But today I’m finally taking a day off. I’ve had an ultra-productive week, I’ll be flying for work tomorrow, and Dawn just headed to her parents’ place in South Dakota. It’s just me and my flying pooch, Piper, living the bachelor life. It’s time for a playdate to go explore those Cascade mountain strips I’ve been eyeing from high above on the CHINS5 and GLASR2 arrivals. This would ideally be done in the cool, still air of morning, but I got waylaid by another project, and it’s after noon by the time Piper and I finally depart and turn northeast. It’s not a terribly hot day, though, and we’re light, and the highest airstrip is at only 3,000 feet in elevation. The puffy cumulus over the Cascades aren’t looking too threatening—yet.

I skirt south of Paine Field (KPAE) and enter the mountains via the dramatic Skykomish River valley, with 6,000-foot peaks towering over both sides. Fifteen miles in, the town of Skykomish appears around a bend along with our first destination, Skykomish State Airport (S88): 2,000 feet of turf runway, 1,002 feet elevation, trees on both ends. The left pattern to Runway 24 makes for a tight downwind along the southern ridge and close by a granite outcropping before turning a blind base. Turning final, the runway appears again out of the trees, and I ease down a groove and land on the grass. With just Piper and I and partial fuel, I easily turn off at midfield without getting on the brakes.

Piper is a much less anxious flyer these days, but he’s still always glad to clamber out of the airplane and run his little heart out. The airport is deserted today, so I let him wander off leash while I take a look at the picnic tables and camping spots. The field is ideally set up for group camping by an EAA chapter or a gaggle of friends. The guest book reveals mostly old taildraggers like mine, the most recent some 10 days ago. There’s no reason you couldn’t take a Cessna 172 in here easily if you kept it light, but alas, many flight schools and FBOs in the area now prohibit landing at unpaved airports.

After a quick lunch, Piper and I load up again, start up, and take off on Runway 24. I fly a mile beyond town and then turn around in a wide part of the valley, climbing steeply to have plenty of altitude before approaching 4,056-foot Stevens Pass. I see the alpine lake to which Dawn and I snowshoed last winter and turn north to cross a 5,000-foot ridge into the Rainy Creek watershed. I follow it down to beautiful Lake Wenatchee and the Lake Wenatchee State Airport (27W), elevation 1,936 feet msl. As I approach, I can see the middle half of the 2,473-foot runway appears to be bare dirt and decide to do an inspection pass down Runway 9. I don’t see any big rocks, but on the next approach I touch down right at the threshold to get slow before the bare patch. Even at reduced speed, we bounce around a lot, and I can hear stones hitting the underside of the fuselage. Maybe I ought to have landed beyond the dirt—there was a good 1,000 feet of grass left. Soon after we arrive, a Cessna 182 buzzes the dusty strip and peels off into the left downwind. I film his landing, which is a dramatic plop right in the middle of the rocky zone. The hardy Skylane seems no worse for wear, and I’m soon talking to Bryce from Las Vegas. He’s flown all the way here for the Touratech Rally for adventure motorcyclists in nearby Plain, Washington. We talk dirt bikes for a bit before I eye the skies and decide it’s time to go. Those cumulus have built a good bit. They’re not ugly enough to chase us out of the mountains just yet, but Piper and I should get moving.

I purposely came into the mountains with partial gas, necessitating a fuel stop at Wenatchee’s Pangborn Memorial Airport (KEAT). From there, we climb out over Mission Ridge, dodging rain shafts. My Stratus ADS-B receiver shows some strong precipitation northeast of Mount Rainier and over the Goat Rocks Wilderness, but so far it’s staying clear of our next destination. Passing Cle Elum, Snoqualmie Pass looks very doable—that’s my backup option. As I work my way southwest, though, the weather holds. Crossing Bethel Ridge, I marvel at a fantastic ridgetop trail and file it away for a ride on my KTM dirt bike. From there, it’s a fast drop into the Tieton River valley, where Tieton State Airport (4S6, elevation 2,964 feet msl) is nestled on the shore of Rimrock Lake.

In late summer, Tieton State becomes a busy Forest Service firebase, but for now it’s quiet. The vertiginous dome of appropriately named Goose Egg Mountain lies just off the north end, making this a mostly one-way-in, one-way-out airport. The wind is nearly calm. I fly out over the lake, make a spiraling descent, and set up a dogleg approach to 2,509-foot Runway 2. There’s a decent bug-out option to the left down to about 150 feet, but below that you wouldn’t want to go around without a good bit of power. This time, speed and glide path are right on target, so I continue over the shoreline and make a wheel landing on the grass. Overall the strip is in great shape.

Tieton looks like a fantastic place to airplane camp. There’s plenty of shady parking alongside the strip, an indoor pit toilet, and nice views over the lake and mountains. It’s a short walk to the beach, where Piper frolics in the sand. For a minute, he’s a young pup on Windbird again. But now it’s 5 p.m., and those overdeveloped cumulus are getting a lot closer. I can see rain shafts cutting across the far side of the lake. Our playdate is almost over. The hourlong flight home will take us up and over White Pass, past Mount Rainier via the Skate Creek and Nisqually River drainages, and thence via Puyallup and the Tacoma Narrows. As a young pilot, this would have been a grand adventure, and now it’s all part of my backyard.

My 20th wedding anniversary is coming up, and while we’re celebrating with a monthlong trip to New Zealand later in the year, we didn’t have plans for the big day itself. When I asked Dawn what she’d like to do, she said airplane camping in the mountains. I think Tieton State Airport will be a great place to base ourselves for a few days of exploration. I’m a very lucky guy.

This column first appeared in the September 2023/Issue 941 of FLYING’s print edition.

The post Playdate Provides Chance to Explore the Cascades appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

Today’s Top Pick is a 1949 Stinson 108-3.

The Stinson 108 series of rag-and-tube aircraft were among the most popular models in the general aviation boom in the wake of World War II. Its four-seat layout set it apart from typical high-wing taildraggers of the time, most of which had just two seats. The Stinson was more like a roomy family car when compared with Piper Cubs, Taylorcrafts, and Luscombes. Indeed, the company called certain utility versions of the 108 “station wagons.”

The 108 made its debut in 1946 as an enlarged derivative of the earlier Stinson Voyager and progressed through a series of improved versions, including the 108-1, 108-2, and 108-3. Each successive model came with improvements such as more powerful engines and redesigned controls. Production was brisk and Stinson built more than 5,000 108s before Piper acquired the company in 1948. Piper continued to assemble Stinson aircraft from the existing supply of parts and sold them over several years into the 1950s, but the acquisition essentially marked the end for Stinson.

This Stinson 1949 108-3 has 738 hours on the airframe and 215 hours on its 165 hp Franklin engine. The aircraft underwent a restoration in 2012. Its panel includes a Garmin GNC 250XL GPS/com with a moving map, GTX 320A transponder, and vintage instruments that are new or overhauled.

Pilots interested in owning a classic aircraft that continues to serve as practical transportation while drawing a crowd at the airport should consider this 1949 Stinson 108-3, which is available for $125,000 on AircraftForSale.

You can arrange financing of the aircraft through FLYING Finance. For more information, email info@flyingfinance.com.

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The post This 1949 Stinson 108-3 Is a Classic ‘AircraftForSale’ Top Pick with Lots of Vintage Charm appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

Piper has led an exceptionally charmed, adventurous dog’s life by air and sea in his eight years with us. We acquired our first airplane, a 1953 Piper Pacer, while the canine Piper was but eight weeks old. A fortnight later, he had his first airplane ride in my brother Steve’s lap. He bore it well enough, but followed up by puking all over my truck’s back seat. His stomach soon became acclimated to flight, and various aerial adventures followed over Piper’s first two years of life.

But then we sold the airplane, our house, and everything Piper had hitherto known, and decamped to a 42-foot sailboat named Windbird, on which we subsequently lived for nearly five years and sailed over 12,000 nm throughout the Bahamas, Caribbean, and U.S. East Coast. To this new, rather jarringly different lifestyle, Piper adapted admirably well. He quickly learned to negotiate our steep companionway ladder, found his sea legs on oceanic passages, and soon discovered a clear delight in dinghy rides and beach outings. His gregarious personality won him friends among island dogs, locals, and sailors from Nantucket to Grenada. Piper’s seaborne life inspired Dawn to start a nautical-themed dog treat company (“Ruff Seas Treats”) soon after our return to land.

Alas, Piper’s nautical exploits have come to an end, but lately, his aerial adventures have resumed where they left off in 2016. The apparent dog-friendliness of our 1946 Stinson 108 was one of the factors that attracted us to it. The cabin is agreeably utilitarian, not unlike the interior of our Nissan Xterra SUV. The rear seat makes a perfect perch for Piper to watch the landscape pass by, and it’s easily removable for expeditions requiring a dog bed and camping equipment.

Piper’s first GA flight in six years was an admittedly shaky affair. We quickly figured out it was the noise that was bothering him, as the Stinson is even louder than our Pacer was. We ordered Piper a pair of Mutt Muffs (safeandsoundpets.com), and after a bit of getting used to them, they seemed to greatly alleviate his aerial jitters. After a few successful shorter flights, it was time to plan our first extended trip in the Stinson over Labor Day weekend.

Our initial itinerary was a camping tour of the Cascades’ mountain landing strips, from Lake Chelan (Stehekin State, 6S9) to Rimrock Lake (Tieton State, 4S6) to Ranger Creek (21W). This was prevented by a renewed outbreak of forest fires, with accompanying smoke and TFRs. In fact, the smoke was thick enough to keep us strictly local for the first few days of Labor Day weekend.

But then, on Labor Day itself, the skies cleared between us and the coast, making a day trip to Copalis State an enticing option. I’d heard Copalis was a neat place to fly, but before buying the Stinson a month prior, I couldn’t take the Cherokee I was renting and didn’t want to abuse my neighbor Ken’s generosity in lending me his SuperCub. As a sailor, I am fully aware of the destructiveness of saltwater. If I’m going to land on an ocean beach, it’s going to be in my own airplane (with a good hose-down to follow). I now had a few hours in the Stinson, and was feeling pretty good about my landings. I reasoned that I could go take a look and drag the beach and only land if I was comfortable. The last question was one of tides, for Copalis is only usable at half-tide or lower, and best if still falling. The ideal three-hour period started around noon on Labor Day. It was settled.

Before we went, I watched YouTube videos of Copalis landings. The “runway” changes and is very loosely marked, but the approved landing area is at least easy to find thanks to a nearby inlet and a permanent windsock. Approaching from the northeast, we spotted it easily, even before seeing the airplanes on the ground. Next, I made a low pass. The retreating tide had left a distinct strip of dark, moist-but-not-wet sand. I decided to make a wheel landing on my next approach, reasoning that if the sand was softer than expected, I would have the energy to either go around or just add power and “drag” the strip with my mains before coming around for another try. I needn’t have worried; the sand was more akin to concrete than our grass airstrip, and the landing was a complete non-event.

As soon as we shut down and extracted Piper from the back seat, he tore off down the beach at a gallop, chasing seabirds with tongue flying and a grin on his face. The beach is still very much his happy place. One of the other pilots had brought along two large German Shepherds in his Cessna 210, and Piper soon made new friends. The 210 pilot left the dogs with his girlfriend and took the airplane for a few circuits, practicing soft-field takeoffs and landings. His technique was excellent, though I winced every time he retracted the landing gear—I think I would have left it down until I had a chance to hose it off. Soon a Carbon Cub approached from the north, inquiring on the radio about runway conditions. I got a good chuckle out of a Centurion driver convincing a CubCrafters guy that his airplane could handle the beach.

Our little gaggle of airplanes attracted quite a bit of attention from holiday beachgoers. Copalis State has been an FAA-approved airport (summer months only) for many years, but quite a few onlookers didn’t know about it and, intrigued, came over to look at the airplanes and talk to the pilots. Our Stinson’s blue-and-neon-green paint scheme (chosen by the previous owner) garnered particularly appreciative comments from the Seahawks faithful. Personally, I think our colors will look great for search and rescue responders if they ever have cause to come looking for me.

• READ MORE: FLYING’s Top Ten Summer Cross-Country Destinations

A few hours after our arrival, the sun was starting to dip and the distant surf had reversed its retreat. Piper was resting in the cool sand after a couple hours of running his little heart out. It was time to go. We all loaded up, taxied to the south end of the beach, made sure beachgoers were clear, and took off. I couldn’t resist another low approach to show off our pretty Stinson, then climbed toward the Olympic Mountains and our home strip, 45 minutes away. Piper slept in the back seat, no doubt dreaming about chasing seagulls. Dawn squeezed my arm and rested her head on my shoulder as the slanting sun turned the smoky skies golden. Our outing to the beach was a small trip early in our ownership of the Stinson. But it was a nice preview of the adventures this classic taildragger will open up to us—and our pooch—as we explore our adopted home state and surrounding area in the coming years.

This article was originally published in the May 2023 Issue 937 of FLYING.

The post Life’s a Beach…When You Fly Into One appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

As I mentioned before, one of my requirements was that my future airplane needed to be beautiful, which for me left the 108 off of my list. I know, I know: “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.” But that left my final decision between the 170 and the Fairchild.

The dictionary defines beauty as “a combination of qualities, such as shape, color, or form, that pleases the aesthetic senses, especially the sight.” And for me, that is a Fairchild 24.

The Fairchild 24 was an evolution of the Model 22. The 22 had two seats and an open cockpit in a mixed-construction, braced parasol-wing monoplane. The 24 has a closed cabin, and it initially came with two seats that eventually evolved to a four-seat configuration. The first year of production was 1932, and it would continue in production until 1948, basically unchanged.

It was initially offered with two primary powerplants: the well-known and reliable Warner Scarab with 145 hp (later 165 hp) and the 200 hp Ranger. However, with the Warner, the beauty factor kind of disappears for me. The proportions are wrong—the nose looks too short, and the rest of the fuselage is too broad. The opposite happens when you see the 24 with the stylish long nose hiding the 200-hp Ranger.

Probably the most charismatic characteristic of the 24 is the landing gear—it is much wider than other airplanes of its category. Spring-oil shock absorbers extend several inches and connect with the wing struts and the front spar, creating a robust structure—and enabling softer landings.

The cabin and wings are made of wood. The wing connects with the fuselage with a beautiful gull-wing shape. Behind the main cabin, the fuselage is made of steel tubes. To add to the mix of wood, fabric, and steel,the ailerons are aluminum.

My first contact with a Fairchild 24 was during Oshkosh 2013. It is easy to confuse the Warner radial version with a Stinson Reliant or Howard DGA—they feature a similar style, but not the ones equipped with the inverted inline Ranger. One of the 24s was particularly gorgeous. Bright yellow and emerald green, it represented a perfect restoration—probably better than the day it left the factory. I didn’t know then that years later I would become a neighbor of that magnificent 24.

In the end, my decision leaned towards the Cessna 170, but I always felt like the 24 was the one that “got away.” I kept checking them yearly at Oshkosh, chatting with the owners, and was always tempted to add one to my life.

Fast forward to 2021, when I moved my 170 from California to Poplar Grove, Illinois, just outside Chicago. To me, Poplar Grove (C77) is the most beautiful airpark you can imagine, especially if your passion is vintage airplanes. A few days after I moved in, I saw my favorite yellow-and-green Fairchild 24 taxiing by. I quickly found that Lon Dietz was the current caretaker, and after a quick call, he agreed to share his story.

In 1998, a photographer in the area gave him a photo he took of the 24 Lon now taxied by in. That photo remained on Lon’s fridge for the next 19 years. The day he entered the house after bringing the airplane back to Poplar Grove, he walked into the kitchen, took a look at the photo on the fridge, and told himself, “Now I know why that photo has been there for the past 19 years.” So how did that happen? It’s a great story.

The Fairchild’s Story—and Dietz’

Sixty-seven-year-old Lon Dietz, a native of northern Illinois, has been living at Poplar Grove for the past 18 years. He learned to fly at Rochelle Municipal Airport (KRPJ) in 1974 when he was 18. Or, as he tells me, “I got my pilot license in a Grumman Yankee, but later I learned to fly in my first airplane, which was an Aeronca Champ that I bought for $3,500. After that, I upgraded to a Citabria and later to a Pitts. And I sold the Pitts to buy the [Fairchild].”

The Fairchild was a 1940 F-24 W40, the “W” meaning it left the factory with a Warner engine on its nose. At some point in the 1950s, somebody swapped the Scarab for the Ranger engine. The 24 belonged to the New House’s Flying Services, and it had seen better times. It was basically abandoned and run down, and lay partially assembled in a barn, with the engine off. So why sell a perfect Pitts to buy a basket case? “Well, I wanted something different. Also, I wanted a project, and boy, this was definitely one!”

After extensive work, Lon put the 24 together and flew it for 10 hours, but it was clear that it needed a full restoration, and that is what he did for the next seven years. In 1997 the ‘Pegasus’ got his wings again, and one year later, Lon took the airplane to Oshkosh, where it won “Outstanding Cabin Monoplane.” After five years of flying it, the itch for a new project was growing, and after finding a Staggerwing project, Lon decided to call a collector who had it in his sights to transfer ownership. This would be a decision that he quickly regretted. Nineteen years later, Lon got a call from a friend in Houston, Texas: “Hey, I think the airplane you restored is for sale!” A quick call later to confirm it was the same airplane, and Lon struck a deal over the phone to be once more time the caretaker of the 24. That was in 2020.

After our photo shoot for these pages, Lon asked me if I wanted to fly it. After a quick briefing on the gray autumn day at C77, I turned the Plymouth handle to open the door and climbed in using the Art Deco step with the Pegasus Fairchild logo.

I have flown 40 different types of airplanes, mostly vintage, a few warbirds, and more or less all feel the same when you sit. Some have better or worse ergonomics, and usually the field of view is restricted in vintage taildraggers, but the Fairchild 24 is definitely different. The panel is far away and low. The stick is curved and big, and the three-piece windshield allows for good visibility thanks to the streamlined shape of the Ranger engine. There is an almost comic feeling to how you sit; it takes a few minutes to get used to.

Starting the engine is standard; the Ranger starts without hesitation in the cold morning air and runs smoothly. Taxiing is easy, with some tapping on the brakes needed for the tight turns, and while you can see forward through the front lateral windows, S-taxiing is still necessary to be sure nothing lies straight ahead.

My First Flight

After the standard run-up check, we took the grass runway, heading to the west. I slowly added power while increasing the right rudder pressure. The 24 was easy to keep in the center of the runway. The speedstarted to increase, and when I felt the tail becoming light, I gave positive forward input to the big S-shaped stick. The tail came up, and the oil-filled gear smoothed over all the imperfections of the runway like a big classic American car.

We became airborne, and I pitched down to increase the speed to 80 mph, which is its best rate of climb. It’s a chilly day, and that helped with the climb rate. With two big guys on board and full tanks, we are still doing close to 1,000 fpm. There was something besides the cold temperatures and the 200 hp of the Ranger helping us to climb. This airplane is equipped with a rare Aeromatic wooden propeller.

The Aeromatic prop allowed the engine to develop full horsepower for takeoff, climb, and cruise. After fully pushing the throttle forward for takeoff, the engine revved up to about 50 rpm under the red line. When airborne and with the airspeed needle pointing to climb speed, the engine hit the red line rpm. After reaching cruise altitude, the propeller increased pitch as the airspeed behaved much like a constant speed prop—except that it is fully automatic.

This is not a two-speed prop; it modulates itself based on the airplane’s speed and other dynamic  forces. And as if that wasn’t good enough, an Aeromatic propeller is a self-contained unit with no controls from the propeller to the cockpit.

It was time to practice some turns and stalls before heading back to the pattern to shoot the traditional three full-stop landings. During the turns, the controls were light, balanced, and effective. Stalls were straight-forward, and we mushed down like a big Piper Cub. For a 1930s aircraft, the cruise performance matched most Pipers and Cessnas of the ‘50s and even today. At 2,200 rpm, it cruised at 120 mph burning 10 gph—and 2 or 3 quarts of oil per hour, standard for a Ranger engine.This provides five hours of endurance.

Lon recommended I use 80 mph for the approach. I selected full flaps; the split flaps, while not too big, are effective in helping to control the speed while increasing the rate of descent. With a touch of the throttle for a stabilized approach, crossing the border of the field, I closed the throttle and started my flare waiting for the rubber to contact the grass and the spring oil shock absorbers to compress. I could barely feel the first contact. I held a little bit more, “flying” the gear instead of just letting it drop, as you do in the Airbus A330 when you “fly” the second set of wheels of the main gear. A perfect greaser, like landing on cotton.

I smiled, and Lon joked with me about whether I would be able to do it again or if it was just beginner’s luck. 

We went up for a second flight around the pattern, and the same thing happened: another perfect landing, and I was in love with this airplane.

I got cocky on my third landing and lost concentration. I flared too late. A small bounce followed. I quickly applied forward pressure on the stick, pinning the wheels to the grass with the tail up. Even during an imperfect landing, the Fairchild 24 shows predictable and noble characteristics.

That was the last one—we taxied back with some taps on the brakes during the turns. As we shut down, the Aeromatic prop wound down to a full stop, and the smooth Ranger went quiet.

If I ever get a second airplane, the Fairchild 24 will be at the top of the list again, and maybe this time, it will not get away.

This article was originally published in the April 2023, Issue 936 of  FLYING.

The post The One That Got Away appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

I expect this out of military aviators, at least those outside the C-130 and C-17 communities, but many saying this come from a civilian background. In many cases, these FOs note the schools they learned to fly at—and instructed at—prohibited off-pavement operations altogether, for both training and renting, as well as operations at runways less than 3,000 feet in length—and sometimes above a certain elevation. Now that I think about it, the last several FBOs from which I rented aircraft had those same restrictions.

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I’m guessing this is all insurance-driven. You can most certainly operate a Cessna 172 safely off of a 2,000-foot grass strip, if you pay close attention to weight, field condition, and density altitude, and use good technique. But the accident statistics suggest not everyone does those things, and so the insurance companies charge more to cover those activities, at least among students and renters. At a time when insurance costs are already quite onerous, most schools forgo the extra expense.

Of course, both the private and commercial airman certification standards (ACS) still include soft-field takeoff and climb, soft-field approach and landing, short-field takeoff and maximum performance climb, and short-field approach and landing as required tasks. In the absence of actual soft and/or short fields, both the training and the checking is simulated—going through the appropriate motions on long, paved runways. Sounds about as exciting as kissing your sister.

I’m going to tell you two stories from my early career that demonstrate the difference between simulated training and real-world experience. The first occurred during the summer between my junior and senior year of high school, when I was a brand-new private pilot. I was working at a lumberyard with several friends my own age. We generally spent slow periods dreaming up ways to get in trouble. One Saturday, we hatched a plan to fly a Cessna 172 to Grand Casino Hinckley in Minnesota after work for dinner and some illicit underage gambling. Back then, the casino had a private strip, and we reasoned that nobody would check the IDs of patrons who flew in. We were right.

However, this involved putting four people into a Cessna 172. We were all pretty skinny back then, and I called the flight school and told them to leave the airplane at partial fuel since we’d be right at maximum gross weight. Mind you, I had never flown a 172 at max gross weight. I was also picking up the guys at a 2,500-foot grass strip with trees surrounding it. Plus, it had rained the previous evening. You can see where this is going.

• READ MORE: The Risks of Owning an Aircraft While Training

I did all the soft-field things I had been taught, at least until liftoff, and was feeling pretty good about myself when the 172’s haunting reed-vane stall warning went “woo” and woke me out of my stupor. I put the nose down and didn’t like what I saw one bit. We had drifted well to the left of the strip (hello, P-factor!), and some very big pine trees were flashing by mere feet from my left wingtip. The only smart thing I did that day was not panic and very gingerly nursed the airplane back to centerline while holding it in ground effect, even as the trees on the far end loomed. We cleared them by 20 feet or so, and we were halfway to pattern altitude before the near consequences of my stupidity broke through the adrenalin and I started shaking uncontrollably. My passengers were blissfully oblivious. I had nightmares about those trees off my wingtip for years, and even today the thought of them puts me into a cold sweat.

My second story takes place a few years later, as a brand-spanking-new 20-year old CFI in Southern California. I had an aircraft checkout scheduled with Mathias, a German renter who was planning to head out on a long cross country. Our checkouts included a mandatory stop at Big Bear Airport (KRBF), elevation 6,752 feet msl. Mind you, prior to my own checkout several weeks earlier, I had never been to an airport at more than 2,000 feet msl. That instructor had mentioned “only come up here with an [Piper] Archer (180 hp); don’t take a Warrior (160 hp)”—but the front desk had dispatched Mathias a Warrior instead of the Archer he reserved. I didn’t want to delay Mathias’ cross-country flight. It was a relatively cool day. Looking at the takeoff and climb charts, it looked like we should have the required performance…it just required a little interpolating off the right side of the chart.

Runway 26 at Big Bear is 5,850 feet long, and off the end is a small lagoon and then a causeway with power lines, and then Big Bear Lake. Well, we lifted off after maybe 3,000 feet—but by the time I realized the airplane wouldn’t climb out of ground effect, there was no runway left. I figured we’d have to fly under the power lines, but by getting down to a couple feet over the lagoon we were able to build enough speed to mush up and over them. Then we got back down into ground effect and flew the length of the lake that way, finally clearing the dam and diving down the canyon to San Bernardino. I later found out this particular Warrior had nearly 6,000 hours on the engine since its last overhaul and was probably making no more than 130 hp on a good day at sea level. Once again, young and dumb.

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I’m aware that both of these stories could easily be construed as evidence in favor of a soft/short/high airport ban, perhaps even deletion of those specialized skills from the ACS. After all, why does someone headed for a career in the flight levels need to know how to land on anything other than pavement? With gobs of power and balanced-field calculations on every flight, there’s not really any such thing as a truly short field in most jets, operating into most of the airports on their regular dance card. To this I have two answers: First, my own post-9/11 career demonstrates that in this unstable industry, and your own path to the flight levels may take a few detours you didn’t anticipate. Secondly and more importantly, it is exactly because airline flying is so middle-of-the-envelope that one should use their time in light aircraft to gain skills and experiences further out in the margins.

Let’s not dismiss the importance of the fun factor. In the rush to get trained and up to 1,500 hours before the pilot shortage music stops, a lot of nascent professional pilots have burned out on flying. That’s really sad. I’m convinced that keeping the fun and adventure in training and time building is the best way to build a foundation for an enjoyable aviation career. And a lot of the neatest places to fly happen to be soft and/or short strips, sometimes in mountainous locales.

For my next video episode of V1 Rotate (July 21), I’m going to take you to three such airports in the Cascades range. I’ll show you some of the real-world techniques that will keep you safe when you venture off pavement, and we’ll have some fun exploring a really beautiful area of the country.

The post Soft and Short Field Operations: Relevant to Professional Pilots? appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

I’ve lusted after the Cessna 195 ever since I first saw one at the tender age of 17, at Oshkosh in 1998. As my flying career developed, I assumed that I would eventually be able to afford one, and sensibly figured that owning one or two less-intimidating airplanes would prepare me to take on the care and feeding of 3,300 pounds of cabin-class vintage taildragger and a 300 hp Jacobs radial engine. The squirrely Piper Pacer that we owned from 2014 to 2016 gave me confidence that I could keep a 195’s shiny end pointed forward. Dawn and I talked about it over the last couple years, joined the type club, befriended some owners, and emerged from Oshkosh this year deciding that a Cessna 195 purchase within the next year was doable. All very sensible, very responsible.

And then I got home from OSH, walked in the door, dropped my bags, loaded barnstormers.com to see if any 195s had been posted in the 12 hours since I’d last checked—and was astonished to see my neighbor Kyle Williams’ blue-and-green 1946 Stinson 108 on the first page.

I knew Kyle had just finished a multiyear restoration—his second Stinson 108 rebuild—and I’d seen the airplane from afar during ground runs. I had talked to him shortly after the first flight, but I had no idea he was putting it on the market so soon. And anyways, the ad had an obvious typo: the price tag was only $35,000, which is on the lowside for an average Stinson 108 in this market, much less for a newly restored one. So I called Kyle to warn him before he was inundated with interest from flying cheapskates like myself!

No typo, said Kyle; the price is the price. He had built the Stinson for his wife, Vicki (their daily driver is a Cessna 185). She had changed her mind, and now he wanted the hangar space for his next project, a Bell 47 (H-13) helicopter with Korean War history. Now, I don’t have a hangar yet, but this seemed like a minor obstacle. I jumped on my motorcycle and headed up to the airpark for a closer look.

Stinson N40128 is an original “straight 108,” the 58th to roll off the production line. It was a “barn find” that hadn’t flown since 1966 with less than 1,200 hours total time. Kyle took it down to the bare frame and rebuilt it from the ground up with new paint and fabric, interior, glass, panel, and avionics, including ADS-B. The original 150 hp Franklin engine was junk, but Kyle procured a newly overhauled replacement from a reputable shop. Vicki picked the colors, and though I’m not a Seahawks fan, I have to admit it’s a striking and even attractive paint scheme.

I went up with Kyle, my first flight in a Stinson 108, and I was thoroughly impressed by the lovely handling qualities, both in flight and on landing. The airplane is nicely coupled and, while it has all the adverse yaw typical of the era, the rudder is fairly sensitive and only requires judicious nudges to stay coordinated. The hydraulically dampened landing gear absolutely soaks up jolts, and the long wheelbase and large vertical stabilizer make the 108 rather directionally stable for a taildragger. Like my Pacer, this airplane has 8.50 tires, which help on rough fields and give it a nice stance. The new interior is comfortable, but given the 108’s reputation for roominess, I was surprised to find the front seats a bit cramped, essentially on par with the Pacer. The easily removable rear seat, on the other hand, has a good bit of space, as does the cargo area, which is accessed via an optional baggage door (standard on the 108-1). There is a perfect amount of room for us, our pup, and a weekend’s worth of tent camping equipment.

This handling and roominess comes at the expense of performance, which is a bit anemic for my taste. The 108 cruises at a stately 100 mph with the big tires, slower than both the 145 hp Cessna 170 (110 mph) and our lighter and more compact 160 hp Pacer (120 mph). The Franklin is a bit thirstier than equivalent Lycomings and Continentals, which conspires with the slow cruise and 36 gallons of usable fuel to limit range to 300 sm with one-hour reserve. Short-field performance is decent, thanks to the generous wing area (with slots to retain aileron effectiveness in a stall) and effective flaps. That said, the rate of climb is pretty underwhelming, especially as you get close to max gross weight, which limits its utility in backcountry applications.

Kyle restored this airplane to original specs, and it could use some modern upgrades: shoulder harnesses for the front seats, a spin-on oil filter, and an attitude indicator. I like the panel’s simplicity and have no intention of taking this airplane IFR, but dark nights and inadvertent IMC happen. Replacing the single turn-and-bank indicator with a solid-state attitude indicator would also allow us to get rid of the venturi tubes and reclaim a knot or two of cruise speed.

My main concern was the powerplant, as newly overhauled engines are almost as suspect as high-time ones, and Franklins are orphaned engines last manufactured in 1949, with a limited supply of spare parts. The Franklin engine was the main reason we went with a Pacer over a Stinson the last time around, and given my experience with engines on the Pacer and our sailboat, I ought to be more gun-shy. But I’ve since met a number of Stinson owners who swear by the Franklin, and this one sure runs beautifully, with an alluring six-cylinder rumble at idle and lovely smoothness in cruise.

So, suddenly and unexpectedly, we had a choice to make: stick to the plan, wait until our hangar is done, and find and finance our dream 195 next summer; or jump now on a good cash deal on a newly restored and perfectly usable airplane, pushing the 195 back a year or two? The Stinson is admittedly not ideal for all the cross-country adventures we have in mind. It’ll be perfectly at home on our 2,400-foot grass airstrip, though, and will be a good platform for exploring the Pacific Northwest at a very reasonable cost. And when we do decide to move up to a 195, I have confidence that I can find the Stinson’s next caretaker without losing my shirt on the transaction, even if the used aircraft market returns to earth.

Dawn and I have a general policy of sleeping on all big decisions and large purchases, and we did on this one. The next day, we talked it through and Dawn gave her blessing. I found temporary space in another neighbor’s hangar, and I called Kyle to let him know that we’ve decided to adopt his beautiful Seahawks Stinson. Six years and four months after selling our beloved Pacer, we are the proud owners of another classic airplane of our very own. Adventure is sure to follow.

This article was originally published in the December 2022/January 2023 Issue 933 of FLYING.

The post When the Best Aircraft Plans Go Awry appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

It was a sad end to an adventure-filled 18 months of ownership, but in reality that chapter was closing anyway. Dawn and I were selling everything to buy a sailboat and run away to sea. This too turned out to be a grand adventure, one that lasted nearly five years. We had but one regret during that time: our near-absence from general aviation, and especially the lack of an airplane of our own. Dawn particularly felt the void; I at least had work flying to halfway scratch that itch. We determined to build our post-boat life around a return to general aviation, and accordingly, bought a lot on a grass airstrip west of Seattle and planned the build that is now underway. The only question that remained was what kind of airplane we would purchase, and when.

Last summer, we moved off the boat and, on our meandering way to Seattle, attended Oshkosh for the first time in six years. As with all previous Oshkoshes going back to my first in 1998, I found myself drawn to the few particular rows of vintage aircraft camping that host dozens of fine examples of my ultimate dream airplane: the Cessna195. I find the type an irresistible combination of timeless art-deco charm, round-engine-and-tailwheel machismo, and haul-everything-to-cool-places utility. This time, we spoke to a number of 195 owners and, on their suggestion, joined the International Cessna 195 Club.

Fast-forward a year to the Friday before Oshkosh in nearby Wausau, Wisconsin. Like last year, Dawn and I volunteered for the AirVenture Cup Cross-Country AirRace but didn’t race because of our between-airplanes status. This year, I spent most of my time shooting video footage and interviewing participants for the Race History Team. I was distracted from my duties, however, by the arrival of a beautiful, polished example of a 195, the low rumble of its Jacobs radial sending my heart throbbing. When I introduced myself to the pilot and complimented his fine bird, I mentioned that Dawn and I are members of the type club, to which he immediately responded, “Oh, have you read the book?” I wasn’t sure what he was talking about, so he turned around and grabbed a copy from the 195’s rear seat and autographed the title page for me. “Oh, you’re that Mike Larson!” I exclaimed. I’m pretty terrible with names.

I had, in fact, read Mike’s book, Tales of the Cessna 195 ,shortly after our return from Oshkosh last year. It’s an amusing and quick read of some 279 pages. Mike is not a writer by trade—he’s a retired airline pilot with an entertainingly checkered past—so don’t come looking for high literature here. Instead, the book is a whimsical collection of hilarious and heartwarming stories as Mike might tell them to a group of pals gathered around a campfire, whiskies in hand, on a starlit backcountry airstrip. The first half concerns Mike’s early life and career: enlisting in the U.S. Air Force, skydiving in the wild and wooly early days of the sport, various misadventures as a starving drop-zone operator, and a succession of jobs as crop duster, freight dog, and Douglas DC-8 flight engineer before landing at New York Air and then Continental Airlines. Mike’s meandering path makes my post-9/11 career trajectory look positively mediocre. Industry newcomers will find it an enlightening look at the “bad old days,” back before airlines were throwing bucketfuls of cash at anyone with a pulse and an ATP.

Mike’s first encounter with the Cessna 195 was as a skydiving platform at the drop zone he operated in the early ’70s in Casa Grande, Arizona. Many years later, as a considerably more solvent major airline captain, Mike and his wife, Charmian, bought N8266R, a newly restored 1949 195A. The second section of Tales concerns their adventures with this airplane and with various members of the International Cessna 195 Club. By the end of the book, I was pretty well convinced to run out and buy myself a 195 (not that I needed much convincing). But a quick check of barnstormers.com confirmed that the 195 had followed the rest of the used aircraft market into the stratosphere, and a check of my bank account confirmed that I was not ready to follow it there.

Talking to Mike at Wausau a year later, I discovered that he and Charmian are airpark neighbors and friends with two AirVenture Cup friends of ours, Laura Noel and Allen Floyd (and had in fact flown from Colorado in loose formation with Laura’s Cessna 185). I promised to look for N8266R at Oshkosh, and a few days later, when Dawn and I made our inevitable appearance on Cessna 195 row, Mike introduced us to a number of fellow club members (including some notable characters from the book), and invited us to the club barbecue that night. As we met and chatted with various friendly members of the 195 community—including a surprising number our age or younger—the dream of a 195 seemed a lot more in reach. 

Up until this point, we assumed that our next airplane would be another four-seat classic taildragger along the lines of our last: another Pacer, Cessna 170, Stinson 108, Aeronca Sedan, or Maule M4. Dawn has expressed some renewed interest in getting her certificate, which effectively ruled out the Pacer and the Maule. Our revised plan to build a hangar with an attached apartment assumed we’d buy an airplane shortly after the hangar was finished, build the main house in a few years, and perhaps consider the dream Cessna 195 sometime after that. But as we drove westward from Oshkosh this year, we started crunching the numbers. Once our hangar is complete, we realized, and if we’re in no great hurry to build the house, a 195 will be within financial reach—not someday, but now. It helps that the used aircraft market has calmed down a bit and asking prices are returning to reasonable levels.

We have a pretty good knack for blowing our plans to smithereens as circumstances change. We didn’t know it yet, but our plans for aircraft ownership would change again, and soon after getting home from Oshkosh. That, however, is a tale for next month.

The post An Airplane of Our Own appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

Of the dozen or so owners I interviewed, one stood out when he said, “Every Stinson costs $50,000.” I glanced over at my market survey spreadsheet. It listed every Stinson for sale among six classified sites, and indicated the median asking price was half that amount. Confused, I asked him to explain.

He explained that a Stinson buyer has two options. They could pay top dollar for a perfect example, pristine and devoid of any issues. Or alternatively, they could spend less to acquire a rougher example but will then inevitably spend the remainder to bring it fully up to speed until that $50,000 figure has been reached… at which point the airplane would be pristine or nearly so. There were some examples listed in the low to mid $20k range, and he was of the opinion that these would likely be basketcases in need of costly maintenance, and a lot of it.

His point was entirely valid. Engine overhauls, for example, don’t come cheap. A full overhaul could easily double the price of many of the airplanes I found, and even a relatively minor top overhaul could increase the total expenditure by 30 percent. A new propeller could add several thousands of dollars to the price, and should the entire airplane require new fabric, the total bill for that service alone could approach or even exceed $50,000.

Initially, I interpreted this phenomenon as a downside to the Stinson. Who would want to buy a type that will inevitably require such significant maintenance expense after the initial purchase? Why should it be so cost-prohibitive to obtain a nice, well-sorted example? 

After some reflection, however, I decided this is a feature and not a bug. Provided the airplane is safe and mechanically sound, the option to obtain a decent example that’s a bit shabby around the edges and could use some TLC at some point in the future opens it up to buyers of more modest financial means. Sure, the initial purchase price is only the price of entry, and there will be more spending on the horizon, but this enables a buyer to sort the airplane out as their finances allow.

My own airplane fits this category. With paint that looks like it flew through a meteor shower, an interior that resembles that of a high-mileage Trabant, and the presence of a second altimeter that even the previous owner of 50 years cannot explain, my Cessna 170 is, by any definition, an airplane with plenty of room for improvement. But while it’s a bit rough around the edges, it is mechanically sound. 

Such an airplane is something of a blank canvas. A buyer may not have $50,000 to spend, but there’s nothing wrong with spending $30,000 and anticipating spending another $20,000 over the subsequent five years. While things like an engine overhaul or a full repaint are quite pricey, a headliner here or a radio there can gradually bring a shabby airplane up to speed while keeping expenditures to four figures or less.

The “buy now, pay later” philosophy can unlock more capable airplanes, as well. If you’re willing to incur higher ongoing maintenance and operating expenses, certain less-desirable models can be had at relative bargains. I learned about this recently while researching the Cessna 206 and 210.

In the early years, when all Cessna 210s had the older wing with struts, the 210 was essentially a 206RG. Until 1966, the two airplanes shared many components including the wing and tail, essentially differing only in landing gear. But a look at my market survey spreadsheet indicated that the median price of 210s is nearly half that of similar vintage 206s. The price difference was massive.

Interviews with several owners explained why. Depending on the year, 210 landing gear requires very careful and attentive maintenance. Unforgiving of new, unfamiliar mechanics and costly to maintain, the 210’s retractable gear make the type less desirable than the otherwise similar 206. But while a 210 owner will have to budget an additional few thousand dollars per year between maintenance and insurance, it will take a long time to bridge the $150,000 gap in acquisition price.

Similarly, a prospective owner longing for an older Cessna 172 but discouraged by the pricing might consider seeking out a Cessna 175. Essentially identical to the 172 but with a geared version of the engine, the 175 provides an additional 30 horsepower. The downside? An engine TBO that’s only 1,200 hours rather than the standard 1,800 hours. But the simple presence of the geared engine makes most 175s notably less desirable… and thus, less expensive… than their 172 counterparts. And because they’re listed separately, they tend to go unnoticed in the classified listings.

Once again, it’s an opportunity to juggle tradeoffs, unlocking additional capability for a lower acquisition price but perhaps spending more elsewhere in the equation. So whether you opt for a shabby-looking but mechanically sound airplane, or whether you opt for a model that’s less expensive to obtain but more expensive to insure and/or maintain, there are indeed ways to stretch your dollar ever further. All that’s needed is some research and creativity.

The post The Blank Canvas Tradeoffs of a Fixer Upper appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

Before one gets too far ahead of oneself, however, one must take a step back to evaluate the available options from a higher level. In my case, I had reached a point where I had become deeply entrenched in the intricacies of various types. How much heavier a metalized Cessna 120/140 wing is compared to the original fabric-covered wing, for example (around 50 to 75 pounds), and how much it might cost to replace all the fabric on a Stinson 108 (as much as $45,000 to $50,000 when it’s all said and done).

As I was navigating all the various pitfalls and little-known lore of several types, it occurred to me that perhaps I should first back up and determine whether I preferred tandem seating, in which one occupant sits in front of the other, or side-by-side seating. Similarly, it occurred to me that I hadn’t put much thought into whether I preferred yokes or sticks. I had become buried in specification lists and budget sheets, shopping with my brain and ignoring some of the less tangible preferences that aren’t as easily quantifiable in rows and columns.

• READ MORE: Finding Your Ideal Aircraft: Bringing the New Baby Home

Looking at my list of contenders, they ran the gamut. Some had two seats, one had three, and others had four. Some had sticks, others had yokes. And sure enough, tandem and side-by-side seating were both represented in my list of potential candidates—like the SOCATA Rallye that features side-by-side seating and sticks.

So, pausing my investigation into the minutia of various types, I took a broader look at these more fundamental decisions to be made. I began by considering my experiences flying aircraft with tandem seating configurations. Looking at the list of all the types I’ve ever flown—a list well worth maintaining, perhaps inside the back cover of your logbook—I picked out those with tandem seating and reflected upon my experiences.

From the simple Piper J-3 Cub to the Aeronca Champ to the supremely capable Aviat Husky, I recalled the combination of strengths and weaknesses inherent in that configuration. Each was a relative pain to get into and out of. A lack of flexibility and multiple winter layers could make this a real chore. 

Each provided outstanding visibility, so long as you were seated in the front. I definitely did not enjoy flying from the back seat of the J-3, for example. With another person seated up front, I might as well have been flying the Spirit of St. Louis, with zero forward visibility and an extremely claustrophobic cabin. If I was to pursue a type with this seating, I’d insist upon one that allows solo flight from the front seat.

Among the less-quantifiable benefits to tandem seating was the placement of seats along the fuselage centerline. As a friend of mine once observed, the throttle is in your left hand, the stick in your right, and some point between your eyes is the roll center. You may only have 65 horsepower on tap, but when banking into your turn to final, you might as well be flying your own Mustang or Spitfire.

But thinking back, I never really found the stick to feel as natural as a yoke. This might be the result of the law of primacy, as I’d done all of my primary training in Cessna 152s, but it might also have been a preference for using my left hand to control the aircraft and my right hand to control the throttle. One way to get to the bottom of this was to seek out a type where you manipulate the stick with your left hand and the throttle with your right.

I was fortunate to locate a Piper PA-16 Clipper for rent about an hour away in rural Wisconsin. The Clipper is rare in that it pairs control sticks with side-by-side seating and a single throttle control mounted in the center. The person in the left seat manipulates the stick with their left hand and the throttle with their right.

The Clipper had many admirable qualities. The relatively large ailerons provided a snappy roll rate, and it was fun to fly. But once again, the stick just didn’t feel as natural to me as yokes. This might have been a function of my relatively broad shoulders; my arms and hands naturally fell farther outboard of centerline, farther away from a centrally-mounted stick. 

I left the little FBO nearly $200 poorer, but with some useful insight into the yoke versus stick debate. And by determining that my preference was for yokes, this also meant that, by default, my preference was also for side-by-side seating. While sticks can be found in both tandem and side-by-side cockpits, there are, to my knowledge, no light general aviation types that combine tandem seating with two yokes. The Champion 402 Lancer comes close, with a yoke up front and a stick in back, but as a twin with fixed-pitch props and an inability to maintain altitude on one engine, this type was best forgotten.

The post The Daunting Endeavor of Buying Your First Aircraft appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

In this week’s episode of V1 Rotate, Sam Weigel takes a break from the Boeing 737 to show off his newest acquisition, a freshly restored 1946 Stinson 108 taildragger. Recounting his journey from training in “boring” airplanes to being introduced to the Piper J-3 Cub (“The world’s worst airplane for every mission but one…”) to owning several tailwheel aircraft, Weigel explains how these classic airplanes are still relevant today to the new or aspiring professional pilot.

Interested in flying a taildragger? You might also like…

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If you are dreaming for the next step in your aviation career, you may like FLYING’s Careers Newsletter. Each week, we bring you the latest in aviation career news and updates to pilot training. You don’t want to miss this newsletter!

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