Idaho: Mike Dorris, Backcountry Bush Pilot

Dorris squints at the western horizon then shakes his head. It’s clear he isn’t happy with his choices but says, “I’ll give it a try....but, if the weather falls apart, we’ll have to turn back.”

As the Cessna skids in the Salmon’s strong upstream winds, Dorris turns to Tim Hall and, raising his voice to be heard, inquires, “You think Tom has got the horses off the strip?”

La Nina is raising hell with Mike Dorris. Foul weather has grounded Sawtooth Flying Service for the past week and Dorris, who holds the U.S. Mail contract for the western half of Idaho’s Frank Church River of No Return Wilderness Area, needs to fly. Under most circumstances, neither wind, rain, snow nor hail can keep the U.S. Mail from it’s appointed rounds, but during the night, all four have raked McCall airport and Dorris now contrasts the long range forecast to the intermittent patches of blue sky and realizes, if he doesn't fly now, he won't be able to fly for another four days . . . if then. 

Dorris, however, faces greater pressures than the mail. Ranch hand Tim Hall is overdue at the South Fork of the Salmon Ranch and the snowbound mining town of Warren, Idaho needs supplies. Dorris squints at the western horizon then shakes his head. It’s clear he isn’t happy with his choices but says, I’ll give it a try....and if the weather falls apart, we’ll have to turn back.

Tim Hall quickly squeezes into the back, I climb into the right seat, Dorris starts the engine and taxis onto the runway. When the temperature gauge rises off the stop,  he opens the throttle and we start to roll between five foot walls of snow. 

We have barely cleared the eastern ridges when the weather socks in around the high wing Cessana. The promising patches of blue suddenly close as the wind hits us from three directions at once. Surrounded by black thunderheads dragging white veils of snow across Idaho’s Salmon River Mountains, the Cessna is hammered by riotous cross currents that drop the nose, lift the right wing and make the six cases of beer, five boxes of food, a box of mail and three wide eyed passengers shake, rattle and roll in discordant harmony.

Mike Dorris may have a reputation as one of Idaho’s best back country pilots but I’m beginning to wonder if, in this case, discretion might indeed be the better part of valor. As the Cessna skids in the Salmon’s strong upstream winds, Dorris turns to Tim Hall and, raising his voice to be heard, inquires, “You think Tom has got the horses off the strip?”

Hall has worked on the South Fork of the Salmon Ranch for ten years, twists to get a view of the strip then yells back, “It looks like he has.” 

“And you say the strip was solid? No mud?”

“It was when I left last week and Tom said it’s still in pretty good shape . . . ”

Dorris puts the Cessna into a hard left turn between the rocky canyon walls then banks hard right and points the nose at a small pasture that is divided by a rough dirt landing strip. Turbulent winds sweeping Salmon Ranch’s rock cliffs have downgraded the short dirt strip into a dicey uphill landing and as he lowers the flaps for final approach, the horses stampede toward the far fence line, the plane flashes over the river, Dorris cuts the throttle and we sink.

First impressions of Mike Dorris are the most accurate. Five foot nine, a hundred and sixty pounds with thinning blonde hair and a self conscious smile, he is a family man who worships his wife Leslee and five year old daughter Katie. He is also extraordinarily capable––a skilled mechanic and superb pilot who, at the same time, is intensely modest.  

During his quarter century of flying into Idaho’s back country strips, he has witnessed everything capricious nature and foolhardy men can throw at him. In the course of transplanting drugged wolves, evacuating rattle snake bite victims, risking his own life to save plane crash survivors and delivering pizzas to bored rich kids on river trips, he has skidded off icy runways and once almost clipped a pine on take off, but in this country of explosive thunder storms, fickle currents and deep canyons he’s never stuck a plane or crashed. Equally amazing is, through it all he has maintained a sense of humor, patience, and optimism––all essential traits if you’re going to run a wilderness air service or race on the U.S. Ski Team. 

Born in McCall, Idaho Mike Dorris graduated from high school in the Spring of 1974 and, as a result of his finishes in the Pacific Northwest, was offered a place on the U.S. Talent Team. His father Bill Dorris advised him to go to college, but Mike wanted to race. The berth allowed him to compete on the CanAm circuit, which served as a stepping stone for larger, more prestigious races. Because none of his expenses were paid for, Dorris bummed his way across Canada. He skied on Nordica Boots and to save money, often rode with the rep. One night Canadian customs stopped a van full of team members to ask why they had so many pair of skis. Mike remembers, one kid said, “The ski manufacturer gives us these skis”

“Everyone else had five pair while I had two old work horses I was real proud of.”

Mike traveled with the U.S. B team in Europe during 1975–76 but found himself back on the Talent Team for the winter of 77–78.  He raced well locally but without financial backing, couldn’t afford to return to Europe.

Dorris recalls, “I went to spring series that year at Squaw Valley and won three of the slaloms and did well in the giant slalom. Unfortunately, the races I won, Phil and Steve Mahre didn’t enter.

Without ever leaving the West, when the season ended Dorris was ranked third nationally and while he subsequently accepted Rossignal’s sponsorship to race pro, after three years and mixed results on the dual course format, he returned to McCall.  Summing up his pro career, he says, “I didn’t do as well as I thought I would and kind of wished I had stayed amateur.

Mike’s dad, Bill Dorris who, during World War II, flew Corsairs and Sea Planes for the Marine Corps, had just started McCall Air Taxi. Mike had his pilot’s license and just twenty-four years old, went to work shuttling loads into the back country. Bill, who was a legendary pilot, admitted that Mike was the best he’d ever seen. Mike bought the company from his dad in 1985 and now owns two airplanes outright and during the summer leases twelve more to supply river trips.  

It was alternately snowing and raining on top of six inches of wet powder when I met Mike at McCall’s Brundage Ski Area. Mike showed up in twelve year old rear entry boots and a pair of 215 centimeter giant slaloms. Studying my shaped Dynastars, he apologized for his ancient equipment then guided me into glades where a thick fog drifted among the lodge pole pine and subalpine fir. With visibility often down to a few feet, photos amounted to unfocused splashes of color in a gray fog.  and yet despite his long skis and the horrific conditions, Dorris is a world class skier. Legs rising and falling in time to buried ruts and bumps, skis arcing through the heavy snow, he fades into the fog.

I found him standing in the lee of an old growth doug fir. “The conditions aren’t much to brag about,” he admitted. “But then, we’ve got the mountain to ourselves.” He then turned and floated downhill until the fog again closed around him.

Bill Dorris was once questioned about the value of ski planes. He thought for a moment then replied, “If you don’t have to put skis on your plane, don’t!”

The weather is threatening to ground the Cessna, and Dorris quickly bids the two men goodbye, starts the engine and as soon as it warms, opens the throttle. Thirty seconds later the wheels clear the ruts and we turn south, upriver.  

To reach the snowbound mining town of Warren, Mike is forced to fly a circuitous course, first west then north, dodging the violent cumulus that hide snow squalls and treacherous winds.

Jen Monson, the town’s postmistress has lived in Warren for seventeen years and admits that, in winter, Dorris is their lifeline to the outside. Loading supplies onto the ATV she confesses, “We all love Mike. He’s flown in desperate weather to see we get packages for Christmas, or supplies for Thanksgiving. He’s just a very special friend.”

Warren is composed of one main street flanked by weathered wood buildings. From the smoke curling out of the stove pipes and chimneys, some are inhabited but many are not.

The skis bang across buried tracks and trees loom in the windshield. Mike increases the flaps, pulls back on the stick and the Cessna labors into the air.  

Some of Dorris’ perfect form can be written off to a home hill advantage, a percentage more to his years ski racing, but the rest was simply raw genetic talent. 

Cambridge Idaho River Outfitter Jerry Hughes of Hughes River Adventures, has flown with Dorris for years and says Dorris is both professional and patient to a fault. “Mike’s an incredible pilot, maybe even the best bush pilot in the lower forty-eight.” Hughes says. “He will do anything he possibly can to help you out.”

Dorris once flew out to a remote strip to help a friend unstick a ski plane.  As soon as he touched down the Cessna promptly broke through a sun crust and sank to its belly. 

“It took us four hours to dig the two planes out,” Dorris remembers. “And another two days to pack out a runway with snow shoes before we could get airborne.”

Bill Dorris was once questioned about the value of ski planes. He thought for a moment then replied, “If you don’t have to put skis on your plane, don’t!” 

Mike and his brother Pat, however, regularly ignored their Father’s advice.  Landing on a remote ridge, one brother would ski sheer chutes and shadowed glades while the other flew down to the pickup point.  

Dorris also, very occasionally, relocates wolves to the backcountry. Typically the stock kiillers are sedated, the rear seat is removed and the wolves are laid out in the back of the plane. Dorris was flying two mature wolves, when one come to and snapped at him. A few months later, Idaho’s Fish and Game loaded a mother cougar and two nearly grown kittens into dog kennels.  With half an hour to go, the cats started hissing and banging around in back. By the time Mike landed all three were fully awake and angry as hell. 

Flying wolves and cougars, however, are minor details when compared to the two pilots who screwed up on final approach and cart wheeled across a backcountry strip. 

Dorris landed shortly after the crash and remembers, “It tore the airplane up pretty good. The tail was hanging in a tree and when I got there one of the pilots was limping down the runway with a mule to ferry his injured friend out to a flat place where a Life Flight Helicopter could land. He had head injuries, a broken shoulder, both legs were pretty well shot . . . he spent months in therapy, but did survive.”

We bang across the frozen ruts in the South Fork of the Salmon River Ranch strip, then stop short of the trees. Mike turns the plane, shuts off the engine then climbs out and shakes hands with Tom Roberts who was raised along the Salmon River. Roberts helps out with the South Fork Ranch when Tim Hall flies out to see his wife and three daughters.  While Hall and Roberts quickly unload the supplies, Dorris studies the towering thunderhead that blocks the way to Warren. The weather is threatening to ground the Cessna, and Dorris quickly bids the two men goodbye, starts the engine and as soon as it warms, opens the throttle. Thirty seconds later the wheels clear the ruts and we turn south, upriver.  

To reach the snowbound mining town of Warren, Mike is forced to fly a circuitous course, first west then north, dodging the violent cumulus that hide snow squalls and treacherous winds. Due in large part to Dorris’ perseverance and patience, we get lucky. The clouds part, the flakes thin and a cluster of snow covered roofs,  weathered wood walls and rusting machinery appears at the end of a short, snowy strip.  Set at the end of the end of a gravel road, in summer the town serves as tourist attraction but it takes a strong constitution to winter over.     

In winter, Warren’s population averages between nine and fifteen people. Some are retired, others cater to the snowmobilers who follow the unplowed road in from Meadows, Idaho.

The Cessna has just stopped moving when Jan Monson, Warren’s Postmistress stops her ATV under the wing.  Monson has lived in Warren for seventeen years and admits that, in winter, Dorris is their lifeline to the outside. Loading supplies onto the ATV she confesses, “We all love Mike. He’s a great guy, who goes out of his way to see that things are done right. He’s flown in desperate weather to see we get packages for Christmas, or supplies for Thanksgiving. He’s just a very special friend.”

Mike and I take half an hour to explore the town that climbs a gentle hill above the runway. Warren is composed of one main street flanked by weathered wood buildings. From the smoke curling out of the stove pipes and chimneys, some are inhabited but many are not. Though deserted, the ancient hotels, houses, and mining implements are in good repair and we walk down the main street to the empty Winter Inn where Kristy Salter is fighting the flu on the couch. 

Kristy and her boyfriend lease the bar which was built in the 1930s after fire destroyed the original structure. 

Salter has just enough time to tell me that, without Dorris, she would face a two hours snowmobile trip to the main road for supplies, before Mike quietly interrupts.  

“The wind has stopped,” he warns “In minutes it will turn 180 degrees. We can’t generate enough lift with a tail wind.” Following Warren’s snowy main street back to the Cessna, I drag my feet, take photos and regret there is no time to meet the old miner who was around during Warren’s heyday.  Cancer has taken his throat and he can barely talk but there are other, equally as wise and colorful characters living in the weathered cabins.  

A strong east wind is blowing when Dorris opens the throttle. The Cessna slowly accelerates down the snowy strip.  A hundred, then two hundred yards race beneath the skis. The tail wind Mike fears is killing the lift. And still we hurtle toward a wall of trees at the end of the runway. The skis bang across buried tracks and trees loom in the windshield. Mike increases the flaps, pulls back on the stick and the Cessna labors into the air.  

Glancing over, I see he is unruffled. His expression tells me it was close, but not that close. It occurs to me that racing World Cup and flying back country ski planes both depend on reactions, judgment and more than a little courage.  And as the Cessna climbs into a threatening sky toward McCall, I’m grateful Mike Dorris is at the controls.

Watch Mike Dorris on the Discovery Channel’s "River of No Return”