a local taxi service to pick us up and transport us to the airport. A few minutes later we were on our way, the female taxi driver of 17 years telling us about her weekend plans and the troubles of working two jobs. We traded small talk during the drive to the airport. It was so much shorter inside the air conditioned car, but much less exciting. It was ok though, as I exchanged a look with my wife, I could tell she was still happy for the day we shared no matter what the circumstances.

We arrived back at the Astoria airport after only 10 minutes. The cab ride cost $25, but it didn’t matter much. Our little Cessna 152 seemed to smile as the wind rocked her from left to right. She felt the strong north breeze blowing and knew it was time to go. We loaded our things back into the small plane, performed our preflight checks, and were off the ground quickly as the wind provided generous lift climbing to the northeast over Astoria.

Owing to the engine sputtering of earlier, our return flight was made over the Columbia River. I leveled the plane off at 3500 feet, told flight service we were on our way back to Troutdale, and settled in with the quiet of the world passing below us. Flying below radar coverage and the lower level winds keeping folks out of the sky, we were left with a quiet, reflecting flight eastward to Kelso. I kept one eye on the outside temperature, watching it climb steadily past 70, then 80, then 90 as we approached the heat of the valley; our home. Turning south to follow the river towards Portland, we were finally feeling the positive effect of the north winds. The GPS calculated our ground speed as 121 kts (139 mph), a speedy figure for our little airplane.

As we were descending into the Portland area, a patch of ground caught my eye. It was off in the distance, but ahead of me and on my side of the airplane. We were now level at 1500 feet to stay under PDX’s airspace. On the green ground below looked to be some specks. Some dark, some light, but all of them arranged in a not-so-random group. As we flew closer I was able to finally identify the specks – they were black and white spotted cows standing and laying in a field. I couldn’t help but smile while telling Andrea over the intercom that, “in my years of flying, I never realized what cows look like from up here.” I proposed that the reason I didn’t know was because I never took the time to look out and enjoy the scenery for anything more than just a visual flying reference. It was almost as if my eyes were opened for the first time to the beauty of the world below me.

Troutdale was sheltered from the north wind by terrain and as we crossed the north edge of the Columbia River, I shared with Andrea that my one of my favorite things was about to play on the radio. She looked at me as though I were just a little crazy as the Troutdale controller beckoned, “Cessna five five quebec, runway two five, cleared to land”. Those three words, “cleared to land”, always sound so good at your home airport. Much like your child or pet greeting you at the front door after a long time away. The controller has been waiting for you to arrive and the runway is the welcome mat, set forth just for you.

I warned Andrea that the landing might not be great, but my instincts and muscle reflexes worked against my brain to make a perfect approach and landing. We turned off, taxied to our parking spot, and shut down the engine. Inside they asked, “9 hours? Must have been a long flying day?”. “Nope”, I replied, “just two hours flying and seven at the beach.” If only it had been.

Our original quick trip to the beach had just ended and it was now 6 pm. More than 9 hours of traveling for 20 minutes at the coast. It didn’t matter though. It was all about the adventure getting there and back.