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.

Today’s Top Pick is a 1953 Cessna 170B.

Cessna’s 170 is a classic post-World War II design, with four seats, high, strut-braced wing, and conventional (for the time) landing gear with a tailwheel. Early models had fabric-covered wings while the 170A and 170B have all-metal wings. General aviation aircraft structures were advancing, but in some ways the 170 remained old-fashioned.

Aircraft manufacturers had begun to notice that many pilots find aircraft with tricycle-style landing gear are easier to handle on the ground than tailwheel airplanes. Piper, Cessna’s longtime rival, started building the Tri-Pacer, which essentially was a Piper Pacer taildragger modified with a nosewheel. It handled easily and grew in popularity. Piper’s success with the Tri-Pacer convinced designers and engineers at Cessna to test a similarly modified 170, despite opposition from company executives. The result was the Cessna 172, which was destined to become one of the best-selling GA aircraft. 

This 1953 Cessna 170B has a total of 3,477 hours on the airframe and 446 hours on its Continental O-300 engine.

Pilots seeking an economical vintage taildragger with enough cabin space to serve as a family aircraft should consider this 1953 Cessna 170B, which is available for $85,000 on AircraftFor Sale.

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

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The post This 1953 Cessna 170B Is a Taildragger Fit for Family Travel and an ‘AircraftForSale’ Top Pick 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.

But when opportunity knocks, you take notice. And when that knocking comes in the form of an ambassador partnership with Garmin, you answer the door. This opportunity (separate from my work with FLYING) is what motivated me to take the plunge and spend tens of thousands of dollars on a full instrument panel upgrade on my 1953 Cessna 170B, and it is finally complete.

The project began back in May, and my friend Jessica Voruda at NewView Technologies in Oshkosh, Wisconsin, began teaching me the intricacies of instrument panels right away. I dove into the project bursting with enthusiasm but ready and willing to face complex, unforeseen, and expensive challenges. Fortunately, Jessica’s expertise and patience kept these to a minimum, and we were able to focus on some of the more fun and less easily anticipated aspects of the panel redesign.

After addressing a few of those items, we were able to dig into the part I was most looking forward to—the aesthetics and visual design. Although my plane has seen various updates over the years, some authentic 1950s-era visual elements remain. For example, it had an extraordinarily cool vintage blue diamond pattern surrounding the throttle quadrant, and I decided early on that I wanted to retain that element at all costs.

Similarly, I’ve always appreciated the retro look of the panel itself. Unlike modern panels that tend to be squared off on top with a horizontal glareshield, mine is curved on top. It looks cool and opens up some decent-sized peripheral vision chunks that might otherwise be blocked by a larger, squared-off design.

• READ MORE: Making an Old Panel New Again

So I knew I liked the original, vintage aesthetic. But looking at modern avionics, I wasn’t thrilled with the idea of installing what amounts to big rectangular computer monitors smack dab in the middle of my panel. This is a 1953 Cessna, after all—not a Tesla Model S. I may be upgrading to modern avionics, but I still wanted it to look like a cool vintage airplane.  

Looking around at other modernized panels, I spotted another popular trend—emptying a panel of every extraneous gauge and installing just one or two modern digital screens in their place. While this is beneficial in terms of weight savings and simplicity, I just couldn’t get behind the look of a massive, blank wall in front of me punctuated by just two or three small screens. To me, it looks incomplete. It felt akin to hopping into a base-model rental car and spotting all the blank spots reserved for options that were left behind at the factory.

Salvation came in the form of two things—Garmin’s GI 275 flight instruments and Jessica’s Tetris-like skill at shoehorning a large volume of avionics into a tiny, irregularly shaped space.

• READ MORE: The Adventures of a Panel Redesign

The GI 275 instruments were new to me. I was familiar with and had, in other aircraft, used Garmin’s square-screened G5 instruments in the form of an attitude indicator and DG/HSI. But for a 1950s-inspired retromod panel, the television screen looked out of place. 

The beauty of the GI 275s is that they’re round and, thus, closely resemble vintage gauges. When in operation, they illuminate brightly and display everything from an attitude indicator to an engine indication system…but even when displaying moving maps and colorful bar graphs, they still blend in with old gauges. I decided they’d be the perfect solution for blending modern capability with a vintage aesthetic.

To avoid the aforementioned “empty panel” look, I opted to retain a few legacy analog gauges, namely the turn indicator, airspeed indicator, and altimeter. I did this for two reasons. First, because I appreciate having a physical ball and needles that sweep across part of my field of vision. But also to create a curved line of gauges that follows the curve of the glareshield like the panels of earlier 140s and 170s. With Voruda’s help, I arranged and rearranged the gauges into my desired positions.

From there, Voruda and the team at NewView got to work fitting everything into the panel and design. It turned out to be a tight balancing game, keeping the radios and GI 275s clear of the large T-shaped bar behind the panel that required ample internal space for elevator control. But she managed to do so, and the radios and GPS/transponder slotted nicely into the left side of the panel, leaving space elsewhere for an iPad and autopilot controls. While an autopilot isn’t in the cards just yet, I had Voruda prepare everything for easy and efficient installation in the future.

With the mechanical layout locked in, we focused on the visual design. Taking her advice, I opted for a cream-colored panel that matched my yokes and switchgear. This was true to the original interior colors, and it would be warmer, with more personality than black or gray. 

When I explained how much I liked the blue diamond pattern, Jessica pointed out that her panel fabrication partner, Superior Aircraft Components, could digitize the original design and extend it to the new overlays that cover most of the lower section of the panel. I loved the idea, so they got to work creating matching surrounds for the radios and circuit breakers. Because we were pressed for time, they also fabricated a separate, removable section of the sub-panel on the lower right, reserved for a future custom glove box. 

As of this writing, the panel is complete, but I have yet to see it in person. My airplane sits up at Oshkosh, awaiting my arrival for AirVenture several days from now. Once there, I’ll be able to take it all in, begin learning how to use it, and then taxi from NewView Technologies on the north side of the field down to the Garmin booth at Boeing Plaza, where it will be on display for all to see. 

On one hand, it has been a leap of faith to spend such a sum of money on something when I am only able to observe the progress through photos. Part of me has wanted to make the 90-minute drive every weekend to check up on things. But from the beginning, I decided to place my trust in Voruda and her team of actual professionals; throughout the process, when she would ask me to make a decision, I would usually ask what she would do if it was her panel and then go with that.

This dedication to trust was partially inspired by some of the more questionable paint schemes I see on privately owned aircraft from time to time. In each case, the owners spent upward of $20,000 for new paint jobs but clearly opted to avoid hiring or trusting a professional to help create a visually pleasing design. Instead, their freshly painted airplanes are visually misshapen and unbalanced, resembling crude renditions of travel trailers from the late 1990s. The paint application and workmanship are impeccable, but less-qualified, amateur decisions hamper the end result.

For my panel, I decided early on not to go it alone. I’m not a professional avionics technician, and while I have some general goals and ideas, I’ve never designed or built an instrument panel. I was hiring a team of professionals to do that, so it only made sense to know my limits and defer to its expertise while providing general overlying goals. 

The end result appears to be perfect. I’ll have an airplane far more IFR capable than me and my instrument skills that lapsed during the Bush administration. I’ll have a lighter, more reliable airplane with avionics that enable me to extend the life of my engine through precise control and temperature management. And multiple moving maps, ADS-B traffic data, weather data, and sophisticated flight instruments, including an angle of attack indicator, will make me safer.

On top of it all, the unique restomod aesthetic will create an entirely new flying experience that gives me yet another reason to look back over my shoulder as I walk away after a flight.

Author’s note:

If you plan to attend EAA AirVenture (Monday through July 30), please stop by the Garmin display to check out the new panel for yourself. Let me know what you think at the FLYING Magazine booth  located in exhibitor spaces 439 and 440, just east of the control tower. I’ll be there from 1-2 pm CDT on Tuesday and July 28 for meet and greets and would love to hear your impressions.

The post Keeping the Vintage Cool During a Panel Upgrade appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

We were met with example after example of depressing neglect. Over here, a Tri-Pacer with ratty fabric and visible rust on cylinders. Over there, a Luscombe with flat, cracked tires and yellowed windows. Next to the Luscombe, a Cherokee 140 covered in bird droppings and ravaged by harsh Michigan winters.

From the perspective of two private pilots without the means to purchase their own airplanes, it was inconceivable that an owner could simply let their machine rot in such a manner. In our minds’ eyes, we envisioned airplane ownership to involve substantial amounts of time cleaning, polishing, and doting. Pride of ownership mattered, and we felt insulted by the utter neglect standing before us on flat tires. These owners had evidently tossed their once-airworthy machines aside, letting them deteriorate without a care. And it made us angry.

It was shameful, and as we continued our walk, we devised a plan. 

One day, when we both had enough money to purchase politicians and enact legislation to our liking, we’d form our own company. This company would be modeled after Child Protective Services. It would work hand-in-hand with the authorities to identify and confiscate aircraft that have been neglected by their owners. 

More importantly, the company would work with local pilot groups to identify loving homes to which each aircraft could be donated. A robust screening process would ensure the new owners would fit into a specific financial segment—sufficient funds on hand to fly and maintain a small airplane but not enough to purchase one. Through these efforts, airplanes would be saved from ruin, the dreams of countless private pilots would be fulfilled, and GA would be revitalized. 

Sadly, the company never came to fruition. While I could now possibly afford to purchase a local village alderperson, meaningful change through crooked legislation remains out of financial reach. But the dream is still alive in the form of rehoming efforts that I continue to this day, as I take special note of derelict aircraft and keep an eye out for private pilots who could potentially save them from total deterioration. 

My most recent mission came, as most do, by word of mouth. While chatting with my friend Dan about interesting places to fly, I mentioned in passing how I’d like to go visit a private grass strip where I spotted a Cessna 170 that has apparently been put out to pasture. I’ve got a friend in Michigan who is after a 170 and happens to possess sufficient mechanical ability to perform a light restoration, and she would be a great candidate to save the airplane.

Dan perked up. He knew of a similar 170 not too far away, and he was looking for an excuse to fly his 182. A few days later, we were on our way to check it out. But upon arrival, we discovered it was in pretty bad shape. 

It was a shame. The original 1950s-era paint was beautifully weathered to a rat rod-like patina. The panel, although dirty and in need of updating, was in shockingly nice shape. And it happened to be a desirable B model. But the exterior had been exposed to decades of Wisconsin winters, and both rust and corrosion were apparent throughout the airframe.

The airplane rescue mission was, therefore, a bust. Most of them are. But as I visit new airports and encounter unused aircraft, I continue to play matchmaker for friends and acquaintances, attempting to connect the poor airplanes with wishful aircraft owners. This, I think, is something we all should be doing. 

While total restorations are beyond the capability of most first-time owners, light restoration work can be a simple matter of paying a bill. Presented with the opportunity to obtain an old Cessna or Piper for well below market price and then spend several thousand dollars to get it up to speed, a prospective owner just might discover the math checks out. 

The key is to catch these ignored airplanes before they’ve deteriorated beyond the point of no return. If we can collectively intervene and convince the neglectful owners to pass on their machines to people committed to maintaining them, we all benefit. The affordable aircraft population will experience less of a decline, prices will become more stable, and as more people do more flying, GA will become healthier and more popular.

Those of us who own our own aircraft should occasionally be reminded to avoid letting our beloved machines sit idle and deteriorate beyond intervention. If medical issues, financial challenges, or life in general begins to result in cobwebs on our airplanes, we need to proactively get creative and find ways to keep them flying and healthy. Maybe we invite trusted friends to fly them once a month for us. Maybe in exchange for an annual inspection, we allow our A&P to fly the airplane a certain amount of hours per month.

Alternatively, we could sell one or more fractions of it and begin a partnership. This would result in instant cash flow. It would keep the airplane flying, and it would build up a nice emergency maintenance reserve, ensuring it is well cared for. These days, there’s no shortage of wishful pilots who would love to become an owner in such a manner.

With any luck, efforts like this will slow the decline and deterioration of affordable aircraft. Best of all, Matt and I will no longer have to form Airplane Protective Services to confiscate and save them. After all, we’d rather be flying.

The post Pride of Ownership and the Insult of Neglect appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

Due to our status as repeat offenders, Mrs. Frye reacted swiftly and fiercely. She sent us both directly to the office, where the principal drafted official disciplinary letters to be taken home and signed by our parents. While I was ultimately able to successfully represent myself and avoid any harsh sentencing, the anticipation of punishment was both stressful and memorable.

Last week, decades after the incident, that long-forgotten feeling of dread resurfaced when I potentially damaged the grass runway at my home airport and once again found myself anticipating harsh punishment. 

The weather had, over the preceding three weeks, been completely miserable and unfit for flying. If it wasn’t gale-force crosswinds, it was heavy snowfall or low ceilings with freezing precipitation. In other words, it had been a typical Wisconsin winter, and I was ready for some revenge flying the moment the weather improved.

Finally, a beautiful Sunday emerged. Brilliant blue sky and a mercifully light, warm breeze drew me to the airport with bright eyes and a bushy tail. Pulling into the airport, I saw the runway had been plowed. It was shaping up to be a perfect day for flying. 

Then I turned into the hangar row and saw the carnage of sloppy, careless snow plow work. Though the runway had been nicely cleared, the areas in front of the hangars were littered with massive pools of mud, trenches of dirt, and haphazard snow drifts, some as tall as my car. It looked like the snowplow driver was attempting to fight off a family of rabid wolverines while operating the vehicle.

Coating my car in clumps of mud and nearly getting stuck, I finally made it to my hangar and surveyed the scene. The plow had apparently made just one pass in front of my hangar, leaving me with insufficient space to taxi. I had to get creative. 

I hopped back into my car and spent the next 20 minutes driving back and forth across the fender-high snow drifts. Eventually, I was able to flatten them and create a path to the runway. I felt bad for subjecting my beloved Volkswagen GTI to such abuse, but I was motivated to fly.

With the big snow drifts out of the way, I was confident my problems were behind me. I had, after all, upgraded to 26” Alaskan Bushwheels last summer. While it would have been dangerous to taxi through frozen snow drifts over half their height, their floatation would make it possible to negotiate the muddy wasteland before me safely.

Sure enough, the taxi out went fine. The combination of slick tires and similarly slick mud and snow made it challenging to steer with any degree of precision, but I was able to remain stationary for the runup and avoid sliding into any tall drifts. I slithered out to the runway feeling simultaneously angry at the airport owner for his substandard plowing and victorious for conquering it.

The pattern work went fine, as well. I always feel rusty after three or more weeks without flying, but after the first landing, muscle memory had returned and I felt better. The only item of concern was a near-total lack of traction atop the wet, muddy grass. A light tap of a brake resulted in instant lockup with no perceptible change in speed or direction. Fortunately, the Cessna 170B lands slowly and I was able to maintain centerline reasonably well. The biggest challenge was getting turned around for each backtaxi.

After hammering out a number of landings, I decided not to press my luck any further and started to work my way through the slop and back to my hangar. This took twice as long as normal due to ineffective differential braking, but I made it safely. Best of all, the airplane was intact.

The runway, however, was not.

As expected, my big tundra tires and their 8 psi of pressure left virtually no imprints on the ground. But the standard, everyday tailwheel acted like a pizza cutter. Like a grotesque, real-life Flightaware track, each landing and backtaxi was marked with a vivid black trench where the tailwheel had carved its signature deep into the soft ground.

I quickly looked around to see if anyone was present to identify me as the guilty party. The coast was clear. With unprecedented speed and efficiency, I pulled the plane back into the hangar and buttoned everything up. A rooster tail of mud behind my VW marked my departure, and I headed home at a brisk pace.

As of this writing, I’m facing one of two scenarios. Either the airport owner doesn’t care about tailwheel trenches, in which case I’m home free. Or he does, and I stand to incur his wrath the next time he spots me out at my hangar. If the latter scenario occurs, I will admit my shortsightedness and will face my punishment without complaint. Either way, I’ll tell him about it since it’s the right thing to do.

Until then, the anticipation of my fate takes me right back to fifth grade, where I once again envision worst-case scenarios and prepare for my day of reckoning.

The post Will This Perfect Day for Flying Go Unpunished? appeared first on FLYING Magazine.