By Will Day, Alaska Airmen's Association
The daily migration of floatplanes outside our Lake Hood building is occasionally interrupted by the lumbering thrum of a Grumman Goose. The sound of it beckons us to our windows. Seeing a Goose operate recalls how it must have felt to witness the last of the mammoths before they vanished from the Earth. For an Alaskan aviator, it can be a spiritual experience—a hint at what once was and soon will be no more. Roughly 30 of these amphibious birds remain airworthy today (Roberts, 2019), and it is not difficult to believe that number will soon decline. They are a costly machine to keep alive.
John Pletcher’s Goose, N703, was built by the U.S. military in the summer of 1944. “It first saw service with the United States Marine Corps, and was stationed at several Naval Air Stations including Annapolis, Point Mugu, and Santa Barbara.” (Our Goose, n.d.). The military flew it as a pilot trainer for over a decade before determining it obsolete and passing it off to the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Department in the 60’s. N703 retired from bush work in 1974 and settled into the reeds on the east shore of Lake Spenard, where it lay dormant for over 20 years. When the owner flew West, Pletcher purchased the Goose in the 90’s intent on restoring it to original condition. It took over 8,000 hours of labor and nearly two years to ferry her back up the Styx.
In 1996, the revitalized amphibian returned to Alaskan skies, resuming its original calling as a flight training vessel. Pletcher has since partnered with Burke Mees to offer a variety of training opportunities. N703 now accrues nearly 100 hours each year, inviting lucky pilots to soar back in time to an era where the sight of flying boats was routine in Northern skies.
A few months ago, while watching floatplanes zip by my window—an inherent distraction in this job—I watched N703 sink slowly down to Lake Hood from over the Cook Inlet. It drifted lazily through the sky as if noticing the magnificent weather and contemplating whether it had to land at all. The flying boat floated on a pillow of air, feet above the water before accepting gravity and skimming past my window. It was the first time I’d seen the Goose in action, and I was transfixed. I’d read about the Fish and Wildlife using the birds for a variety of purposes in Ray Tremblay’s riveting book On Patrol: True Adventures of an Alaska Game Warden. As an aspiring bush pilot, I was captivated by the romantic notion of using such a vessel to traverse the state enforcing wildlife management laws. I knew after seeing the Goose—an aircraft I then thought surely to have gone extinct—I had to learn more.
After a quick phone call explaining this article, Pletcher put me in touch with Mees, who very generously offered to take me aloft to get a sense of how operating a Goose would have felt. Abby Austin (our Executive Director) and I arrived at The Goose Hangar on an unnaturally sunny, September day. Pletcher poured us a cup of coffee and regaled us with the history of his retirement project. When asked why he’d decided to take on such a behemoth project, he joked around the question, and Mees cut to the meat of it. Restoring the Goose had become an endeavor to preserve a piece of aviation history, so it could then be shared with other interested aviators.
Our questions answered and coffee drained, we climbed through the passenger door and stepped into a fuselage that appeared akin to a well-groomed submarine. The polished mahogany floor was covered with protective carpet that muffled our footsteps as we made for our seats. The interior smelled of an era when machines were built to outlast their builders, and the fine condition of this aircraft underscored that sentiment. Here was a flying machine manufactured in the 1940’s, still operating exactly as designed over 70 years later. I stepped into the right seat, buckled up and adjusted the headset. Mees walked us through the start-up checklist and explained how an experienced pilot used asymmetrical thrust and differential braking in harmony with the rudder to coax the bird along the taxiway, down the ramp and into the water. Once comfortably afloat, he handed me the controls and let me try my hand at the complex taxi procedure. Keeping the imaginary centerline involves aligning the bow cleat with a point in the distance. If the boat begins to drift left of the point, you apply a short, light burst of left thrust. Overdo it, and you find your riding the pendulum too far to the right. Eventually, you get the feel of the oscillations and begin to anticipate course deviations before they develop momentum, and you assume a modicum of a straight trajectory—at least, that’s the theory.
Mees demonstrated our takeoff and convinced the Goose to head out over Cook Inlet. He vocalized a cruise checklist and handed off the controls. Friends, let me tell you, a Goose is no Pacer! I had been given the controls of a flying cruise liner, and much to my surprise, a leftward tilt of the yoke yielded a leftward bank. Sure enough, further testing proved a forward rotation of the trim wheel dropped the nose. Hot damn, this was indeed a boat and an airplane! Mees regained control and masterfully swooped down to Twin Island Lake. We glided across the glassy surface and plowed to a stop. Abby and I quickly swapped seats, and I watched the spray outside the passenger windows. Mees took over and flew us back to Lake Hood. As we passed over the auburn leaves, I pondered how very different this flight experience had been. We had operated the Goose on a road, in a lake, and in the air. Sure, there are other amphibs, but the Goose feels different. Taking her controls feels like putting on your warmest parka, stepping into the bitter cold, and trusting it to preserve you until your return to the warmth. It embodies the heritage of Alaskan aviation—the freedom to venture beyond roads, supplying remote outposts and villages with supplies and facilitating travel throughout a still-wild state.
The Association’s mission is to protect, preserve, and promote general aviation in Alaska, which is precisely what The Goose Hangar is doing. Their Goose is a symbol of aviation heritage in this state, and they are working hard to preserve its legacy. We admire and support their endeavor and invite our readers to consider contributing to their cause—whether through donation or signing up for flight instruction. With any luck, N703 will continue to skim across Lake Hood for decades to come.
Sources
Our Goose. (n.d.). Retrieved from The Goose Hangar: https://www.goosehangar.com/ourgoose
Roberts, D. (2019, May 15). Pilot Perspectives: Flying the Grumman Goose. Retrieved from General Aviation News: https://generalaviationnews.com/2019/05/15/pilot-perspectives-flying-the-grumman-goose/
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