From a thousand feet, the Alaskan tundra is a verdant landscape broken only by rivers winding down to Bristol Bay. Loni Habersetzer banks his Piper Super Cub steeply over one of the rivers. He circles once, twice, then descends for a closer look.
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What's the matter?
The airplane is now low over the water, the wingtips seeming to brush tall spruces nearby. Habersetzer turns to follow a sharp river bend. He's found a place to land, he tells me.
Ahead is a bar covered with pieces of driftwood and boulders the size of basketballs.
Habersetzer cuts back the power. The airplane's tires skim water, throwing up rooster tails of spray.
We're not landing, we're crashing.
The airplane bounces up onto the bar and jolts to a stop. Habersetzer turns to me. "Great, isn't it?" he asks, grinning.
Habersetzer specializes in landing on difficult places: narrow gravel bars, steep mountain slopes, rock-strewn glaciers, rough beaches, muddy bogs, stamp-size clearings. Depending on the conditions, he can land and take off in an area as small as 100 to 150 feet, a little more than five airplane lengths. Other bush pilots land and take off from challenging terrain, but they do it for practical reasons, to deliver cargo or carry passengers to and from remote areas. Habersetzer flies into unwelcoming places purely for sport, pushing the limits of his ability and the performance envelope of his airplane.
Habersetzer shuts down the engine. The only sound is that of the river rushing by. He gets out of the airplane and surveys the rock bar, pacing its length. It is barely longer than a railroad boxcar. Habersetzer knows within just a few feet the length he needs for takeoff. Here, he will run out of solid ground, but by that point he thinks he will have enough speed and enough lift under the wings for the airplane to safely hydroplane along the water until he can get it airborne.