breakfast with an interesting group of flyers from Colorado and the pilot who had flown his plane the longest distance to reach the fly-in—from Florida. He flies to Bartlesville, Oklahoma, every year for the biplane fly-in, then comes to St. Francis the following weekend. After breakfast David and I walked the three blocks to the airport carrying our bags. After an hour or so of loafing and watching other Stearmans give rides, David was ready to go. He was bored. Then two skydivers in full regalia mounted their trusty Cessna 182 to be transported aloft. David wanted to wait to see them come down.
We sat on the grass in front of the plane leaning back against the main wheels, me on the left, David on the right. The weather is fantastic here again today—severe clear—although it is supposed to be foggy toward the east. The FAA Flight Service Station briefer assured me the fog would burn off by the time we managed to arrive. I ran my fingers through the grass and looked at the Queen’s wings arranged like pieces of sculpture above me against the blue.
Now we are a part of that sky. After a while the interstate highway that runs from Denver to Kansas City, 1-70, becomes distinctive. We motor on and cross it just west of Colby, Kansas. We keep heading southeast to cross the highway again when it zigs south to Oakley, Kansas, then intercept it for the third time east of Oakley. I tell David to follow it.
This he can do well. Following a highway is much easier than flying a compass course and more fun since you get to look outside most of the time. Finally David gets tired and I take over.
We are not talking much today, just sitting silently watching the Kansas wheat fields and pastures roll by below. I break the silence occasionally to tell him the name of a town or village. My knowledge comes from the sectional chart that I use for navigation. The Queen’s only navigation instrument is a wet compass: she has no VOR, no ADF, no Loran, no nothing. The gadget masters who spend thousands on the latest gizmo for their aerial pride and joy would have a stroke if they saw the Queen.
We will cross the country the same way the barnstormers flew their Jennys—with a map and a compass. We will follow highways, railroad lines, rivers, use the compass to go from one prominent landmark to another. This is the most basic navigation skill and goes by the name of pilotage. Add a watch and the method becomes dead reckoning. Amazingly enough, with nothing but a compass, watch and chart Charles Lindbergh flew from New York to Paris.
Yet pilotage has its limits. You must be able to see the ground and you must correctly identify what you see. At night the level of difficulty increases dramatically since all landmarks except towns and cities are hidden by darkness.
And since the Queen also lacks a turn-and-bank indicator, I cannot fly her into a cloud. Anything that obscures the ground or the horizon deprives you of your sense of when the aircraft is level. In the Stearman you are like a bird—your inner ear is your primary attitude reference and your brain is your navigation aid.
At St. Francis we saw a few Stearmans outfitted with all the gadgets and certified for instrument flight. At night. In my opinion a Stearman so equipped is just another airplane, although a funny-looking one. The only thing left to do is add a canopy and voilà! you’ll have the world’s most inefficient airliner.
But to each his own. If VOR and DME and ILS and Loran instruments make them happy, why not? Airplanes are like women—pick what you like and try to get it away from the guy who has it, then dress it out to the limit of your wallet and taste.
As David follows the interstate eastward, I sit back in the rear cockpit and luxuriate in the warmth and glow of a brilliant summer sky. An open cockpit makes you a part of that sky. You can reach out and grab a handful, sit up straight and let the wind play with the top of your helmet, or put your elbows on
We sat on the grass in front of the plane leaning back against the main wheels, me on the left, David on the right. The weather is fantastic here again today—severe clear—although it is supposed to be foggy toward the east. The FAA Flight Service Station briefer assured me the fog would burn off by the time we managed to arrive. I ran my fingers through the grass and looked at the Queen’s wings arranged like pieces of sculpture above me against the blue.
Now we are a part of that sky. After a while the interstate highway that runs from Denver to Kansas City, 1-70, becomes distinctive. We motor on and cross it just west of Colby, Kansas. We keep heading southeast to cross the highway again when it zigs south to Oakley, Kansas, then intercept it for the third time east of Oakley. I tell David to follow it.
This he can do well. Following a highway is much easier than flying a compass course and more fun since you get to look outside most of the time. Finally David gets tired and I take over.
We are not talking much today, just sitting silently watching the Kansas wheat fields and pastures roll by below. I break the silence occasionally to tell him the name of a town or village. My knowledge comes from the sectional chart that I use for navigation. The Queen’s only navigation instrument is a wet compass: she has no VOR, no ADF, no Loran, no nothing. The gadget masters who spend thousands on the latest gizmo for their aerial pride and joy would have a stroke if they saw the Queen.
We will cross the country the same way the barnstormers flew their Jennys—with a map and a compass. We will follow highways, railroad lines, rivers, use the compass to go from one prominent landmark to another. This is the most basic navigation skill and goes by the name of pilotage. Add a watch and the method becomes dead reckoning. Amazingly enough, with nothing but a compass, watch and chart Charles Lindbergh flew from New York to Paris.
Yet pilotage has its limits. You must be able to see the ground and you must correctly identify what you see. At night the level of difficulty increases dramatically since all landmarks except towns and cities are hidden by darkness.
And since the Queen also lacks a turn-and-bank indicator, I cannot fly her into a cloud. Anything that obscures the ground or the horizon deprives you of your sense of when the aircraft is level. In the Stearman you are like a bird—your inner ear is your primary attitude reference and your brain is your navigation aid.
At St. Francis we saw a few Stearmans outfitted with all the gadgets and certified for instrument flight. At night. In my opinion a Stearman so equipped is just another airplane, although a funny-looking one. The only thing left to do is add a canopy and voilà! you’ll have the world’s most inefficient airliner.
But to each his own. If VOR and DME and ILS and Loran instruments make them happy, why not? Airplanes are like women—pick what you like and try to get it away from the guy who has it, then dress it out to the limit of your wallet and taste.
As David follows the interstate eastward, I sit back in the rear cockpit and luxuriate in the warmth and glow of a brilliant summer sky. An open cockpit makes you a part of that sky. You can reach out and grab a handful, sit up straight and let the wind play with the top of your helmet, or put your elbows on
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