A widespread low-pressure system centered over northern Missouri had been pumping low cloud and rain over Wisconsin and dampened my spirits. I had just taken delivery of probably the only new airplane I would ever buy, a 1998 American Champion Explorer (nee Citabria 7GCBC), and I was eager to begin the flight home. Even though this was the first such airplane to be IFR-certified straight from the box and has an IFR-approved Northstar M3 Approach GPS, I was reluctant to file an instrument flight plan for its first flight from the factory. Too many things can go wrong with a brand-new airplane.
Later that day, however, the ceilings lifted sufficiently to encourage a low-level flight toward Madison — where, I was advised, I would begin to escape the grip of the moist outpouring. I departed with only two hours on the tach and after carefully checking the chart for high-rise towers and other obstructions.
While cruising westbound at the minimum legal altitude, I reflected on how natural and comfortable it is to fly a relatively slow high-wing airplane so close to the ground. For reasons I cannot explain, the cruising altitude of choice seems to depend on airspeed; the faster the airplane, the higher we tend to fly.
The Explorer is the grandchild of the Aeronca 7AC Champ in which I learned to fly. And although I was accustomed to using GPS, it seemed anachronistic in a tube-and-fabric taildragger designed more than 50 years ago.
My first landing was at Prairie du Chien, on the western edge of Wisconsin and where the crosswind leg to Runway 11 allows a magnificent view of the Mississippi River. This first leg was relatively short, but ferrying little airplanes across big oceans during my younger days taught me never to trust the fuel consumption of a new machine until it has been confirmed. New airplanes have been known to leak fuel and have unexpectedly high consumption.
The lineman placed a ladder in front of the left wing and then just stood there holding the fuel hose in one hand and scratching his head with the other, as if not knowing where to find the fuel caps.
"Well, I know how to fuel it," he said, "but this one is so new and shiny. Are you sure you want me to do this? I'd hate to be the first to scratch it."
Fuel consumption was as advertised and gave me the confidence to fly longer legs.
N707BS and I began heading across Iowa — but not without detouring over Dyersville, which is 25 miles southwest of Dubuque, to view the Field of Dreams, the baseball diamond carved from cornfields and used in the movie of the same name. The story apparently touched the hearts of many and the place has become a popular tourist attraction.
When flying over the Midwest, I often gaze at the quaint farmhouses that pass beneath my wings. I cannot help wondering what human drama might be occurring within each, what stories each could tell. This wistful daydreaming helps to pass time until farther west, where the terrain becomes more interesting.
The next day I departed Denver's Centennial Airport at the first blush of sunrise in order to avoid the teeth-rattling turbulence that can be spawned by the Rocky Mountains when the sun reaches its zenith. The air behind Pike's Peak was still smooth, and I was pleased for having heeded my own advice.
After passing over a snow-covered ridge at 12,500 feet, I descended into the broad San Luis Valley and followed the highway that leads straight-as-a-die to Alamosa, Colorado, my first fuel stop of the day.
While cruising low over the griddle-flat valley floor, I noticed the Explorer's sharply defined shadow following alongside the highway and providing a visually exciting impression of speed.
I turned a few degrees left and tried to place the airplane's shadow directly on the highway, which — because of a light but variable crosswind — was quite difficult. Extremely small and frequent heading changes were required to cage the shadow between the highway shoulders.
This reminded me of an instructor in New Zealand who reputedly challenges pilots by asking them to practice slow flight while following a winding river at 500 feet agl. It's an excellent exercise that forces a pilot to divide his concentration, but I question the wisdom of maneuvering so close to a stall at such a low altitude.
A young man at Four Corners Aviation in Farmington, New Mexico, marshaled me into a parking spot, while another ran toward my wing tip, waited for the propeller to tick to a stop, and then placed a red carpet on the tarmac outside my cabin door. Such treatment normally is reserved for bizjets and their VIP passengers, I thought, not for a taildragger designed before either of these young men had been born. They noticed my astonishment and volunteered that the welcome mat is spread for all visiting aircraft, large and small. Such enthusiastic service deserves commendation.
I lifted off from Farmington's Runway 25, leveled off before reaching the airport boundary, and headed for Ship Rock, which appeared in the distance on the extended centerline as soon as the wheels were off the ground. Ship Rock is the core of an ancient volcano that rises from the flat desert floor like the petrified ghost of an ancient sailing vessel. Adding to the realism of this image is a pair of ridges that look like lengthy bow waves trailing from each side of the "ship."
Between Farmington and the Grand Canyon, the Explorer was tossed about like a cork floating on a stormy sea. It was so rough that I was unable to read my charts. This was my first encounter of the trip with the God of Turbulence. He has a mean, capricious streak ensuring that turbulence shall be at its worst when a pilot needs to refer to his chart the most. He did offer brief periods of calm during which I could attempt to read a chart, but as soon as I began to focus on the small print, he would clobber my beleaguered airplane with such ferocity that my eyeballs seemed to shake in their sockets.
A different god victimized me while approaching the Grand Canyon. This one resides in Washington, D.C., and has surrounded the canyon with such Draconian airspace restrictions that it was almost impossible to glean a bird's-eye view of this geological wonder. These restrictions are the result of Public Law 101, which mandates that the "natural quiet" of the canyon shall be preserved. It was sad to be so close and yet not be allowed so much as a peek.
As I tied down before a late lunch at the airport in Bullhead City, Arizona, which also serves Laughlin, Nevada, on the other side of the Colorado River, I was approached by a young lady in business attire. She said that she represented such-and-such hotel in Laughlin and asked whether I had yet made arrangements for the night. After I told her that I had not, she said that her hotel was offering a special rate for first-time visitors.
"It's only $160 per night," she said without batting an eyelash.
"That doesn't sound like much of a deal to me," I said while tying the last knot.
"Well," she added with a slight grin, "the room itself is only sixty dollars."
I politely declined the offer, bought a sandwich, refilled my water bottles, and soon began climbing over the Mojave Desert and directly into a low, eyeball-bleaching sunset. My home airport, Santa Monica Municipal, was less than two hours away, and I headed toward the Pacific Coast like a horse heading for the barn.
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