I love working in aviation sales. It’s a privilege to collaborate with friends and help clients across the country meet their aviation needs. Most of our work centers on high-speed, technologically-advanced aircraft that operate almost like time machines—turning what could be an all-day airline journey into a few efficient hours. That kind of flying is remarkable, and it never stops impressing me.
But I’m fortunate to enjoy another side of aviation as well—one defined by flying slow and low. I was introduced to backcountry flying in the early 2010s, when my wife, Jessica, decided we needed a new “adventure” in life. Those experiences have stayed with me, filling me with a sense of wonder and joy, and they are the reason I believe the world needs more Super Cubs.
Jess and I met in Denver in 2008 because she recognized the Skyline Chili shirt I was wearing and immediately said, “You must be from Ohio!” She wasn’t wrong. I grew up in Ohio, but mountains and the backcountry captured my imagination after college and eventually pulled me to Colorado. We became close fast, built a life together, and spent every spare moment outside—skiing, biking, kayaking, running, and doing just about anything you can do in the Rockies. She worked as a physical therapist; I worked for a Part 135 charter and management company.
A few years in, Jess’s professional goals outgrew the opportunities at her employer. One day she floated the idea of moving to Alaska. She called it an adventure. I hesitated—we had a great life in Denver. Then she added, “Ok, if we move to Alaska, you can buy an airplane…”
SOLD.
We wrapped up life in Colorado and moved north—way north. Within a few weeks, I had already found the perfect airplane. When I showed Jess, she promptly added a new rule: I needed to be gainfully employed before we spent money on a Cub. The nerve. But fair is fair. I found a job, and before long we were the proud new owners of a very old airplane.
My evenings quickly found a rhythm. After work, I’d launch from the Lake Hood gravel strip, cross the Knik Arm of the Cook Inlet, and wander through the Susitna River basin. Dozens of gravel bars and river bends offered a new challenge every night. Wildlife appeared constantly. Flying a Super Cub gives you something unique in aviation—time and proximity. Time to truly observe. Proximity to appreciate the details of the environment: the texture of the riverbed, the subtle shift of wind along a bend, the way an eagle banks into a turn. It’s a kind of flying that rewards patience, discipline, and situational awareness.
Follow the Susitna far enough north and you reach Talkeetna. The town is small, but its aviation presence is anything but. Two airports serve it: one paved and IFR-capable, the other a short, tree-lined grass-and-gravel strip that places you in the heart of town the moment you shut down.
The video above shows the approach into that strip. On short final, Jess pans left to catch Denali in the distance. That view still feels like a gift every single time. Note that the aircraft was not the one we purchased, but an aircraft owned by my employer.
Today, much of my professional life is spent helping jet owners cross continents efficiently. Jet travel is extraordinary—its speed, capability, and sophistication continue to amaze me—and I’m grateful to work in that arena.
But the Super Cub opened another dimension of aviation for me: one built on simplicity, slowness, and a different kind of mastery. Not better and not competing with jet travel—just another expression of the same remarkable world. And for me, moving unhurried across a river valley at 150 feet is just as significant as watching a jet I’ve supported climb into the flight levels. Both are privileges. Both are aviation at its finest. The contrast isn’t the point. The gratitude is.
-Kris Klain, Integrator
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