Back about the time that Ray was getting into the aviation business,but before he had the mail contracts, I was privileged to ride along on the southern route, which was serviced out of Boise at the time. The regular pilot called in sick and my friend and instructor got called to fill in. Besides the regular mail, part of the cargo that day was a couple of large inflatable rafts (un-inflated) and some other supplies that had to be dropped off at a riverside runway for the rafters who were flying in the next day. He needed help unloading the stuff, so he called me up just before I got off duty at 6 AM and invited me to ride along. So I ran home and changed out of my uniform and met him at the airport.

You should understand that I was a fearless young police officer who had recently completed my private pilots license and was well along on the requirements for my commercial license. While I had flown over the mountains, I had always landed on regular airports on flat land at least half a mile from the nearest hill. That day I was exposed to real bush pilot stuff and places. And the "pucker factor" was pretty high! The first stop was a ranch/hunting lodge in the middle of a nice flat valley with no real tall mountains close. The only reason they needed the service was that the government land surrounding the ranch had been declared a "roadless area". You flew in and out, or made a several day horse ride or hike through some rough country. No sweat! Next was a 5000 foot long strip at a ranger station. The only thing was it was at the bottom of a fairly deep canyon - it was nearly 5000 feet from the mountain tops down to the strip. Oh, and the elevation of the strip is approximately 5000 feet above sea level. We exchanged mail bags with the ranger without even shutting down the engine. Then we were off barely over the tree tops a couple of miles down the river and landed on an almost level, almost smooth area of knee high brown grass and weeds alongside the river. Not even a wind sock - just an area where there were suddenly tire tracks mashing down the weeds. That's where we unloaded the heavy stuff (the rafts and camping supplies).

Then it was back in the air - climbing to get enough altitude so the valley was wide enough to turn around. We overflew the next landing site to check it out - I never did see any place to land - then turn around and let down into the canyon again, zipping along about 10 feet above the water, turned a corner and flew straight at the mountain, and landed going uphill an a gravel bar that was about 300 feet long. He turned around and told me to keep the brakes on - hopped out with a mail bag, and was met by a weather beaten elderly lady in jeans, plaid shirt, tan canvas jacket and a battered, sweat stained cowboy hat. They hugged, exchanged mail bags, and he was back in the plane in about one minute flat. There were a couple more less dramatic stops, then the most beautiful, most scary one of all.

We climbed a good way up the canyon, then turned towards a rock wall with a narrow notch cut through it by a small creek which flowed out of the bottom of the notch. We skimmed across the top of the rocks so close that I was trying to raise up in the seat, then chopped power, put on full flaps, and dove towards the bottom of the little valley on the other side of the rocks. The valley was all green, and there were two rows of small log cabins painted barn red, with white pole fences around them. We landed on the grass between them. Take off down hill (towards the rock wall) was easy, but the climb over the rocks was something else! I don't think I breathed from the start of the roll until we had cleared the rocks and were headed down the river towards home. In case you haven't figured it out yet, I loved every second of it! Don't think I have ever had more fun with my clothes on! Trivia connected to the news story - Ray's father was Kenneth Arnold.