MIAO: Kicked Out of the Nest!

Fly, little birdie, FLY!

Pilots: Do you remember your first solo?  Of course you do.  It became a turning point in your aviation story.  For the first time, you were totally in control.  For better or worse, the safe completion of the flight was wholly your responsibility, without the safety net of your instructor sitting next to (or behind) you. 

The funny thing is, you might be solo but you're never alone.  It's a lot like those insurance commercials that have been making the rounds on the radio.  Sure, you're technically the only person in the airplane, but those tidbits of advice stick with you.  I can still hear my instructors, Steve and Kandace, repeating "baaaaaack . . . baaaack . . . back . . . back, back, back-back-back-back" as I fumbled through learning to flare.  Those voices don't go away with time.  I remember how they'd alter the cadence (and occasionally urgency) as I unceremoniously plopped the Cub on the ground.  As I grew in my fledgling abilities, they got quieter and quieter, until the fateful day when Kandace turned around and said, "So, the only question now is, do I get out here or do I make you take me to the hangar to drop me off?"  I'm told my expression suitably resembled a deer in the headlights. 

The feeling of responsibility, coupled with that unique elation of "Look mom!  No instructor!," is a sensation closely linked to experiences where you have gained some knowledge, have some excitement, but have not yet stepped into that brave new world of self-sufficiency.  I'm about to get a whole new taste of that this weekend.

I hear this part is sort of important--and it looks like I'm going to have to remember how to string rib stitches together!  I'm looking forward to getting the Cub's freshly covered rudder signed by friends and family just like I did before I peeled the fabric off in January. 

Before my travel whirlwind started in March, the Oklahoma Kid's new ($$$) stabilizers were covered.  Her elevators needed some repair, which was accomplished last weekend, which meant they were ready to cover.  Mark at Dakota Cub had to spend some time reminding me what step was next as I had forgotten some of it over the six weeks the project had lain dormant.  It was, however, encouraging and exciting to see how the process of covering the elevators went more smoothly than covering the stabilizers.  The actions required were just a little more familiar--just enough so, it seems, that Mark has decided it's my job to cover the rudder without his hovering.

Yes, I'm getting kicked out of the nest!  I'm alternately excited and nervous about putting all of the things he has taught me into practice.  I suppose you can always cut your mistakes off and start over if it's bad enough--and if not, it will be good for a story when the Oklahoma Kid is out flying again.  I'm headed out to Dakota Cub tonight to get started . . . stay tuned.

--Amy

Other Airplanes or: Why You Need More Than One

I last flew the Oklahoma Kid on December 17^th, 2015, when I ferried her a short ways from home (South St. Paul – Fleming Field) to a nearby airport to have her wings and engine removed.  Progress has been made but it’s been stymied here and there as projects are.  Most recently, I was on a back-to-back (to back to back . . .) round of travel that took me east to Washington, DC, and Florida, west to Shanghai, and a few places in-between.  Unfortunately, the travel schedules and a few other life events lined up such that I haven’t been able to work on the airplane since the end of March. 

Things you should never have to do: Cut out a large (recognizable!) piece of your beloved airplane.  It's for the best, but it was painful. 

In the meantime, spring has decided to show up here in the upper Midwest, and it even seems like it’s here to stay for a while.  The combination of a busy travel schedule, other work responsibilities (that don’t take a holiday while you’re traveling), and life in general are enough to keep you busy just keeping your head above water, and everything else takes a back seat.  Then, suddenly, it’s 75 degrees out, sunny, with a light breeze straight down the runway and the familiar ache surfaces.  When you’re busy, it’s easy to forget or forego the things that bring you joy in favor of practical tasks like ensuring you have clean underwear.  It’s a part of life, and it’s fine until you get the reflective moment where you remember the pure and unadulterated joy of escaping the ground for a few laps around the pattern or a quick jaunt down the river—and then you realize you can’t have that.

The first stop of the whirlwind travel tour: Washington, DC at the peak of the cherry blossoms, though I only got a quick glimpse on my ride to and from the airport.

At least, you can’t have it right now.  That serves two purposes.  First, it lights a fire under your butt to want to do everything you can to get your magic carpet back in flying form.  Sometimes reality gets in the way of this timeline, whether in the shape of other obligations (like helping a parent get ready to sell their house, or getting car maintenance done, or myriad other things) or the financial requirements.  If you’re really lucky, you get to combine the other obligations with several other unplanned expenditures totaling in the thousands.  Anyways, the second impact is more complex.  Emotions always are.  You feel a longing to return to that previous life you had, where there was an airplane ready in the hangar.  You feel upset at yourself for not getting more done.  You feel depressed realizing the pure numbers involved (projects never do go according to plan), and wonder when you’ll be able to get your airplane back.  You feel generally cranky because, truth be told, a piece of you is missing. 

The most recent progress was at the end of March, covering the two new stabilizers I ordered.

This, of course, is why everyone should have more than one airplane.  In an ideal world, you could take one or even two down for maintenance and still have something to fly.  If you have found that ideal world, please let me know.  I’m available for adoption. 

Next stop: Florida (Round 1).  Lovely weather for a pasty Midwesterner to be outside ;)

I have to admit, I’m a bit of a one-trick pony.  The overwhelming majority of my time in the air is in some form of a Cub.  Sure, I should branch out more and fly other airplanes, but I don’t regret a single minute in the air in a Cub—even the uncomfortable ones.  I find myself fortunate to have fallen so deeply in love with an airplane and a way of life so early in my aviation involvement.  And sure, I recently stated that if all I ever had to fly was a humble Cessna 172, I would be happy because flying is flying—and that’s still true.  But there will never, in my mind, be any equal to the simple, unfiltered joy of flying a Cub. 

After two days at home, Florida (Round 2).  Improved weather, plus airplanes.

All that said, I love a lot of different airplanes and I’d love to fly a lot more.  However, if all I ever am is “nothing but a Cub pilot,” that’s ok too. 

Four and a half months after doing the dumbest thing of my life (dismantling my wonderful little airplane), I had the opportunity to go fly another yellow airplane, but not a Cub.  It was similar in form, a descendant of the Cub’s arch rival, and I was one lost and confused little Cub pilot.  Electrical systems, switches, boost pumps, props, radios, and gauges—it was all doable, things I was capable of managing, but it was one hell of a study in contrasts.  I think maybe differences are more pronounced when there is some expectation that items will be similar.  I wouldn’t step into a King Air expecting much to look comfortingly familiar, but a tandem, fabric-covered taildragger is a bit closer in nature, yet it’s quite nuanced in its differences. 

After another two days at home, hello, Shanghai! (No, that's not fog)

Same view at night.

Ok, this one might be partially fog

I should mention that there once was a time when I felt perfectly at home in a Cub or Cub variant.  I’m willing to admit that this might have been a false sense of security that comforted me, but I was accustomed to the airplane feeling like a well-worn sweatshirt.  It was familiar, a little musty-smelling perhaps, and welcoming.  I knew its quirks and personality traits, its starting tendencies and those little noises.  Now, however, is a different time.  Over the past few years, I have flown less.  First, I didn’t have an airplane, so I bought one, and now I keep taking it apart (someday I’ll learn).  I look forward to regaining that sense of belonging, but, for now, I’m conscious of the fact that I’m not as proficient as I once was.  I pay more attention to my state of mind, the weather, and the mechanical condition of the airplane.  That’s not a bad thing, but it is to say that I’m very aware of the rust collecting on my flying skills. 

After a whole week at home (the luxury!), this one was for fun :)

This degradation of my proficiency was fully evident to me as I clambered into a comparatively strange airplane.  I went out of my way to not assume I knew what was next, asked for clarification and direction, and generally tried not to screw it up too badly.  Everything felt different, and sometimes it was hard to tell if it was because I had forgotten how to fly an airplane or if I was actually picking up on some characteristics that distinguished the two airplane types.  “Why won’t you talk to me?” I wondered to the airplane.  “Why won’t you do what I want you to do?  Why do I have to think so much about this?”

After four days at home plus late-night unplanned car issues, it was up to Anchorage, Alaska, for the Great Alaska Aviation Gathering.  Landed back home at 5:40 Monday morning, caught a nap, and went back to work.  

Of course, the airplane was talking—I just hadn’t figured out how to listen to it.  I missed the sensation of feeling at ease and in control, not needing to think about minute tasks like setting the trim just so or where to find the oil temperature gauge.  But, with a little time, things became less clunky and forced.  I was still very aware of the variances between this airplane and my beloved Cubs, but it wasn’t quite so painful.  By the end of it all, I was even having fun and didn’t feel like a total floundering idiot. 

Yes, you read that correctly—I flew something other than a Cub and enjoyed it.  It is, in fact, possible.  All that said, you shouldn’t hold your breath on me going out of my way to fly other airplanes while mine is still in pieces.  Finances and time are, first and foremost, dedicated to getting Cubby back in one airworthy piece.  Once she is back in her home hangar and flyable, you’ll have a hard time convincing me to spend money or time on any airplane other than her—after all, we will have to make up for lost time! 

In the saga of unplanned expenses, this one is canine in nature.  Who knew doggy tooth extractions (necessitated by a tooth getting broken) could be more expensive than my unplanned car repairs, and on par with the excision of my abnormal mole?  In any case, I'm hoping we're done with expensive surprises for a while.

In the meantime when I can’t work on the Oklahoma Kid, I’ll occasionally slip into the Barnstormers trap and daydream about a second airplane.  Someday, I won’t have to go months without flying while my proficiency and confidence slowly seep away.  If you’re considering airplane ownership, I implore you to consider the insanity of multiple airplane ownership—sure, you’ll have more bills, but I think it might just beat the insanity of the pilot that can’t fly! 

More rebuild progress to ensue this weekend, and I can’t wait!

--Amy

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