Seems a lot shorter, when you stop for fun along the way,” Jean said. “More of a vacation, too.” Usually we fly from Arizona to Chicago in a one-day marathon—10 hours each way with a refueling stop at Garden City, Kansas. But this trip we’d planned in a leisurely fashion, overnighting with friends in each direction. Flying east, we’d called on new pilot acquaintances in Iowa (“Flying Carpet: American Gothic,” December 2011 Flight Training).
Now westbound toward home, we were headed to visit longtime buddies Julie and Mike Filucci at their new home on Lloyd Stearman Field near Wichita. Julie and Mike enjoy a lifestyle that most pilots would envy—they live on an airport, and both fly professionally. Mike is an American Airlines captain, while Julie is manager of the Cessna Pilot Centers. The two met, appropriately enough, at a formation-flying course.
Just three and a half hours after departing Chicago’s Aurora Municipal Airport, we joined Stearman Field’s traffic pattern at Benton, Kansas. We’ve landed at residential airparks before, but this would be our first time actually staying at one.
“Where’s the fuel pump?” I radioed after touchdown. “Continue to the north end of the runway, and you’ll see it on your right,” replied Julie’s voice from the ether. Sure enough, a gaggle of parked airplanes soon materialized ahead. Next to them, however, was a surprise. Just steps from the self-service pump we discovered the Stearman Field Bar & Grill’s bustling, boisterous outdoor patio. To the chatter of diners and the aroma of grilling burgers, we topped our tanks.
“Here comes Julie!” said Jean as I teetered on the refueling ladder. Up rode our friend on a reproduction 1940s British military bicycle. Instead of bearing urgent dispatches befitting her steed, however, she delivered welcoming hugs.
“I could direct you to our house,” offered Julie, “but it’s probably easier to just follow me back.” So we cranked up the Flying Carpet, and trailed our bicycling host down the parallel taxiway past residences and airplanes, and across the runway, to an imposing new home and hangar. There, Mike greeted us with the couple’s treasured Vizsla hunting dogs, Fred and Mirra.
“First time we’ve ever followed a bicycle in our airplane!” chuckled Jean as we nestled the Flying Carpet between our hosts’ Chinese Nanchang CJ-6A project airplane, a visiting Russian Yak-52TW, and a friend’s 1956 Thunderbird. What luxury it seemed, leaving most of our belongings in the airplane and carrying our overnight bags directly into the house. The four of us then strolled back to the grill for lunch, stopping en route to help stow a neighbor’s vintage Bell 47 helicopter.
The passion for aviation still entices
the public to watch airplanes take off and land at airports like this one.
Dining with our friends on the restaurant patio, we watched families who’d driven and flown from miles around excitedly photograph passing airplanes from the fence. It was a compelling reminder that the passion for aviation still entices the public to watch airplanes take off and land at airports like this one offering “front-row seats.”
“How’s your trip been so far?” Mike asked. As prelude I mentioned the rare maintenance challenges that had plagued us before departure; how after years of trouble-free operation, GPS and autopilot problems along with our annual inspection had stressed us to within hours of departure. But, as usual, the flurry of worries had evaporated at the instant of takeoff.
From there we described majestic mountains melting into endless plains between Arizona and Iowa, and the shocking gray-to-emerald transition between drought-stricken western Kansas and miles-wide Missouri River flooding inundating the eastern side of the state. We’d alighted for down-home hospitality on an Iowa farm, reunited with rarely seen family at an Illinois wedding, and wandered Chicago’s Miracle Mile and Oak Street Beach from my brother’s downtown condo. Yes, this had been quite a journey.
After lunch, we savored frosty drinks on Mike and Julie’s screened-in back porch. With an unobstructed view of the runway, we ogled Bonanzas and Cirruses and Skyhawks taking off, followed by half of the field’s 10 namesake Stearman biplanes and an Extra 300 soon to practice aerobatics overhead. It seemed so lofty, judging everyone’s landings from the comfort of our friends’ porch. “The lot next door is for sale,” offered Mike, noting the glee on my face. Not sure how that would fit our plans right now, but I could learn to like this airpark lifestyle.
“I’d like to play tennis this afternoon,” said Jean over breakfast the next morning. “Hopefully we’ll make it home nonstop.”
“That’s unlikely,” said Julie. “It’s too far.” She should know, routinely flying shiny new Cessnas all across the country. But whisked along by yet another tailwind, conserving fuel through low power settings, and moderating fluid refreshments until late in the trip, we indeed flew nonstop all the way from Wichita to Flagstaff. It took six hours, but thanks to two time zone changes, we landed in time for lunch.
Here we were, home again less than a week after launching, having absorbed half a continent’s worth of rural and urban and airpark hospitality plus innumerable aerial sights. Perhaps most amazing of all, we’d encountered hardly a cloud on this long journey, and had benefited from tailwinds almost the entire way. Jean even made her tennis game. What a trip!
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