The hill

A friend and I were flying my 1940 Stearman to Batavia, New York, in July to get some radio work done. The trip would be an hour each way, which meant we needed a full tank of gas. It also meant the airplane would be heavy. The airport where I kept the airplane was out of fuel, so we landed at an airstrip in the middle of the Finger Lakes region. The north-south turf runway ran up a hill. At the northern end sat the owner’s house and at the southern end, at the top of the hill, were a farmer’s bean fields. The runway was a little short for a Stearman. The sectional chart says it’s 2,000 feet long, which would be accurate if one were to count the owner’s living room and back yard. It’s more like 1,800 feet.

The day was not oppressive, but still hot at about 85 degrees Fahrenheit. Because the Stearman is an aerobatic airplane, we decided to do some loops and rolls on the way, so we wore parachutes, adding weight.

The friend I was flying with was a surgeon who, with an airline transport pilot certificate and 5,000 hours, had far more experience than I did. But he was just starting to learn the Stearman. Although I had nowhere near his total hours, when it came to the Stearman I was no novice, with 400 hours in the old biplane.

A stock Stearman is a magnificent airplane, but by design it is underpowered. There’s a saying about a 220-horsepower Stearman: It’s a safe airplane; built like a safe, glides like a safe, climbs like a safe. The reasoning was that in World War II, the Army and Navy wanted their cadets to learn to fly a wing rather than an engine. Today, that concept demands sound judgment, especially when taking off from a short, hilly airstrip on a hot day.

He shoved the stick forward and the big biplane slammed to the turf then bounded back into the air. I grabbed the stick and bellowed, “I got it!” He threw his hands up and yelled, “You got it!”After fueling we hoisted our chutes and climbed aboard, my friend in the front cockpit and me in the back as pilot in command. I had decisions to make. One, who was going to do the takeoff? Two, do we take off going up the hill toward the bean fields or down the hill toward the owner’s house? I had been teaching my friend how to take off the old bird, and so far he had done fine. After all, he had plenty of tailwheel time and had just bought an Aviat Husky. But he had never taken this big, heavy biplane off from a short, hilly airstrip. I let him do it anyway. A very light breeze was blowing from the south. Without thinking it through sufficiently, I decided to go up the hill into the meager wind.

With a bark and a belch of blue smoke, the engine started, we rumbled onto the strip and pointed up the hill. My buddy advanced the throttle, the old radial growled, and we began to crawl up the hill. But my attention was divided as I did a final check of the GPS. As I half watched it, the airspeed indicator came to life. Twenty miles per hour. Thirty. Forty. Half the runway was gone. Past 50, inching towards the 60 miles per hour we needed. Finally 60.

Then I felt it—the control stick full aft into my gut. Now I was fully alert because this was wrong. You can take off in a Husky like this, but a stock Stearman? No way. We were 40 feet in the air with the nose pointed skyward and the airspeed sinking toward 54—stall speed. I yelled over the intercom, “Lower the nose!!” He shoved the stick forward and the big biplane slammed to the turf then bounded back into the air. I grabbed the stick and bellowed, “I got it!” He threw his hands up and yelled, “You got it!”

I raced through nonexistent options. Abort? No. There was only 200 feet of runway left. I stayed with the takeoff but I desperately needed airspeed and lowered the nose further. We skipped off the end of the runway then leaped toward the bean field like an Olympic long jumper. With the draggy airplane barely flying in ground effect, I tried to squeeze out more airspeed but the hill was climbing faster than we were. Ten feet over the rushing bean field, I tried to skip us into the air again. Another long jump. Shredded bean plants flashed by.

“We’re not gonna make it, Bob!”

He was right and I knew it. Wallowing in a semi stall, we had only one chance. I had to make a perfect tail-first carrier landing and hope the drag of the bean plants didn’t flip us over. I chopped the power and jammed the stick full back. The tail hit the field, followed by the main landing gear as more beans flew past. The airplane started swerving to the right, the beginning of a ground loop. I stomped my left foot to the firewall, and we shuddered to a halt.

Panting, I shut down the engine and bolted from the cockpit. The big biplane sat in the middle of the field; drivers on the adjoining road stared with open mouths. Bean plants were draped over the flying wires and the fuselage was painted with grass stains, but there was no damage. Not a scratch.

After noting with gallows humor that this was no longer an airplane but a tractor, and that we had changed careers and become farmers, I climbed back in, started the engine and gingerly taxied back to the runway. I steered around and over, among other things, a barbed-wire fence and a dry creek bed. Arriving at our friend’s hangar, we gave the Stearman the world’s fastest wash job and effortlessly took off down the hill with me flying.

We trial lawyers learn almost nothing from the cases we win. But when we lose, we learn. The ill-advised question or the missed objection that led to disaster must be acknowledged and never repeated.

The same is true with flying. On the first takeoff that day I made a series of colossal bone-headed blunders, each of which carries a lesson I’ve never forgotten.

1. Always consider the heat and the load. 85 degrees is hot. Period. We didn’t need a full tank of gas because we could have stopped on the way. The parachutes were unnecessary weight; we could have deferred the aerobatics to another day.
2. In any potentially dicey situation, the pilot with the most experience in that airplane should fly. My friend was and is an outstanding stick (Learjets, aerobatic competitions, and so on) but on that day he was a novice with the Stearman. I wasn’t. In fact, I had successfully taken off up the hill in the past. It was close, but I could safely do it.
3. Pay attention! My fiddling with the GPS during our takeoff roll was inexcusable.
4. When in doubt, put the hill to good use. With a big, heavily loaded, underpowered aircraft, the hill provided the momentum that easily trumped any benefit of a very slight headwind.

Fly safe.

S. Robert Williams is a private pilot with glider, seaplane, multiengine and DC–3 (second in command) ratings. He owns a 1940 Stearman and a 1951 Cessna L–19 Bird Dog.