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"Clayton Fishers Greatest Adventures Part 9
(Greatest Adventure)
by Clayton Fisher
“It’s gonna be rough. It gets tough out here. Searchin for your
Promised Land” (No. 7 on Beau Haddock’s Windingest River Finds
The Sea. C.D) Note: Dig Beau’s dynamite finger-picking
riff in this mind bending tune.
It’s already rough. Dec. 24th Christmas Eve, Temp. 22F but
falling. Wind: 360@ 045 mph gusting to 065. A glance out the
window towards my hart gar, through horizontal snowfall, shows
me it just blew my wind soc plume off the pole. But not to
worry, I know which way the wind is blowing. It’s tough out
there, and I’m not going flying. Survival dictates the limits of
adventure. I’ll just sit here by my wood stove and regurgitate
my “potpourri’ of happenings in to the moan of the cold wind
blowing outside. I’ll write a few down—see what you think.
The thing was
quite exciting. T'was an event I had anticipated for a while. A
happening worth looking forward to. A milestone worth reporting.
I was flying home from a local Flyin. A 40 mile flight on a
breezy day, with a ceiling about 2500 Ft. and a temp. about 45F.
I was 2000 Ft. over scattered trees and patchy Oklahoma farm
fields, bouncing along in easy bubbly air, minding my own
business when it happened. Slowly, quietly, without warning,
almost unnoticed and predictably uneventful; my Hobbs rolled
over 700 hrs!! Yeah, yeah, I know, I was intentionally
over dramatic and ostentatiously superfluous. The text was wordy
and over the top. But hey, I have to have some kind of B.S. to
create drama and anticipation in you’ all reader’s minds. And,
anyway, what kind of world would it be without a little B.S. I’m
trying to follow T. Roosevelt’s admonition to “Live the
Strenuous life”. Work with me here folks. I embellish to survive
life’s monotony.
Again, once
upon another time during some Chinook flying, coyote chasing fun
on the South Canadian River close to home (I’ve never caught
one) I hear another Chinook announce an altitude over a local
runway a few miles from my location. Knowing there were no other
Chinooks in the area I transmitted back to my call sign and
asked, “Just what manner of bird was it?”. A “30,000 LB
helicopter,” came the reply. I responded, “I was a 450 LB
airplane”. Soon I had him in sight and I reported that to him.
“Well, come on over here and lets have a look at you,” he said.
We approached each other head-on but a couple of hundred feet
off each other’s right side. His army green shining in the
evening sky—a giant egg beaters killing 1000 skeeters with every
turn. I couldn’t resist. Just as we passed, I pulled up sharply
and fell over the left I a high bank wing over. It just seemed
like the thing to do—sort of a salute— a thanks for the flyby.
Not another word was spoken. We each went over own way, but the
memory of that big bugger taking time to come over just tickled
me to death. I’ll never for get his beauty and powerful presence
in the fading light of a pink-violet sunset.
And then there was the fishing trip last spring. I landed on the
(same) river into a 10mph breeze and stopped at the end of my
ground roll. I wanted to walk back down my takeoff run and pick
up any driftwood in the way and check out for any quick sand
spots. I was 1000Ft. or so where I planned to fish. Fishing was
good. I was sitting on my bucket catching nice ones on red worms
when I became aware of sand blowing across in front of me.
Turing and looking toward the Chinook, I noted with horror that
the wind had blown the right wing up with the left one resting
on the ground. The plane was pulsating in 30mph gusts, trying to
flip over on its back. I ran, as best as I could, through the
soft sand. Then, when huffin’ and puffin’ started, I could walk
until I could run again. And I prayed—to the God of the wind not
to tear up my beloved Chinook. Then I would run some more and
grasp for air and walk and run daring occasionally to glance up
to see if Chin. was still more-or-less in one piece. Well, you
know don’t you? Just as I made it to the plane I reached up to
grab the upwing strut, the wind died and she came back down on
the wheels. I heard the unmistakable sound of laughter in the
gentle breeze that now was wafting across the sand. But the
sound could have been my own heart beating accompanied by my
breathless wheezing.
The experience
did teach me a couple of things. 1) Always tie your plane down
(I ordered a “Claw Kit” from Aircraft Spruce) 2) This old fat
man can still move if he has to.
I can’t count the times I’ve run out of fuel in one tank with
plenty in the other. Sometimes I get so enthralled with the
magic of flying I forget to switch tanks. The Rotax engines with
gear reduction, the prop does not free wheel, so there is some
urgency to start the engine by cranking the starter. And with no
gas in the carbs and fuel lines this process takes some time. So
far I have been high enough to get’er done. Once it died after I
had the runway made and I glided in and landed. But it takes
about 500 ft. of altitude to get the stick between my knees,
pump the primer with my left hand and crank the starter with my
right; all the time looking for a place to land in case all this
frantic activity comes to naught. There is actually more
adventure when I realized I’m low on gas and am not going to
make it to my destination (yeah, yeah I know, poor flight
planning) and have to land somewhere to find fuel.
Once I landed
in a guy’s field by his house—scared his horses—got ‘em
running—got the dogs all barking. I bummed a quart or so of
stale lawnmower gas from his wife. But it got me a few more
miles to home.
And then there
was the time I landed about 6 miles short of home on a local
runway off a golf course. I made it to a couple of surprised
golfers and tried to bum gas out of one of their golf carts only
to be rebuked and embarrassed. “Are you kidding”, they laughed.
I finally got the attendant at the clubhouse to heist a gallon
of gas from the maintenance shed and drive me back up to the
runway. I then made it on to sweet, safe home. I had been
humiliated enough for one day.
And there are the dozens, maybe more, of practice dead stick
landings over grassy fields and runways, and I mean dead—engine
out! Great practice for running out of gas in one tank.
Some farmers around here plant turnips in their winter wheat. It
makes extended grazing on the same piece of ground. And 100
acres of nice plump purple turnips are a real temptation for
us’uns that have “rough field” landing capabilities such as a
Chinook provides. I have been observed, landing and plucking me
a mess of um, so that I have become known in some local circles
as that “turnip thief”.
One morning I
was at the end of the patch, warming up take off, when my
attention turned from monitoring my gauges and all that techy
stuff, to the mouse that had crawled up the body tube and was
now running around the nose and under the cuffs of my pant legs.
They were hanging down and providing him with a warm, dark place
to maybe escape having to go flying with me. Now, I’m not really
afraid of mice that much (I wouldn’t admit it even if I was),
but the prospect of the little scudder up my britches legs at
2500 ft gave me a feeling much like fear. I couldn’t figure out
a way to get him out of the plane and soon lost sight of him
under the seat. I taxied back down to the hangar, got some small
bungees and tied them around my cuffs and continued on with my
flight. I never saw him again.
Since then I
jack the tail wheel off the ground in the hangar to at least
make it harder for mice to enter. I have not had any trouble
since. I also have enlisted the help of an old mama barn cat
that seems to provide a never-ending supply of good mouser
kittens.
Well, with 700 hrs on the old girl, pre-flights, 50 hr checks
and maintenance, repairs are becoming more important. I want to
have a bunch more adventures as well as those peaceful flights
that are what having a Chinook is all about. I want a lot more
airtime searching for my Promised Land. I want to see if I can
get 1000hrs without major repair. So far, so good.
The items I
have replaced so far— 1) I put new tires on about 50hrs ago. 2)
I picked up a rock and cracked a prop blade about the same time.
3) I replaced both aluminum wheels as explained in a previous
story. And 4) The starter seal went out and the starter filled
with gear lube and quit. I had it repaired at a place that works
on ATV and motorcycle starters: much cheaper than buying a new
one. The snow is melting. Spring is coming—summer is on its way
and if Lady luck smiles:
“I’ll see you all
This coming fall
at the Big rock Candy
Mountain.”
(Don’t know who wrote it, but it’s a great old song.)
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