Flying east up the Columbia River Gorge was more of a stomach clencher than usual; I was listening very, very hard to the rhythm of the engine. The 65 horses seemed to be cantering easily together, never breaking stride. Still, it was a relief to come out of the Gorge into eastern Oregon and it’s multitude of landing spots. The easy two hour flight had us landing in Bend (Oregon) to refuel.

From Bend to Burns was payback for the ease of the first leg. It was almost three in the afternoon, and the sun was hot. Thermals bubbled up and flung the Talon every which way. I never felt in danger, but I had to pay serious attention to staying as straight and level as possible. When we landed in Burns (Oregon) both of us were worn out. Even though we had only another 90 minutes of flying to go, we decided to flake out in the air conditioned FBO for a few hours. By the time we were back in the air it was early evening and the air had calmed down.

When we flew into Larry’s, there were 10 ultralights and general aviation aircraft already tied down. They had saved dinner for us – the most wonderful smoked duck I’ve ever tasted. Larry hunts with peregrine falcons and the duck was one that his falcons had caught.

The next two days brought howling winds across the desert, and we stayed on the ground. Plenty of hangar flying, sightseeing (by car,) and relaxing, although trying to sleep was anything but relaxing. Lying in my tent I listened to the wind, and got up several times to check my tie-down ropes and rudder lock. One fellow had made aileron locks as well.

When the winds finally died on the third day – wow, did we have fun! The Owyhee River Canyon is spectacular flying, and we had a great time lining up to get in-the-air pictures. It’s always fun to have a gas pump you can taxi up to, and landing at Pelican Point, where both your approach and departure is over water, is an unusual experience for me. I never get enough of landing on the dry lake bed of the Alvord Desert, with the Steens Mountain towering high above.

We left on the evening of the 4th day, and it was on our flight home that I re-committed to core flying principles that I had adopted years ago. They are:
- Follow roads as much as you can. This is imperative where the terrain is hostile, since the road may be your only possible landing spot if your engine fails.
- If you choose to fly a direct route, choose one with benign terrain, with lots of possible landing spots along the way.
- Fly as much as possible over terrain where you can land unharmed if your engine fails.
- Fly over terrain where rescuers can find you and reach you.

In my next blog post I’ll share why I recommitted to these principles on the flight home.

My fat-ultralight-type LSA Talon Typhoon has been almost completely rebuilt since last summer’s fiasco. It didn’t have major damage, but the master mechanic and his “elves” as he calls them had taken delight in re-creating the plane. All new wiring, new instrument panel, moving the regulator, the radiator overflow bottle, the battery. And on and on and on. They had such fun doing it, and I was delighted. My old Rotax 582 was toast, so I bit the bullet and bought a new one.

The test flight went flawlessly – except for oil leakage from the exhaust manifold. So that was repaired and then I did another test flight. It’s trimmed out so perfectly that I did two patterns around the Independence (Oregon) airport using only rudder – never touching the stick. Since then I’ve put about 20 hours on the plane, and am ready for a long flight.

A friend in southeastern Oregon has invited all his Kolb friends – and others – to his home airstrip for a week of flying, barbeque-ing and hot tubbing. His place is really isolated in the back country high desert, near the Owyhee River. He knows the place like the back of his hand, having been flying it for decades. I’ve flown into his airstrip several times, but always on the way to somewhere else. Now I’ll have a chance to fly the canyons with him and with a whole gaggle of other ultralight-type aircraft.

But – we won’t be leaving at 6:00 a.m.! We called for a weather briefing and found out that it’s supposed to start getting better about 11:00 a.m. So – since we were already up, we had breakfast and then I loaned Bob a car so he could go home to get some sandals he forgot.

Now it’s 10:30 a.m. and it’s clearing. Bob is back and we called for another weather briefing. Still a little dicey, but there’s lots of blue sky and cumulous clouds. Our route will take us east up the Columbia River Gorge and then south-south-east. If you want to follow our track, I’ll be using my SPOT Tracker and you can see us in real time at

http://share.findmespot.com/shared/gogl.jsp?glId=0j61d1nv67p9JS1b9PcrXbpphQ5YVWYgJ

I won’t be blogging while I’m gone, but expect a detailed report when I get home.

I found driving I-90 an astonishing experience. I had a strong, almost physical sense of what it would be like to be flying the route. I-90 goes through wide valleys between numerous mountain ranges: the Sapphire Mountains southeast of Missoula as well as the Bitterroot Range, which is composed of several different mountains.

As I drove I was watching the sky as well as the road. I drove through clouds and light rain into Butte, noting that the amount of rain probably wouldn't have grounded us. It would have been uncomfortable for me - I've often said that in an open cockpit, flying through rain is like getting facial acupuncture. As I drove over the Clark Fork River (one of the many times the river intersects with I-90) the clouds started to build again.

I was happily imagining coming back to fly this gorgeous area...until I was about 30 miles east of the Idaho border. Here the Bitterroot Mountains became high, steep, heavily forested - with apparently no place to land but the freeway. Of course, from the air you can see much more and there might have been landing spots which were obscured by the evergreens I was driving through. I hope so. There was about 50 miles of really ugly country (I'm talking from a flying perspective - from a driving perspective it was absolutely gorgeous.)

I'm not sure I want to try flying it. I even found myself thinking "I'm glad I'm driving this, not flying it." Immediately I wondered "What WOULD I have done if I'd been in the air? Would I have wimped out, wanted to land and find another route? Is there another route that doesn't involve going through these mountains? Looking at the map, I don't think so.

That got me thinking about the pressure I put on myself not to be the wuss, the wimp, the weak sister. I never hear the guys talking about being afraid - perhaps they are, but they don't mention it. (I'm talking about all the male pilots I fly with - not just about Bob and Wayne.) They talk blithely about landing on the highway if there's absolutely nowhere else to land. Yet this is summer and I-90 is well traveled. I probably would have just soldiered on, and kept my fears to myself. We had looked at the route before we chose it, and I've driven it before, so I DID know what we were heading for. And, assuming that I could land with the flow of west-bound traffic, I'd probably have made a better landing than I did in that wheat field!

The closer I got to home, the sadder I got. I shouldn't be bringing the Talon home in a truck - I should be flying this route, reveling in the beauty from above, not below. As I got off the freeway, only 30 minutes from home, I called Sandy River Airport. My spirits were immeasurably lifted - a whole gaggle of pilot friends were waiting to greet me and help me get the Talon out of the truck.

I pulled into Sandy River and everyone was there to lend a hand. When we took the Talon out of Humongous Harry (as I called the truck) everyone wanted to know "What happened?!?!?" The guys swarmed around it, looking for reasons why the engine might have quit. Nothing was immediately apparent.

We were all perplexed, since I had filled up with gas at Miles City, MT and had flown only an hour when the engine died. The next morning, when Bob, Wayne and I went to get the plane, the gas tank was completely empty although there was still gas in the carb bowls. Yes, the plane was upside down overnight, but if the gas had leaked out of the overflow line during that time, I'd expect that the wipe cloths, sleeping bag, and other fabric which I'd packed next to the gas tank would be saturated - or at least smelling strongly of residual gas. But they were completely dry and odor free. So now the "figuring it out" began.

We didn’t find an answer until we took apart the engine. An oil seal had failed and as a result, oil wasn’t being pumped through the pistons, instead it was pooling in the bottom. As a result – a massive seizure. The master mechanic who took it apart told me that it was such an old engine, with so many hours, that even though I’d kept it rigorously maintained it wasn’t worth another rebuild. “”Bite the bullet and buy yourself a new engine, Arty,” he said. And so with a gulp, I did.

 What did I learn/remember from those three weeks?
1. I'm not up there alone.
Even though I fly a single seat aircraft, I'm never really alone. The web of relationships I've created surrounds and supports me. Complete strangers reach out and offer help. The power of these relationships is as important as the joy of flying.
2. I'm responsible for my choices.
I make numerous decisions that affect my flying...who I fly with, the equipment I use, the degree to which I maintain or neglect the Talon, the attention I pay to my pre-flight inspections, the route I choose to fly. When things go wrong, I have to take responsibility rather than blaming the weather or the plane or someone else.
3. I have to force myself into my courage zone, or I'll stay in my comfort zone.
I wasn't sure I really wanted to make this flight: I'd heard too much about the awful winds in Wyoming - and had experienced them when I worked there years ago. But I've learned that for me, my comfort zone gets boring. Flying is never boring, but it is safely stretching myself that is challenging. That applies to many parts of my life, not just flying.
4. If I can't fly as far as I want, then I fly as far as I can.
I've learned that I can be incredibly patient, waiting for the right weather conditions. I'm not a patient person, but I've become comfortable with waiting until it's safe to fly. And if I only cover 200 miles instead of 400 in a day, I'm content because I've still made progress. Once you learn the skills to fly, you can fly anywhere. In an ultralight-type aircraft, it just takes longer.
There's lots more I've learned - but that's enough for now!

What type of segue sentence can move from that last paragraph to picking up the story of my flight home from Oshkosh? Nothing that I can think of, so I’ll just dive in.

At the end of my last blog entry, I wrote how I’d had a forced landing in a field in Custer, WY. I was more annoyed than frightened when the engine quit. I’ve done dead sticks before, and in this case I was over wonderful landing spots: lots of wheat fields. I set up for a glide to a particularly large field, and brought her down nice and slow and straight, aligned with the pattern of the plowing. (You can tell that by looking at the edges of the fields.) I felt pretty good as my wheels started to touch the tops of the wheat – and was absolutely astounded when I suddenly found myself upside down, hanging from my harness, my face tickled by wheat!

My Talon’s somersault happened so quickly that I didn’t have time to be scared – one moment I was about to land, the next minute I was upside down! How did that happen? The wheat was ready for harvest, and about 3’ high. As I “landed” it grabbed the Talon and brought me to a complete stop – but the Talon ‘s forward momentum caused me to somersault.

I unhooked my four-point seat harness and dropped into the wheat. I quickly crawled out and waved to Wayne – who had seen me go down and was circling overhead. Then I began to run! I wanted to get out of the field as quickly as possible. If there was a fire, the entire field would go up in flames.

I walked and walked and walked and walked and finally found a farm house. As the farm dogs came roaring out I pulled out my emergency whistle and BLEW!! The dogs came to a dead stop and someone came out of the house. She let me use the phone to call 1) the fire chief; 2) Wayne, and 3) Bob – who had flown ahead and already landed in Laurel, just outside of Billings.

When the fire chief arrived we drove out to the wheat field. There was no sign of gas leakage and since it was getting dark, I got out everything that I’d need for the night and the fire chief drove me to Custer (a bar/grill and a gas station) to wait for Bob.

Bob told the Laurel FBO manager what had happened and got permission to use the courtesy car to get me.

Waiting for Bob, I had plenty of time to think about 1) what happened, and 2) what I was going to do next. I decided to catch a commercial flight home from Billings, and Norm (my husband) and I would bring our trailer out to get it next week after the field was harvested. The farmer didn't want a truck going out into the field until after harvest - not only would it ruin more of the wheat, but there was a real danger of fire.

Bob came to get me, and then we went to get Wayne, who had been unable to find a place to land and flew back along the route we’d just come from to a small airport 20 miles east in Hyshem, MT.

The morning either Wayne or Bob (I don't remember whom,) wondered out loud if it might be possible to dismantle the wings and roll the fuselage out of the field, then hire a U-Haul truck and drive it home.

I called the farmer and asked him if he'd let me remove the Talon today, explaining that we'd take off the wings and walk them out the road, then upright the plane and roll it out. He immediately agreed, and said he'd call some strong young men to help us.
When we drove back to the wheat field, we saw that the Talon wasn't as far from the farm field road as we had thought.

In 90+° heat we pulled the wings, the struts, and the cables. We were astounded to see that there seemed to be very little damage, other than to the nose of the pod.

One jury strut was slightly bent, but there didn't seem to be any other damage. Bo Harrison, a strapping young man who obviously played football and other violent sports, drove out to help us turn it over and get everything out of the field. By 12:30 p.m. we were dripping with sweat and wheat burrs, but everything was out of the field and on the field road.

Then we drove the 50+ miles to Billings (still using the Laurel Airport's courtesy car,) to rent a truck. It was a behemoth!! 12'6" high, 30 feet from bumper to bumper, 8' wide when you include the external mirrors - I have to admit that my heart quailed when I saw it. I've never driven anything so huge.

With the help of Bo and Anna, Levi’s girlfriend, the 5 of us got the Talon into the truck and tied down securely. Anna drove Wayne east to his plane, and Bob and I drove west to Laurel. It was 10:00 p.m. by the time I dropped Bob off and I just wanted to find a motel and crash. There is a Best Western in Laurel, but much to my dismay, when I went in and asked for a room, the woman just looked at me pityingly and said, "Honey, between the oil spill and the rodeo and the fair, there's not a single room to be had between here and Livingston." I soon found out that Livingston was 100 miles west! I couldn't just go to the Laurel airport and camp, because my sleeping bag and blow-up mattress were being used as padding for the wings.

So - I literally stuck out my chin and told myself "You can do it!" It was another adventure. I'm not a night owl, and I was still uncomfortable driving the truck. It's noisy and uncomfortable. Even with the seat pushed as far forward as possible, it's clear that it was never intended to be driven by a 4'11" person!

To buoy my spirits, I did a little game of cheering out loud every 10 miles, and whooping out loud when I did 25. At the 25 mile mark I congratulated myself for being 1/4 of the way there. Then a third of the way, then half, and before I knew it I was rolling into Livingston @ 12:30 a.m. I was truly exhausted yet greatly, greatly pleased with myself as I pulled into the parking lot of a Super 8 Motel.

SAME STORY!!! Not a room to be had in all of Livingston - which is right next to Gardiner, which is the gateway to Yellowstone. Tourist time and not an empty room anywhere. The front desk manager took one look at my discouraged face and said "Do you think you can make it to Bozeman? That's another 28 miles west of here." Then she called...and called...and called motels in Bozeman. There was ONE motel with ONE room left in the entire town! I didn't even ask the price - I just said "Put me on the phone and let me make a reservation." I pulled into Bozeman @ 1:24 a.m. Only another 1100 miles to go!

In my next blog post I’ll wrap up this story by writing about Wayne and Bob’s flight home and what we discovered about why my engine failed.

The humidity and heat for the next two days were overwhelming when we were on the ground, although my Talon performed admirably once we were aloft. The second night out we were delighted to find the FBO unlocked and air conditioned. Being in tents would be intolerable. The barometer reading was really low - presaging another storm. And sure enough, the next morning we woke up to a torrential downpour. Happily, we had anticipated it last night (radar pictures are so helpful) and had tarped and otherwise covered our planes. But we obviously weren't going to be going anywhere for a while - not with almost two inches of rain on the tarmac! So we burrowed deeper into our sleeping bags.

We weren't able to take off until 12:30 p.m., and there was heavy cloud cover @ 3500’. Forward visibility was excellent. We flew for about 40 minutes - and then we crossed the Minnesota River and we were in South Dakota! Soon the clouds began to dissipate, and by the time we reached North Dakota the skies were clear and we had a slight tailwind.

The day’s flying was exceptional. The sky was crystal clear and deep blue. Visibility seemed to go on forever . The flooding in both South and North Dakota was overwhelming to see from the air. Both states look like an extension of Minnesota - "The Land of 10,000 Lakes". Miles and miles of swamped fields. As we flew further west, the flooding in North Dakota disappeared. Now we were over lovely farms, fertile fields, and green hills.

When we landed in Bowman, ND, it was blissfully dry and cool. The first time we'd been out of the heat and humidity in over 10 days! We camped under our wings at the airport and looked forward to being in Montana the next day. Only 30 miles from the state line!

The next morning (Aug. 3) it was sunny and bright, but we could see dark clouds building. We decided to tarp our planes before we left for breakfast. And we're glad we did! By the time we got back to the FBO it was pouring, with thunder and lightning for additional drama. The storm didn’t let up until the afternoon, and we were wings off as soon as possible. Easy flight to Bowman and then had the most gorgeous flight to Wiley Airport, Miles City, MT. All of us were raving about the beautiful scenery and the smooth air. We refueled at Wiley and continued to follow the Yellowstone River west. I was having the time of my life, thinking about Norm (it was his birthday,) and the beauty of western Montana.

I was flying straight and level when my engine gave a single cough and died. I pushed the starter button and the engine started up immediately - but only got to @ 3000 rpm. Then it coughed and died a second time. I tried once more with the same result. So I began looking for a place to land. I had my choice between sugar beets and wheat. The wheat looked better. I radio'd that my engine had died and I was going to land. (Wayne was in visual contact – Bob had flown on ahead and had already landed at our next stop.)

I felt pretty good about the quiet glide down, not really worried. I’ve dead-sticked into fields before so I felt I could handle this. I watched my wheels skim the top of the wheat - but then it grabbed the wheels and suddenly the Talon had was doing a somersault and then I was hanging upside down from my harness, with my face in the wheat!
Not hurt at all – not a scratch – but completely startled!

To be continued…

First, there were planes, planes and more planes. People come to see the planes, and there were thousands of planes. I heard that over 10,000 planes fly in and during the week it is the busiest airport in the world! Hundreds of RVs (the planes, not the camping vehicles,) hundreds of Cessnas, hundreds of everything, it seemed.

Second, I have NEVER met such friendly, friendly people. In spite of the sticky heat, (it was hot and humid the entire week) everyone I saw was cheerful. There were long lines waiting for the trams to get from one area to another. - and standing in the hot sun waiting to board wasn't fun. Yet no one griped, sweaty people squeezed together so others could get on board, and folks started up spontaneous conversations.

What was truly amazing to me was that every person I met who was working the show - in the restaurants, in the vendor booths, driving the trams and the busses, cleaning the showers - EVERYONE was cheerful and friendly. In spite of the heat and the humidity.

Third, the place is HUGE. When I went into the city of Oshkosh to do laundry, it took almost 15 minutes of driving to leave the airport grounds! Planes, people, tents and campers everywhere. I frequently took 3 different trams to get where I wanted to go.

Some folks were lucky and had their own airshow-sponsored transportation. I fell in love with the cute VW bugs that seemed to be everywhere. They were painted various bright colors and were assigned to folks who had come long before the show to help set up.

Fourth, although there are some paid folks, the entire event is staffed almost entirely by volunteers. One woman told me that she and her husband had come in early June to help get everything ready in the ultralight area, and didn't expect to leave until mid-August, helping break down and clean up. They were there on a purely volunteer basis, and also paid for all their own expenses.

Fifth, the weather was immaterial. People were there to enjoy themselves. The heat and humidity were almost overwhelming, but people were happy. Even red-faced toddlers getting pulled around by their parents weren’t crying or cranky. Even the pouring rain that began early Wednesday morning, the third day of the show, didn’t dampen people’s spirits. People put on all sorts of rain gear (including garbage bags,) and continued looking at the planes, the vendor booths, and everything else. People stood under the planes' wings to talk and share experiences.

Saturday afternoon, July 30, was horrible - a "straight line wind" (Wisconsin/Minnesota language) whipped up suddenly. I don't know how fast the winds were going - best guess is about 60-70 mph. (North of Oshkosh the winds were clocked @ 100 mph.) In the ultralight area it was a disaster. Five planes were almost totally destroyed. People grabbed for whatever plane they were standing by, holding them down - even though virtually all were already tied down. I saw a Casperwing go cartwheeling, and two Quicksilver MXs were sadly broken. Then it was over, and everyone pitched in to do whatever needed to be done.

What else can I say about Oshkosh itself? The daily airshows were spectacular and there were several concerts. The last night (Saturday) there were TWO airshows - the usual afternoon one and then a night one, where the planes looked like meteors streaming fireworks. Absolutely incredibly beautiful. I spent most of the show like everyone else - walking, gawking, and talking.

Sunday morning (July 31) we did some final flight planning. Our time at the biggest airshow was over, and we needed to get on our way home.

The turf runway slowed me down nicely and as I taxied up to the “gate” to the ultralight area, a volunteer sped up on a small scooter. Unfortunately, I had no way to alert the helpful volunteers that my brakes had failed 4 days previously and I hadn’t been able to fix them. He came a little too close to my wing, probably assuming that I’d brake, and I promptly took off his left mirror! Lots of apologies all around, and then I had lots of folks helping me push the Talon to a parking spot near Bob and Wayne. (There’s a strict “no engines on” rule in the tie-down area.).
We tied down and went about setting up our tents. Since my cockpit is completely open, I took my radio and SPOT (an emergency locater system) out and put them in my tent. I was just zipping it closed when I heard a shout. “FIRE!!!” I turned – and there were FLAMES coming out of my cockpit! It was bedlam for a few moments, and then Jim Zirbel threw his soft drink onto the flames, and I grabbed a t-shirt to further smother them. Someone else started cutting wires - including the battery wires, which it turned out was creating the problem. The smell filled the air - someone came over thinking there was a barbeque!

What happened was that when I had unhooked my radio and packed it away, the antenna cable was left dangling. The wind had picked up, and by an absolute fluke, swept the BNG antenna end onto the battery terminal! Immediate wire meltdown outburst of flames.

A crowd gathered round as an electronics guy from Canada - Fred Gaylord – diagnosed what had happened and began doing some repairs. The good news is that 1) it would never have happened in the air, since my radio would be connected and there wouldn't be any loose cable ends, and 2) the damage to both wiring and seat, although frightening while the fire was in process, wasn't extensive. Fred drew up a diagram of the diagnosis and repair he did, and gave me a list of wires and cables to buy the next day to be able to get going again. The seat will have some layers of red duct tape to hold it together.

I was pretty shaken, and ever so thankful that the fire didn’t get to the fuel tank. That would have been disastrous!

In my next post I’ll tell you about the BIG SHOW itself.

Leaving Wyoming was such a relief! We were tired of fighting the wind, high density altitude, (12,500’ DA over Cheyenne) and taxiing 10 minutes for take-off on 10,000’ runways. Although the hills of South Dakota were gnarly, there was a feeling that we’d left the worst behind.

We were stumped as we did our flight planning to cross South Dakota. Lots and lots of airports on the sectional, but almost none with gas! At least not within our 125 mile flight radius, which was our planning guideline. We’d have to take the chance that there would be airport bums hanging around who would take us to get gas.

Leaving Chaimberlain, SD we headed for Minnesota. This leg was everything any pilot could ever wish for. My flight log reads
“Absolutely the best ever flight over gorgeous farmlands, scattered white cotton-y clouds - bright blue sky. Talon trimmed out perfectly. Hands off, able to shift backward & forward & change altitude. Darn windshield – doesn’t let me feel the wind in my face - spread my arms and feel wind beating against me. Too much happiness – shouting ‘YAHOO!!’ and grinning like a loon. Hands off for over 40 minutes! Landed Pipestone, MN @ 1235 p.m. 1735 miles. ”

Flying over Minnesota was absolutely astounding – every superlative I can imagine comes to mind. The farmers don’t just plant their fields, they plant them in stunning patterns that are breathtaking from the air. Red barns and large silos. I was snapping photos like crazy. Then I stopped taking pics and concentrated on my flying, as the ceiling was getting lower, and we flew weaving amongst the hills. Crossing the Mississippi was a thrill, and a little nerve-wracking due to the lowering ceiling.
We were in Wisconsin!

We spent Sunday night, July 24 in Reedsburg, WI only 70 miles from Oshkosh! (Our route would make the flight 98 miles, since we were following highways.)

We were really nervous about flying into Oshkosh; it is the busiest airport in the world during EAA AirVenture. And the instructions for the 1200’ ultralight strip are complicated, watching for turning landmarks such as an oak tree and a billboard and a silo and gravel roads. All this while at 300’ AGL – lower than we’re comfortable flying over trees and buildings. We’d been told that we wouldn’t even see the grass strip until we were on base. We were also worrying about the amount of air traffic we might encounter – how many of the 10,000 aircraft which come to Oshkosh would we be sharing airspace with as we flew in?

Monday morning we crowded around the computer in the FBO and watched a video about landing at EAA AirVenture. We watched it several times. We also had the printed out the EAA instructions for ultralight/light sport entry to the ultralight runway.

It was with some trepidation that we took off from Reedsburg. To our surprise, we didn’t see ANY air traffic en route! Bob was in the lead and soon out of sight. Wayne and I kept close watch for each other, flying almost parallel. As we got closer, Wayne took the lead. There’s the oak tree…turn…there’s the billboard…turn…watch for the gravel road… I heard Wayne shout into the radio “Wow, I almost missed it!” and I looked to my left and there was the runway!

We had done it! Eight days and 2150 miles and we were at EAA AirVenture!!

In my next blog post, I’ll write about the show itself.

How has this happened? Almost four months since I’ve posted to this blog! And SOOO much as happened since then – maybe that’s the problem.

My last post was July 5, as I was getting ready to fly to Oshkosh. I won’t whine about the wonderful time we had hosting two Norwegian teenagers – who stayed for a full month, leaving only 2 days before I took off on my grand adventure. Even with trying to be a good host, I did carve out time to check out the Talon thoroughly and pack carefully. This was going to be my first major cross country flight in the Talon with the new gas tank, and the first one where I had to take everything for both hot and cold weather.

There were four of us making the flight: me in my “Darth Vader” Talon, Wayne Ekertson in his blue Rans S-14, Bob Combs in his yellow Titan, and BJ Moore in his white and orange Drifter. We left on Monday, July 18 – the only day in the entire week that had a slight flying window in the afternoon; from then on it was forecast to be rain, rain, and more rain.

There was a low ceiling flying east up the Columbia River Gorge – not what you want when there’s not many places to land except the freeway that runs between the base of the Cascade Mountains and the Columbia River. But we were all euphoric as we headed out. It was especially exciting for Wayne and BJ, who had never flown the Gorge before.

Our route took us through eastern Oregon, southern Idaho, and up into Kemmerer, Wyoming, which is in the southeast corner of the state. Once we got out of Oregon, the weather cleared up and the flying was wonderful. Flying over Twin Falls, ID was nothing short of spectacular. The only glitch was that our radios weren’t working very well – even though we’d tested them before leaving.

We were camping every night at airports, and depended on FBO vending machines and courtesy cars for food. Bob had a tiny fold-up bicycle in his Titan that he used to go to town for food and fuel and exploration…when there was a town near-by. Every night we’d get out our sectionals and plan the next day’s flight.

In Kemmerer we had our first major set-back. On taking off, BJ climbed to altitude and found out that he had a stuck throttle.. He turned back to the airport and shut off the engine, planning to deadstick in. His landing was way hard, and he bent his landing gear. The trip was over for him. We were all devastated, but there was nothing to do but help him disassemble the Drifter, load it onto a U-Haul truck, then continue heading east without him. We were pretty glum at having to leave him behind.

Southern Wyoming was a struggle to get through. We followed I-80 pretty religiously through Rock Springs, Laramie and Cheyenne, The combination of wind, heat, and ugly terrain below made for nervous flying. We were flying at 10,000’ due to high field elevations, and the combination of heat and altitude was a real problem for Wayne. There were a couple of days when we had to quit flying before noon, because his engine just wasn’t powerful enough to keep him high enough over the rugged terrain. It was with a real sigh of relief when we got to South Dakota.

In my next post I’ll write about what it was like to fly over the Mississippi River, across Minnesota, and the challenge of following instructions to land at the largest airshow in the world – EAA AirVenture in Oshkosh, Wisconsin

In my last post I wrote about gunk in my fuel filter, and deciding to get a new gas tank to replace the fiberglass one that appeared to be disintegrating. Boy am I glad I did!

After I gave Ed Griffen the go-ahead to replace it, we both were curious about what the tank would look like inside. So Ed cut it apart after he took it out. The bottom was soft, but not coming apart. But the two interior baffles were definitely decomposing, with fiberglass threads clearly visible and fiberglass “pond scum” clinging to the walls and baffles.

So Ed fabricated an 18 gallon aluminum tank for me. The new tank is lighter than the old one, is shaped differently, and gives me more cargo space than the old one. It now sits right on the CG. Before adding gas, I put the front wheels on scales, jacked up the tail wheel and put it on a scale, and did a new weight and balance…empty weight.

Before adding gas, I had to mark my fuel “gauge” – a piece of clear fuel line that runs up the outside of the tank. Ed figured out an ingenious way to calibrate the gauge. First, I went to the gas station and filled three six-gallon gas cans, and one, one-gallon can, making sure to fill them with exactly six gallons and one gallon. Back at the hangar, I put the full one-gallon tank on a scale and weighed it. I know that a gallon of gas weighs six lbs., but I wanted to know what the gas can added in weight, and what it would show on my non-calibrated scale. Exactly 7.5 lbs.

Then I poured the that gallon into my new fuel tank. I couldn’t see any gas rising in the fuel line, so couldn’t mark off one gallon. Next I put the empty one-gallon tank on the scale, and slowly poured gas into it until it weighed 7.5 lbs. I poured that in, and saw fuel in the line. So that was my first mark – at two gallons. Put the empty one-gallon can back on the scale, poured more gas in until it hit 7.5 lbs., poured it into the fuel tank and made another mark on the fuel line.

On and on, a gallon at a time. I double checked myself each time I emptied a six-gallon can – and sure enough, the method worked! It took almost 3 hours to transfer the 18 gallons of fuel. Of course, that included some talk time as other pilots came over to see what I was doing.

With all the gas aboard, I gingerly climbed into the jacked-up plane and did another weight and balance computation. Finally, I added my gear and did a third computation. The FARs don’t require the second computation I did (just me with full fuel,) but I was curious.

By then it was too late to fly – so I headed home. The next day I was at the airport nice and early.

I did a really careful pre-flight, (Ed had to take off one wing strut to get the old tank out and the new tank in, and so I was doubly careful that all the nuts and bolts and wires were where they belonged) and then I was warming up the engine.

As I took off, I couldn’t help but wonder if Ed had done a really, really good job of checking whether his welds were solid. My head said “Of course he did, and he explained that he pressure tested them three times!” yet my gut said, “Remember, things can go wrong in spite of every precaution.” But the Talon flew like a bird with absolutely no problems.

With the new tank, it is so perfectly balanced that I can let go of the stick and it stays in straight and level flight. What an exhilarating feeling!

Tomorrow I’m scheduled to go flying with a pilot who I’ve never met except on-line. He’s flying into Sandy River Airport in a Cessna 150 and he thinks we’ll be able to fly together fairly well, since my Talon can cruise @ 80-85 mph and that’s just a little slower than his 150 likes to fly. THEN I HAVE to stay home and start packing for Oshkosh!

If you’re going to be at Oshkosh, come by the Ultralight Tent @ 10:00 a.m. on Friday, July 29. I’ll be giving a talk (complete with pictures!) of the flight to Oshkosh.