MIAO: The Pursuit of (Im)Perfection

In my experience, there's a lot of Scotch-Brite and solvents involved in aircraft ownership.

Starting an airplane project of any magnitude is an invitation for the peanut gallery to show up, usually with a proverbial bag of popcorn that they will drop all over your hangar floor while telling you—with a full mouth, of course—what you should do instead of whatever you’re doing.  It’s an entertaining, if occasionally progress-derailing, part of the process.  Sometimes, it even results in good ideas!*

*Definitely not always

 

Inevitably, what the commentary centers around is a million and one ways to make your airplane perfect.  This might mean making it faster, slower, lighter, more comfortable (heavier), prettier, or just about anything –er.  The folks behind these suggestions have pure intentions and no financial obligations to the project, so you’ll experience no end to the ideas.  The prospect of freedom from such social interactions might be enough to push your project across the finish line.  

Let me be clear that there are many good ideas to be gleaned from this kind of commentary and insight.  Your hangar visitors might notice things you’ve missed, inform you of an easier or more efficient way to accomplish something, loan you tools, or genuinely come up with a great feature to include.  They might even offer to help (they might also camp in your hangar and drink your beer, but there are risks to anything).  

People ask if I'm keeping the venturi.  So far the answer is yes, because I'm reusing the boot cowl and there are holes already in it.  It's a great time to make a new boot cowl, but I've decided that I'll live with my existing one for reasons of cost and time. 

When I bought the Oklahoma Kid, I knew I didn’t want a perfect airplane.  First and foremost, I could not afford one (I still can’t).  Perhaps more importantly, I wanted an airplane I wasn’t afraid to enjoy.  After all, it only took me two days to ding the wingtip bow on a hangar door for the first time.  Side note: It was a 60’ wide door that can fit a Caravan.  I still have no clue how I managed to hit the wing of a 35’ 6” wingspan Cub on that, but I’m guessing it took some level of skill.  

Even when presented with the option of having a perfect airplane over time, I’ve decided I don’t want the Oklahoma Kid to be one.  I appreciate them, and have great respect for their owners, who invest countless hours in the pursuit of impeccability.  At the end of the day, though, I’m far from a perfect person.  My desk is usually a disaster, and I’ve been known to do dumb things like fall asleep with the lights on while knowing better.  I’m the kind of person that will never have a perfect dwelling, or a perfect car, or a perfect hangar (ok, that one I will probably get a lot closer on).

I love this barb stripe.  It wasn't perfectly done but it was different than the norm and had some flair.  Peeling it off was pretty sad. 

I appreciate a little scruff in an airplane.  I like little imperfections that have stories.  They remind me that it doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks of my airplane—it’s mine, and not theirs, for a reason. 

To all of you who want historically accurate airplanes down to the exact hardware manufacturers—that’s awesome.  I love looking at your work and seeing the history preserved.  To all of you who want the fastest airplane on your hangar row—keep it up.  I only ask that you not run me over in the pattern.  To all of you who want to sit on a sheet of cardboard to save a few ounces in your STOL beast—my hat is off to you.  I still think I want a cupholder.  To all of you who want your perfect airplane to be any combination of all the myriad options out there—good for you.  I hope you go out and get it.  

Every piece of green tape indicates something to be addressed.  The tube might get removed or replaced, or there might just need to be some cleanup done.  Either way, there is a lot of green.

For me, an imperfect airplane is the definition of perfect.  Each imperfection has a story, even if it’s as simple as “I’m an idiot and ran it into a door.”  As I go through the process of recovering the fuselage (don’t worry, there’s plenty of blog material there), many imperfections in the airplane are revealed.  I’m left with choices.  If it’s an airworthy issue, the imperfection will be fixed.  If it’s strictly cosmetic, there’s a bit of a debate.  How much time and expense will it add to the project?  What’s the gain?  

I’ll admit, there are some fuselage areas I look at and think, “Boy, this thing sure has a lot of splices.”  And it does—the Kid’s history includes the installation of a repaired fuselage done by an aerial application business.  “Pretty” and “cosmetically appealing” were not requirements on any work done.  The main request seemed to be “won’t fall apart.”  Looking at the repairs, I sometimes think it would be nice to not have so many present.  That’s strictly an aesthetic issue in most cases, and usually not even that, since you won’t see the splices when the airplane has been recovered.  But there’s still this internal debate where you think “Am I the only one who would leave these?  Am I being a poor airplane owner for not feeling these have to be addressed?”

Sometimes the pieces of green tape are big!

I pondered on this for a while and came to the realization, once again, that I don’t want a perfect airplane.  At least, I don’t want this airplane to be perfect right now.  In the future, maybe I’ll take the time to remove all of those blemishes, but right now, it’s more important to have a safe, airworthy, flying airplane to enjoy.  Moreover, as I scrubbed paint off of the cowl that I curse so much at oil change time, it all became clear.  I might have a perfect airplane someday, but the Kid will always be my favorite, and she’ll be my favorite because of all her imperfections.  She represents a time in my life where I am learning and stretching (both my knowledge and my wallet) and gaining the perspective of an airplane owner trying to scrap through the ownership experience.  Everything is new and I’m figuring out how to survive it all.  I’m riding the roller coaster of emotions, and lately there have been more downs than ups.  That’s how the ride goes sometimes.  

I still hate that cowl.  That’s one thing I will replace down the road, but who knows when.  Right now, sniffing paint stripper and keeping the thing in all of its hokey-ness gets me flying faster with less financial impact.  And in that light, I love that damn cowl.

--Amy

MIAO: What’s Not on the Brochure

Whatever reasoning I'm capable of declines immensely when I am missing my airplane (think toddler stage)

 There’s a saying about airplane ownership: “The happiest two days in your life are the day you buy it, and the day you sell it.”  I can’t prove or disprove that since I haven’t sold the Oklahoma Kid, but I can tell what’s lacking from that statement is everything in the middle.  You accept that buying an airplane or something of similar value will be terrifyingly exciting (or excitingly terrifying), but the anticipation helps get you through the scary bits, and then the joy of your shiny new toy tides you over.  I can imagine that selling an airplane is met with some level of relief (either you wanted to sell it or realized circumstances forced you to, and both options mean you’re probably glad the process is over), but the “in-between” period those two days is what occupies my time now. 

It turns out that owning an airplane is one heck of a roller coaster ride.  The notion of mentally preparing yourself to spend money on things like annual inspections and insurance is one concept.  Actually doing it is another.  Don’t get me wrong—I’m a big fan of doing my research and making educated decisions, so I’m all for mental preparation.  I am, however, going to tell you that that only goes so far and it sure doesn’t cover everything. 

You see, life has a funny way of playing tricks on you.  Even when you think you’re prepared—you’re not.  Sorry to spoil it for you! 

When I purchased the Oklahoma Kid in April of 2014, I knew she wasn’t perfect.  She didn’t need to be—she needed to be safe and airworthy for a few more years.

SURPRISE!

A few airworthiness concerns popped up in the first summer of ownership, and then came the first annual.  Several discretionary items were done along with some airworthiness ones (surviving the first annual is a whole other story), but the big surprise came when I was told over the summer that I needed to cover the fuselage and tailfeathers this winter instead of next winter or even a few years down the road as I had hoped. 

Speaking of surprises, guess what these are and where they're from!

So much for mental preparation.  I’m fortunate to have a good job that I enjoy working for a company I respect, but that in no way prepared me for the notion of a four-figure (that’s BEFORE the decimal) expenditure in the first two years of ownership.  After some of the discretionary purchases during the first annual, I didn’t have my airplane fund replenished.  I had once had visions of saving up gradually, planning out the work to be done, and ending up with a beautiful Cub perfectly suited to me.  It turns out life had other plans. 

What have we done??!?!?

The airplane is now spread across a few states.  Her wings, engine, and prop are just across the river in Wisconsin, her floats and skis are in her home hangar in Minnesota, and her fuselage, tailfeathers, and miscellaneous other bits and pieces are in South Dakota.  I’m stuck in the middle in more ways than one—geographically, as well as in this interesting (if un-fun) never-never land of having no clue what to do next but not being able to hit the rewind button. 

My dreams of procuring parts over the years and attending workshops and seminars to learn about recovering an airplane were shattered.  Instead, I suddenly had a very naked airplane 250 miles from home, and no plan.  I have a rough idea of what I want to do but no idea on how to do it.  I’m willing to learn anything, from cleaning parts to rib stitching to sweeping the floor, and I’m fortunate to have knowledgeable people helping me along, but I’m still fairly useless to them and not confident enough to attempt the “trial and error” method of aircraft maintenance. 

This is the part that isn’t in the glossy brochure on airplane ownership.  It’s the part where you feel totally useless and not in control of your fate.  It’s not a fun place to be, frankly.  In the end, I will have a wonderful Cub to cherish for decades before I have to worry about anything again, and she will take me amazing places.  Don’t think that I question the value of the work that will be done, or that I’m regretting my purchase; I’m not.  I am, however, here to say that there is a definitely un-glamorous side to aircraft ownership that doesn’t make it into magazine articles or Instagram posts. 

Side effects of being without an airplane include irritableness, whining, grousing, unhealthy consumption of baked goods, frozen dairy desserts, and/or alcoholic beverages, crying into your pillow, screaming in the solitude of your car, and who knows what else (I’ll probably find out).  Some days, you are sad and feel lost and lonely without your winged companion.  Some days you are mad at everything in the world without cause.  Some days you forget you even own an airplane (or pieces of it), and that’s probably the worst part.  When your magic carpet is a part of who you are and is why you get out of bed in the morning, being without it is painful enough, but realizing you didn’t think about the simple joy of smelling the exhaust, or the way floating off of the runway feels like being able to breathe after being underwater—that hurts.  It feels like part of who you are is slowly slipping away, and trying to pull that part of you back feels like sand falling through your fingers. 

Thank goodness I at least have a good supervisor!

It will be ok in the end—I’m confident of that.  The Oklahoma Kid is, bluntly, going to be one hell of airplane when she returns to the sky.  She will have been watched over by some of the finest Cub craftsmen around (unfortunately, she will also have been worked on by the likes of me) and she’ll be tailored to fit my puddlejumping mission with shiny new parts and improvements.  I’m excited to see her on the flip side of this process but, until then, I’ll still be feeling like, well, parts of me are missing and in a few different states.

Stay tuned for more on the progression of the recovery process, and both the Oklahoma Kid and I hope to see you at a fly-in some day.

--Amy

Puddlejumping

A magical view if I've ever seen one

I was recently pondering my place in general aviation.  I got to thinking about how I knew I wanted to work in GA but had absolutely no clue in what capacity.  One thing I did know was that I did NOT want to be an airline pilot.  Don't get me wrong, it can be a good job, but I knew it wasn't for me.  I considered air traffic controller, corporate pilot, even flight school owner (I ended up deciding that was probably a venture better left for retirement), but I kind of wallowed through school knowing I didn't fit the career-track airline pilot mold and not much else.

I did, however, know that I sure loved grassroots flying in airplanes with the little wheel in the back.  As such, my summers were filled with hanging out at the Hartford Municipal Airport as I worked on my sport pilot CFI and later instructed part-time around another part-time job.  I had a heck of a lot of fun, and it turns out that staying true to what you love sometimes works out.  I got an internship at Dakota Cub Aircraft, manufacturers of the world's finest Cub parts, and then I ended up with a job offer at Wipaire before I had even started my final semester of college.  To say I am fortunate would be an understatement, and I'm incredibly grateful for the opportunities I have had (they've been pretty awesome!).

It never gets old, even 3 minutes from home

Anyways, recent reflecting left me thinking about how today's reality differs from my perceptions of yesterday.  I feel pretty confident saying that if you had asked me where I'd be in aviation five years ago, I would have had no clue and would have admitted as such (five years ago, I had barely decided to double-major in marketing instead of economics).  There is no doubt, though, that I would not have guessed I'd be where I am today.  I would have expected that I'd be a full-fledged CFI with an instrument rating and commercial pilot's license to my credit, and maybe that I'd be flying for hire in some capacity.

Needless to say, that's not where I am.  I'm still a private pilot with a tailwheel endorsement and a sport pilot CFI certificate.  I momentarily felt ashamed when I realized that, thinking I would have made more progress.  Then I remembered a conversation I had with Len Buckle a few years back at Sentimental Journey.  If you don't know Len, you're missing out.  He decided he would stop flying his J3 from California to Pennsylvania at the round age of 80.

Len is a supporter of the Piper Aviation Museum and bought a brick that's on display in the entryway.  His brick proudly proclaims "Nothing but a Cub pilot."  I asked him about that once, and he explained he got in a disagreement with a friend once, who said "What would you know, you're nothing but a Cub pilot!"  Len paused a moment, then decided his friend was right.  He also decided that "nothing but a Cub pilot" was, in fact, a badge of honor.

With that in mind, I thought about Ed Rankin, who once proclaimed to me "You're a puddlejumper, just like me."  At the time, I was mildly offended.  Surely I could fly pointy-nosed fast things in the clouds if I wanted to!  Ed didn't disagree, just pointed out that I liked flying little airplanes that went slow.

I thought back to all of the incredible people and places I've encountered flying slow little airplanes.  I recently described buying a Cub as the price of admission to a unique and special community of people (although I suppose you could substitute a Luscombe, Taylorcraft, or even a Champ). The airplanes I have flown have opened up an incredible world of people and places.  I've watched the sun rise and set at 80 miles an hour and slowly paddled my way from South Dakota to Florida, Wisconsin to Pennsylvania, and Minnesota to Indiana and a few other places in between.  A different airplane would get me there faster and in more comfort. 

However, Cub flying isn't about "getting there."  It's about watching the world from a height where you can still smell manure in the pastures of the Midwest, the factories along rivers and lakes, and finding beauty in every place you go. 

The Mississippi River often loses out to its eastern neighbor, the St. Croix, in public perception of beauty.  The "muddy Mississippi," with its commercial barge traffic, apparently gets less love than its boat-riddled compatriot.  Watch a floatplane land on the Mississippi from above or watch a barge go by with the rocky bluffs in the background, though, and tell me there's not beauty in that. 

The thing is, a lot of people have perceptions about beauty.  They think the Midwest is boring, that the plains states are better forgotten, and that only regions with mountains or coasts are worthy of the term "beautiful."  I disagree.  There's a unique beauty in every place.  I've sat outside on a grass strip in South Dakota and listened to the corn rustle in a gentle breeze while the light softened as the sun retreated for the day.  I've flown down the lakefront of Chicago and looked up at offices in skyscrapers as the windows twinkled in the sunlight.  I've scooted across seemingly endless tree-covered ridges in Pennsylvania telling the Continental up front what a good little engine it was.  Much like opening your eyes to your immediate surroundings, puddlejumping is all about appreciating the here and now.  You might get weathered in someplace.  You don't necessarily know if there will be a courtesy car to go to town with, or if you will end up subsisting on the granola bars you packed.  You might find a spectacular FBO with 24-hour access, showers, and a car.  Then again, you might also find a deserted field with a horrifying pit toilet (or no bathroom access at all).  You need an intact sense of adventure to fly a slow, basic airplane across the country and enjoy it.

I'm a proud supporter of the chart industry.  It keeps me more engaged than following a line on a GPS or a tablet.  A chart might not always be my sole method of navigation, but it is a heck of a lot of fun.

A funny thing happens when you can do that, though.  If you can get your mind wrapped around embracing the uncertainty of weather and unfamiliar airports and have fun, all of a sudden you start having a lot more fun in general.  Things don't always go to plan flying an I Follow Roads airplane.  You learn to adapt.  Sometimes you do things you wish you hadn't.  Sometimes you sit on the ground and regret it.  Once you embrace the notion of not having a concrete schedule and route, you become more open to life in general.  I say that as someone who has historically been afraid of trying new things.  My family didn't do things like go skiing or play yard games or any variety of other things.  I have never liked not being good at things, but I realized a few years ago that there was only one way to get beyond that.  I learned to downhill ski (sort of), and I even learned to ride a motorcycle because I realized I could do it on my own.  Why not?

I guess all of this means I may never be anything but a Cub pilot, but that's a damn fine label if you ask me.  What a problem to have, to be having too much fun with a simple airplane to want to bother sticking your head into a panel and droning through the clouds!  Yes, life is good.  I'm more in love with my life every time I open the hangar door and see the Oklahoma Kid waiting for me.  Her theme song is Magic Carpet Ride, because she is the magic carpet that transports me to places most people can only imagine. 

There's a great big world out there, and I intend to explore it one puddlejump at a time.

--Amy

The Impossible Trip

There are a few aviation events that are written in stone on my calendar.  One of those such events is the Sentimental Journey to Cub Haven in Lock Haven, Pennsylvania.  Held every June, Sentimental Journey (or, more simply, "Lock Haven") is often referred to as the "feel-good" fly-in.  It's truly a magical experience.

My first Lock Haven trip was in 2009.  I was a fairly fresh private pilot with a mere year of experience under my belt.  I loaded 21Y up (a trusty 65 hp J3) and made the trek out there with one of my instructors, Steve, and his fellow pilot wife Sharon in a second Cub.  The 650-mile trip from Hartford, Wisconsin, was by far the longest trip I had ever taken, and I learned an awful lot.  Speaking of awful, the weather fit that description following our arrival into William T. Piper Memorial Airport.  While we had good flying weather for the trip, the luck soon changed and it rained every day until we left.  There were at least two days no airplane moved, though a few days were decent enough to allow the flying events.

Always an appropriate cross-country t-shirt

Back side of cross-country t-shirt

It became abundantly clear this was a special place and gathering, even with the miserable weather.  I was fortunate to attend with 21Y again in 2010, and then in Little Airplane, the Super 18 LT, in 2011 and 2012.  In 2013, I was airplane-less and hopped onto a winged beer can and airlined out.  A rather memorable arrival occurred.  Let's just say it involved three airplanes, one too-small Speedo, a bikini, two chicken masks, and the emotional scarring of everyone that was on the ramp in State College that day.

Hail Mary Speedball Lock Haven Express PA-11 crew 2015

I purchased the Oklahoma Kid in April of 2014 and hoped to fly her to Lock Haven in June.  However, her carb rebuild was still ongoing and I was understandably broke from buying an airplane, so I begrudgingly stayed home and did not even buy an airline ticket.

IT SUCKED.

I vowed I couldn't miss two years in a row and that I would be back in 2015.  Fast forward to May 2015.  The Kid was getting new struts and exhaust as part of her annual.  The exhaust wouldn't be done in time and it coincidentally was going to cost the same amount as I had allocated for making the trip to Lock Haven (not counting the struts I had to buy).  I checked airline flights left and right and came to a heartbreaking conclusion: I could not afford to go this year.

To say much grousing occurred would be a gross understatement.  I should probably apologize to everyone that had to deal with me, but I don't think I have that much time.  Thankfully, I had the pity of my coworkers who were quite tolerant of my whining.

This is my "Oh my god, WE'RE REALLY GOING!!!!" face

The Friday before I was supposed to leave was especially rough.  I got a message from a friend who had sold his PA-12 the day before, so I was at least in somewhat good company.  I'll admit it - I cried by myself in frustration.  I had deleted the first day of my vacation request earlier on Friday, but was too depressed to delete the rest (I had planned on having Monday through the following Monday off).

I've always said I have the most amazing friends ever - and it's true.  I checked my phone around 11:00 pm on Sunday night and saw an unread message from Speedy Dave.  "You ready to leave Monday or Tuesday?" it read.  I quickly responded "I could be!!"

I hadn't received a response by 9 am the next morning and was way too excited to wait, so I called him.  We decided we'd follow up Monday night after looking at the weather.  At 8 pm Monday night, we agreed to depart SGS at 1 pm the next day.

About to cross behind the cheddar curtain

It was the most incredible trip to Lock Haven I've ever made.  We experimentally determined that yes, you CAN fit two people and camping gear in a PA-11, but only if you leave behind things like pillows and sleeping pads.  It didn't matter what we had to sacrifice to make it - we were GOING!  Even the tent leak at 1 am was worth it (soggy sleeping bag is an experience I could live without repeating).

Drying round two.  First, the tent leaked at 1 am.  Then I put everything out on the airplane in the morning.  Of course, I forgot it was all there when it started pouring again.  

I don't think I have ever worn so large a smile for so long at a time.  People in aviation talk about the impossible turn - this was the impossible trip.  There was no way I should have made it.  Miss PA the PA-11 was in central Montana until Sunday afternoon and headed 1,000 miles in the opposite direction two days later.  It shouldn't have worked, but it did.  

To put it bluntly: Shit's about to get real!

Showing up when no one thought you were coming was pretty awesome too.

The sensation of coming "home" to Lock Haven could be a veritable book in and of itself.  The "I thought you weren't going to make it this year!" welcomes and hugs were exactly the recharge I needed with my ongoing (and expensive) annual.

Feels like coming home, even in a Ponca City Cub

There's no finer fly-in if feeling welcomed and missed is what you are after.  Despite missing a year, friendships picked up right where they left off, ribbing included (apparently Scott hates spades).  It's true what they say: you get into aviation for the aircraft and the flying, and you stay in it for the people.  I'm incredibly fortunate to have the most amazing people in aviation to call friends and acquaintances.

On arrival.  Felt like I was floating I was so elated.

I'd fly all the way to Lock Haven just for this ice cream, anyways.  Imagine my heartbreak when they ran out of this flavor Friday night.  The horror!

Perfection.

Good friends will call you when they're going somewhere and offer you a ride.  REALLY good friends will stay at Lock Haven during the fly outs so you can fly their airplane alone.  I have REALLY good friends.

Shades of 2009--we had weather like this the whole week on my first trip to LHV.  Thankfully this was just a passing phase!

The cut in the ridge on the left side of this picture always makes me smile.  During my first trip to Lock Haven I chased Leah Jones (Mae Coady) while she flew with Steve Krog.  I snapped a picture of Steve and Leah flying a yellow J3 through the gap that I sent to Leah.  She said the picture took her back 60 years and felt like just yesterday.  

Does this have to end or can I stay here forever?

Leah Jones (Mae Coady), whom I met at my first Sentimental Journey.  Leah was a ferry pilot for Piper and also worked in final assembly (including on the record J3 production day).  Seeing her is the highlight of the trip.

Flyouts . . . embarrassing landing and all.

Glenn's experimental Cub is very similar to the Oklahoma Kid.  So similar, in fact, that a custom painting of this scene, with my airplane substituted for Glenn's, later showed up on my doorstep.

All too soon, it was time to go.  The weather was not nearly as cooperative for our trip back, resulting in an extra night in Lock Haven (there are worse things).  Nevertheless, it was time to go.  The field was empty, the parking cones packed up, and the SJ staff trying to get some sleep to recover from the event.  It reminds me of that Semisonic song: "You don't have to go home, but you can't stay here." (Actually, the fine folks at Lock Haven would be more than happy to see people stay around or visit, but that's a separate point)

This is the "We actually managed to leave!" set of faces.  Weather was not so kind trying to leave LHV.

A rainbow in New Castle, PA, boded well for the rest of the trek home.  

Here in western Ohio, the Hail Mary Speedball Lock Haven Express crew split up for the return home.  Miss PA the Wonder Cub headed for Sioux Falls and I hopped in a Decathlon to attempt to head back to Minneapolis.  

Laying on the pavement with this view while waiting for the Decathlon to arrive was absolute perfection.  Warm pavement, comfortable temperatures, and a spectacular trip to reflect on.

Not a Cub.

Despite comments of me "getting saved from a Cub," Miss PA made it back home Monday evening.  The Decathlon made it home Monday morning, which was great except that the Decathlon's home isn't actually Minneapolis.  Let's all take a moment to reflect on the fact that sitting in a Cub would have been faster than sitting in a Decathlon.

Nevertheless, the proverbial lemonade was made out of the giant lemon that the weather was.  I got a quick tour of American Champion Aircraft in Rochester, WI, visited my mom, took a well-earned shower, had a glorious nap, and then got to spend a little extra time with someone special.  It was an early morning the next day to get to work on time, but thankfully even the Decathlon made it that time ;)

Early morning.  Should have just kept flying - I wasn't ready for my adventure to end.

The focus is now getting the Oklahoma Kid back in action (she might fly this afternoon!) so we can enjoy the last scrap of summer and some of fall.  There are many updates on that front, so stay tuned . . .

Until then, I hope you get to experience a trip as amazing as my impossible trip to Lock Haven.  It still doesn't feel real that I made it and I am here to tell you that every sacrifice was worth it.  EVERY. ONE.  The leaky tent, the complete lack of a pillow, sleeping on the ground (no sleeping pad - just a sleeping bag on a tent floor!), the soggy shoes, everything.  I would leave right now if I could go again.

--Amy