Cowboys in Cessnas: The pilots flying across the most remote stretches of America’s Lower 48

The steady silence of Idaho’s Frank Church-River of No Return Wilderness is broken periodically and predictably by a single-engine hum. One fleet of Cessna 206 planes delivers a cargo of gear, guides, and travelers to these tucked-away places, and runs the last airmail route in the lower 48.

Idaho’s 2.4 million-acre wilderness area, affectionately known as ‘the Frank,’ is the largest roadless area in the lower 48. It holds endless recreation opportunities and many hard-to-reach outposts. Yet landing strips dot the wilderness in the same way rapids litter the Middle Fork River (which is to say: There are a lot of them). The pilots who brave these short, crooked and bumpy airstrips are reminiscent of mountain men you hear about in legends of America’s ‘Wild West’—who appear out of nowhere and leave just the same.

When Mike Dorris steps out of his plane you know he’s a backcountry pilot. Despite his age, he’s as sturdy as the denim he’s wearing; the kind of jeans you’d get in the gas station-ranch supply-hardware store combo in the town of Stanley, Idaho. A bushy, white mustache emphasizes Mike’s jovial nature when he says hello. Here at Sawtooth Aviation, which is named for the mountain range rising sharply just west of town, Mike runs the show.

Mike Dorris inherited a knack for flying Idaho’s backcountry from his dad. But he didn’t always get his kicks in the air. 

After graduating from high school in the spring of 1974, Mike was immediately offered a place on the US Talent Ski Team. His father, Bill, advised him to go to college, but the young racer simply wanted to ski. He competed on the Canadian-American circuit, entering every race he could. But Mike didn’t have financial sponsors, nor family money that could front the bills like many of the other racers. With his racing expenses placed squarely on his shoulders, he ski-bummed his way across Canada, using whatever gear he could muster and riding race-to-race alongside gear manufacturer reps who were also going to the events. While most racers had five or six pairs of skis, he had two, which he says he “was real proud of.”

During the 1975-76 season, Mike traveled with the US B team to race in Europe. That was the one season he raced internationally, before coming back to the US and realizing that skiing—amateur or pro circuits—was a road that was coming to an end.

It was around that time that Mike’s dad, Bill Dorris, founded McCall Air Taxi. Bill flew Sea Planes for the Marine Corps, during World War II, and had plenty to teach his son. At just 24 years old, Mike went to work in the sky, making haul deliveries for his dad, who, even as an esteemed pilot himself, later admitted that Mike was the best he’d ever seen.

In 1985, Mike bought McCall Air Taxi from his father. Although he’s since sold that business and started another—Sawtooth Flying—he’s been flying here ever since.

Now near-70-year-old, Mike and his brothers—George, and Bill—are still navigating the skies in and out of the country’s most remote airstrips. Watching them fly is awe-inspiring. Hands fly from switch to button to switch, all while holding a conversation. A mix between mountain man and cowboy, I’ve seen these characters kick rocks out of the runway and bat beers out of soon-to-be passengers’ hands. George is ornery, a little difficult (or at least he wants you to think so). Mike’s cheerful smile lights up the dirt runway. Bill is happy to chat, and happy to stick to business just the same. They’re often gruff but not grumpy, and blunt but not mean, with sparkling smiles and eyes that twinkle with a hint of a life well-lived.

Idaho’s backcountry flying culture is unique. The state is effectively split in two by wilderness. The two halves, even while occupying the same longitudes, utilize different time zones. There’s just one north/south roadway connecting Northern and Southern Idaho, so flying is often the most effective way to get from one place to another. Outside of Alaska, Idaho is home to both the most backcountry airstrips and the highest demand for backcountry flying. The airstrips within the Frank and along the Middle Fork and the Main Stem of the Salmon River hold notoriously difficult take-offs and landings.

“A lot of pilots advertise they can fly anywhere but they don’t. They’re afraid. We do, only we do it at our time, under our conditions. That’s how you survive.”

- Bill Dorris

This area is thick with steep mountains and valleys, and many of the airstrips were built quickly in the 1950s when homesteaders raced to get in on the USPS’s new airmail route. “FAA standards… they’re not even close to my standards. You need to learn the different approaches… the different what-ifs,” Mike says. His standards have allowed him days in the cockpit, transplanting wolves into new habitats, evacuating rattlesnake-bite victims, rescuing survivors of another plane crash, and even—according to reporting by Andrew Slough—making pizza deliveries to bored, rich kids on the Salmon River on commercial boat trips.

On the day we sat down to talk about his life and career as a backcountry pilot, a passerby, recognizing Mike, interrupted us to ask if Mike was looking to hire any new pilots. Mike, as friendly as ever, told the hopeful fellow, “Go to school and get the ratings, then we’ll teach you how to fly.”

On this Monday in early September, the weather followed this summer’s typical pattern: The skies opened briefly and erratically, spitting rain on an otherwise sunny morning. Summer thunderstorms tend to expel explosive amounts of precipitation, and have the power to flood out tributaries to the Middle Fork River that so many folks in the area come to access.

On August 2, heavy rain caused multiple landslides on the upper end of the river. Notorious rapids like Velvet Falls and Sulphur Slide were buried by debris, rerouting the river corridor. With the landslide debris, years of deadfall ran into the river, creating river-wide logjams, and closing the drive-in Boundary Creek river launch for recreational boating. The Middle Fork is the second-most sought-after permit in the country behind the Grand Canyon. With seven launches per day, suddenly 170-some-odd people and their gear needed an alternative way into the river.

“To have it happen overnight was, you know, just crazy,” Mike reflects. Just like last year, and the year before that, trouble on the Middle Fork’s upper end forced all river trips to fly into Indian Creek, a put-in (boat access) lower on the river. With one overnight storm, traffic increased exponentially for the Dorris family team. Thirteen-hour days became the norm for the month of August.

Even when you set the number of hours aside, a 13-hour day is an impressive feat in backcountry flying. The Stanley airport sits at 6,000 feet, and the regular routes into the river corridor pass over mountains nearly 10,000 feet high. Normal flying hours are early morning and late afternoon when the air is typically smooth. However, to get everything and everyone into the river, the pilots are forced to fly through the middle of the day, when the air is rough with turbulence, storms, or both. “There were some really rough trips in and out … all the poor guides and freight go in the middle of the afternoon,” Mike says with an amused chuckle, “when it’s the worst conditions.”

“That was not a good time to fly in here,” quips George, after stopping feet short of the hillside marking the end of the Thomas Creek runway. It was mid-August, and after methodically weighing out every piece of freight, he had flown our heaviest boat and gear in a fully loaded Islander and a tailwind. Another afternoon storm had rolled in and was sitting right over our airstrip of choice, creating crazy wind patterns. You can’t read the tailwind on the instruments—you get the speed the engine thinks it’s going based on power, but nothing about a push from the wind. Bill Dorris, an Idaho Aviation Hall of Famer, once famously said, “A lot of pilots advertise they can fly anywhere but they don’t. They’re afraid. We do, only we do it at our time, under our conditions. That’s how you survive.” 

Of the 13 siblings and step-siblings, Mike, George, and Bill carry on the family’s flying legacy. This year, Mike’s daughter Katie took to the air for Sawtooth Flying. “That Katie critter,” Mike says fondly. “This is her first big season. I’m very proud of her. There’s things she does better, in my view, than someone I bring in off the street and train. I’m very proud of the way she’s taken the bull by the horns.” To watch Mike mentor Katie is to see that this business is run for the love of it all: The people, the place, and the flying.

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