I was about to start assembling my flight gear and finish getting ready to leave when the phone rang. Now, my phone doesn’t ring that often, and even less often early in the morning. So I picked it up and said “hello”.
I didn’t recognize the voice that answered at all, so I was a bit puzzled at the beginning of the conversation, but a couple of repetitions of “Who?” lead the caller to establish their identity as J.
Wow.
You know, if there’s one thing I should recognize about this guy it’s his voice.
This positive ID was followed by a profusion of apologies that he was, bascially, calling in sick and couldn’t get to the airport. I thanked him for not sharing his germs, and for letting me know before I drove 70 miles. Funny thing, he sounded pretty upbeat, if a load of gravel rolling downhill could be said to sound cheerful. Just his normal sunny personality, I guess. But the man was ill, and muttered about how miserable he was and how he couldn’t get ahold of C to let her know and he felt like total crap. I told him to get better.
OK, no tailwheels that week. If I had pressed C she could have supplied another instructor, but I don’t really like jumping back and forth and, to be honest, the wallet could use some rest, too, once in awhile.
The following week, J was better so I made plans to go out there for another lesson. I also dragged the husband along - aside from it being a way for us to spend time together, I like him to meet my flight instructors and know who I’m flying with. So, I packed me, my gear, and the husband into the car and we headed west, him driving and me navigating.
We showed up about 10 minutes early for my time slot. Inquries as to where J was resulted in the front desk girl pointing straight up. Of course. How silly to even need to ask. Told the husband to settle in for a bit. He said how long? I said a half an hour wouldn’t surprise me a bit. I asked where the Citabria was, so I could start pre-flighting. Turned out that was what J was flying, along with another student. Guess I had to settle in, too.
It was a truly beautiful summer day. Clear blue sky. Calm winds. I was vastly disappointed. You see, I needed a firm, 15 knot crosswind for training purposes, and to demonstrate I could handle the Citabria in less than perfect conditions. >sigh<
While I was wandering around out front, looking skyward with what was, I’m sure, a forelorn expression on my face, C said something about how J had gotten a late start and made apologetic noises. I reassured her I wasn’t in a hurry, and that J being a little tardy was nothing unusual, was it? I was planning to be here all day, and in flying I try not to be in too much of a hurry in any case. Truth is, I usually schedule an extra half an hour to allow for J’s tendencies, which normally gives me lots of time to pre-flight and think about the day so it’s not a total loss.
At about 9:30 I’m back in the office, talking with the husband. There’s the rumble of an airplane engine from outside the office trailer and a few minutes later J comes in (a half an hour late), his student in tow (just so you don’t get the wrong idea, since “student” often conjures up images of youth, the student in question looked about 65-70 years old). J says hello to me, mentions that the airplane needs fuel, and says he’ll get back to me. I introduce him and my husband, then go out to take care of the airplane.
You know, I’ve never said anything to J about his lateness - he knows about it, apologizes for it, then does it again the next time. I suspect it does contribute to things like what confronted me when I went out to the airplane. J and prior student had left it parked diagonally across the ramp/taxiway in front of the mainteance hangar, effectively blocking the pavement. Also making it difficult if not impossible for the fuel truck to get access to the tanks. It looked like it had been parked in a hurry.
The fuel truck was pulling up, in fact, when I went out, and I could tell the man in the cab was looking annoyed - stupid pilots! Leaving their toys out everywhere! I rapped on the door, asked if he had the avgas tank (as opposed to the jet fuel), and told him I’d get things sorted out in a minute.
Now, I can move the Citabria on my own, even if it weighs nine times what I do, but it’s an effort and it takes awhile. So I drafted a random passerby/pilot to help out. We manhandled the airplane off the pavement and onto the grass so it would be out of the way, then used a push-pull on the struts to get it lined up nicely for the fuel truck to fill. This can look kind of rough on the struts - I’ve had passersby who weren’t pilots react to that, usually cautioning me to be careful and not break anything. Well, the struts don’t look that impressive, but they have to support several tons apiece in flight. Much more force than I can exert with my muscles. If the struts can’t handle little me hauling on them I don’t want to fly the airplane! Pilots know (or should know) what parts can handle being pushed and pulled and which ones can’t.
It turned out to be a busy pre-flight. Not only was I having to stay out of the way of the ladder, fuel line, grounding wire, and truck (I’ve seen/been party to some amusing - and potentially hazardous - slapstick episodes involving all of the above in the past), but sometime during all this the husband came out with the camera, and C was hanging around. There was posing for a couple pictures, signing for the gas (which C did this time)… When everyone left/was shooed away I said heck with it and started the preflight over because I couldn’t remember where I had left off. Sure, the machine had been flying just fine an hour ago but I wanted to be sure it would fly fine for the next hour.
J came out with his usual fast trot, trying to catch up with himself, I guess. I was already in the airplane. J did his usual squeeze into the back seat and… there’s the husband, with the camera again. Alright, everybody say “cheese” and look happy… Then it’s time to get serious again.
As I’m flipping switches and pulling levers I mention to J that, since we don’t have the needed wind today this is a “maintenance of skills” day and unless we get the proper wind this afternoon we’re only flying this once. To which he says OK, that’s the plan.
As we pull onto the ramp area for the pre-takeoff run-up checks, J says “Don’t be alarmed - that’s not your airplane on fire. I think it’s someone burning rubbish.” Sniff-sniff-sniff … something was burning. Yeah, that was a little unsettling. When I increased engine power the prop wafted more of the stench towards us, which was even more unsettling, but we really weren’t on fire and everything was just fine with the airplane.
Out to the runway, check for traffic. We were using 18, so it was a relatively long commute to that end of the field. We briefly establish that J is still doing radios (I’m here to fly the taildragger, not improve my radio skills) and will take over in the unlikely event of a real emergency, but otherwise it’s my baby. I lined it up, went to full throttle, and did an excellent take-off if I do say so myself (J said so, too, so you can believe him as well as me). As we pulled off the ground J said we’d go to Cushing, and I spared enough brain cells to think that my camera-toting husband might not be entirely pleased with that decision, but there it was. I looked to my left and down, knowing the husband would be in a spot for a photoshot and that he, too, adhered to the theory that standing next to large objects made it less likely for you to be run over. Yes, there he was by the helicopter hangar, aiming the camera. Then I was eyes forward again, concentrating on flying and recalling the landmarks to Cushing. With the recent rains the area had turned green again and there would be some differences between here and there in the appearance of the terrain. That can be confusing for eyeball navigation if you aren’t expecting it.
Up we went and as we did so I looked out and out and said –
“Oh WOW.”
You see, those hot and hazy days of summer are just that - they’re hot and hazy, putting a curtain on everything past about 9-10 miles from the airplane. You can kind of see the horizon, sort of. But other than that, 9-10 miles is the limit of your vision.
This day, however, the haze was gone.
If you stand on level ground (which is the only kind we have around here, being on the Great Plains) the horizon is about 18 miles away. Anything further slips over the curve of the Earth, out of sight. If you go up - on a hill, a mountain, in an airplane - your horizon gets bigger. If the day isn’t hazy.
On the particular Sunday in question the air was clear out to the horizon, and as we went higher the horizon went farther. J pointed out downtown Chicago and all the skycrapers in the Loop, about 45 miles away. OK, it was a little fuzzed by distance, and by its own smog, but you could pick out the individual buildings. Nor was that the extreme limit of our vision - the big city wasn’t on the edge of the big circle of ground, there was a slice of Lake Michigan beyond it before the sky met the water.
It just amazes me that human beings, who really never needed to be able see beyond the horizon they see while standing on the ground, can nonetheless view a 50 or 100 mile or more horizon. The feeling is that the world is bigger and I am smaller, but somehow the distance between “here” and “there” has shrunk.
This led to a discussion of the weather conditions that lead to clear skies and fantastic views, including the worth of enduring a sub-zero preflight in order to get a crisp winter day’s clearness. I’ve been aloft in the desert, and even though the air is clearer there, there’s still a certain level of dust at lower altitudes such as I fly in. There isn’t quite anything like a really, really cold winter’s day, with all the moisture frozen out of the air, the ground all white and the sky a blazing, brilliant blue more vivid than any haze-whitened summer ceiling.
Sitting in the drafty cockpit of the Citabria, flying through the warm summer air to Cushing, I made the comment that I hoped they had a way to cover some of the air vents in this crate in the winter, otherwise, it must be a miserable ride. J assured me that was possible, and also clued me in to the location of the cabin heater controls. Even had me turn it on briefly, which resulted in a blast of hot air directed on my knees and feet which, definitely would keep your lower limbs warm and functional for controlling the rudders. I turned it off pretty quick, as we had plenty of heat already supplied by mother nature. J also mentioned, with a tone of personal suffering that let you know this was not theory but actual experience talking, that the cabin heat for the most part never reached the back seat and it could get darn cold for the guy in the rear. Poor baby. His lingering, barking cough and occassional >achoo!<snnnnnnnnnnark! only added to the pathos of the moment. He said the Decathalon’s back seat heating arrangement was much better.
I didn’t doubt that he was, in fact, better than the week prior, but his voice was still rough. He didn’t sound like himself, it was like I had a stranger in the back seat, or at least J’s cousin, rather than J himself. It was just a trifle unsettling, as small details sometimes are. I kept suppressing the urge to stop and get him a bucket of chicken soup.
The air was smooth all the way to Cushing, and I didn’t really need to use the usual quarry north of Morris and the street that ran diagonal to the usual square grid of roads out in farm country, I could spot Cushing from my vantage point above the ground and just go direct. Because it was such a nice day it was safe to assume that Cushing would also be busy. We passed over the airport at 2000 feet, 500 feet above the traffic pattern, so we could look down and get a good idea of what was happening below us before merging into a busy traffic lane. There was also a fair amount of us looking forward, to the sides, and up through transparent ceiling panel. The right of way rules said that we had to give way to all gliders and airplanes towing gliders, but the ultralights were supposed to get out of our way. Supposed to, and let’s be real here, sometimes it’s more important to be courteous than first.
There was some activity going on below us, but nothing unusual. J was making the radio calls from the back. The thing is, a lot of what flies at Cushing doesn’t have radios, so there’s no guarantee anyone there is listening no matter how many bright, colorful aircraft are flitting about. Everybody had voted to take off and land south to north that morning, so it seemed a good idea to follow suit. I set up a 500 foot per minute descent, nice and gentle, as I turned over the field and let the airplane settle down towards pattern altitude. Came out right at 1500 as I entered downwind, which was close enough for a largely ultralight airfield.
The nice thing about landing south to north at Cushing is that there is a distinct lack of obstacles as you come in over the fence around the airport. Probably not a good idea to make a habit of dragging it in three feet above the corn and bean fields, since if your engine quits you’ll be IN the beans. Last time I ran an airplane into a field of soybeans it took a couple hours to pluck all the bits of bean plant out of the nooks and crannies of the machine, all the while looking over my shoulder as I worried the owner of said machine would show up and want to know why his ultralight looked like a balding haystack. But that was years ago. Way back in the 20th Century. Worse yet would be hitting the corn on landing - heft an ear of corn on the cob (what folks abroad call “maize”) and think about hitting that at 60 mph (that’s 100 kph for you metric types). Oh yeah, that would sting. Imagine hitting a field full of such dangerous objects. As I was sitting in the front seat of a cloth covered airplane this was a situation I wanted to avoid out of purely selfish reasons. Sure, the engine block would deflect much of grain, but the windshield probably wouldn’t hold up for long. I suppose I could duck, I mean the guy behind me knows how to steer this thing…
Anyhow, I came in for a relatively uneventful landing, despite having to slide to the left to avoid a hang glider as I came over the end of the runway, then slide back to center after I was past him. I was definitely retaining my skills between lessons. We rolled out, and I was enjoying some satisfaction when J reminded me about the brakes and that I might want to use them to cut our speed enough for a controlled turn back to the take off end of the field.
