Posted Fri Jul 15 20:40:38 PDT 2022
Deb and I got rolling right on time, at 7:30 this morning. We were quickly out to the airport, and preflight went smoothly, although people kept coming up to talk to me (one of the realities of flying a cool-ass biplane). In went another quart of oil, and then it was time to launch.
Except, it wasn't. I forget now what all kept coming up, but I ended up sitting there with the engine running for at least 10 minutes before I could start rolling. Things I'd forgotten to do, or something. I think a big part of it was when I went to look at the Chart Supplement (a booklet full of information on airports) in my aviation app, and discovered that somehow, it refused to show me the entry for Bend. I couldn't figure out another way to display the info I needed, so after a bit of fiddling, and finally looking it up on my phone, I just generally cursed my luck, and continued on. I eventually tracked down the problem to an interrupted download that led to the confusion, but that wasn't until later in the day.
The Bend airport was hopping. Lots of traffic all around: helicopters buzzing in and out, airplanes entering the pattern, already in the pattern, taxiing around, all sorts of things. There's no tower at Bend, so everyone just has to announce where they are, what they're doing, and where they'll be next. And you, as the pilot, have to keep track of all that information. Extra challenging from a noisy open biplane cockpit.
But I found a spot inbetween everyone else, and made my launch. I waggled the wings at Deb, who was waiting with her dog Lundy, and circled around to the downwind, to depart to the north. My next stop was the Dalles, right on the Washington side of the Columbia River, where I'd take on fuel, and also log my official first use in the state, for the purpose of use tax (like sales tax, but when the vehicle was purchased out of state).
The actual trip to the Dalles was largely uneventful. I started out kind of annoyed, after the delay on the ground, and found myself stabbing at the right rudder when that pesky landing wire started dancing. Everything was slightly discombobulated, though it was only minorly so.
However, after a while, my mood mellowed out a bit, and I found myself enjoying the sights. I found that my course perfectly aligned with a mountain peak in the distance, so keeping myself on course was quite easy. Just line up the cross-hairs of the cabane wires (which cross right in front of the front windscreen, a bit like a gun sight on an old WWI biplane) on the mountain, and Bob's your uncle.
I found that I was following a Cessna, who was also talking to Seattle Center (the controlling authority for that sector), but was faster than me, and was slowly outpacing me, also on their way to the Dalles.
I saw a cluster of planes coming up on the tablet screen, so I diverted out of their way, even though I thought they were all well below me. I'd climbed up to 8500 feet for this leg, which was a good compromise between good fuel economy and getting too cold -- it was already down to 60 at 8500, which was plenty cool enough.
Then, suddenly, there was another airplane, at exactly my altitude, flying exactly the opposite direction, only a few hundred yards away. This is substantially closer than I've ever been to another airplane in the air, particularly going the opposite direction. It was banking, and I suspect it saw me before I saw it. Somehow, it had clustered in with all thsoe points on the tablet display, and I didn't see that it was at my altitude.
That plane should have been flying 1000 feet above or below me, by the rules the FAA established for cruising flight. I was traveling at 340°, which is west of north by 20°, and should be at an even thousand plus 500 feet (which 8500 is). They were traveling at 160°, more or less, which is 20° east of south, and so should have been on an odd thousand plus 500. This is exactly why that rule exists. I'm sure my pink cloud at 8500 feet would have felt pretty smug about being right, and his pink cloud at 8500 feet would have been pretty ashamed at not understanding how the airspace system works.
Anyway, we didn't hit each other, but it put me on high alert (in between being frustrated at the vibrating landing wire). Fortunately the rest of the trip was free of other airplanes trying to make a real-life disaster movie.
The wind at the Dalles, once I finally spotted it, was right down runway 31, and I followed the Cessna that had been leading me from Bend. The self-serve fuel wasn't terribly obvious, but I finally found it, in the form of a little hose reel and and credit card station in the middle of the ramp. Most airports have above-ground tanks, but apparently the Dalles still has an underground tank.
After I pulled up and shut down, the pilot of the Cessna from Bend came over and asked if I was following him in a joke-offended tone. We had a brief friendly conversation about the trip up, and my plane. Then he and his passenger wandered off. They were replaced by a very interested, weirdly persistent man who asked if the plane was a Starduster (which it sort of resembles, in the sense that they're both small 2-person homebuilt biplanes), then grilled me extensively about it: instruments, engine, fuel capacity, cruising speed, all sorts of stuff. It was a weird performance of him demonstrating he knew what he was talking about, and the vague sense that he was trying to catch me out in a lie.
While he was grilling me, and keeping me distracted, another plane pulled up on the far side of the pump and grabbed the hose I had been preparing to use myself. It was an uncomfortable, weird situation, or combination of situations. I just wanted to fuel up and be on my way, and instead, I was stuck talking to this weirdly aggressive man while I waited for the other plane to fuel up. It seemed to take them a very long time to get fuel into their plane, and I felt like I was standing there staring at them for a very long time while grilling-man grilled me on details.
Finally, my interrogator got bored and wandered off, and the other plane finished their task, so I could get my fuel and get going. I got that all-important fuel receipt and tucked it away in my bag so it wouldn't accidentally blow away in the wind, which had picked up, and felt like it was blowing 20 knots by the time I was done fueling.
After a quick trip to the loo, I came back out to see a float-equipped Pawnee was making low passes over the airport, dumping something on the grass beside the runway. I decided it must be a fire-fighting plane, practicing scooping water from the river, and dumping it onto the grass as a form of practice. There were a couple of SUVs with flashing lights at the end of the runway, and I guessed they were judging the Pawnee's performance. It was pretty cool to watch.
I'd taken a moment while stopped to try to figure out why my aviation app wasn't showing me the information I needed, and realized it was due to that interrupted download. So I cleaned up the data a bit, and started a download via my phone. It took a few tries, but once I finally got it done, things were working again. Phew.
Then I was off, across the Columbia River. The wind that was straight down the runway was actually just a headwind I'd end up fighting for the whole flight. Instead of the 105 knots I'd been seeing coming north from Bend, suddenly I was only doing 80 knots over the ground. Ah well, it was nice while it lasted. Hopefully I'll have a tailwind tomorrow.
Landing at Scappoose, once I slowly made my way there, was more eventful than I'd hoped. The first landing looked like it'd be alright, but I suddenly ballooned up in a gust of wind. I added power, and figured I could land properly on that pass, but then something didn't feel right, so I powered up, and went around.
The second attempt was better, but in a sudden fit of self-consciousness, I flubbed the landing and slammed down from a foot up. Better than doing it from five feet up, but disappointing after the last 10-15 landings had been going so well. Later, it looked like I was dealing with a gusting crosswind, so I don't feel too bad, but of course this was the landing I did in front of my parents.
However, I did make it down safely and without any actual damage except to my pride, and I taxied over to where they were waiting.
Scappoose is a kind of homecoming for me. I never lived there myself, but my parents have been there for years, and I've flown down a number of times. It marks being on truly home territory. Bend and the Dalles are in Oregon and Washington respectively, which is "home," but they're not familiar airports. I probably have a dozen landings at Scappoose. So this landing was the beginning of the very end phase of the trip.
Successfully tied down, we went off and did our family bonding thing. It's nice to be back in familiar territory.
Now, I sit here as darkness falls, and ponder my final flights before I'm actually home. The route from Scappoose to the Seattle area is very familiar, so I don't have my usual routine to do:
Instead, I already know where to find fuel, what airspace I have to watch out for, all that. It's just a matter of making sure the famous Seattle overcast doesn't get in the way, no runways are closed, and go. I'll get to make the final landing of my big trip on the grass strip at Harvey Field, meaning this trip started on grass, and will end on grass. I've found a friend who's willing to come pick me up, so I don't have to deal with a surly Lyft driver. I'll have a little running around to do, to get the plane secured, but that should be alright.
Fortunately, I have one more social call to make, and will make my penultimate big-trip landing at Port Townsend (my favorite home-away-from-home airport) to meet a friend and possibly eat some pie. Port Townsend is where I always imagined having a cool-ass biplane, and here we are. That happens tomorrow.
So, with some mellow disappointment that the adventure is already almost over (and also great anticipation of a familiar bed), I sign off for (very nearly) the last entry on this trip.
Copyright © 2022 by Ian Johnston.