Pilot Peril: ‘Kenny’s Upside Down!’ the Voice Crackled Back

It was a brisk November morning. The weather was giving off all the inklings of a good day to fly. No snow on the ground yet, light winds, slightly overcast skies, and temperatures still hanging in the high 50s and low 60s.

My buddy Brad had flown into my strip—a 1,500-foot cow pasture with a dogleg turn and the occasional mound of manure, courtesy of my cows. Every time I cleaned my airplane, it seemed like the next takeoff or landing splattered fresh cow pie across the wings.

We were catching up in my barn hangar when we heard a plane overhead. Just like flies are drawn to manure, airplanes are drawn to other airplanes. That’s just how it goes. A minute later, another plane flew by. We made a call on the radio and heard our friends Brent in his Rans S-7 and Kenny in his Kitfox.

“Want to come fly?” one of them asked through the static. Of course, we did—it was too nice a day not to. 

They mentioned heading up the river to land on a spot I had found earlier that year. I was fresh off a trip to the northernmost parts of Alaska—three days solo in my 1956 jalopy of a Super Cub, followed by a week of hunting in the Brooks Range with my son. The weather, the distance, the terrain—they humbled me, but I came home a better pilot.

The spot they wanted to land on, though, wasn’t easy. Narrow trees, uphill then downhill, ending in a cliff. I told them I’d join but wanted to see their skills first as they were new pilots. I suggested a butte above a nearby reservoir—long, flat, and perfect for practice.
Half-joking, half not, I said to Brad, “Let’s go wreck a plane,” as I shut the hangar door. Bad humor, I know.

We climbed into our planes—Brad in his Husky and me in my Cub—and quickly took off to find our airborne buddies. I love flying with them, and I love helping them sharpen their skills, especially landings. Ten minutes later, I dropped onto the grassy butte, dodging sagebrush, but my Cub’s 35-inch tires made it feel smooth as butter. 

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The running joke is, “It’s always smooth for Bigelow.” It was. I hopped out and filmed the others as they came in for their first landings at this challenging spot.
Kenny came in first, smooth and perfect. Brent was steady and accurate, and I even caught him blasting a tumbleweed into the air with his prop wash. Brad nailed it, like always.

We climbed out, admired the reservoir, and talked for a bit. I own 40 acres of farmland next to a Costco in Idaho Falls, Idaho, about a 15-minute flight from where we were. I asked if they wanted to land at my farm and get a $1.50 hot dog, my treat. They took me up on my offer but only after a few more practice landings.

I took off first, crossed the lake, and found a long, smooth field. Lined up and slowed down, I landed and taxied to a 45-degree angle so I could watch the others. This time I wasn’t going to film—it looked too easy.

Kenny came in first. He clipped a little scrub brush with his wingtip but settled it down fine. He rolled past me, disappearing out of sight behind my high wing.

I radioed for Brent to land next. His voice crackled back immediately: “Kenny’s upside down!”

Confused, as I had just seen him slowing down, I killed my engine, jumped out, and ran. Sure enough, the Kitfox was on its back, and Kenny was crawling out. No blood, no carnage, just a dazed Kenny staring at his plane.

I knew that sinking, gut-punch feeling. I’ve had my share of bent metal too. But he was alive, unhurt, and walking. I grabbed him in a bear hug: “Planes are easy to fix. Bodies aren’t.” Pilots can, and should, hug other pilots when they wreck—it’s almost required.

 Kenny muttered about bouncing and braking too hard. I radioed to the others: “Kenny’s fine, just shook up. Don’t land. One wrecked plane is enough today.”

With no way to right the plane ourselves, we called 911. Soon we spotted two sheriff’s trucks grinding across the lava rock and sagebrush, sirens wailing and lights flashing. They arrived, snapped pictures, had Kenny call the National Transportation Safety Board, and then helped us flip the plane end over end, balancing it with their winches, which was a feat in itself. The prop and tail were damaged, but the wings intact.

Once upright, we loaded Kenny into my Cub and made a clean takeoff, bouncing across the field and slowly creeping into the air. Thankfully, it was uneventful. We tipped a wing to the deputies, and 15 minutes later were back at the airport.

Kenny fetched his truck and a buddy with a trailer, drove back to the crash site, folded the Kitfox’s wings, winched it aboard, and was home by dark.

I swore a vow of silence. Kenny was embarrassed and didn’t want photos shared. But a year and a half later, the story’s different, and he’s ready to share. The plane is rebuilt with a sharp new paint job, Kenny’s back flying, and the Kitfox was even featured at Oshkosh last year. Time heals.

Looking back, could we have done anything differently? Probably not. Things happen. Life’s safer if you never take risks, but where’s the adventure in that? We’re grateful Kenny walked away unhurt. The accident was ruled pilot error. He hit a rock, bounced, braked too hard, and the airplane went up and over.

We look back at the experience now and laugh, but the lessons still matter. The biggest one for me—something I knew even before flying that day—is the importance of understanding every pilot’s skill level and every airplane’s limitations. My Super Cub has 35-inch tundra tires and 180 hp. It can handle rougher terrain and steeper approaches than my buddies’ lighter, smaller-tired aircraft. Just because I can get into a spot doesn’t mean they can—or should. Being a good wingman means knowing those limits and never encouraging someone to push beyond them.

Off-airport flying is tricky. What looks smooth and flat from a hundred feet in the air can be hiding ruts, rocks, and gopher hills the size of bowling balls. The rock that started Kenny’s bounce was invisible from above. Multiple passes, slow flybys, or following another pilot who has already landed the spot are the best ways to assess a site safely.

Another lesson: Always have a wingman. If you’re going into the backcountry—away from roads, people, and help—have another airplane with you. An ordinary landing can turn into an emergency instantly.

A good friend and mentor of mine was moose hunting in Alaska a few years ago. He was 5 miles from camp, engine running, ready to take off, when a sudden crosswind gust picked his plane up and cartwheeled it across the tundra. He walked away unharmed, but he had a long, lonely hike back to camp. A wingman gives you options, and honestly, flying with buddies is more fun anyway.

Assessing other pilots’ abilities takes time and honesty. Difficult landing spots are both stressful and exhilarating. That adrenaline is what keeps many of us coming back.

When I first started flying, we practiced on a grassy strip with cones—short takeoffs, short landings, slow flight, crosswind handling, you name it. Our first off-airport landings were in smooth farm fields and flat lakebeds. As our skills and judgment developed, the landing sites became more technical. Experience builds confidence, but it also sharpens humility.

Off-airport flying is incredible. I’ve heard it called “dirt biking in the sky,” and I absolutely agree. But it comes with real risks. But those risks can be managed with practice, good communication, honest self-assessment, and airplanes equipped for the terrain.

This column first appeared in the May Issue 970 of the FLYING print edition.