These are the kinds of things one learns when one must beg friends for a ride home from a distant rural airport immediately following EAA Airventure in Oshkosh, Wisconsin.

Fortunately, this discovery did not stem from mechanical woes or becoming stranded due to weather. It was simply a function of playing musical vehicles as I dropped off my plane for its annual inspection on my way back home after a week of festivities at Oshkosh. Not wanting to leave my mechanic with 207 pounds of cargo with which to contend during the inspection, I carefully loaded all of my gear into the Crosstrek with little room to spare.

• READ MORE: When Unforeseen Circumstances Threaten to Derail Amazing Experiences

This year, the entire AirVenture experience was a study in cargo and packing. While I’d done it before, this year was perhaps the first in which my gear selection was completely dialed, with a proven selection of items to ensure my week in Oshkosh would be the best ever.

From tents to cots to power supplies to food, every piece was carefully considered and calibrated, making for a fantastic week. Besides creating a top-notch AirVenture experience, this also reinforced my philosophy that it’s best to purchase an airplane you’ll grow into rather than out of.

I didn’t always feel this way.

Early on in my journey toward aircraft ownership, I had nearly settled on the trusty yet tiny Cessna 140 or its simpler, flapless cousin, the 120. I loved the way they flew, and they were among the least expensive options available. They seemed to check all the boxes.

Eventually, however, I decided that for me the ability to take that epic, once-a-year trip was worth the higher purchase price and increased fuel burn throughout the rest of the year. Two years of pinching pennies and working massive amounts of overtime eventually enabled the purchase of my larger, four-place 170.

And even though I never carry more than one passenger, and even though I only fully utilize the cabin volume once a year, the effort was entirely worth it. Had I settled for the smaller 120/140, every one of my Oshkosh experiences would be completely different.

For one, the additional space allows for luxuries that can completely transform any camping trip.

Years ago, in my motorcycle days, I learned firsthand that while it’s possible to pack extraordinarily small and light, this comes with significant compromises. The lightest tents and sleeping pads on the market, for example, function fine but prioritize minimalism and utility over comfort.

Now, with my roomy 170 made all the more voluminous via the removal of the rear seat, I could afford to upgrade my Oshkosh trip accordingly.

Going through my mental list of past annoyances, I addressed each individually. Thin sleeping pad that leaves me aching in the morning? Guess I’ll just go ahead and order the plush cot. A few extra changes of clothes that allow me to present myself at evening get-togethers as a civilized person rather than a shipwreck survivor? Don’t mind if I do.

The extra space and payload also enabled me to bring two laptops and a second monitor, so I could work remotely in the days leading up to the big event. Suddenly, I was able to live and work from the airplane. All it took was some careful weight-and-balance calculations and a bit of strategic positioning of the heavier items.

• READ MORE: EAA AirVenture 2024 in Photos

The extra space transforms the Oshkosh experience for friends, as well.

Two years ago, one friend found herself sleeping in a pool of rainwater when her cheap tent succumbed to passing storms. This year, an airline pilot friend came straight to Oshkosh from a work trip without a tent or sleeping pad. In each case, the 170’s cabin allowed me to toss in an extra tent and sleeping pad from my aforementioned motorcycle camping days. For the cost of an additional 2.5 pounds of gear, each friend enjoyed their trip immensely.

It often makes sense to expedite one’s entry into ownership by selecting a small, inexpensive type to begin with. If, for example, one is certain one’s mission will always be limited to short local flights.

But sometimes, buying an airplane capable of something more—even if that something occurs only once a year—can make it all worthwhile.

The post EAA AirVenture: A Study in Cargo and Packing appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

This is the 100th installment of The New Owner, and I suppose it’s only natural that the milestone is occurring amid a maniacal blend of emotions swirling around said ownership.

On one hand, EAA AirVenture in Oshkosh, Wisconsin, is next week (July 22-28), so there’s massive excitement for epic times just ahead. On the other hand, some maintenance issues have arisen over the past couple of weeks that create severe trepidation and directly threaten those amazing times.

It’s a perfect representation of aircraft ownership as a whole. Amazing experiences put at risk of derailment from unforeseen circumstances, fighting back and forth like so many Hollywood heroes and villains. But instead of the villains threatening the powers of good with swords, guns, and death rays, the threats come in the form of grounded airplanes and massive repair bills.

Frankly, I’d prefer to take my chances with the guns and death rays.

• READ MORE: Airplane Types Unlock AirVenture Locations for Parking, Camping

The first sign that something was amiss came several days ago in the form of engine oil. More specifically, a few extra drops on the hangar floor, slightly higher consumption than normal, and a new sheen collecting on the bottom of the engine. It wasn’t that my Continental engine was leaking oil. That’s pretty typical for most old Continentals. It was that mine was quite suddenly leaking in new places, at higher volumes, much differently than normal.

At any other time of year, it would be a simple matter of postponing future flights and booking some time with my mechanic. But this was Oshkosh month, a time when the severity of any mechanical problems increases exponentially as the date of the magnificent fly-in nears. And being that the big event was only a couple of weeks away at this point, panic quickly set in.

I immediately texted my mechanic, Ryan. He’s a great guy who embodies rural Wisconsin friendliness and honesty. He’s the kind of person who will bend over backward to help you and happily provide educational lessons about the tasks he’s performing along the way. He and his brother own and operate Johnson Brothers Flying Service in Lone Rock, Wisconsin, about 40 miles west of Madison.

While I was waiting for his reply, I examined my engine. I couldn’t quite pinpoint the source of the oil, but I suspected my Continental C-145 was experiencing weepy pushrod seals. This is a known issue with the type, as well as with the later version, the O-300.

I’ve always been amused at the engine’s midproduction name change from C-145 to O-300. Continental evidently figured that referring to the engine by the displacement (300 cubic inches) made it sound more powerful and impressive than referring to it by the 145 hp it produces. Marketing 101, I suppose.

Ryan replied that he would try to make it out sometime during the week before my departure to Oshkosh. But because he was so busy, he couldn’t guarantee it. I’d just have to wait and hope. In the meantime, I opted to remove my upper and lower cowls for a closer inspection.

To someone like me with close to zero mechanical aptitude, dismantling your airplane’s upper and lower cowls to reveal an entirely naked engine is simultaneously empowering and intimidating.

In one respect, it makes you feel like you know what you’re doing. Anyone walking past the open hangar door would naturally assume you possess some rudimentary level of knowledge and proficiency. But in another respect, you’re pretty sure you’re fooling nobody.

For the purposes of an engine inspection, however, it worked out just fine, and I was able to trace the leak to the oil temperature probe on the back of the engine accessory case. I forwarded this intel to Ryan.

The next afternoon, I received a text from him. Unbeknownst to me, he made it out to my plane and addressed the leak. I was ecstatic and headed right out to the airport for a shakedown flight prior to my trip up to Oshkosh.

Sure enough, the oil leak appeared to be taken care of. I preflighted the airplane, pulled it out of the hangar, and hopped in—only to discover that the throttle was inexplicably encountering some kind of blockage halfway into its travel.

Thinking that a running engine might somehow solve the problem, I started it up but found that nothing had changed. The throttle knob would only advance about halfway to full throttle before encountering a hard stop.

Now, things were getting serious. It was a Friday evening, less than a week before my planned departure to Oshkosh. Ryan was busy and wouldn’t be able to chat until Sunday or Monday. Desperate not to miss the big event, I gave my friend Dan a call.

“Hey, man, have you sold your Ercoupe yet?” Dan replied that he had not. “And you’re not going to make it to Oshkosh this year, right?” “That’s right,” he replied. “We’ll be in Michigan all week.”

• READ MORE: Flying In to AirVenture: A Carefully Orchestrated Cacophony of Chaos

He knew I was angling for something, so I explained.

“I’m dealing with some mechanical issues on the 170, and I’m not sure if it’ll be fixed in time for Oshkosh,” I said. “If it’s not, how about I take the Ercoupe up and hang some of those big ‘for-sale’ signs on the prop so a half million people see it?”

After considering this for a moment, Dan agreed that it would be a win-win sort of situation.

With a backup plan firmly in place, Saturday came and went. On Sunday morning, I received a text from Ryan. He was available to zip out to the hangar and have a look at my throttle issue.

The fix took him all of about five minutes. He explained that he must have inadvertently dislodged part of the throttle cable while inspecting something else during the oil leak work. He assured me it wasn’t likely to occur again and said he’d be entirely comfortable flying it. He also said that because it was his fault, he wouldn’t be charging me for the trip out. I gave him a 100-dollar bill anyway to show my appreciation.

At the time of this writing, I have just about everything packed up. My tent, sleeping bag, cooler, chairs, underwing party lights, and coffee supplies are ready to go. This afternoon, I’ll fly a shakedown flight to check for any errant oil leaks and confirm all is in order. With any luck, I’ll be flying my own plane up to Oshkosh tomorrow and, much as I sincerely appreciate Dan’s offer, hopefully not an Ercoupe.

If you wonderful readers will also be at Oshkosh next week, please come find me. I plan to be somewhere around Row No. 67, right up on the airshow crowd line. I’d like to thank you in person for your readership and support over the past few years and give you a sticker or two.

Just look for the blue 170 with Alaskan Bushwheel tires. Or, depending on how things go, a classy little Ercoupe.

The post When Unforeseen Circumstances Threaten to Derail Amazing Experiences appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

As is the case with any first-time airplane owner, he’s pretty excited and has been asking me all kinds of thoughtful questions about the logistics of flying into the biggest aviation celebration in the world, EAA AirVenture in Oshkosh, Wisconsin. One of his first questions pertained to the geography of the July 22-28 event and in what area he should plan to park and camp.

• READ MORE: Oshkosh 2024 Notice Outlines Changes for Pilots Flying to AirVenture

Without hesitation, I recommended that he join a mutual friend and me in the centrally located vintage area. A solid week of knuckleheaded antics with a couple of old friends as our airplanes are parked side by side at Oshkosh is the stuff of dreams. As I looked into it, however, I discovered that his airplane—a beautiful 1973 Bellanca Super Viking—was built just past the 1971 cutoff for the vintage category.

I found this to be frustrating. I know the cutoff has to be made somewhere, but his Super Viking is relatively rare, with a sweet design and old-school craftsmanship. It seems wrong that it’s not permitted in the vintage area while scores of Bonanzas and Mooneys that are barely distinguishable from their 1980s-era counterparts fill the rows there. 

As it turns out, the Experimental Aircraft Association clearly defines not just the vintage category of aircraft but the subcategories as well. Within vintage, they are as follows:

• Antique: Aircraft manufactured before August 31, 1945
• Classic: Aircraft manufactured from September 1, 1945, through December 31, 1955
• Contemporary: Aircraft manufactured from January 1, 1956, through December 31, 1970

Chris, therefore, needed a quick lesson on the lay of the land at AirVenture. And so I presented him with an overview of his options, such as they are.

As his aircraft doesn’t fit into the EAA’s categories of vintage, experimental, or warbird, he will be directed to one of two areas upon landing—the “North 40” or the “South 40.” Located at the far north and far south ends of Wittman Regional Airport (KOSH), respectively, these are the largest areas where most airplane owners park and camp.

• READ MORE: Flying Into AirVenture: A Carefully Orchestrated Cacophony of Chaos

They are, however, quite different. And while arriving aircraft are not guaranteed to have a choice of which they’ll be directed toward after landing, pilots can print and display a sign requesting one or the other.

If the incoming traffic flow and the workload of the ground marshallers allow, they’ll direct you to your preferred area. So it’s good to know how they differ. 

Additionally, each area has its own unique vibe, with differences not readily apparent in the Oshkosh Notice and markedly different pros and cons. Here’s how I described them to Chris:

North 40

The North 40 is the area surrounding Runways 9-27 at the north end of the airport.

It’s got a lot going for it. The proximity to businesses and restaurants makes it easy to walk to grab a bite of non-EAA food or pick up some supplies. The latter comes in handy when a severe storm approaches and materials for last-minute hail protection suddenly become needed.

Because parking/camping spots are arranged on both sides of the runway, the views of arriving and departing aircraft are fantastic. One needs only walk to the end of their row to sit and watch all the arrivals and departures. It’s not at all unusual for your morning wake-up call to come in the form of multiple P-51s banking directly overhead as they depart for a dawn patrol formation flight. Few alarms are so sublime.

Amenities abound in the North 40. In addition to a small shower trailer on the north side of 9-27, the south side has two separate shower/restroom buildings. Several rows down, there is also a cafe that serves full meals and a small store for toiletries, snacks, and necessities.

A regular procession of dedicated school buses makes constant loops from the show entrance to the Basler ramp in the northeast corner of the airport. Simply flag down one as needed, settle in among your new friends for the ride, and call out the row number where you’d like to be dropped off. I like to leave a small tip for the driver after reaching my destination.

The biggest downside? The steady noise from Interstate 41 and adjacent roads. While mostly just background noise, it adds something of a rest area vibe to an otherwise magical aviation experience. At night, it’s not uncommon for an errant semitruck, Harley-Davidson, or emergency vehicle to wake you up from an otherwise peaceful slumber.

South 40

If the North 40 is city living, the South 40 is quiet life out in the country.

The very southern end borders a 55 mph county road, but there’s otherwise no automobile traffic noise to speak of at night. It’s a peaceful, relaxing vibe.

While the peaceful tranquility is nice with respect to cars, it’s a bit of a downer when it comes to airplanes. Situated well south of Runway 36-18, there are no great views of the runway and only approaches—not landings—are visible from most rows. The vast majority of the South 40 is well south of the action.

The EAA has done a good job bringing the recently expanded South 40 up to speed with amenities. It still falls short of the North 40, but it now has a small store, and showers are easy to find. In addition, there are now more numerous and more frequent shuttles to and from the main show grounds, making it easier to get back and forth. 

For those regularly frequenting the ultralight strip, the South 40 sits in relatively close proximity. Campers stuck walking back to their airplanes after the legendary STOL demo and Twilight Flight Fest face a walk of only a mile to the most distant row in the South 40. This compares with a walk of nearly three miles to the most distant row of the North 40 and provides strong motivation to catch the last shuttle before being shut down for the night.

Armed with a clearer understanding of his camping options, Chris is now better prepared for his first trip to AirVenture in his first airplane. With any luck, the EAA will gradually expand the cutoff for the vintage category to include his sweet Viking.

Until then, I’m sure he’ll have a blast wherever he ends up.

The post Airplane Types Unlock AirVenture Locations for Parking, Camping appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

I first attended as a passenger in my flying club’s Cessna 182 in the late 1990s and spent the following several years mooching rides from other club members in various aircraft types. After moving to Wisconsin, I spent many years driving up and camping with friends next to their airplanes. 

I was entirely satisfied with the event regardless of how I got there. I was convinced it couldn’t possibly become any more enjoyable to submerge oneself in aviation history and culture for an entire week in the company of good friends. But in the past few years, I’ve experienced how an already magical event can become even more epic when one attends in their very own airplane.

• READ MORE: 5 of the Best New Aircraft Owner Products Under $500

My very favorite part of flying my plane into AirVenture is a segment of the experience nobody ever seems to talk about.

Understandably, the most notable part of the adventure tends to be the unique arrival procedure in which thousands upon thousands of airplanes funnel their way into the event in a mostly neat and orderly fashion. By referring to landmarks on the ground, practicing good, old-fashioned pilotage, and keeping our eyes outside to spot traffic, we slot into sequence and proceed single file into the world’s greatest aviation celebration. This is the part of the event that everybody documents and shares—but my favorite part is the part that occurs immediately after landing.

After touchdown, specific procedures, frequencies, landmarks, and sequencing immediately become obsolete. In their place, we shift mental gears and begin a set of steps that are primitive yet effective in nature. After the controller instructs us to immediately depart the runway, we obediently lumber off into the lumpy grass and begin scanning for the nearest marshaller. When we spot one, we scramble for a previously prepared handmade sign and hold it high in the window to communicate our desired parking or camping area without speaking a word over the radio.

The marshaller, upon recognizing our desired destination, points and ushers us into the direction that will take us there. We repeat this process with each subsequent marshaller, all while attempting to ignore the sublime distraction of Rolls-Royce Merlin V-12 engines at takeoff power just a few wingspans away, and we try not to fixate on the magnificent Staggerwing or T-6 breathing down our rudder just behind.

Sometimes, serendipity delivers us from the active runway almost directly to our parking spot with a minimum of taxi time. In other years, the opposite occurs, and we spend the better part of an hour lumbering from one marshaller to the next, working our way toward our unknown parking spot in a distant part of the airfield as the event unfolds around us.

Eventually, we are directed into a quickly filling line of neatly parked airplanes and carefully urge the airplane through more thick grass, slotting into position next to our new neighbors who themselves completed the process only moments before.

Immediately after shutdown, our final marshaller provides a hearty “Welcome to Oshkosh!” and instructs us to tie down our airplane securely without delay. The urgency to do so spills over into our subsequent duties of setting up our campsites, and we madly fling gear and equipment out of their carefully planned organization and out onto the grass that will serve as our home for the following week. 

• READ MORE: Landing a Tonka Truck With Wings

Surrounded by the sound of tent stakes being pounded into the Wisconsin soil, warbirds flying overhead, and newcomers using 2,400 rpm to power their way into nearby parking spots, we rush to set up our tents, organize our campsites, and monitor the wingtips of yet more newcomers as they taxi past our airplanes with inches to spare. Being the good citizens we are, we then rush to help our new neighbors secure their own airplanes, excitedly exchange friendly greetings, and invite each other over for evening refreshments. 

After this carefully orchestrated cacophony of chaos, my favorite moment of all occurs.

A dawning comprehension takes place in our harried, sleep-deprived, and overtaxed brains, and we realize that all the work—the planning, preparation, flying, and meticulous attention to detail—has all come to an abrupt end. And for the next week, the one and only remaining duty is to kick back and relax beneath the wing of our airplane. No expectations. No responsibilities. Just seven or eight days of beautiful airplanes and legendary friends.

It’s at this moment that I like to grab an icy drink, plop into my comfy camp chair, reflect upon the successful execution of so many individual tasks, and simply take it all in. The energy in the days leading up to the official beginning of the event is palpable. The twinkling landing lights in the distance could be anything from a Ford Trimotor to a Boeing 777 to a C-5 Galaxy to a sleek F-35 fighter. And whatever it is, it’s about to land directly in front of us. We might take note of some dark clouds in the distance and silently bid our incoming friends good luck, hoping everyone makes it in safely.

• READ MORE: Seeking Out Ghosts of Your Airplane’s Past

A bit later, a second realization occurs. We have a decision to make, after all—but it has nothing to do with the monotony of normal life. It’s unrelated to budgets, or home repairs, or expense reports, or annual reviews, or any of the thousands of bland, repetitive tasks that form our never ending pile of typical adult responsibilities.

Instead, we need to decide whether we’ll have a bratwurst or a burger for lunch. And perhaps which direction we should walk first to begin taking in the magic of the greatest aviation celebration in the world. And which beloved knucklehead buddy we should seek out first. For the next week, these sorts of decisions are all that’s expected of us as the weight of everyday life takes flight and contacts departure.

With our troubles behind us and nothing but happiness ahead, we smile to ourselves and wrestle with these pleasant, simple decisions. And more likely than not, we nod off for a bit in the warm Wisconsin sun and soft summer breeze as the scent of jet exhaust and the drone of endlessly approaching airplanes lazily waft over us.

After a long, cold winter, AirVenture is finally here…and so are we.

The post Flying Into AirVenture: A Carefully Orchestrated Cacophony of Chaos appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

Rosen Sun Visors ($550)

Moreover, this was the only modification I’d prepared before even taking delivery of my airplane. They’re that good.

Hop into any legacy Cessna with original visors, and it becomes clear why. Undersized to begin with, the flimsy plastic or vinyl-covered stock visors leave much to be desired. If, after decades of use, they miraculously remain intact, there’s little chance that they go into the position you desire and stay there. More likely, they freely flop around and swing out of position, blinding you and creating a distraction all their own.

Everything about Rosen’s visors exudes precision. From the high-quality acrylic that doesn’t alter colors to the beefy, machined aluminum hardware, they have a solid feel and will surely outlast stock visors. Move them into position, and they remain there without complaint. Best of all, they’re translucent, so you can block the sun without blocking your vision.

Like a good set of shoulder harnesses in a vintage aircraft, I considered these a legitimate safety improvement and continue to enjoy them nearly every time I fly.

BAS Tail Pull Handles ($345-$435)

Although my airplane came with a good, solid tow bar for the tailwheel, I discovered that there were plenty of instances where moving my plane around became unnecessarily challenging. There were times I flew someplace and left my tow bar behind, and there were other times when I only needed to adjust the plane’s position slightly and didn’t want to bother with it.

Even if you remember to bring one along, tow bars often present a dilemma. If they’re small enough to fit nicely into the baggage compartment, they tend to be small and flimsy. But if they’re large and beefy enough to work well, they’re also large enough to be cumbersome in the airplane. Mine was firmly in the latter category, weighing about 15 pounds and requiring disassembly to fit into the airplane.

BAS Inc.’s tail pull handles solve this issue cleanly and simply. Nothing more than retractable, tubular aluminum handles that manually extend and retract into and out of the side of the aft fuselage, they are completely hidden until you need them. In addition to providing a sturdy handhold with which to move your plane around, they also dissuade ham-fisted helpers from grabbing and placing undue stress upon relatively fragile fairings and stabilizers.

Installation is quick and easy for any A&P. BAS states that this requires only 1.5 hours, keeping the final, total cost of the upgrade well under $1,000. They’re available for Cessna taildraggers, the Luscombe 8-series, and experimental taildraggers.

Pro tip: When having them installed in an aluminum fuselage, ask your mechanic to save the small round blanks that are cut from the fuselage. Then use them to make a couple of small keychains as souvenirs. 

The Perfect Stepladder ($215)

Whether you’re fueling, washing, or inspecting a high-wing airplane, it pays to have a completely stable, sure-footed stepladder. A couple of winters ago, I learned this the hard way. Fed up with the cheap, flimsy aluminum ladder my airport keeps out by the fuel pumps, I clambered up onto my 170 using the tire and wing strut for support and proceeded to wrestle with the stiff, inflexible rubber hose.

Just as I finished topping off my right tank, I stepped backward, aiming my foot toward the tire. In a series of slow-motion still frames, I felt my foot slip off, saw blue sky, and then landed on my upper back. I landed hard and heard actual snaps that X-rays later determined to be multiple broken ribs in my chest and back. 

Months later, when I regained my mobility, I opened up my laptop and went ladder shopping with the ferocity of a new father looking for his first pair of New Balance sneakers. After hours of research and several measurements at my plane, I finally found the perfect ladder—a Werner PD6204. It is the perfect height for a Cessna, even on tundra tires. More importantly, it has a roomy platform upon which to stand, enabling a wide stance for stability when fueling or scrubbing the airplane.

While this is perhaps not the most impressive or flashy item I’ve purchased for my airplane, I genuinely enjoy and appreciate it every time I use it. 

McFarlane Vernier Mixture Knob ($225)

Vintage aircraft have vintage technology. Most of it is charming, transporting us back to the era in which the machine was built. But some of it is simply bad. Old Cessna mixture knobs certainly fall into the latter category.

Closely resembling a small push-pull carb heat knob, my original mixture knob offered about 3 inches of fore and aft travel. This made leaning the engine with any precision an exercise in futility. More than once, while rolling out after landing, I pulled what I thought was a small amount of mixture out to lean the engine for taxiing, only to inadvertently starve it of fuel and momentarily stumble. 

Recalling the nice, refined switchgear in the modern aircraft used by my Part 141 school years ago, I again went searching. I found McFarlane’s MC600-72 mixture control knob. It works as a mixture knob should, offering quick push-pull adjustment as well as vernier adjustment for fine-tuning.

To anyone flying modern aircraft, the inclusion of such an item in this list must seem comical. But to anyone dealing with old, antiquated controls from the 1940s or ’50s, the upgrade is a no-brainer and has proven to be pure luxury.

Sporty’s PJ2+ Hand-Held Comm Radio ($249)

I’ve wanted a good hand-held radio for many years for three reasons: first, for fun and to monitor airshow traffic; second, to coordinate efforts between pilots in the air and people on the ground during events like photo shoots; and finally, to serve as a backup in the event of a radio failure in flight.

I’d never been too impressed with industry offerings. Many include wholly unnecessary functionality, such as GPS, VOR navigation, and ILS approach capability. The latter is downright comical to me. While I suppose such a radio solidly mounted to the panel might suffice as an ILS backup in an extreme emergency, the thought of using a hand-held radio to fly an ILS seems downright comical.

Sporty’s PJ2+ is great because of its simplicity. It’s only a comm radio, lacking extraneous features to complicate matters. It has an intuitive interface and runs on AA batteries or USB power. Best of all, you can plug your dual-plug headset into it, ensuring you can easily hear and be heard in flight. At $249, it’s also fairly priced.

Drawbacks? Thus far, I’ve only found a couple. The volume and squelch knobs spin far too easily. While this might seem like a frivolous concern, it means that the slightest bump or light brush against a knob can inadvertently turn it all the way up or all the way down. If the latter occurs, critical incoming audio might go unheard. A clumsy solution would be to wrap a rubber band around the knobs several times, but if Sporty’s could change to higher-friction knobs, that would be ideal.

The only other concern I’ve encountered is constant static on certain CTAF frequencies. Even when dialing the squelch all the way down, I’m unable to monitor my local airfield without nonstop static.

Even with these issues, however, the PJ2+ is everything I expect to ever need in a hand-held radio, and I’m very happy with it.

The post 5 of the Best New Aircraft Owner Products Under $500 appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

Today, things really aren’t much different. Sure, the Tonka trucks have long since been retired. And, yes, my machines of choice have evolved somewhat. But my Cessna 170B with 29-inch Alaskan Bushwheel tires perfectly embodies the spirit of Tonka truck fun and go-anywhere adventure. The combination of a sturdy taildragger and big tundra tires has enabled me to successfully negotiate muddy runways, snow, ice, and battered surfaces that would hobble many typical setups.

But while the massive, low-pressure tires indeed unlock access to destinations that would otherwise be off-limits, I’m learning that they can require some careful planning. Because the pliable rubber that turns rough surfaces into usable runways is so much softer than  traditional, high-pressure tires, it’s a good idea to avoid using them on pavement and concrete. Doing so can prematurely wear the tires, resulting in corresponding wear on one’s bank account.

Accordingly, I now think twice before popping into airports that lack any grass options.

This is easier said than done, even with the plentiful grass options that abound in my home state of Wisconsin. After all, whether it’s fuel, maintenance, or a good restaurant you’re after, these things are often only available at fully paved airports.

Recently, I flew to Janesville, Wisconsin, to help judge a national flight competition sanctioned by the National Intercollegiate Flying Association (NIFA). Back in college, I competed for four years with the Western Michigan University Sky Broncos, and I try to serve as a volunteer judge whenever I can. Dating back to 1919, it’s pure, grassroots general aviation flying, with a strong emphasis on safety and precision, and has involved names like Earhart, Trippe, and Lindbergh.

I’d been looking forward to the event for some time but still I cringed as I gently touched down on the harsh, grooved concrete. On the ramp, I was careful to avoid sharp turns that brutally scrub the inside tire. As the tires cost over $2,000 each, I felt my efforts were warranted.

Fortunately, some progress is being made when it comes to expanding grass options at airports across the country. As is so often the case, the Recreational Aviation Foundation (RAF) is spearheading efforts to open more destinations to pilots interested in exploring rural strips. A couple of years ago, the organization worked with the FAA and got it to officially 

acknowledge turf operations within runway safety areas. In other words, the FAA has now acknowledged that it can often make sense to conduct takeoffs and landings in grass areas immediately adjacent to hard-surfaced runways.

This isn’t just about saving money on tires. It’s also about selecting a runway surface that’s more forgiving of imperfectly aligned landings. Land a taildragger in a slight crab on pavement, and the tires will grab, setting you up for a nasty ground loop. Do the same on grass, and the tires will more likely slide slightly, making it a nonevent.

I wasn’t able to use a grassy area at Janesville for the flight competition. That airport has yet to designate any grass areas for landing, which is why I almost never fly to the fantastic airport restaurant located on the field. It’s a shame, considering it would be a short 15-to-20-minute flight for breakfast.

As it happens, my latest airport restaurant visit occurred just days after the flight competition at a rural, sleepy airport called Tri-County Regional (KLNR) in Lone Rock, Wisconsin. There, Sam’s Airport Diner proudly serves fantastic fare to pilots from Wisconsin and neighboring states. Best of all, the airport maintains a nicely mown strip of grass alongside the main runway, where taildragger pilots—or anyone with a preference for soft runways—may take off and land. 

It’s an idea that’s gaining momentum. Ask any pilot at  EAA AirVenture whether Wittman Regional Airport (KOSH) in Oshkosh has a grass option, and they’ll invariably point to the ultralight strip where the fantastic STOL demos take place. Some might mention the EAA’s nearby Pioneer Airport. But, in fact, Wittman Regional has designated a grass area adjacent to Runway 9-27 for takeoffs and landings. It’s on the south side of the runway, at the far western end, and is usable only upon request and when traffic conditions permit. 

As I seek new and interesting places to take my grown-up Tonka truck with wings, I also continue to look for nice grass options like these. If an airport provides a more forgiving, tire-friendly, and legitimately safer alternative to its hard-surface runways, I’d certainly be interested in frequenting it.

And while, sure, I could simply switch back to standard, high-pressure tires, the stable, pillowy-soft experience of my big tundras is proving to be so much fun that it’s entirely worth the trouble.

The post Landing a Tonka Truck With Wings appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

With a lengthy lifespan comes a colorful history. And while we are able to peruse our aircraft logbooks for clues or even easily access decades of ownership and registration records from the FAA, gaps abound. So we’re often left without much background or context regarding their past lives. The grand adventures, close calls, and colorful circumstances through which our airplanes endured typically elude us as we daydream about their past lives. 

I considered myself fortunate when, from out of the blue, an individual from my airplane’s past contacted me via email. Her name was Phyllis, and when browsing this column, she recognized my Cessna 170 as the airplane she and her husband, Al, used to own between 1970 and 1981. She explained that although Al had passed away in 2017, she still kept in touch with Dick, the gentleman to whom they had sold to and from whom I had purchased the airplane.

• READ MORE: Navigating the Aircraft Ownership Learning Curve Through Type Clubs

It was a pleasure to make contact with Phyllis. I learned a few things about the 170 and told her the whole story about meeting Dick and buying it from him. Recognizing it was a long shot, I asked her if she happened to have any old photos from the days she owned it. She said she did, and a couple of weeks later, I received some color photocopies of my airplane, wearing a different tail number and frolicking among the beaches of the Pacific Northwest. 

As someone with a soft spot for bygone eras and forgotten times, I was immensely grateful to receive these glimpses into my airplane’s history. I shared them with Dick, as well. He was able to provide some additional context to the photos, explaining what beach was likely visible in one of the photos and pointing out how Al chose the former tail number (N170AL) to display his initials. 

Last month, I had the unexpected opportunity to give my friend Jim a glimpse into his own airplane’s history. While aimlessly scrolling through eBay listings for old airplane slides and scanning for any particularly interesting slices of aviation history, I spotted a Cessna 170 with a paint scheme that looked familiar. The listing was for a set of 10 old slides taken at an unnamed fly-in sometime in the early 1980s, and the 170 pictured appeared to have the exact same paint scheme as Jim’s 170.

• READ MORE: Going to the Birds, And How Not To

This was quite the coincidence. Jim’s airplane had been repainted in its original factory paint scheme but with nonstandard colors. In place of the standard primary reds, yellows, or blues, his plane sports a color palette nearly identical to that of the A&W burger chain, a tasteful pairing of orange and brown. The likelihood that these slides showed a doppelganger was miniscule…but I had to be sure.

Of course, the tail number was inconveniently cut off in every photo, making a positive identification impossible. But a closer look and some methodical detective work eventually resulted in certainty beyond a reasonable doubt. The airplane in the slides sported the exact same Horton STOL kit and the same engine modification, but the deciding factor was the presence of a unique decal on one wingtip but not on the other. It had to be Jim’s plane.

I went ahead and spent the $12 for the set of slides. When they arrived, I had them professionally scanned and printed, and I placed the two best shots in a small frame for Jim to hang on the wall of his hangar. Sure, they were relatively unremarkable photos in the grand scheme of things, but they captured a scene showing his airplane in a time well before he bought it. Best of all, it showed his airplane wearing a set of wheel pants. Having only ever known his airplane with a big set of Alaskan Bushwheel tundra tires, it was both amusing and comical to see.

• READ MORE: When It’s Better to Have It and Not Need It

Since making this aviation-related archeological discovery, I now keep an eagle eye out for any old photos or articles featuring any of my friends’ airplanes. I even went so far as to enter a handful of their tail numbers as “saved searches” in eBay so that I’ll be alerted if and when any items, such as photos, slides, or logbooks, are listed for sale with those tail numbers in the descriptions. 

In this way, I hope to once again pair forgotten memories with the present day, filling in vacant gaps in history with context that would otherwise be lost forever. I think anyone who considers themselves to be caretakers of aviation history, rather than just owners, would greatly appreciate the effort.

The post Seeking Out Ghosts of Your Airplane’s Past appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

This is something I see fairly regularly, albeit more commonly in reference to more basic and affordable types. A prospective buyer polls a general audience for specific advice about a major purchase, and the replies are both predictable and suspect. All too common is the warning that parts for anything other than Cessna, Piper, or Beechcraft are impossible to find. While certain aircraft (and engines) do indeed present some difficulty with regard to parts availability, the vast majority are entirely possible to own and operate without too much trouble.

There are far better ways to become informed about a given aircraft type, and my favorite, by far, is type clubs.

• READ MORE: Going to the Birds, And How Not To

For a nominal fee, one can purchase an annual membership to a type club and instantly gain access to a treasure trove of virtually any mass-produced type out there. Good clubs offer online libraries chock full of scanned documents, manuals, diagrams, and literature. Additionally, many club websites are home to online forums with comprehensive prepurchase inspection checklists, airworthiness directive (AD) lists, and firsthand knowledge crowdsourced from current and former owners. Best of all, membership is almost always made available to shoppers who aren’t yet owners, offering an extremely affordable education about a type under consideration. 

As someone who creates spreadsheets and compiles detailed documentation for purchases as minor as a toaster, I joined The International Cessna 170 Association early in my shopping process, years before actually purchasing one. I spent hours soaking up as much info as I could about the type. Of particular note was a pinned thread in its forum that listed approximately 30-40 items to address immediately upon purchasing a 170. The list was detailed, and the reasoning behind each item was provided.

When I finally bought a 170 and dropped it off for its first annual inspection, I presented that list to my mechanic. Before long, he completed approximately a dozen various mods, many of which I’d never have discovered without entering the 170 community. I learned that the parking brake has a history of becoming partially engaged after a rudder pedal is pushed to the stop during crosswind landings or taxiing, and we followed the advice to disconnect it entirely. We proactively replaced the tailwheel leaf springs and old copper oil pressure gauge lines. I also had him perform multiple specific inspections that weren’t called out in any manufacturer materials.

• READ MORE: When It’s Better to Have It and Not Need It

Without question, my $45 annual membership had just paid for itself, and I hadn’t even tapped into any of the scanned documentation. Neither had I posted many of my own questions in the forum or engaged with any of the all-knowing 170 owners and their decades of experience maintaining the type. With such informed and helpful people at my disposal, happy to help tackle problems and lend their expertise, this membership is one that I don’t think twice about renewing.

Type clubs like this are also an excellent source of events. Many hold refresher and currency clinics aimed at sharpening the skills of the owner group as a whole. Some even negotiate special rates with insurance companies for owners who have demonstrated an ongoing effort to undergo recurrent training. And even if a club hasn’t arranged for formal discounts, I’ve spoken with one insurance broker who acts as an owner advocate, presenting underwriters with proof of such training and negotiating lower rates as a result.

Other clubs do an excellent job with social events. At face value, many of them appear to be little more than excuses to devour vast amounts of cheeseburgers and ice cream. But if such temptations are what it takes to motivate owners to preflight their airplanes and get into the air regularly, well, that’s good for airplane and pilot alike.

It’s possible rare types benefit the most from a vibrant, active type club or owner’s association. The Meyers Aircraft Owners Association is a textbook example. With a small fleet size to begin with, airframe parts can occasionally become difficult to source. So when the original factory jigs and tooling were located by a Meyers owner, he purchased everything and stored it all in a secure location for preservation. Due to his efforts, the entire Meyers community will be able to source brand-new airframe parts if and when they are required. 

• READ MORE: 5 Things I Wish I Had Known Before Buying My First Airplane

To determine whether your type has a corresponding club, simply Google your aircraft  along with the words “club” or “association,” and you’ll likely find any that exist. Additionally, the EAA Vintage Aircraft Association maintains an excellent list of type clubs.

Finally, if your time and workload permit, consider getting involved and giving back to your community of owners. Help to organize a fly-out or two during the summer. Contribute some of your newfound knowledge in the forums. And lend a helping hand to others who are navigating the steep learning curve of ownership for the first time. 

The post Navigating the Aircraft Ownership Learning Curve Through Type Clubs appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

But the other day, when I opened up my engine cowl during a preflight inspection and discovered several pounds of grass, twigs, and debris packed tightly into every nook and cranny of my engine compartment, the local starling population was fortunate they were out of my reach. 

It had been a long week, and for days, I’d been looking forward to the simple pleasure of solitary pattern work at a nearby 1,700-foot grass strip that I love. The runway is rolled so frequently, it’s as smooth as a pool table. After a long, frustrating day of work, an hour or so of landings is a great way to clear my mind and unwind.

• READ MORE: When It’s Better to Have It and Not Need It

On this particular day, however, the birds had ensured my trip to the hangar had the opposite effect. I worked for about 30 minutes with a flashlight, needle nose pliers, and a Shop-Vac to remove the piles and piles of brush and grass from around the engine before finally giving up. I wasn’t convinced I’d be able to remove every last bit of it, and given the fire hazard it presented, I decided I’d let my mechanic remove the cowl and blow it all out thoroughly when he arrived for some unrelated work later in the week.

As I reflected on the day’s ruined flight, two observations occurred to me. First, while the shopping process for a hangar to rent is nowhere near as complex as that of an airplane, one can still benefit from some basic detective work. And second, when given the choice, a nicer hangar is most likely worth the extra investment.

Last summer, I opted to move out of my original hangar and into my current one, reasoning that I preferred to share the two-airplane hangar with my friend Dan, who occupies the other half. While it would be difficult to give him up as a hangar mate, the extremity of the bird infestation now has me reconsidering the move. I simply never took the time to look into the new hangar in depth. A hangar is a hangar, I thought.

• READ MORE: 5 Things I Wish I Had Known Before Buying My First Airplane

Now, with a few years of ownership behind me, I’m able to assemble a list of subtle but important concerns that will dictate my selection of future hangars. The current bird concern tops the list, as so much time can be wasted cleaning off droppings and clearing out nest materials. But I’d also approach existing hangar tenants to determine whether water seeps in through the roof or beneath the walls and whether ice dams trap form during the winter.

I’d also ask about the land immediately around the hangar and find out whether it floods and how well the snow is actually cleared during winter. If the main door is electric, I’d be curious to know what happens in the event of a power outage and whether a small generator or battery pack could be plugged in to get the airplane in or out. After all, a power outage that leaves the door open ahead of a violent storm could be disastrous for both the hangar and the airplane inside.

Cell service would also be a concern. With decent coverage, I’d have good day-to-day connectivity, and I’d be able to use a remote switch to turn my engine preheater on or off from home. Good coverage would also enable the installation of cameras, both for security and to check the runway and ramp conditions before making the drive to the airport. My current location has terrible coverage, and all of these things are challenges.

• READ MORE: The Pros and Cons of Aircraft Towing Solutions

I would never have thought of these things when I first bought my airplane. But now that I know what to look for and what questions to ask, I’d spend some time hanging out at potential airports a bit and learning about their hangar situations before deciding on any particular location. And if faced with a nicer hangar option that comes at a premium cost, I’ll consider how much time and effort I’ve had to spend dealing with the various woes of a bad hangar and account for that in my decision-making process.

As for my current bird situation, I’ve got a plan. The airfield has recently been sold to a new owner. He’s not a pilot, just an enthusiast looking to get into aviation as a hobby. And it sounds like he has yet to go up for a flight with anyone.

There’s an old saying: “A good lawyer knows the law, and a great lawyer knows the judge.” Perhaps a nice evening flight among the hayfields will kick off a good working relationship with the new guy. With any luck, it just might culminate in some weatherstripping, deterrent spikes, and maybe a cat or two to address the bird problem.

The post Going to the Birds, And How Not To appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

Knowing that I was fortunate to have a car at all and understanding that complaining would in no way reduce the frequency of breakdowns, I rolled with it, ultimately developing a creative solution. I’d simply remove both of my bike’s wheels and keep it stored in the trunk. It was better to have it and not need it than the other way around, I reasoned. And sure enough, about once a week, I’d leave the dead Oldsmobile on the shoulder of the road and deploy my auxiliary bicycle to reach my destination more or less on time. As I recall, the car would magically start back up after sitting for most of the day.

• READ MORE: 5 Things I Wish I Had Known Before Buying My First Airplane

Since then, that “better to have it and not need it” philosophy has served me well, even extending to aircraft ownership. It first emerged early in my shopping process when I was narrowing my choices to just a few models.

After earning my tailwheel endorsement in an old Cessna 140, I initially decided that it or its flapless twin, the 120, would be the type for me. The familiar Cessna yoke and handling put me at ease, as did the docile yet engaging takeoff and landing qualities. Parts and qualified service were easily sourced, and the small C85, C90, and O-200 engines all promised low fuel burns and economical operation. Best of all, the acquisition cost of these types was among the lowest out there. The choice seemed obvious, with few, if any, drawbacks.

Then I looked into useful load. 

As a resident of Wisconsin, where cheese is as much a lifestyle as a food item and where the long winters make a convincing argument for staying indoors and enjoying said cheese, I, unfortunately, adopted certain physical attributes championed by the general population. Namely, width and weight. Neither is very compatible with 1940s-era light aircraft.

If Cessna had converted the 140 into a mini-Bird Dog, with tandem seating in place of the side-by-side bench seat, things would be significantly more comfy. Luscombe did precisely this with its T8F Observer. But, firmly sold on the early Cessnas, I was faced with the decision of cramming myself into either the small 120 or 140 or saving my pennies for years to enable an upgrade to the larger and more capable 170.

• READ MORE: The Pros and Cons of Aircraft Towing Solutions

It wasn’t an easy choice. I anticipated the vast majority of my flying to be solo, simply bopping into and out of rural grass strips in nice weather. For this, the smallest Cessnas would fit the bill perfectly. But they’d also limit me to doing only that.

Looking further ahead, I anticipated the occasional camping trip. Certainly to EAA AirVenture in Oshkosh, but also to other destinations, with one friend at a time. And I anticipated someday attempting to join a local circle of friends as they fly into and out of short, challenging airstrips— something that would be both easier and safer when conducted at a takeoff weight well below the airplane’s maximum.

Going with a 120 or 140 would ensure every departure would take place at or near maximum takeoff weight. Every camping trip would have to be solo. Even then, I’d have to pack sparingly. And operating so heavy would also relegate me to longer runways, devoid of substantial departure-end obstacles, where the airplane’s luxurious climb rate could safely commence.

Would I really need the ability to take friends camping or hang with my STOL buddies at challenging strips? No. But just as in my Oldsmobile days, I decided I’d rather have those capabilities and not need them than the other way around.

When it came time to assess the financial reality of acquiring a substantially more expensive 170, it was simultaneously daunting and reassuring. On one hand, a 170 would likely cost about twice what a 120 or 140 would cost. This seems to hold true today. 

But on the other hand, it could be argued that I’d simply be parking the money. So long as I kept the airplane in good shape, flying it regularly and maintaining it properly, there’s little chance it would go down in value and decades of evidence that the value would go up. Difficult as it might be to save and spend such a vast sum of money, it was nothing like tossing it away on a depreciating asset like a car.

• READ MORE: Managing the Doldrums of Winter

For the following two years, I poured every ounce of effort into saving enough for a 170. I lost track of how many hours of overtime I worked, but 80-hour workweeks were not uncommon. I routed a significant portion of each paycheck directly into the airplane account—something I continue today to cover my airplane’s fuel and operating costs.

Eventually, the stars aligned. I found the perfect 170, and I had just enough in the bank to make it happen. Now, coming up on three years of ownership, I feel good about the years of effort to “buy my last airplane first” and obtain a more permanent solution.

Do I go on camping trips with friends often? No. Do I hang with my local buddies, ducking into and out of 700-foot strips? Also no. But I’ve got an airplane with those capabilities, one that I can grow into rather than out of. And I feel good having those capabilities and not needing them rather than the other way around.

The post When It’s Better to Have It and Not Need It appeared first on FLYING Magazine.