A Plane of our Own (kinda)

A few months ago I wrote about getting my tailwheel endorsement in a 1946 Piper Cub and expressed hope that I would be able to join the flying club that owns the Cub by summer. As it turned out, the club was too good of a deal. None of the members could be persuaded to sell their share, even the inactive ones. In the meantime I got checked out to rent a 1969 Cherokee 140/160 at a nearby flight school.

Early last month, Dawn and I were out flying the Cherokee around on a sunny Saturday when she mentioned that she would really love to have a plane of our own. The last time she made a similar statement, I bought my BMW motorcycle within a week. This time I was paging through Trade-A-Plane within hours and had soon set my sights on a beautiful '67 Cherokee with 3000 hours, a new engine, new paint, new interior, and all the right mods for $27k. It looks like the recession has finally impacted light single-engine piston plane prices.

Dreaming aside, I knew that buying our own plane would be silly at this stage of our lives. We could afford the purchase price and fixed costs, but there wouldn't be much left over for five dollar 100LL. We wouldn't fly it nearly enough to justify having our own plane. It'd end up being far more expensive than renting on a per-hour basis. Sitting unused is also hard on airplanes, particularly pistons. And really, any disruption to our income would result in our dream bird becoming a financial albatross we'd have to sell in a down market.

Shared ownership, on the other hand, makes a great deal of sense for us. I ran the numbers on a 4-person partnership and concluded that with the fixed costs split four ways, you'd only need to fly about 2 hours per month to save money over renting while still retaining most of the benefits of sole ownership. The problem is generally finding like-minded partners. It's often said that aircraft partnership is like marriage, which I suppose would make a 4-way partnership like Bill Henrickson's marriage(s). You need more in common than miserliness. The ranks of NewCo pilots would provide my most likely partners. Setting up a partnership as a first time owner, though, seemed a rather daunting prospect. I started investigating the details.

In the meantime, I was keeping an eye on the Minneapolis craigslist. It was there that I saw an ad for a flying club with a 1949 Cessna 170A; no buy-in, no monthly dues, $50/hr dry. That seemed almost too good to be true, so I inquired. The 170 turned out to be a new purchase by two guys who are already partners in a 182 on straight floats. They wanted a wheel plane for the winter and when a floatplane is inconvenient. However, realizing that the plane would potentially sit for long periods with no use - particularly during the summer when they mostly fly the 182 - they decided to start an informal 5-person flying club by finding three other insurable pilots willing to fly it at least 25 hours a year. It's potentially a win-win scenario; they partially defray the cost of a plane they don't often fly, and the plane gets steady use to keep the engine happy. Meanwhile I get to fly a classic 4-seat taildragger for cheaper than an equivalent FBO spam can, retain the flexibility of a rental arrangement, but enjoy much of the ownership experience.

The devil is always in the details, but with no buy-in cost it seemed pretty risk-free to check it out. I met the partners and looked at the plane. It won't win Grand Champion at Oshkosh but seems pretty well maintained and is in good condition for a 62-year old airplane. It has a low-time engine, good interior, original VFR panel, Horton STOL kit, beefed up main gear, larger-than-stock tires, and a Scott tailwheel. The six-cylinder Continental O-300 runs amazingly smooth to someone who's used to 4-cylinder Lycomings. It's set up for snow skis, which the owners are hoping to have it on this winter.

I submitted my experience to Avemco and they approved me the same day with a 5-hour checkout requirement. I flew with a CFI friend of the owners, who happens to be a Mesaba pilot. The five hours were a nice introduction to what turned out to be a very sweet flying airplane. It's similar to a 172, as you'd expect, but a bit more nimble. The visibility is actually much better than a 172 due to a lower instrument panel and downward sloping cowling. In fact, visibility is so good you don't need to S-turn during taxi and the runway remains in view during 3-point landings, which this plane loves to do. Like most taildraggers, the 170 is particularly in its element on grass runways. My first few takeoffs and landings on pavement were a bit wobbly - the 170 is heavier and less responsive in ground handling than the Cub, and needs to be led a bit more - but it was a no-brainer on grass. Eventually I got things sorted out on pavement, even making passable wheel landings (where the 170's spring-steel gear turns out to be a bit of a handicap). The last hour of the checkout was a workout making wheel landings in a gusty 20 knot direct crosswind. It's less harrowing once you figure out to give the downwind brake a little tap as the tail comes down.

The weekend after that, Dawn and I rode the BMW out to the airport where the 170 is currently being kept and went for a sunset flight over Lake Minnetonka and the surrounding countryside. It was a clear evening with gorgeous soft, golden light blanketing the rolling, green dimpled hills. We lazed along, throttled back at 500 feet, and I couldn't resist opening a window; an icy blast reminded me that it's still spring in Minnesota. To further prove the point, upon returning to the airport the wind across the runway was blowing harder instead of dying down as forecast. I was glad for that last hour of the checkout as I slid down final in a mighty crab. A kick of the rudder, a twist of the yoke, the chirp of the upwind main touching down softly. In a trike the work's pretty much over at that point, but in a taildragger the fun is just beginning! It all worked out quite nicely this time; it would have been very bad form to groundloop my first time in a taildragger without an instructor (to say nothing of my wife's first C170 ride!).

So far, the flying club arrangement is working out great. The other members have been cool and availability is great. It's nice to fly the same plane all the time and know its quirks, and know who else has been flying it. Even though I don't own the plane, it feels like mine. If I continue to get back into GA more heavily and finances permit, ownership may well be in my future. In the meantime, this is a very nice way to get my toes in the water.

A Short History of Flight

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Mankind has dreamed of flight from the very dawn of time. Cave paintings and fossilized remains discovered in Croatia prove that sometime around 30,000 B.C., an early tribe of Homo Sapiens designed and began construction on a wood-and-reed aircraft clearly inspired by the wings of eagles. Unfortunately, the project was beset by design flaws, underperforming subcontractors, an overextended supply chain, and certification delays. To offset cost overruns, the village aircraft consortium floated an IPO, but it attracted little interest and share prices plummeted from the very start. The village elders were debating subsidies for the consortium when a competing tribe of Neanderthals snuck into their camp and clubbed everyone to death. Dreams of flight would remain dreams only for thousands of years.

Around 1500 B.C., a Greek communist named Daedalus and his son Icarus wished to return from Crete to Athens for the annual austerity measures riots. King Minos, an early tea party member, forbade it, so Daedalus and Icarus plotted their leave. Daedalus rejected a more traditional seaborne escape; a pleasure cruise on the sunny Mediterranean, he declared, was a bourgeois extravagance of the corrupt middle class. His escape could only be revolutionary, and to that end Daedalus superglued duck feathers onto his and Icarus’ arms and they flew out over the sea. Daedalus warned Icarus not to fly too close to the sun, but Icarus rejected the fascist paternalism of the reactionary generation and flew where he damn well pleased. In the process he got a very nasty sunburn, stopped flapping to apply aloe, and plummeted to the sea where the modern laws of physics were already in effect; water tension snapped his spine and liquefied his internal organs. Daedalus torched a bank in Icarus’ honor.

Jack and Joe Montgolfier were French farmers who wished there was a quicker way to get their produce to market. Observing the way that smoke rises from lit fires and orating politicians, Joe deduced that heat rises and built the first hot air balloon in 1783. At first things went swimmingly, for their balloon transported their ducks, sheep, and roosters quite safely and efficiently. But then a rumor sprang up that the balloon was German, and all the Frenchmen started surrendering to it. The brothers Montgolfier solved the problem by sending up a man on all subsequent flights to shout Frenchy things, and human flight was born.

Otto Lilienthal was German, and surrendering Frenchmen were forever impeding his experiments with gliders in the late 1800s. It became such a problem that he built an artificial hill near Berlin, where he could work in peace without Frenchmen surrendering to him. His life was cut tragically short in 1896, when he crashed into a lost Polack. His last words as he lay dying were “Kleine Opfer müssen gebracht werden!,” which means “We should probably just annex them both!”

The Wright Brothers were bicycle mechanics and visionaries who saw that bikes were clearly on their way out; after all, who in their right mind would toil and sweat and risk getting trampled by horses when they could fire up their trusty 3 horsepower Stanley Steamer and cruise to work in comfort and safety? Instead, the Wright Brothers turned their attention to powered heavier-than-air flight. In 1903 they got Charlie Taylor to build them a light gasoline-powered engine, strapped it to a Lilienthal glider, checked carefully to make sure there were no Frenchmen or Polacks present, and flew into history (actually, into a sand dune 100 feet away). They spent the rest of their lives suing anyone who challenged their assertion that they were the Fathers of Flight, as well as anyone who tried to repeat their feat in a similar aircraft. Among the Wright Brothers’ greatest accomplishments is the creation of the aileron.

In 1914, all of Europe went to war and dragged all their colonies along with them (including the cute ones who naively insisted they were ex-colonies). Two happy side effects were massive depopulation that prevented the world from starving to death by 1972, and a rapid advance in aircraft design. Everyone had a jolly time shooting off their propellers and dropping flour bombs on the trenches. It was so much fun that the French stopped surrendering and joined in heartily. The Red Baron pioneered the first airborne pizza delivery service, and everyone was happy and well fed during their 3-week average lifespan at the front.

A major flaw in World War One aircraft was uncovered at the end of the war, when it was discovered that wood-and-fabric planes could not be easily turned into beer cans. Instead, barnstormers flew them around the country, inspiring thousands to leave the comfort and safety of their Stanley Steamers to take to the air. One of these was Charles Lindbergh, a disgruntled postal worker who decided to fly across the Atlantic. He brilliantly realized that the surest way to find one’s way to Europe is to do so in an airplane without windows, and he did exactly that in 1927, all the way from New York to Paris. There he was mobbed by thousands of surrendering Frenchmen, a traumatic experience that turned him into a lifelong German.

In 1939, failed Bruno Ganz impersonator Adolf Hitler said “Kleine Opfer müssen gebracht werden!” and annexed both Poland and France. All of Europe went to war and dragged all their colonies along with them (including the cutes ones who pretended to be neutral for a few years to prove their independence). Two happy side effects were massive depopulation that prevented the world from starving to death until 2086, and a rapid advance in aircraft design. The French sat this one out, but everyone else had a marvelous time. Many people joined flying clubs and warbird associations, for such classics as the P-51, Spitfire, Bf 109, and B-17 were readily available then. Airshows were held almost daily. Fly-ins were held at prime holiday destinations like Italy, the French coast, and the South Pacific. Eventually the Germans insisted on all events being held in Germany, which made it all rather dull, so everyone went home (the Americans by way of Japan for one last airshow). This time everyone had the foresight to build their airplanes of aluminum for easy beer-can conversion.

After the war, the Americans turned their undivided attention to making peaceful technological advances for the betterment of humankind. They invented jet engines and installed them on supersonic fighters to keep the peace. They built massive bombers to pulverize any troublemaking cities quickly and humanely. They developed bigger and better nuclear weapons to wipe out whole countries of miscreants with the least pain and inconvenience to the recipients possible, and invented giant rockets to deliver this humanitarian assistance in mere minutes at the press of a button. Contrary to all hopes and expectations, massive depopulation did not result, and mankind was doomed to eventual starvation. More happily, the new technology was readily transferred to the realm of space exploration, where great strides were being made. In 1969, Neil Armstrong became the first man to set foot on the moon. He memorialized the occasion by exclaiming “Holy [redacted], I’m [redacted] walking on the mother-[redacted] moon! Can you [redacted] believe it!?” NASA deemed these remarks unsuitable for television audiences and substituted moon landing footage that had been pre-recorded on a Hollywood sound stage.

Meanwhile, ordinary Americans were doing what Americans did best: bilking other Americans out of their hard-earned money. Legendary men like Eddie Rickenbacker, Juan Trippe, and Howard Hughes built airlines like Eastern, PanAm, and TWA into global powerhouses that would stand forever as immortal testaments to the inherent goodness, wisdom, and morality of American Capitalism. In 1958 Boeing launched the jet age with the 707, an airplane that whisked passengers to their destinations in half the time and half the comfort of the old propliners. Suddenly there was no place in the world that Americans could not quickly and easily go to loudly complain about how inferior everything was to America.

In 1978, everyman Edward Kennedy and peanut farmer Jimmy Carter lamented the fact that commercial flying was still too expensive for the Average Joe. Failing to see any way to decrease the inherent cost of using a finite fuel source to accelerate an object weighing hundreds of thousands of pounds and consisting of thousands of intricate parts painstakingly assembled by skilled craftsman to near-supersonic speeds and loft it to altitudes at the outer reaches of the atmosphere and do so with great reliability and safety, Kennedy and Carter hit on a plan to simply transfer the costs. The Airline Deregulation Act of 1978 indeed made flying much cheaper for passengers, and much more expensive for airlines, their employees, their suppliers, and their shareholders. It was wildly successful. By 2000, so many people were flying that nobody could fly anywhere without a three hour delay.

Saudi bad boy Osama bin Laden graciously lent a helping hand in 2001, the newly created Transportation Security Administration did its part, and soon traffic was humming right along with nary a delay. The airlines took advantage of the breather to rid themselves of all their old, nasty, polluting narrow body aircraft and replace them with comfortable, efficient Canadian Regional Jets. These aircraft were flown by pilots so experienced that they met or exceeded FAA minimums, and their crews were paid near or sometimes even at the federal minimum wage. Any remaining gaps in the system were gamely filled in by Southwest Airlines, which seemed to come out of nowhere with an audacious business plan that involved young, attractive stewardesses in gogo boots serving free booze (who could’ve anticipated that working, especially in Texas!?!).

In the mid-aughts, airline executives courageously declared that they would not allow such stirring success to go unrewarded. Convinced of the justness of their cause, they took their companies to court, where some of the bravest judges in the free world did the right thing and transferred more of the cost of flying onto airline employees, suppliers, and shareholders. At long last, airline executives were able to share in the bounty of all they had wrought through the force of their blood, sweat, and tears. After striking such a blow for freedom one might expect the executives to rest on their laurels, but they were relentless in their pursuit of justice. With hardly a pause, they embarked on a crusade against the rapacious work rules that kept them toiling night and day. In short time they had merged six airlines into three, thus emancipating countless executives from the tyranny of their duties and freeing them to enjoy the fruits of their labors with such middle-class pastimes as yachting, mansion decoration, and making love to the secretaries of their Vice-Presidents’ Executive Assistants’ Assistants’ Assistants to the Assistant Executive Assistants.

The remaining executives, meanwhile, were finding their obligations much less taxing as they had discovered they could run an airline without actually running an airline. Through the magic of codeshares and global alliances they could sell tickets and take in revenue while poor executives still enslaved on the dark shores of Europe and Asia did the hard work of actually flying the passengers. Whatever could not be done offshore was subcontracted to regional airlines, whose executives still worked very hard flying so many legs every day but didn’t seem to mind so long as wads of cash were being constantly stuffed in their suits.

Boeing executives took note of airline management’s stirring example and threw off their own chains by shutting down production of every airliner except the most dated one, which Southwest bribed Boeing to keep building with gogo-booted stewardesses and free booze. Meanwhile they designed a revolutionary new airliner clearly inspired by the wings of eagles and built with advanced wood and reed composites, but the project was beset by design flaws, underperforming subcontractors, an overextended supply chain, and certification delays. None of this bothered the executives much, for all the hard work was being done overseas, freeing them to enjoy such middle-class pastimes as yachting, mansion decoration, and making love to the Secretary of the Air Force.

As the second decade of the twenty-first century dawns, America stands triumphant in the field of aerospace, as in most other things. We have the biggest airlines, who are burdened with very little flying. We have the best airplane manufacturers, who only need do very little building. Our marvelous aviation industry, in short, has achieved the American Dream, so succinctly summed up by that philosopher of the mother country, Mark Knopfler: “Money for nothing, and chicks for free.” Let the Canadians, the Brazilians, the Japanese do the hard work. We will have a jolly time yachting and mansion decorating and mocking those blinkered Airbus executives working hard shouting Frenchy things at their Polack workers and surrendering wheelbarrows full of cash to their German bankers. The future is bright!

Stuck in the Mud

Last week, Southwest Airlines topped off a month of unwanted publicity when one of their B737s slid off the end of Runway 13C at Chicago's Midway Airport. Thankfully, nobody was seriously hurt and the aircraft appeared to suffer only minor damage. It's not the first time Southwest has been off the runway in Midway: in 2005, SWA1248 departed the same stretch of pavement (in the opposite direction, on 31C) at high speed, crashing through the airport fence and coming to rest on South Central Avenue, where a six year old boy in a car was killed.

This time around, the happier ending had a few airline pilots making cracks at Southwest's expense. It's true, SWA's accidents have all involved running off the end of runways, and their pilots do have a reputation for taxiing at a, umm, brisk speed. That said, I think there's a bit of schadenfreude over SWA's financial success and the fact that their B737 pilots are now better paid than senior widebody pilots at all the legacy airlines. The old advice about stone-casting in glass houses definitely applies here. The fact remains that Southwest has yet to kill a passenger in 40 years of flying, something none of the legacy airlines can claim. Moreover, to the extent legacy pilots haven't been running airplanes off runways lately (ahem), it's worth pointing out that much of their flying to marginal airports has been outsourced. Delta and American and United jets have all gone on offroad adventures lately, but in each case the airplane was operated by a regional carrier. Every Southwest jet has a Southwest pilot at the controls, something that should shame legacy pilots a whole lot more than Southwest's superior payrates and work rules.

The 2005 accident occurred while landing downwind on a contaminated runway in an intense snowstorm. Touchdown occurred 2000 feet down the runway, and the thrust reversers failed to deploy for 18 seconds. This incident took place in considerably better conditions, although the runway was reported to be wet. The NTSB will do its thing and we'll find out what went wrong, but for now it's worthwhile noting that the airplane went off the end of the runway to the side, and not straight ahead into the EMAS bed that was installed to prevent a recurrence of the 2005 accident. I'm guessing the pilot tried to make a fast left turn onto Taxiway Echo and lost traction.

Regardless of what mistakes were made in this case, Midway is a pretty marginal airport for most jet airliners. Runway 31C is the longest landing runway with 6059' usable, and all the others have under 6000 feet. There are no approaches to 22L/R, and only the ILS 31C is available in under one mile visibility. Circling approaches and landings with strong crosswinds or slight tailwinds are all common. There's really nothing wrong with the airport that an extra 1000' of pavement for each runway wouldn't fix, but that would involve bulldozing a fair amount of South Chicago low-income housing. It isn't going to happen.

In the meantime, Midway is one of those airports that require special attention. I am particularly mindful of what the wind is doing and what runways are available, and will divert rather than land downwind. O'Hare is very close, and there are a number of other usable alternates within a half-hour's flight time. I always land with full flaps regardless of landing weight (we land at normal airports with "Flaps 5;" full flaps make the Junglebus "shake like a dog trying to pass a peach pit!"). At Midway, my idea of the "touchdown zone" shrinks significantly, and I'll usually touch down in the first 1000' or so of runway.* I'll always try to touch down firmly, and few of my MDW landings would be considered "pretty." A firm touchdown ensures that the landing gear proximity sensors close immediately, extending the ground spoilers and enabling immediate braking. All of this is admittedly overkill on a good day, but I use the good days to practice for the really bad ones.

Most pilots that land at Midway or similarly marginal airports with any regularity can understand how it wouldn't take a whole lot going wrong to end up sliding off the end of the runway. Seeing the Southwest 737 stuck in the mud off Runway 13C is a good reminder to stay vigilant and continue doing everything I can to prevent it happening to me. Incidentally, I worry a lot more about the "Engine Failure at V1" scenario in MDW than a long landing, and there's not much I can do to decrease my risk in that department. The good news is that the chances of anyone suffering a complete engine failure in the few seconds between 100 knots and Vr while departing Midway are rather small, which makes my own personal risk quite tiny indeed.

* Touching down at 1000' requires going below the VASI in the final stages of the approach. Some airline pilots balk at this based on a flawed understanding of 91.129(e)(3), which requires pilots to "maintain an altitude at or above the glide path until a lower altitude is necessary for a safe landing." If you follow the VASI all the way down, you will touch down 1500-2500 feet down the runway, which is unacceptable at Midway with anything other than dry, bare pavement. Most airplane's contaminated runway numbers are contingent on touchdown at the 1000' mark. I certainly don't suggest dusting off the chimneys of the houses surrounding Midway, but with the displaced thresholds and lack of high obstacles on approach, going below VASI in the last quarter-mile at MDW is both safe and legal. You will see most aircraft cross the displaced threshold at well under 50'.

Shakedown Cruise, Part II

Predicted rain again failed to materialize, and the fourth day of our motorcycle trip dawned clear and crisp over Shelter Cove, CA. A thick cloud bank roiled just offshore, threatening a change of weather should we linger too long. I was excited to be going, as we would finally be riding a stretch of road I'd never driven, to a place I'd never been other than just passing through. The weather was again forcing a change in plans, this time delaying our arrival to Redding by a day. A happy side effect was the addition of today's leg down US-101 to Napa Valley.

But first we had Shelter Cove Road to pass again. I needn't have worried, for Dawn tackled it with skill that belied her fourth-day rider status. She was starting to relax and really enjoy the trip, which made it all the better for me. We were back in Redway not 40 minutes after leaving Shelter Cove, and eating breakfast at the House of Burgess in Garberville shortly thereafter. There was no threat of rain now; the sun was shining brightly through the redwoods and we could cover the 150 miles to Napa Valley in leisurely fashion, if we so chose.

In fact it went rather quickly. The section of US-101 south of Leggitt, which I'd never been on, is mostly four-lane highway, albeit the rather fun type with lots of fast sweepers through several pretty valleys. It's a split personality road, though: every once in a while it abruptly narrows to two lanes, slows down, and snakes through a dense redwood grove, or twists over a ridge, or shimmies along a cliff. Just as suddenly it opens back up and you're again cruising on an expressway hacked through the wilderness. To me this is the perfect kind of road: enough variety to keep things interesting while the miles fly right by.

South of Cloverdale the road straightened out and the terrain opened up as wine country began in earnest. We were making good time to Calistoga, our destination for the day, so we turned onto CA-128 at Geyserville to take the scenic route. It was an unexpected treat, a quiet stretch of good blacktop alongside neat vineyards hemmed by prim rows of Valley Oak. We tucked in behind a Harley with two helmeted riders festooned with Iron Butt Association regalia, and then were quickly left behind in a thunderous cannonade as they charged into a twisty section through a brookside oak-copse. Not your typical Harley riders, I thought as they disappeared around a tight right-hander in a Moto-GP lean. I kept the FZ1 at a dignified trot and soaked up the glorious afternoon sun.


After checking into the lovely Wine Way Inn in cute-as-a-button downtown Calistoga, Dawn and I continued down the valley two-up on her FZ6. St Helena, Rutherford, and Yountville proved to be equally as pleasant, with dozens of inviting wineries in between each town. I was starting to see the appeal of Napa Valley, my only previous experience with which was one hurried pass through urban Napa years ago. In the interest of staying upright and DUI-free, we limited ourselves to one wine tasting, but found a few really nice wines to take home. In Napa we turned around and completed our circuit of the valley via the Silverado Trail as the sun disappeared over the hills. Back in Calistoga, we parked the bike and walked down Lincoln Avenue for a very nice dinner - best meatloaf ever! - at the Flatiron Grill. After that we enjoyed a quiet night of reading and sipping wine back at the B&B, which felt a great deal more civilized than most motorcycle trips I've been on!


Thursday morning was fairly chilly but at least clear, and the sun had warmed the valley considerably by the time we finished breakfast, loaded the bikes, and headed north on CA-29. The route over the Mayacamas Mountains looked worse than Shelter Cove Road on the map but actually turned out to be quite easy. North of the summit, we crossed into Lake County and the road was quite good and fast. I'd seen the area around Clear Lake many times from the air but never from the ground; I didn't realize how sparsely developed the area is, particularly between Clear Lake and Williams. Failing to find an opportune gas station, we coasted down to the central valley on mere fumes. After filling up, we headed north on I-5, the first stretch of freeway we'd seen in five days and 900 miles. We covered the 100 miles to Redding astonishingly fast and still got passed with regularity. Interstate travel may be somewhat lacking in charm but it is certainly efficient.

My sister Rachel was still in classes when we arrived in town so we headed to the nearest Cycle Gear store, drooled over many things, and purchased a few things I deemed necessary for the subfreezing temperatures expected over the passes on Friday - namely insulated gloves and riding pants for Dawn. After meeting up with Rachel, we were convoying to her apartment when Dawn accidently killed her bike in the left-turn lane of a busy intersection. When she attempted to restart it, the battery slowly turned the engine over for a few seconds and gave up. I parked the FZ1 and ran out into the street to pushstart the Fz6, and then rode it around for 20 minutes in low gear in an attempt to charge the battery back up. No luck, it was still quite dead when I got back. Back we went to Cycle Gear to purchase our second motorcycle battery in three days. Once I swapped it out, my "test drive" conveniently included a fast ride up Shasta Dam Road with my sister on the back in time to catch the sunset over the Trinity Alps.


I spent the night with an anxious eye on the Caltrans and ODOT webcams at Black Butte Summit and Siskiyou Pass. At 3900' and 4300' respectively, these were the highest points on our trip and had been receiving quite a bit of winter weather, our reason for delaying this leg by a day. Friday was forecast to be clear before snow moved in again on Saturday, but subfreezing temperatures were expected overnight and I was concerned about melting snow freezing on the roadway. I've had a few experiences with ice on motorcycles and while they did not result in crashes, I have no desire to repeat them nor to expose Dawn to similar situations. The temperature at Siskiyou Summit was 22 degrees when we woke up on Friday morning.

To compensate, we left Redding a little on the late side, which I'd rather not have done since we were hoping to make it all 430 miles back to Vancouver WA on Friday. I hadn't really looked at the map, I didn't realize that it was an hour's ride from Redding to Black Butte Summit, and thus the sun had warmed the air to a balmy 28 degrees by the time we crossed it at 11am. There were a few patches of snow around but no ice on the roadway, so I felt alot better about Siskiyou Pass when we stopped for brunch in Yreka. There was actually no trace of snow at the summit, and we cruised down the north side into Medford OR luxuriating in the nice warm, 50 degree air.

We only stopped twice after breakfast, both times to refuel. I kept asking Dawn (via intercom) whether she would like to stop to rest, and she always replied that she felt good. The FZ6 turned out to be a better cross-country machine than I hoped, with a comfortable stock saddle that minimized monkey-butt and an upright riding position with very little pressure on the wrists. Dawn did complain of a stiff neck throughout the trip due to excessive wind striking her helmet with the stock short windscreen, so we ordered a taller model when we got home.

I let Dawn lead pretty much all day. After six straight days of riding, it was amazing to see the giant strides she had made in confidence and ability. Back on the Sunday we started out, we stopped at our old favorite bagel shop for coffee and bagels before our training sessions, and she had confessed that she was pretty terrified of getting on the bike. It had been 9 months since she last rode a little Virago 250 in the MSF class, and she had dropped that twice on the first day. I reassured her but privately wondered if I was pushing her to bite off more than she could chew. Now, I followed her over a winding section of I-5, admiring her riding style. She consistently chose good lines through the turns, used the brakes and throttle judiciously, and showed keen awareness in dealing with other traffic.

That said, she wasn't exactly always the model student. On one 45mph-rated curve, she slowed to a sensible 55 mph, leaned hard left, kicked her inboard knee out, and pinned the throttle. The howl of her 97-horsepower inline-4 reached inside my helmet and I found her pulling away from my 147-hp FZ1 rather rapidly. "Uhh, Dawn...?" I activated the intercom as she came out of the turn, mild concern in my voice.

"What's a matter?" she responded innocently.

"Check your speed." I was showing a bit over 80mph.

"Ooh! I didn't realize I was going that fast!"

Yep, I'm gonna have to keep an eye on this one....

Our arrival was considerably slower, as we spent the last 20 miles in stop-and-go rush hour traffic. Finally, a bit before 6pm, we pulled into Brad's driveway, 1440 miles after we left the previous Sunday. I shook Dawn's hand rather officiously, then gave her a hug and a "well done." Brad and his neighbors invited us to a BBQ they were kicking off as we pulled up. A few beers and burgers and a soak in the hot tub later, the 430 miles of the day were but an abstraction of memory. That will be a pretty average ride our Alaska trip, for days on end, on slower and rougher roads than I-5. I can't wait, and now neither can Dawn.

Shakedown Cruise

It was Dawn's idea in the first place to take motorcycles down the west coast in the first week of April, during her Spring Break. She had a brand-new-to-her 2005 Yamaha FZ6 waiting in Portland. I bought it for our planned trip to Alaska this June, but she quite sensibly balked at the idea of riding 6000 miles through wilderness on a bike she'd never been on. A trip down the west coast would be a perfect chance for her to build experience and would serve as a "shakedown cruise" for this year's big adventure to the Last Frontier.

I said no. The Pacific Northwest weather is too fickle in April. We'd have other chances to do it before June. I'd been over the route before. I'd have to borrow a buddy's bike, the surest test of a friendship. I wanted to go to China after years of intending to visit soon. Dawn agreed; China it would be.

And then our spring break plans were once again shattered, this time by a tragedy in Dawn's family. Her aunt Becky, who we had lived with once and were pretty close to, suffered a massive stroke during a comparatively routine surgury. For a week she clung to life with friends and family in constant attendance before passing away peacefully, surrounded by her ten siblings. It was a week before we were due to leave, and obviously family came first. We canceled our China plans to attend Becky's wake and funeral and to be with Dawn's family. Oddly enough, the remainder of Dawn's Spring Break was perfect for a six-day motorcycle trip down the west coast. The weather forecast was favorable. My friend Brad loaned me his 2006 Yamaha FZ1 without a moments hesitation. For the second year in a row, our Spring Break overseas travel plans were upset but replaced with a very enjoyable domestic trip on two wheels.

We landed in Portland late on Saturday April 2 and woke the next morning to grey skies and an ominous forecast: two inches of rain on the Oregon coast on Monday. Those are ugly conditions for an experienced rider, to say nothing of a novice, so I compressed our "training day" into a few hours to depart Portland a day early, on Sunday afternoon. Dawn practiced low-speed maneuvering in a parking lot for 30 minutes, took a few spins around Brad's neighborhood, and then took a ride around Vancouver (WA). I followed on Brad's FZ1 and offered tips and encouragement over our bluetooth bike-to-bike intercom. With that we were off to the coast, me leading a very anxious Dawn through the traffic of downtown Portland and the endless stoplights of Highway 99W. Past McMinnville, we exited onto OR-18 to Lincoln City. This is the least steep and winding of the routes of through the coast range, but still has enough curves to be thoroughly enjoyable if I weren't worried about how my new rider was doing.


I needn't have worried. The FZ6 is a wonderfully nimble, responsive bike, and Dawn carved through the turns like a seasoned pro from the very start. Our riding became progressively harder over the first three days but Dawn showed herself up to the challenge. By the end of the trip, it was her leading me back into Portland.

Threatening skies held their peace as we headed south on US-101 from Lincoln City; only after we reached our destination for the day did drizzle start falling through the gathering darkness. We were a day early for our reservation at Heceta Head Lightstation Bed and Breakfast, but the innkeepers were more than accommodating - not only switching nights but also upgrading us to a room with a view of the lighthouse and the angry-looking seas beyond.



The B&B is situated in the former innkeepers' cozy house, an 1893 Queen Anne with a white picket fence surrounding a neatly trimmed yard hemmed by the towering pines of Heceta Head. After we unpacked and explored the grounds it began to rain in earnest, just in time for our ride to Florence for dinner. We ended up just picking up some groceries from Fred Meyer, so as to ride back to the lighthouse before the steep, winding, rough, and wet road was completely dark. Thankfully we were both riding on Dawn's FZ6 and she had but to hold on from the back seat.


Our evening was quiet but very pleasant: a light dinner of hot sandwiches followed by hot tea and reading and chatting with other guests around the fireplace. Once we retired to bed, I fell asleep to the sounds of crashing surf and rain pelting the windowpane as the lighthouse beam swept by our window every 10 seconds.


Despite the light dinner I was unprepared for the seven-course assault on my stomach of the next morning. Every offering was delicious but I couldn't help protesting each time the chef emerged with another dish - but I cleaned my plate every time, of course. Our fellow guests were all friendly and witty, which is good because breakfast lasted an hour and a half! It was 10am by the time we waddled out to our motorcycles.

The rain of the night had ended and although another wave was coming in, lighter skies beckoned to the south. The air was chilly but we were both pretty well bundled up. It seemed so recently that I had followed the same route south on my BMW, but in fact it was December 2009. We had a late, light lunch in Gold Beach, which I know from my days flying for Ameriflight. South of Port Orford, we paused to take photos of a dramatic stretch of coastline I'd admired on my last trip. The clouds were thinning and the day warming; I was relieved that we apparently outrode the forecast rain. Dawn was riding the curvy sections of US-101 with considerable skill and more confidence than the previous day.


We arrived in Crescent City, CA, around 4pm and considered our options. The original plan was to proceed to Klamath, spend the night, and ride to Redding via Eureka the following day, tuesday. However, the forecast suggested we'd be stuck in Redding for a few days before the passes into Oregon on I-5 would be passable by motorcycle. Besides, we were a day ahead of schedule - why not take our time and explore further south? We decided to spend the night in Crescent City and ride to Shelter Cove on the Lost Coast the following day.

We were still stuffed so we skipped dinner altogether and instead explored the area on Dawn's FZ6. Crescent City itself was considerably less charming than I'd assumed, but the surroundings were beautiful. We walked to Battery Point Lighthouse and rode the first 15 miles or so of Highway 199 through breathtakingly gorgeous redwood groves. I wanted to venture further but the light was fading, so we retreated to our cheap-but-clean motel room, which disappointingly did not come with a sea view and a living room with a roaring fire and a 120-year old lighthouse faithfully showing the way just outside our bedroom window. In the words of one of my favorite movies, "We don't want to spoil the girl!"


The next day dawned bright and beautiful, with pink wispy clouds floating in from the sea and over the solemn redwoods. I was really excited about the stretch of US-101 south of Crescent City. It was one of my favorite stretches from the 2009 ride. Sadly it was less spectactular than I remembered, certainly less than the section of US-199 we rode the previous evening. Memory is a tricky thing. Fortunately I detoured onto the Newtown B. Drury Parkway through Prairie Creek Redwoods State Park and was rewarded with a road that bested the US-101 that had existed in my memory. We stopped for a hike at "The Big Tree," which lived up to its name.



We stopped in Eureka to attend to some pressing business. Brad had warned me that his FZ1's battery was having trouble holding a charge overnight, and indeed we had to push start it in the morning at Heceta Head and again in Crescent City. In Eureka we visited the local Yamaha dealer to inquire about a new battery. I was gobstopped to learn that the OEM replacement battery, indeed the only compatible battery they had in stock, was $214. I knew it shouldn't run more than $90 but the only other nearby motorcycle store was closed on Monday and not wishing to tarry in Eureka, I ponied up. I'm sure they thought "what a sucker!"

We stopped in the charming Victorian town of Ferndale for lunch and continued southward via the Avenue of the Giants. I'd done at least a portion of this ride in 2009 but don't remember it being so fantastic. Having a sunny day to send narrow beams of light piercing down through the majestic gloom certainly elevated the cathedral effect. I opened my visor, breathed deeply of crisp, piney air, and enjoyed the ride. When a series of tight curves slowed our progress a bit, my intercom came alive with a squeal of delight. "This is FUN!" Dawn exclaimed. I glanced in my mirrors for the first time in a while. She was right on my tail, leaned over hard in a tight left hand turn with her low knee slung out and her eyes out around the curve, a grin hidden behind her helmet but evident in her voice. I could have burst with pride.


At Redway we turned off for our object of the day, Shelter Cove. It is a lonely outpost of the Lost Coast, so called because even the intrepid road engineers of the 1930s deemed it too rugged to be traversed. Highway 101 veers inland to the north, and CA-1 squiggles its way back down to the sea at the southern end. Shelter Cove is in fact the only town along this stretch of coast, and the only access is either via light airplane (an airstrip forms the town's nucleus) or a winding, deteriorated narrow little strip of asphalt flung over 23 miles of mountains from Redway.

If I'd been on that road before, I'd probably have declined to do it again with a novice rider along. Very little of it was easy riding, and for the finale it climbs straight up and over the last ridge in a series of tight, steep switchbacks. On the way down, Dawn's voice made it clear that she was no longer having fun. I dropped behind her and coached her through it. Despite her anxiety, she had exactly the right idea: coast along in low gear, brake to a near halt before the tightest turns, then let go and swoop around them before gravity builds your speed back up.

Our reward for the last challenging bit of riding was a neat, quiet town with a lovely view of the ocean and stunning coastline in either direction. We rode the local roads as far as they would take us, then relaxed the evening away, sharing a bottle of wine outside our cabin as the sun sank to the sea. After sunset I built a crackling fire in the wood stove, which combined with the distant crashing of waves to lull me to sleep without even a thought that we'd have to ride the same treacherous road first thing in the morning.

Growth and Rumors of Growth

Rumors are a constant fixture of airline life. People trapped in aluminum cylinders for hours on end will talk to pass the time, and seldom limit their conversations to unembellished, supported facts lest they die of boredom! Union politics, management backroom wheeling and dealing, the latest "stupid pilot tricks," scandalous layover love triangles - the topics are limitless. Nearly any source will do: buddies, friends twice removed, check airmen, assistant chief pilots, sim instructors, flight attendants, maintenance guys, some random guy who overheard a VP on his cell phone.

The most common rumors concern growth; new airplanes are perpetually just around the corner. Everyone wants to believe it, because everyone benefits from an instant shot of seniority. Without growth, the only way to move up is when someone else moves out. In times like these when the majors aren't hiring and Age 65 has the codgers "flying till they die," only growth has the power to turn FOs into Captains and reservists into lineholders.

Horizon's seniority list was especially stagnant, so growth rumors were constant; everyone desperately wanted them to be true. We were getting more Q400s; we were going to fly for Northwest. We were converting the Q200s to freighters and starting a cargo operation. We were getting Embraer 195s - in fact, engineers were in the PDX hangar figuring out how to modify the door to accommodate the E195! Bill the airport shuttle van driver said so!

What actually happened was that Horizon lost their Frontier JetExpress contract three years into a 12 year deal, brought those CRJ-700s back to the Horizon side and put them on unprofitable short routes, sold half of them, then sold all their Q200s to CommutAir, replaced them with fewer Q400s, withdrew from a bunch of small markets that couldn't support a 76 seat airplane, and then leased the remaining CRJs to Skywest to fly Horizon's former routes as Alaska Express. Horizon is 30 airplanes smaller than when I left in 2007.

There have been rumors at NewCo, too. We were going to fly as Alaska Express. WidgetCo was furious with Republic becoming a competitor by purchasing Frontier and Midwest, and was going to terminate their feed contracts and give the flying to us. For the last six months, there were persistent rumors of new JungleBuses, albeit a smaller version than we fly now. Management consistently denied specific rumors while coyly suggesting that our new ownership certainly opened the door to additional flying.

About a month ago I was flying with Jay, one of our most senior flight attendants and also the head of NewCo's flight attendant union. "So have you heard of any rumors of new airplanes?" he asked me before our flight to Vancouver. "Naw," I replied with a grin, "Not much. Just that we're getting ten airplanes from Australia and Italy and they're coming this summer." Jay nodded seriously. "Yes, that's basically it. The announcement comes out Monday."

I politely suppressed a chortle, because not once in my career has an "impending announcement" rumor come true. I quickly forgot about what Jay said, and indeed Monday came and went without a hint of an announcement. But a few days later, I was sitting at home when I got a call from Mitch, a Horizon friend who recently came to NewCo.

"Dude, you hear about the new planes!?" he asked excitedly.

"Suure! Pretty much constantly for the last six months!" was my sardonic reply.

"No, it's for real this time. Check your company email!"

So for once a growth rumor came true, and it was even pretty accurate. NewCo is getting 12 used JungleBusses, six from Alitalia and six from Virgin Blue, at a rate of one a month starting around June. NewCo will grow 33% over one year, from 36 aircraft to 48. I'd probably be more excited about it if I were on the cusp of an upgrade or was just about to hold weekends off or was nearly off reserve. But being a senior Captain, the growth will have very little impact on me.

I can't help but note that this isn't true growth, but a capacity reshuffling. Widget's available seat-miles are remaining essentially flat from last year. Some of our growth likely replaces Widget DC9-30s and -40s that were parked last year and the -50s that will be parked this year. As someone who would like to fly for Widget soon, that's not a good thing. I would rather see mainline aircraft replace mainline aircraft (and in a perfect world, replace regional aircraft too!).

For the most part, though, we're growing at the expense of Comair. Those poor guys don't seem to have a friend in the world. Widget management has been rather vindictive to Comair since their pilot strike ten years ago, and is now apparently intent on dismantling them piece by piece. Regional pilots are mostly sympathetic to the Comair pilots' plight but of course stand to gain from their misfortune. Widget pilots generally range from neutral to downright gleeful over the situation. There's a lot of bad blood there, much of which stems from a few very public spats the respective unions had in the late 90s and early 2000s. A surprising number of Widget pilots bear a grudge over the Comair strike itself, feeling that it cost mainline so much money that it helped lead to eventual bankruptcy. These are usually the same crusty old types who gripe about regional pilots working for slave wages; God forbid it's one of their slaves that revolts for 89 days.

So really what's happening here isn't any different from the situation with Alaska and Horizon and Skywest. Flying is being transferred from one carrier to another largely based on who pays their employees less money. It's the latest round in the twisted game of musical chairs that is the regional airline industry, and I'm not sure that grabbing a seat this time is really cause for celebration when you're still stuck playing the game.

That said, you can also look at it this way: Comair was going to lose that flying no matter what. Widget could have awarded it to Republic or Skywest or Pinnacle. I have nothing against those carriers (well, the first two anyways) and have friends at each, who I would be happy to see benefit from growth. But I have a lot more close friends at NewCo, and I'm very glad to see them moving up and gaining the quality of life that I've enjoyed simply because I got here a few months before them. I'm sure that at some point NewCo will be the one left standing without a chair, but like everyone else at the regional airlines, I hope that my friends and I are long gone when that happens.

Yellow Cub

O.K.! Your turn!” Logan shouted and half turned and flashed me a good-luck grin; then I felt the stick go slack and I grasped it, scooting my feet up to the rudder pedals. “If you don’t like what you see,” I shouted back, “don’t wait to take over. No hurt feelings here!” Logan is a first officer at NewCo with whom I’ve flown a number of times, but I didn’t want him to treat me as anything other than a student pilot about to make his first landing in a tailwheel aircraft. He responded with an encouraging nod and turned forward.

We were shouting because even a tiny Continental C-75 engine emits a surprisingly throaty roar when you’re seated a few feet away with nothing but a bit of fabric between you and eternity, and the plane’s battery-powered intercom was weak. Even this is an unusual luxury for a 1946 Piper J-3 Cub, few of which have electrical systems or any of the things we take for granted on most light aircraft: starters, radios, lights. Student pilots and their instructors have been shouting back and forth in Cubs for seventy years.

Abeam the threshold, I chopped the power and nosed down to maintain 70 mph, or thereabouts. Logan is a tall guy with broad shoulders, and I could only occasionally stretch out to catch a glimpse of the airspeed indicator in front of him. Even when solo one pays only slight attention to the Cub’s five rudimentary instruments, but with a passenger or instructor in the front seat it becomes a truly seat-of-the-pants affair. You guess your airspeed based on the noise of the wind whistling through the wing struts; even a 5 mph change produces a discernibly different pitch. And oddly enough, a maxim usually applied to jet flying, “pitch plus power equals airspeed,” comes in very handy in the back seat of a Cub. About the only two things you can easily see are the tachometer on the extreme left of the panel and the position of the exposed engine cylinders relative to the horizon.

I turned left onto base leg, using ample amounts of rudder to roll into and out of the turn. The Cub was designed in a time before differential ailerons, control interconnects, and yaw dampers made adverse yaw a mostly theoretical phenomenon easily handled with slight nudges of the rudder. Use only aileron in a Cub, and the nose will visibly slide over in the opposite direction as your butt slides downhill and the slipstream batters the exposed fabric on the down-wing side of the fuselage. You don’t really need an inclinometer to know when you’re uncoordinated in a Cub, which is good since it’s well out of sight in the middle of the panel.

I glanced to my right to look for traffic on the ILS, and then turned onto final approach. The view wasn’t much different than from a C172, or the JungleBus for that matter. I reckoned I was a smidge low, and bumped the power up 100 rpm. Coming over the threshold, I smoothly brought the power to idle, waited to what I hoped was four or five feet of altitude – it’s hard to judge when you haven’t flown a small plane in a while – and eased the stick back. I initially pulled too hard and floated, then started sinking quickly, and overreacted with a little jerk on the stick. The oscillation was really only a little bobble, but it brought back memories of the time I nearly wrecked a little yellow C150 with a severe PIO when I was 15. I corrected it and kept the backpressure in while I waited for the wheels to touch. The runway ahead completely disappeared, blocked by the raised nose. There was a chirp, a slight bounce, and then we were down. I had meant to make a three-point landing, but the tail was still a few inches too high when the main wheels touched. There was a slight swerve after the second touchdown, but it was easily corrected with the rudder. I had anticipated more squirrely behavior on the ground, but of course the Cub is a pretty tame taildragger compared to, for example, the Cessna 195 - to say nothing of a Pitts!

“Not bad,” said Logan after I brought the Cub to a halt. “Hold it off a little longer. And make sure you don’t have any drift, you bounced that one because you landed with a little side-load.” That was a surprise, I had no idea I was drifting - but I had no forward vision at the time, either. “Use your peripheral vision,” Logan told me. “You gotta use peripherals to land a Cub!” I poured on the coals, brought the tail up, and rose into the sky for another pattern and another try.

The next landing was very similar to my first, though without the oscillation in the flare. The mains touched first, bounced a bit, touched down again, and there was a slight swerve that I quickly corrected with rudder. I tried again, with the same result, and yet again, and again. None of the landings were bad, just not quite right. Finally it occurred to me that I should take more careful note of the plane’s attitude on the ground, and use that to judge whether I had the nose high enough prior to touchdown. I was actually surprised by how far above the horizon the cylinders were.

On my next landing, I slid my butt over to the side a bit and kept my eyes moving between the nose and the pavement beside me. I held the plane off longer than before, and lowered the left wing a touch to keep from drifting as we slowed. Chirp! No bounce. No swerve. All three wheels touched down softly at the same time. Logan turned around and grinned. “That was perfect! Want to call it a day?” Not really – this is wicked-fun flying! But I had someplace to be and I felt a lot better quitting now that it had “clicked.”

A week later we were back at Airlake Airport for another round of Cub training, this time on a warm, clear day with a direct crosswind of over 15 knots. It would have given me pause in a C150, much less a Cub, but Logan thought it would be good practice. He took the first takeoff, and I was a little shocked when he used full aileron to raise the downwind wheel at the same time as the tailwheel, lowering the upwind wing until it seemed mere inches from the pavement. The plane didn’t drift an inch from centerline, though. He used the same radical slip on landing, touching down on the upwind main wheel only and not letting the downwind main touch until the tailwheel was ready to come down. Then he turned the controls over to me, and I wondered just what I’d gotten myself into.

To my surprise, handling the crosswind wasn’t really that difficult. Like any airplane, you just do what you have to do, using as much control deflection as you need to keep the airplane going where you want it to go. Because we were making wheel landings, the visibility was a lot better and it was easy to see and correct any drift. It was harder to figure out the proper pitch attitude for wheel landings and to touch down with no sink rate. Initially I was landing too tail-low, or else plopping down, either of which resulted in a little bounce. Eventually I figured out to come in flatter, power-on, and to not completely cut the throttle until touchdown, right as I gave the stick a tiny forward nudge. Actually Logan had explained all these things to me, but it was in half-heard shouts over the roaring engine as I was flying the pattern and going over the mistakes of the last landing in my head. Sometimes no amount of explanation will help, you just have to figure out things for yourself.

My second to last landing was my first truly ugly one in the Cub. I ballooned, then didn’t react quickly enough when I dropped back in. Meanwhile my crosswind correction had come a bit undone and so the plane had a fair sideload when the mains hit hard. I was still well above stall speed so of course the plane bounced mightily, the nose swinging about as a gust pushed us over toward the side of the runway. I gave the throttle a good burst, re-established a level attitude, got the upwind wing back down, and gave the rudder a boot to get the nose back on runway heading. The second touchdown wasn’t bad at all; I was mostly happy with the quick recovery.

Again, everything came together on the last landing. The crosswind had picked up again but I kept the left wing pinned down hard, I kept a little power through the flare, and the left main touched down with barely a chirp. I retarded the throttle and just kept flying the plane, left wheel rolling along, as it slowed until full left aileron couldn’t keep the right wheel off anymore. As it touched down, I moved the stick back a bit, the tail came right down, and then I held it there with full up elevator as I danced on the rudder to keep the nose pointed right down the runway as we slowed to a crawl just before the turnoff for the hangar.

Above all, one thing struck me about this flight. For the first time, I realized what tailwheel pilots mean when they say you have to “fly it until the last part stops moving.” In a tricycle gear airplane, there’s a pretty clear difference between the landing and rollout phases. The nosewheel comes down very shortly after touchdown, and it completely changes the aircraft’s behavior. A good pilot will keep in the correct control inputs throughout the rollout, but they don’t have nearly the effect they do in the air, and in all but the worst conditions a lazy pilot can usually get away with abandoning aileron and elevator inputs after touchdown. The line between “flying” and “taxiing” is much, much fuzzier in a light taildragger, and the landing is more like a gradual movement from one end of the continuum to the other rather than an abrupt transition between phases. You keep flying it until there is no airflow over the control surfaces, and simultaneously start taxiing it as soon as your wheels have friction. This was a real revelation to me even though I’ve “known” it from my earliest days as a pilot.

Logan’s schedule hasn’t lined up with mine for a few weeks since that last flight, so I’m itching to get back in the Cub again. According to Logan, I probably need one more flight to polish my three-point landings and I’ll get my tailwheel endorsement. Unfortunately, I won’t be able to blast off on my own in the Cub just yet. It belongs to a 12-person flying club, of which Logan is a member but I am not. Only about half of the members are at all active, so I’m trying to find someone willing to sell me their share. With luck, I hope to have a little yellow Cub that’s 1/12th my own in time for warm summer evenings spent loitering over golden fields with the door open and the wind in my hair.