First published in AOPA Pilot, (Dec 2006) the Aircraft Owners and Pilots Magazine with a circulation of over 400,000.
Washing the Bird
Soaping up flying memories
By Michael Lee
Washing an airplane is nothing like washing a car. You can't just take it to the drive-through and enjoy the thrill of soapy water squirting at your face behind the windshield, big roller brushes thrashing away, and the air dryer sweeping away the beads of water. Not only is this a job that has to be done by hand, but also most airplanes are a lot bigger than cars. They require special soaps and polishes that are kind to their aluminum skin, and they take a whole lot longer to wash. It can take all day if you are picky. I'm generally not.
I remember the kid who used to wash my airplane for me. If only he were still around. He had approached me one day at the airport and asked if he could wash my airplane, as he needed money for his flying lessons. "Sure," I said, "how much?"
He told me it would be 100 bucks.
"Wow! You must be either very good or very expensive," I recall saying to him at the time. This was back when avgas could still be bought for just more than a buck a gallon, not the four bucks or more a gallon it costs today, and an hour of flight training was around $45.
"I'm very careful and will do a good job," Tim politely informed me. And he did. It took him six hours and when he was finished Archer 53A hadn't looked so good in years. Tim would wash my airplane for me once or twice a year and always for the same price and with the same pleasing result. Sometimes I'd help out just for the heck of it, and marvel as I watched the way he focused on every move as he rubbed, squirted, polished, and buffed.
Mine wasn't the only airplane Tim washed. He built up a healthy clientele, paid for his flying lessons, and earned his private pilot certificate. Shortly afterward, he went off to an aviation college to become a professional pilot flying the big iron. Now he's a first officer for a major airline and probably no longer washes airplanes, although it wouldn't surprise me if one day at some hub airport I spotted Tim doing his preflight walk around a Boeing 737 with polishing cloth in hand. I missed him when he left and was never able to replace him. So the job came back to me. I was really no match for him, even though I'd studied his moves. A three-hour job is the best the airplane gets from me.
My mind wanders. It's too difficult to focus. I find myself thinking about other things — aviation things, to be sure — prompted by my proximity to my airplane, other airplanes, and the comings and goings at the not-so-busy little airport. When I'm washing my airplane, I'm feeding my passion for aviation, but not with the washing.
Today as I wash, I think of many things. Noticing the small chips in the paintwork on the tail, I'm reminded how they got there-a brush I had with some freezing rain on a flight last winter. How relieved I was to be able to escape the ice by finding warmer air above. There are some blackish bug remnants on the wing, and my mind goes back to a late-evening arrival in northern Maine in early summer and the black flies being thick enough to blur my visibility during landing.
My reverie is broken by the sound of engines. I watch a big twin-engine amphibious Grumman Goose whose pilot is practicing some takeoffs and landings. The beautiful, gray, ungainly bird struggles skyward with engines roaring, into the shimmering sunlight. I sigh in appreciation and bring my attention back to the bugs with the movement of soapy sponge on metal. For a few strokes I focus like Tim, but can't do it for long. Soon I'm recalling more wonderful moments from the past, moments that only being a pilot and owning an airplane could give me.
I recall the 7-year-old whose mom would bring her to the airport on weekends just to watch from the parking lot. One beautiful Sunday just like today, seeing them there as usual, I asked the youngster, "Would you like to go for a ride today?" The look on her face at that moment comes vividly back to me along with the sound of her hearty "Wow!" shortly afterward, as wheels left the ground and we were flying. I saw her mom in the backseat with tears of joy streaming down her face, watching as her daughter fulfilled a dream to fly. Just thinking about it now makes me smile. Sharing my passion in some ways far surpasses the act of engaging in it.
My sponge moves over the lights on the wing tips. In my mind's eye I see the lights blinking as I wing over New York City at 10,000 feet on a clear, crisp night in the fall, gazing at the lights ablaze below, spread out like a giant twinkling carpet. As I wipe the antennas under the belly I recall the feeling of having mastered the use of instruments they feed. How cool it is to experience the exhilaration and satisfaction of breaking out of a low overcast sky on an instrument approach just 300 feet above the end of the runway after spending hours surrounded by nothing but gray-to be guided to the runway solely by the navigation instruments with no visual reference to ground or horizon until the last few seconds of the flight. I revel for a moment in the trust, the training, and the patience it takes to pull that off.
The buffing is as complete as I want to make it, and I put the buckets, sponges, and cloths away. Three hours have passed quickly. My time with my thoughts has been enjoyable even if I haven't given the job at hand my undivided attention. The result probably wouldn't meet Tim's standards. I think about that some more and recall some other conversations I had with Tim. He was passionate too. But was his passion really about washing airplanes? In hindsight, I think not.
His conversation never revealed much excitement about flying here at this airport or about washing airplanes. But he talked a lot about airlines and Boeings and the Airbus, and the dream job he would have one day. His driving force was propelling him into the front seat of a jet and he would settle for nothing less. What is more, he knew what he needed to do to get there and he did it. My airplane was part of his ticket and he took very good care of that ticket. It was his passion to one day fly as a professional that gave him his focus. Washing my bird was an important steppingstone in Tim's overall flight plan, and so he gave it the same focus he would when he stepped into that jet. There was a mission to accomplish. Time spent remembering could wait. Buffing my airplane to perfection would help buy those future days that would fuel his memories. I hope he's somewhere up there right now building them.
I chuckle to myself as I come to the tentative conclusion that my difficulty in washing the bird comes not from my dislike of the job itself, nor does it come from my difficulty in focusing. When I'm shooting an approach in ugly weather or landing in a 20-knot crosswind I am very focused.
My airplane-washing mind drift comes simply because I am fortunate enough to have accumulated such great memories from aviation. I'm free to choose not to focus on earthly pursuits when I'm around airplanes. I can allow my thoughts to take over to fuel my passion and take me away from the task. I have nothing to lose by allowing it. Yet when I'm flying I can switch in an instant and become completely focused to the task at hand — even getting ahead of the airplane to be ready for what happens next. It's really just a choice for me to indulge my memories and be the half-hearted airplane washer I seem to be. After all, how could I enjoy washing my bird if it wasn't for the happy-memory logbook in my mind? Yet three hours are long enough to indulge it, no matter how good the memories. I head for home. Mission accomplished.
Michael Lee, AOPA 1153628, is an Australian-born freelance writer and private pilot who owns a 1979 Piper Archer.
Showing posts with label aviation. Show all posts
Showing posts with label aviation. Show all posts
Thursday, January 03, 2008
Fly By
This story was published in the Katahdin Press in 2006.
FLY BY
By Michael Lee
In the Abanaki language, Katahdin means “greatest mountain”. Legend has it that Pamola resides there. A half-man half beast, he may or may not let you enter his domain near the top of the mountain. He holds the power to send destruction your way in many forms including heat, ice, snow, rain, and wind if you are not to be welcomed there
These thoughts pass through my mind as I pull back the power on my Piper Archer for the descent into Millinocket Airport after a pleasant early evening flight. Landing straight in on Runway 34, I get the usual full frontal view of “the big K” in the near distance. Majestic and powerful she stands in the fading light. My frequent day hikes in Baxter State Park have included several lesser mountains but as yet I have not tackled this 5,267 foot beauty - the northern terminus of the Appalachian Trail.
Next morning with my weekend guests Carl, Erik, and Andrea, I set off on the AT from Katahdin Stream for the 5.2 mile ascent.
The early morning mist is clearing, there is barely a breath of wind, and the sun begins filtering through the canopy of coloring leaves above us. Excitement pushes us into a pace that is probably a little too fast but the hiking feels great. The hours pass and we approach the tree line along with one of the steepest parts of the climb. Surprised a little, I see two hikers coming down the steep rocks ahead.
“Ahh... you must have been up early to have been to the summit already”, I chirp in greeting.
“We didn’t make it!” says the woman in front. “This is not a hike, this is damn rock climbing. People could die up there!”
I am tempted to say “Madam, people DO die up there!” but censor myself.
They are disappointed and a trifle angry. I’m not sure at who or what. I want to console them but don’t. Everyone has to hike their own hike and when it comes to reaching the top of a mountain like Katahdin “some will, some won’t, and so what”.
“Well have a nice day and I hope you enjoy your hike down”, I offer, as we continue to climb, perhaps just a trifle more apprehensively now from the reminder that death is in the realm of possibility for those entering Pamola’s domain.
But Pamola must have been having a good day. My apprehension is soon lifted by the sound of laughter coming from behind us. Three male hikers having a lot of fun quickly catch up to us. What a surprise to see two of the three dressed in kilts. By the look of the legs under the kilts it is also apparent that these guys have done some serious hiking. They give us a cheerful greeting and stop to chat for a minute.
This is their big day. The last 5.2 miles of their Appalachian Trail hike from Springer Mountain in Georgia to the summit of Katahdin. They introduce themselves by their trail names - Domino, Stilts, and Treetops. For a moment I wish I had a trail name too. My 13 year old son Jack and I had often joked about what our trail names might be if we had them – Jackie Legs and Maine E. Ack maybe? But we couldn’t name ourselves. We had to wait until a “real” hiker bestowed a name upon us. The three guys pose for a picture for one of my friends and then off they go. “See you at the top! On On!!” cheers Domino as they quickly disappear from our sight.
Even with this burst of inspiration, it takes us another two hours to make our own ascent. As we come up the final climb to the summit there are our three new acquaintances on their way down. They have spent an hour or more up there celebrating and we have missed the party. I ask what they plan to do when they get down now that they have finished the AT. “Go to town!” was the quick reply.
“Need a ride?” I offer.
“Sure, if we don’t get one before you finish we’ll look out for you,” said Stilts.
“Damn, of course!” I think to myself. We would be hours behind them and dressed in those kilts there was no way someone wouldn’t offer them a lift long before we got down. We congratulate them on their great accomplishment and set off to achieve our own. There is a brisk wind at the summit, but it isn’t too cold and the vista is awesome. In every direction we can see a hundred miles or more. In close up clarity are the infamous Knife Edge and The Chimney. The beauty of the peaks in Baxter Park to the north and west of Katahdin prompt me to make a mental note to put them on my list for future hikes. To the south is the chain of lakes with which I am familiar. I point out to my friends the island in South Twin Lake in front of my “camp” where we are staying. As a pilot I’ve had some great views, but there is something special about the ones you earn with your legs, one step at a time.
Unlike other mountains I have hiked, with Katahdin there is that awful feeling of anticipation about the long hike down. No leisurely stroll down on this mountain. A little more fear grips your body as you descend the steep inclines covered with huge rocks and try to find just the right place to plant your feet and avoid a costly fall. No one wants to have to be carried off the mountain even if it were possible
For us, the long hike down takes almost the same time as the ascent – partly because of the difficulty and our tiredness but also because we stop frequently to take in yet again the beautiful views continually unfolding before us. Weary, but exhilarated, we make it back to our truck about 10 hours after we had started. It is now our turn to sit, eat, and celebrate.
As we place our order at the Scootic Inn, a young guy comes over to our table and says, “Thanks for the offer of the ride up on the mountain today.” It’s Domino. At first I don’t recognize him. Minus the kilt, with hair washed and brushed, and clean shirt and pants, he doesn’t look much like, or even smell like, the thru hiker we had seen earlier in the day. It sure is great to see him again. I have a deep appreciation of thru hikers and am fascinated by their dedication, courage, and commitment. I’m also curious about what they must learn in six months on the trail, particularly about themselves. I want to talk more with Domino but he has friends to be with and a celebration to enjoy so I simply ask “Where to from here, now it’s over?”
He tells me that he and Stilts are planning to head to Hanover, New Hampshire for an AT Gathering while Treetops is heading south to hike some more of the southbound trail in warmer weather.
“Mmm... New Hampshire?” I offer. “Maybe I could give you guys a ride as I’m heading that way in my plane.”
I can tell that my last word has made an impact. I don’t think Domino is quite sure he can believe or trust what he is hearing me say, but after chatting a few more minutes he and Stilts know it was for real and accept what they say is their “ultimate hitch”.
Monday dawns. Another brilliant Maine weather day – perfect for flying. Around ten I pick up Domino and Stilts in Millinocket and we head to the airport. We stow their gear, do our preflight and are soon airborne. I decide to begin our flight with a close up look at Katahdin. How magnificent she looks on this beautiful morning. Knowing of my experience hiking up on Saturday, I can only imagine what it must have been like for my two passengers to have also climbed Katahdin that day but at the end of their very long hike. I believe I detect a slight moistening in their eyes as they look at the mountain and back at each other in amazement and awe. Then they get out their cameras and click away at Maine’s greatest.
Once again Pamola must be been doing some work for us but this time with the Air Traffic Control Gods. As luck would have it, neither of the two large military operations areas that cover much of Western Maine is active today. This means we can “fly the trail” at low altitude. For the next hour or so we fly over the 100 mile wilderness, Gulf Hagas, The Bigelows, Old Speck and numerous other mountains along the trail as well as the towns of Monson, Caratunk, Stratton and Rangeley - trail towns they have visited for rest and re-supply. For Stilts and Domino each vista holds memories and stories, too numerous to tell in this short time. As we pass Baldplate Mountain I hear them chuckle as they recall the French Canadian hikers they met and befriended there. It is obvious that what they are seeing is taking them back to many days and nights they have experienced in their last few months on the trail in one of the biggest and most difficult states it traverses.
I tell them that we were doing a “fly by” not only of Katahdin, but of all the mountains in Maine on the AT, in honor of their accomplishment and explain that in military aviation a “fly by” is often granted to a returning flight crew after a difficult mission is completed. These two guys have most certainly completed a mission many may dream about but very few accomplish. All too soon it seems, we pass by Mt Washington from the Maine side, then cross into New Hampshire and land at Lebanon airport. After an exchange of email addresses, some profound thanks, and hugs, my friends mount their packs, bid farewell, and hike off the airport ramp.
That evening I tell Jack the story of our meeting and our flight. Also a hiker, a prospective pilot, and someone who hiked Katahdin with his brother earlier in the year, he listens with great interest and is clearly wishing he had been there. At the end of my story he says “Dad, you should have asked them to give you a Trail Name. Those guys are real hikers and they could have given you one.”
Well, I like Jack’s thinking and maybe it isn’t too late to ask. I zap off an email to Domino and Stilts to tell them about Jack’s suggestion and find out if they would have time to consider giving me a name..
Next day comes their reply. They have presided for two hours in the Dirty Cowboy Café in Hanover (clearly an appropriate establishment for a hiker naming event) to ponder and decide on a name for me. I am honored. After considering suggestions like Wingman, Birdman, Maine Man, Trail Flyer and many others they finally come up with the winner from their short list. From this day forth, I will forever be known on the Trail as “Fly By Mike.”
Thanks guys, and happy trails! I hope Pamola brings you back to Maine sometime soon.
Michael Lee is an author of two books and a freelance writer. He commutes between his homes in Maine and Massachusetts in his private airplane and loves to explore Maine from the air and on foot.
FLY BY
By Michael Lee
In the Abanaki language, Katahdin means “greatest mountain”. Legend has it that Pamola resides there. A half-man half beast, he may or may not let you enter his domain near the top of the mountain. He holds the power to send destruction your way in many forms including heat, ice, snow, rain, and wind if you are not to be welcomed there
These thoughts pass through my mind as I pull back the power on my Piper Archer for the descent into Millinocket Airport after a pleasant early evening flight. Landing straight in on Runway 34, I get the usual full frontal view of “the big K” in the near distance. Majestic and powerful she stands in the fading light. My frequent day hikes in Baxter State Park have included several lesser mountains but as yet I have not tackled this 5,267 foot beauty - the northern terminus of the Appalachian Trail.
Next morning with my weekend guests Carl, Erik, and Andrea, I set off on the AT from Katahdin Stream for the 5.2 mile ascent.
The early morning mist is clearing, there is barely a breath of wind, and the sun begins filtering through the canopy of coloring leaves above us. Excitement pushes us into a pace that is probably a little too fast but the hiking feels great. The hours pass and we approach the tree line along with one of the steepest parts of the climb. Surprised a little, I see two hikers coming down the steep rocks ahead.
“Ahh... you must have been up early to have been to the summit already”, I chirp in greeting.
“We didn’t make it!” says the woman in front. “This is not a hike, this is damn rock climbing. People could die up there!”
I am tempted to say “Madam, people DO die up there!” but censor myself.
They are disappointed and a trifle angry. I’m not sure at who or what. I want to console them but don’t. Everyone has to hike their own hike and when it comes to reaching the top of a mountain like Katahdin “some will, some won’t, and so what”.
“Well have a nice day and I hope you enjoy your hike down”, I offer, as we continue to climb, perhaps just a trifle more apprehensively now from the reminder that death is in the realm of possibility for those entering Pamola’s domain.
But Pamola must have been having a good day. My apprehension is soon lifted by the sound of laughter coming from behind us. Three male hikers having a lot of fun quickly catch up to us. What a surprise to see two of the three dressed in kilts. By the look of the legs under the kilts it is also apparent that these guys have done some serious hiking. They give us a cheerful greeting and stop to chat for a minute.
This is their big day. The last 5.2 miles of their Appalachian Trail hike from Springer Mountain in Georgia to the summit of Katahdin. They introduce themselves by their trail names - Domino, Stilts, and Treetops. For a moment I wish I had a trail name too. My 13 year old son Jack and I had often joked about what our trail names might be if we had them – Jackie Legs and Maine E. Ack maybe? But we couldn’t name ourselves. We had to wait until a “real” hiker bestowed a name upon us. The three guys pose for a picture for one of my friends and then off they go. “See you at the top! On On!!” cheers Domino as they quickly disappear from our sight.
Even with this burst of inspiration, it takes us another two hours to make our own ascent. As we come up the final climb to the summit there are our three new acquaintances on their way down. They have spent an hour or more up there celebrating and we have missed the party. I ask what they plan to do when they get down now that they have finished the AT. “Go to town!” was the quick reply.
“Need a ride?” I offer.
“Sure, if we don’t get one before you finish we’ll look out for you,” said Stilts.
“Damn, of course!” I think to myself. We would be hours behind them and dressed in those kilts there was no way someone wouldn’t offer them a lift long before we got down. We congratulate them on their great accomplishment and set off to achieve our own. There is a brisk wind at the summit, but it isn’t too cold and the vista is awesome. In every direction we can see a hundred miles or more. In close up clarity are the infamous Knife Edge and The Chimney. The beauty of the peaks in Baxter Park to the north and west of Katahdin prompt me to make a mental note to put them on my list for future hikes. To the south is the chain of lakes with which I am familiar. I point out to my friends the island in South Twin Lake in front of my “camp” where we are staying. As a pilot I’ve had some great views, but there is something special about the ones you earn with your legs, one step at a time.
Unlike other mountains I have hiked, with Katahdin there is that awful feeling of anticipation about the long hike down. No leisurely stroll down on this mountain. A little more fear grips your body as you descend the steep inclines covered with huge rocks and try to find just the right place to plant your feet and avoid a costly fall. No one wants to have to be carried off the mountain even if it were possible
For us, the long hike down takes almost the same time as the ascent – partly because of the difficulty and our tiredness but also because we stop frequently to take in yet again the beautiful views continually unfolding before us. Weary, but exhilarated, we make it back to our truck about 10 hours after we had started. It is now our turn to sit, eat, and celebrate.
As we place our order at the Scootic Inn, a young guy comes over to our table and says, “Thanks for the offer of the ride up on the mountain today.” It’s Domino. At first I don’t recognize him. Minus the kilt, with hair washed and brushed, and clean shirt and pants, he doesn’t look much like, or even smell like, the thru hiker we had seen earlier in the day. It sure is great to see him again. I have a deep appreciation of thru hikers and am fascinated by their dedication, courage, and commitment. I’m also curious about what they must learn in six months on the trail, particularly about themselves. I want to talk more with Domino but he has friends to be with and a celebration to enjoy so I simply ask “Where to from here, now it’s over?”
He tells me that he and Stilts are planning to head to Hanover, New Hampshire for an AT Gathering while Treetops is heading south to hike some more of the southbound trail in warmer weather.
“Mmm... New Hampshire?” I offer. “Maybe I could give you guys a ride as I’m heading that way in my plane.”
I can tell that my last word has made an impact. I don’t think Domino is quite sure he can believe or trust what he is hearing me say, but after chatting a few more minutes he and Stilts know it was for real and accept what they say is their “ultimate hitch”.
Monday dawns. Another brilliant Maine weather day – perfect for flying. Around ten I pick up Domino and Stilts in Millinocket and we head to the airport. We stow their gear, do our preflight and are soon airborne. I decide to begin our flight with a close up look at Katahdin. How magnificent she looks on this beautiful morning. Knowing of my experience hiking up on Saturday, I can only imagine what it must have been like for my two passengers to have also climbed Katahdin that day but at the end of their very long hike. I believe I detect a slight moistening in their eyes as they look at the mountain and back at each other in amazement and awe. Then they get out their cameras and click away at Maine’s greatest.
Once again Pamola must be been doing some work for us but this time with the Air Traffic Control Gods. As luck would have it, neither of the two large military operations areas that cover much of Western Maine is active today. This means we can “fly the trail” at low altitude. For the next hour or so we fly over the 100 mile wilderness, Gulf Hagas, The Bigelows, Old Speck and numerous other mountains along the trail as well as the towns of Monson, Caratunk, Stratton and Rangeley - trail towns they have visited for rest and re-supply. For Stilts and Domino each vista holds memories and stories, too numerous to tell in this short time. As we pass Baldplate Mountain I hear them chuckle as they recall the French Canadian hikers they met and befriended there. It is obvious that what they are seeing is taking them back to many days and nights they have experienced in their last few months on the trail in one of the biggest and most difficult states it traverses.
I tell them that we were doing a “fly by” not only of Katahdin, but of all the mountains in Maine on the AT, in honor of their accomplishment and explain that in military aviation a “fly by” is often granted to a returning flight crew after a difficult mission is completed. These two guys have most certainly completed a mission many may dream about but very few accomplish. All too soon it seems, we pass by Mt Washington from the Maine side, then cross into New Hampshire and land at Lebanon airport. After an exchange of email addresses, some profound thanks, and hugs, my friends mount their packs, bid farewell, and hike off the airport ramp.
That evening I tell Jack the story of our meeting and our flight. Also a hiker, a prospective pilot, and someone who hiked Katahdin with his brother earlier in the year, he listens with great interest and is clearly wishing he had been there. At the end of my story he says “Dad, you should have asked them to give you a Trail Name. Those guys are real hikers and they could have given you one.”
Well, I like Jack’s thinking and maybe it isn’t too late to ask. I zap off an email to Domino and Stilts to tell them about Jack’s suggestion and find out if they would have time to consider giving me a name..
Next day comes their reply. They have presided for two hours in the Dirty Cowboy Café in Hanover (clearly an appropriate establishment for a hiker naming event) to ponder and decide on a name for me. I am honored. After considering suggestions like Wingman, Birdman, Maine Man, Trail Flyer and many others they finally come up with the winner from their short list. From this day forth, I will forever be known on the Trail as “Fly By Mike.”
Thanks guys, and happy trails! I hope Pamola brings you back to Maine sometime soon.
Michael Lee is an author of two books and a freelance writer. He commutes between his homes in Maine and Massachusetts in his private airplane and loves to explore Maine from the air and on foot.
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