I hate to fly. I really hate to fly in small planes. Yet every year, I head to northwest Ontario for a fly-in fishing trip. I guess I like fishing in Canada more than I hate flying.

Over the years the pilots have changed. When I started going up, they were large, grizzly adams-looking, bush pilots. Now, you're likely to have some kid with multiple piercings in his face.

However, the planes haven't changed at all. Old Vikings, Cessna, Norseman, Otter's. Usually all of the writing on the panel has been worn away, and a Garmin GPS is duck taped to the yoke. Even with the Canadian aviation rules, I don't put much faith in any outfitters "survival kit." Add in the fact that the palne is packed with gear and provisions, I find it doubtful you would be able to find it in any kind of hurry.

I carry a fairly comprehensive kit in a Mountainsmith a$$pack, worn backwards, with the pack in front, so you can sit.

In the 26 years I've been doing this, I remember one brief on ditching and the survival kit, and that was probably 26 years ago.

There's just something unnatural in flying in a plane that was built 20 years before I was born, piloted by a kid who was built while I was in college.