The 2024 Australian Air Rally - The FBO

[Sirrus]

14 minutes ago, Melo965 said:

Any more info on who is working on it?

Regretfully more commercially sensitive info. I'll give you a heads up when it happens.

[jgf]

The continuing saga of a nitwit and his aircraft.  Have made it to the nether regions of Scotland, sightseeing Scapa Flow  (switched to a civilian Cierva, modernized with lights and radio;  the RAF aircraft only has the front beacon)

 

 

 

 

What the sailors saw

 

Heading north through the islands at a blazing 55kt

 

 

 

 

A good spot for a respite

 

Approach at 30kt

 

 

 

BTW G-ACIN was a real aircraft

[MAD1]

Speaking of Duxford:

https://www.daftlogic.com/information-locations-of-concorde-planes.htm

There were 20 Concordes built. Number 101, G-AXDN, is at the Imperial War Museum. https://www.heritageconcorde.com/duxford

Did I mention previously that I saw a Concorde at the Farnborough Air Show, must have been 1980 or 81, it did a low flypast (don't think it did a touch and go, but might have).

[Bossspecops]

The other British built Concorde prototype, Number 002, G-BSST, is at the FAA Museum at Yeovilton. The Brooklands Concorde is G-BDDG, and you can go aboard both of them.

 

Both the Duxford aircraft and G-BOAF at Filton have working 'droop snoots' which they operate every now and then. Most impressive.

 

I stood in the torrential rain at the end of the runway at Filton on Nov 26th 2003 to watch Alpha Foxtrot make the last ever Concorde landing. Most of the population of Avon, Somerset and Gloucestershire seemed to be there too as the Police had to close the A38 dual carriageway as it was PACKED SOLID with people, all soaking wet!

 

I wouldn't have missed being there for the world though. 

[Bossspecops]

PL983 was at Duxford when I was there in Jan too, and you can see the 'proper' PR windscreen on her.

 

 

PL965 used to have the 'proper' screen when she was flying with the RAF, but after becoming an exhibit at Overloon in Holland post WWII some storm damage wrecked the screen and other parts, and the only screen they could find to fit was a standard fighter type one from a Mk IX. She's retained it to this day, through numerous rebuilds and refurbishments.

 

Amazingly PL965 has her ORIGINAL Merlin 70 fitted, which came about by accident when the Hangar 11 team bought a re-furbished engine from a US vendor and discovered it just happened to be the correct one.

[Melo965]

8 hours ago, Bossspecops said:

Amazingly PL965 has her ORIGINAL Merlin 70 fitted, which came about by accident when the Hangar 11 team bought a re-furbished engine from a US vendor and discovered it just happened to be the correct one.

 

And I was very fortunate to visit PL965 on the day after the original Mk 70 Merlin was reinstalled.  Kit and I made plans to see PL965 together earlier that week, but then they called just before I left from the states to cancel.  While I was in flight on the way Kit made arrangements with them for me to go one day later than originally planned.  Unfortunately Kit had another commitment so he could not join me on the new day.

 

I am really glad Kit finally got to see PL965 up close this year! 

 

 

 

[Melo965]

Vagar Airport (EKVG) in Faroe Islands to Reykjavík Domestic Airport (BIRK) in Iceland

 

Note that I decided not to land at the larger Keflavík International Airport, also known as Reykjavík–Keflavík Airport (BIKF) airport nearby. Won't have to fight for a landing slot with any Big Iron this way.

 

This flight is also a commemoration of a Compuserve Flight Rally that Kit and I participated in ages ago.  Our Compuserve Rally 35 destination was to Reykjavík Iceland.  I flew our FS98 Spitfire PR XI PL965 from the USA flying eastward.  Kit also flew our PL965 westward from the UK to arrive in Reykjavík.  The reason why we were both flying the same aircraft was that we were in the final testing phase before publishing our FS98 Spitfire PL965 here to this web site.

 

Kit had the wonderful idea to do a Photo Reconnaissance camera pass of the Vagar airport on his way past on the way to Iceland.  Kit flew PL965 at 500 ft altitude and 330 kts on his photo run past the Vagar airport on a ground track just West of the runway, and his starboard oblique pictures turned out perfect!  It was a brilliant sortie! 

      

So it is very cool to again be flying PL965 here, although in a much less dramatic fashion.

 

Pre-flight done, ready to start the engine.  It was nice to only have a short walk from the hotel to my Spitfire.

 

The crosswind would dictate a takeoff from a perpendicular runway if there was one, but there is not.  So I will be taking off from runway 31 as it aims me in the right direction anyway.

 

Just after takeoff.  Gear about to retract.

 

Gear retracted and at 400 ft.

 

More town below behind the cliff.  Had no idea until I flew over.

 

At 1,900 ft and about to enter the cloud base.

 

After 30 minutes flying time.

 

PL965 from another angle.

 

Head on view.

 

Underside view which shows the two vertical camera ports.

 

A rare glimpse of the ocean below.  Almost the whole flight there was a solid cloud layer below.

 

Half way to Iceland.

 

Another Half way angle.

 

Feet Dry over Iceland, but there is no visible evidence of land below.

 

Here is how it looks at this altitude.

 

At Top of Descent.

My original plan was to land on runway 01 approaching the airport from the South, but the wind had shifted en route so now I needed to approach from the NW and land on runway 13.

 

Descending through 4,900 ft.  Keeping the dive angle shallow with throttle at idle to not bust the 250 knot limit below 10,000 ft.

 

Here is the weather map of the over Iceland portion of the flight.

I kept descending in the mirk all the way down to 500 feet altitude without breaking out of the clouds/fog.

 

I was flying over this portion of the map so the terrain did not look too bad.  But since I still could not see ANYTHING, decided to stay at 500 ft altitude and turn South and fly straight for the coast to get over the water where I knew what the elevation was.

 

Out over the ocean at 566 ft altitude.

 

Flying West along the coastline.

 

Still flying along the coast.

 

At 2,400 ft altitude.  Turning North to get over these small hills just east of BIKF.

 

Back in the clear over the water at 1,500 ft.

 

Runway 13 in sight ahead.

 

Lined up for runway 13.  Note the Grand Caravan ahead that just took off.

 

Cockpit view of the runway.

 

Over the numbers.

 

Landed safely.

 

Parked at Reykjavík in the rain.  Now for a well earned rest. 

 

Next stop Narsarsuaq International Airport (BGBW) in Greenland.

 

[Melo965]

On 3/15/2024 at 4:40 PM, Sirrus said:

I'll give you a heads up when it happens.

 

Thanks!

 

[Bossspecops]

The long trek home continues, and for some reason seems to be much more wearing than the flight out to Oz. It's also irritating that I never see ANY other traffic, I'm the only aircraft in the FSX sky.  I've tried everything to find out why with no avail, yet another total FSX re-install would seem to be the only solution.

 

Anyway, on to Leg 07, from Kansai Int. right up to the north of Japan to a place called Nakashbetsu (RJCN) Why there? It's the furthest north airfield I could find that's nearest to the Aleutian Islands, which will be my next target. Nakashbetsu is on Hokkaido, the northernmost of the Japanese Islands and so close to Russian territory you can almost SEE Russia from there!

 

I taxied away from the FedEx building on Kansai, heading for the runway, but it's a LONG way, this place is massive!

 

 

En route some suicidal truck driver nearly T-boned me, but the Sealand has good brakes, thank goodness. And if I can see all that airport traffic, why can't I see any other AIRCRAFT?

 

 

Having reached the actual runway I then had to taxi half it length to reach the threshold, all-in-all the taxi took me 12 minutes!

 

 

But it didn't take much of their long runway to get airborne. 

 

 

The designated SID to the north of Kansai is bizarre, making a 270 deg turn out over the bay before heading out over Osaka, maybe it's for noise abatement, but it sure is weird.

 

 

Soon I was over the mainland, and right over the middle of Osaka itself, a BIG city for sure.

 

 

There were some hefty mountains in the middle of Honshu, the main Island here, so I'd set my cruise height to 10000 ft for this leg, and it took some while to get up there, the two Gypsy Queens sounding a bit asthmatic by the time I made it too. 

 

 

It got colder and colder the further north I went and soon I could see snow on the peaks too.

 

 

Even further north the snow was EVERYWhere!,

 

 

After maybe 4.5 hrs I was approaching the Tsugaru Straight, which separates Hokkaido from Honshu and this was the last airfield I saw on the main island.

 

 

It didn't take long before I was feet dry over Hokkaido itself and starting to prepare for the landing, via an offset STAR to get into Nakashbetsu.

 

 

That offset STAR had me way over to the east before turning north west and eventually the airfield came into sight. 

 

 

Lining up wasn't too difficult, amongst all that snow the tarmac runway stood out very well. They could see me coming too, specially as I was the ONLY aircraft in the entire world seemingly!

 

 

It wasn't long before I was waiting patiently for them to open that big hangar door, it was DAMN cold out there!

 

 

That leg took 5.25 hrs and used nearly 180 galls of fuel, but I'll need all the tanks brimmed to the top for the next leg, and I'm not looking forward to it all. 

 

This coming leg will be THE crucial one of the whole trip, out across the Barents Straight to Shenya, otherwise known as Eareckson AB, in the Aleutians and it's a LONG way, 1355 nms, and right at the outer limits of my range. It would have been possible to fly a shorter, more direct routing, but I'm not going anywhere near any Russian airspace at this time in history. 

 

I'll need a long rest and some hot food before any of that however. 

 

[TomPenDragon]

Fly with Eli

06 March, 2024. Lock Haven – Cuernavaca.

 

After a thankfully brief celebration of Sara’s completion of her circumnavigation, Claus insisted I stay at her place. She had a very nice second bedroom, always kept ready in case her Mom decided to pop in. I couldn’t really refuse. Besides, I wanted to talk.

 

She ordered a pizza, set up a TV tray, and turned on a news channel that we both like, that was having an all-evening Super Tuesday pre-game analyzathon. You know that stereotype about old people and their non-stop news-watching? Claus is getting an extremely early start. In truth, I wanted to get caught up on things, too.

 

We went for two Specials from Joltin’ Joe’s, a family joint where they spin the dough in the air. I’m six feet tall and built kind of sturdily, and Claus is around 5’4” and thin as a rail. She can out-eat me at pizza any day of the week and twice on Sunday. The idea was to eat one pie and I’d take the other one back to Mexico, where good pizza is hard to come by. The reality was, we finished both of them. The herbal comfort that we enjoyed before the pizza arrived might have helped.

 

I remember looking down at the just-emptied box that was sitting on top of the other empty box, recalling the tag line from an old ad for an antacid, letting out an embarrassingly loud belch, muttering an apology… I blinked, and when I opened my eyes I smelled and heard peppers and onions frying. Light was streaming through the living room’s huge picture window.

 

“Hungry?” Claus asked with a smile. “I made us cheddar-and-ham omelets and the home fries are almost done.”

 

Hungry? Maybe by August. “Of course, Claus. That sounds delicious. Just let me splash some water on my face.”

 

“We’ve got a busy day ahead of us. Don’t take too long.”

 

“Ugh. You’re kidding. I’ve flown a single-engined prop 10,000 miles in four days. I was kind of hoping to just relax…”

 

“Bill the Third is flying up from Vero Beach.”

 

“It’s going to be a big thing, isn’t it?”

 

“Uh huh.”

 

“Ugh.”

 

I was as fast in the bathroom as a 70-year-old can be first thing in the morning, and sat down at her two-person breakfast nook in her enviably-sized kitchen while the home fries were still sizzling. If the airplane stuff ever falls through, she can have a great career as a chef. The omelet and fries were perfect – there’s no other way to describe them. I don’t know where she got fresh jalapeños in Lock Haven, but she put some into the home fries. She’s the only person I know who didn’t grow up around Mexican food and a Mexican mother and Abue to get the amount of chile just right. A lot of flavor, a little burn.

 

One of the first things I learned about Claus’ cooking was that the best complement you can give her is to shut up, eat, and finish everything on your plate. Despite the fact that I was still bursting from the previous night’s pizza, I complemented her. Twice, on the home fries. In a routine that developed naturally while we were sharing houses in Australia, I picked up the table, put the plates and utensils into the dishwasher, and carefully wiped out her cast iron skillets.

 

“I really like that little table,” I said as I finished the last of the pans.

 

“Sara found it while we were living together,” Claus said wistfully. “She ran into this artist who made furniture out of pressure-bent wood…”

 

“I’ve never seen one like it,” I said. I guessed it was time for that talk. “Speaking of Sara, you remember our last conversation in Australia?”

 

“When you said you wanted me to have the Saratoga?”

 

“Yeah. And you told me to think about it on the way here. I was the one who figured out how to fly her, you said. I put most of the hours on her. And I won’t deny that I’m crazy about the airplane. Everything I wished my original Saratoga had, Sara has.

 

“But Claudine, if I’ve come to know you at all during the month we were pretty much living together, I’ve learned that she means much more to you than she does to me. You know, every time you say her name, you go all doe-eyed and introspective.”

 

“I never should’ve named her that. I thought it’d be a nice tribute, but I’ve come to realize that I’m just clinging to something that’s over. Besides, Saratoga… Sara… What were we going to call her, ‘Toga?’”

 

“She is an Animal House-kind of aircraft. She’s also a very high-performance single that you’ve mastered. You said you wanted to get into warbird sportplanes, and Sara’s a great plane to help get you there. A P-39 or a P-38 isn’t much more difficult to handle than she is. Once you master taildraggers and do some training with a proper instructor, your Mustang is in sight.

 

“So yeah, I want you to have her. Once Piper starts producing the M992, I’ll pick one up. Maybe you can give me a lift back to Mexico, if you can spare a couple of days?”

 

“Piper still owes you a plane, Eli. I’ve got some news on that front. Do you remember how busy I got during those last days in Oz? Part of that was reporting how Sara did. The people who call the shots were so pleased that they approved three production prototypes. I was sure you were going to say that, so I convinced them to bring the development prototype back in-house and spin a fourth production prototype for you.”

 

“Oh.” Well, I wasn’t expecting that. “Okay.”

 

I woke up late and we took our time having breakfast, which meant that we needed to rush to get to the airfield. Fortunately, Claus’ landlord had built the apartment with the idea of two people rent-splitting, and both bedrooms and bathrooms were the same size. I got ready fast; Claus got ready faster.

 

The morning was chilly and clouds hung on the hilltops. Claus lived a couple of miles from the plant, so as she did each morning and evening, we walked. After the big breakfast, the cold, clear air was invigorating. Claus pointed out some of her favorite shops and restaurants, and the trek did not seem like two miles at all when we reached the gates to the Piper plant.

 

Tim Conrad and some of the Piglets were gathered around Sara taking pictures when we walked up. The phones went into pockets long enough to give us a round of applause, and then everyone wanted to get a shot with me. I took off my heavy winter coat to reveal my leather flying jacket with the Australian Air Race patch, which proved to be a mistake. Tim had called Bill the Fourth, and Bill IV had called everybody. In a leather jacket that was comfortable in a heated cockpit, I was freezing in about fifteen minutes. We were outside for an hour and a half. I managed to catch a glimpse of Claus watching me in the midst of the scrum. She was laughing, my coat draped over her shoulders. She pulled it tight around her in a mock shiver.

 

The news crews saved me – in addition to Piper’s internal publication, there were people from the major aviation periodicals and even a reporter and photographer from the Lock Haven Express. They wanted a quiet place inside for the interviews, so the Piper people made space in their sales office, so that they could get Sara in the pictures through the windows.

 

There went the rest of the morning. The crew for the last interview, Plane and Pilot, caught Bill the Third’s Lear 60 rolling out behind Sara. Bill IV joked to Tim and me, “That’s just like Dad to show up just in time for lunch.”

 

Bill III did like his meals, apparently – he weighed well over 300 pounds. The factory floor had been cleared and tables had been set for everyone. Bill IV invited me to sit at the Captain’s Table with his father, Tim Conrad, and the other heads of the company. Bill IV had finally convinced his Dad to go vegan with him, so that was the meal. Bill III had been dragged kicking and screaming to healthier eating, so the meal was actually good, its centerpiece one of the best burgers I’ve ever had.

 

I mentioned Claus, hoping that a good word to the brass would brighten her career prospects, when I was blindsided by Bill IV saying that she no longer worked for the company. I was about to get up, walk out, and look for a Bonanza or a Centurion to fly home in when he and Bill III clarified that the Performance Division was being spun off into a separate company, and Dr. Claudine Ullrich was on the cusp of a stellar career. Bill IV was stepping up to COO as a transitional move to his taking over the CEO role so that his Dad could semi-retire as Chairman of the Board. Tim Conrad was a little broken-hearted at seeing his performance group leave, but he was comforted by the fact that his new title at Piper was Vice-President of Manufacturing. He and Bill IV had wanted to bring Claudine along with him as Vice-President of Airworthiness Assurance, but as the concept behind the new company, PenDragon Performance/Motorsports, became clearer, they realized that her prospects were much better in the new organization.

 

I was intrigued to hear my neighbor and dog-sitter’s surname mentioned in the conversation. I know that he’s into business – interests inherited from his father, quite substantial, from what I gather. I know that he’s even more avid an aviator than I am, and that at the end of last year, he won Club Chachapoya’s Route 66 Challenge. I’m going to have to ask him about that once I get home.

 

The afternoon was a somewhat more laid-back version of the morning. I had a break from everybody when they wanted to see Sara in action, so I took her up and did several touch-and-go’s, interspersed with rather generous fly-arounds of Lock Haven and its environs to get back into the pattern. It was a good way to clear my head, and the Piper folks got to see one of their safe, stodgy little planes doing flick rolls and half-loops like a P-51. Most of them are too young to remember the PA-48 Enforcer project.

 

Evening came earlier than I expected it to. My mind was still on Australian time, where it was late summer, rather than the beginning of the end of winter. I got a reminder of what the U.S. northeast feels like in early March when Claus and I left the plant for our walk home – a cold(er) front was moving in and the temperature had dropped dramatically since I had shown off Sara.

 

Claudine was unusually quiet and reserved on our walk to her apartment. We both collapsed onto her living room couches, the stress of our respective days having taken its toll. We lay where we flopped for five minutes in a Buddhist temple silence, and then Claus sat up and said two of my favorite words: “Victory smoke?” I nodded and smiled as she opened the humidor on the coffee table and took out the good stuff.

 

As we relaxed and the day’s events fell into perspective, Claudine opened up about her misgivings regarding the acquisition of Piper’s Performance Planes. I told her what Tim and the Bills had told me: PenDragon was buying all aircraft companies’ performance divisions, not just Piper’s, that the move was intended as much to test rapid prototyping and new manufacturing techniques as it was to come up with faster and more exciting aircraft, and that she would have greater autonomy and authority in a new, clean-page organization than she ever would at an established corporate entity such as Piper, or her previous employer, Lockheed. I added a reminder that Tom PenDragon was my neighbor and an offer to investigate PenDragon Performance once I got home. Surprisingly, she took me up on that offer, which showed me just how anxious she was about the move.

 

But then the pizzas arrived. I recall having read an article somewhere that showed that pizza is 33% more effective at treating anxiety than is talk. I’m not sure that was from a reputable medical journal, unless Papa John is an M.D. It does seem to work, though. We were both quite anxious, apparently, because we finished both pies again. That was okay, since by the time I realized that I was much too anchored to the couch to take the empty boxes out to the dumpster, I was quite calm and relaxed.

 

We turned on the news in time to catch Super Tuesday’s first poll closings. Rachel and the gang did their best to keep the foregone conclusions of each race interesting without being too catty about things. At one point during the evening, I remembered that, with all the commotion of the day, I hadn’t had the chance to see the M992 production prototypes. Claus, from her position in the crook of my arm, looked up, smiled slyly, and said that I’d just have to wait until the morning.

 

It dawned on me then that my favorite memories of my time in Australia weren’t the flights or Radio Chachapoya, but these evenings of sofa spudding with Claudine nestled against my chest. We were the most unlikely of friends – a Boomer who despised Millennials; a Millennial who resented Boomers. A Latino who spent most of his younger days trying to pass for White because it was what you had to do to get by, at least until you had FU money; an AfroLatina who reveled in her Blackness. Someone who peaked half a century earlier; someone whose greatest accomplishments lie ahead and who will likely never peak. A girl who thought she was cis-hetero until Sara came along and blew up her life; a boy who hasn’t been attracted to anyone in a very long time.

 

We weren’t attracted to each other’s bodies, but for some reason I still can’t fathom, we are enamored with each other’s company. I’ll say that I’m old enough to be her father, and she’ll correct me: “Grandfather.” That night was the closest that we came.

 

“Do you want to go to bed?” Claus asked out of the blue.

 

“I was kind of hoping to catch the results of the California senate race. The polls are closing there in another hour or so.” Yeah, I’m kind of thick about that sort of thing. I felt her looking up at me. “Oh.” I can read about who’s going to be running to replace Dianne Feinstein tomorrow.

 

“Let’s use the bed, okay?” she asked. “I don’t want to mess the couch.”

 

I nodded. Neither of us moved to get up. After a very long moment, Claus sat up, reached over to the coffee table, and packed us another bowl. Neither of us spoke; we smoked in silence until the bong was finished. The polls closed on the West Coast. As we waited for the results, she hugged me hard and I hugged her back harder, and we stayed like that until the muscles in our arms and shoulders burned.

 

When she finally did get up to go to bed, I stayed on the couch. She shot me a seductive look from the bedroom door to let me know that the invitation was still open. But it was seduction spiced with shame. I stayed on the couch.

 

I drifted off to sleep, woke up close to 03:00, turned the TV off, and went to the second bedroom. The mattress wasn’t just firm, it was bedsheets on concrete. “It’s good for the back,” I repeated to myself while trying to gather up the energy to grab a blanket and go back to the couch.

 

We both woke up late and had to rush to get out the door. Claus threw some frozen waffles into the toaster oven while I was showering. We wolfed them down, and before we knew it we were out the door and standing on the tarmac by the sales office at KLHV.

 

A large, suspiciously Saratoga-shaped tarp emblazoned with the Piper logo, sat on the sales office’s ramp, under a low overcast that hugged the hillsides. The Piglets – PenDragon’s Piglets now? - and another twenty or so people filed out of the main door to the plant to stand behind us in a semicircle.

 

She signed me to turn around, and we faced the crowd. “Elias Pacheco.” Claudine Ullrich was a small, slight woman with a surprisingly large voice. The people heard her clearly – not just those assembled, but probably everyone in the plant as well. “As a prize for winning Club Chachapoya’s Route 66 Challenge, Piper promised Mr. Thomas PenDragon a plane for their next event, to be held in Australia. Mr. PenDragon decided to participate in the event by broadcasting it to the world via Radio Chachapoya, and asked you to anchor the broadcasts for him, with the aircraft as payment.

 

“Mr. PenDragon asked us to give you the aircraft of your choice. For some reason I still can’t understand – I chalk it up to insanity, y’all; he could’ve had an M500, brand new, at the office in Perth – you chose our development prototype next-generation Saratoga, with a brand-new Porsche engine that was right here in Lock Haven, PA, and flew it all the way to Australia by your lonesome.

 

“And we didn’t leave you alone in your insanity; we followed you there in an old prop plane that was about the only non-turbine thing in the sky that’s faster than our Sara. When I say ours, I mean ours. We stopped in Stuttgart to pick up some Germans who were even crazier than us and packed aboard the only other two engines that were identical to the one in the Saratoga.

 

“The third part of our triune development team was you. We on the Piper side of the team all have different ratings and logbook hours, but we all fly. And we were all scared of Sara until you showed us how to fly her. You showed us her flaws, and we fixed them. The yoke response was a little sloppy, so we tightened it up. The main spar had too much flex for your liking, so we wove Sara a new one. We changed the 21-gallon auxiliary tanks to 41-gallon bladders because you wanted more range.

 

“You also taught Porsche a thing or two about engines. They completely re-fabricated the twin turbo system to your specifications, put it on the second engine, and stuck it in the nose. Cooling is better, and the turbos have a faster response at altitude – more like turbosuperchargers.

 

“You flew to Australia the long way, going east, spent a month and a half flying all over Australia, and when that wasn’t enough for you, you headed back here, still going east, to complete a circumnavigation.

 

“In a development prototype that we were wondering at one point how to salvage. What you did with Sara’s justified the building of three production prototypes – of your aircraft, Eli. Your participation in her development’s justified the building of a fourth. You participated in ways you didn’t even know you did. When we flew the 1976 Route for the first time, you told me that, though you liked Sara’s retro stripes, your favorite paint on a Saratoga’s a bolder two-tone like the the one that you had on your previous Saratoga. You described it to me, and I knew the one. Over dinner in Melbourne one evening, you told me that an all-black leather interior would be wild-looking – would fit the performance, you said. We designed Sara’s panel to look retro, with aged Bendix King nav/comms and the only nod to modernity a GI275 EIS and a GPS. You thought that an upgrade to Garmin nav/comms and a GI275 ADI and HSI would suit the plane better – the retro look’s still there, but with a modern flair, you said.”

 

Claus nodded to one of her team members, who flashed a hand signal to someone else, who winked at one of the people who had walked to the corners of the tarp – it was like watching baseball – and they removed the covering.

 

 

 

 

 

“So here she is. We even registered her for you in Mexico. You gave her her model name: M992. Congratulations, Eli!”

 

The crowd, which had swelled to around 50, clapped. I was overwhelmed. They waited for me to say something. “Thanks,” I said.

 

I think they were expecting more.

 

I walked around her. I opened her doors. The leather was really dark. It blended perfectly with the black panel, though, and gave the plane a smaller, more sporty feel. She can seat six people in comfort, but she’s no SUV. And even though the holes in the panel for the ADI and HSI didn’t quite fit the 275’s, I was right about the look.

 

Eli. I’ve always hated when people called me that. I’m starting to warm to it, though.

 

I walked through the crowd, thanking each person for coming, hugging and saying goodbye to the ones who spent the Gaggle with me. Last, I hugged Claudine so tightly that I thought I was going to snap her in two. She held me twice as tight. So hard, it made my eyes water.

 

I had left most of my luggage in the team’s work area at the back of the plant when I had arrived on Monday. They went and brought them out while I pre-flighted the plane. I always pack my own aircraft, and tried to not be too rude in refusing their help. With everything that I’d need during the flight close at hand and anything that I didn’t well stowed away, I took the left seat, adjusted it to my liking, yelled, “Prop Clear,” and started her up. A cheer went up at the roar of the Porsche Boxer engine come to life.

 

And I reach over, and shut and latch her door. The sound of the crowd disappears and even the engine, with the throttle cracked to warm it up and the mixture pulled back halfway, becomes a low, smooth grumble. The new-plane smell of wall-to-wall leather envelops me.

 

Both the mains and the aux tanks are full, which will make for an easy non-stop run to Cuernavaca. The active is 9, which is right off of the sales ramp where we’re parked. I taxi her to the threshold, then do my run-up – there’s not enough room for my usual mag check and prop lube on the roll.

 

 

 

Before I realize it, we’re up and climbing. Someone in a Lear wants to give us a push, but we’re too fast for them.

 

 

 

My first instinct is to swing around and make a low pass over KLHV, but the cloud deck is just a little low to do that – I’d hate for the story of the Gaggle and Radio Chachapoya to end with rescue crews combing a misty mountainside for what’s left of a really nice plane and a really stupid pilot. Besides, this new M992 feels like home, to a greater extent than even Sara did. Let’s start off on the right foot. So, I take her up quickly, and quarter of an hour later we’re humming along at 24,000’.

 

 

 

“You’ve seen one cloud; you’ve seen them all.” And there’s a near-solid cloud deck all the way from Pennsylvania down into Texas, so there’s little of interest to see outside of the cockpit. That’s okay because I love the view inside. Sara was a well-built aircraft; this feels even more solid. I think it’s impossible for Porsche to produce a bad-sounding motor, but this one sounds better than Sara’s – from the moment it starts, you can hear what a monster is hidden under the cowlings, but this monster is smoother and more refined, while at the same time dispelling any notion that it may have been tamed. Once I get back home, I want to take the covers off to see what sort of a resonator Porsche put on the end of the exhaust system.

 

 

The undercast finally breaks northeast of Houston. Finally, I can do some sightseeing that doesn’t involve ascribing pornographic shapes to random arrangements of water vapor.

 

I have to admit, I’m not much of a fan of Texas. I have fond memories of Houston, though.

 

By the time I was 23, things at home weren’t going well. My parents were furious at me for not going to college so that I could learn to take over their business. I had taken an introductory flight in a Cessna when I was a teenager, and that experience showed me that I much preferred to fly them than to fix them. Every single snide comment, every single argument, every single time they tried to pressure me to do what they wanted me to do with my life, only served to assure me that I’d rather be dead than working for them.

 

At the same time, things at the newspaper were going very well indeed. I was very good on the presses, and the bosses noticed. They wanted to make me a manager, but I wasn’t cut out for being responsible for anyone but myself. For that matter, I wasn’t all that good at being responsible for myself, either. But like everyone and their mothers in the news business, I wanted to write.

 

The editor threw me a throwaway assignment, and then threw it away with some rather non-positive feedback. He gave me another one, same result. I was not a reporter. But the fact that I didn’t give up told him that I was a writer. Even more importantly, it told me that I was a writer.

 

I wrote an opinion piece on my own, and the editor loved it. I still remember him calling me into his office that Wednesday morning. He had the morning’s paper, fresh off the presses, unfolded in front of him. That this was a big deal was apparent because the paper was the only thing on his normally-crowded desk. He turned the paper so that I could read it and opened it to the Op-Ed page. There, at top left was my title. Just under it was my name. Then my article, in black and white. And just as that started to make me a little misty-eyed, a round of applause went up from everyone in the newsroom, who I had not realized had gathered behind me the way they always did when someone from the paper got published for the first time.

 

I was hooked. Over that year, I put out several more opinion pieces. I also started working on a science fiction story that my best friend and I talked about when we were teenagers. At its heart is a very close relationship between the two protagonists. My editor at the paper read my manuscript and became the first person who mistook the brotherly affection between the characters as sexual in nature. I became the first person outside of the community that he came out to. There was an awkward moment when he came on to me – he apologized later by saying that I had captured some of the feelings so accurately that he assumed that I must be Gay.

 

He edited the book for me and made it his mission to get it published. It took two years. Nobody wanted to touch a “Gay” book. Then it landed on the desk of someone who came out to my editor after reading it. Six months later, The Omichron Chronicles, Part I, hit the shelves. I didn’t receive a cent up front, opting to share the risk with the publisher in return for a higher percentage of the royalties that they were sure would not have to be paid for a “Gay” book.

 

Man, were they wrong! The Chronicles had a slow start, but built a following. It exploded when televangelists began railing against it on air. When I started doing TV interviews, I thanked them for making the Chronicles number 1 on the best-seller lists. Then Hollywood called. Again, I traded an up-front payment for a percentage of incomes. And I traded a percentage of box office receipts for incomes from all broadcasting and sales of home media – which wasn’t even a thing back then, but I thought that it could be. The guys on the other side of the desk laughed as they signed the contract. That contract, for Chronicles Part I and Part II, has ended up being worth in the high eight figures down through the years. Who’s laughing now?

 

The Omichron Chronicles, Part II was actually part of the original manuscript. The editor and I split it into two books, and I had several more planned. The publishing house offered me a seven-figure advance for Part II; I turned it down and made them stick to the original contract.

 

Book and movie tours played well on the coasts and in big cities. Rock had gone glam; androgyny was the “in” thing, and The Chronicles was a must-read for the times – at least that’s how the Times put it. They played less well in the heartland and the south. We had to travel with security and keep where we were staying a secret.

 

Houston was an exception, an oasis in the narrow-minded desert of the Bible Belt. I had a better reception there than I did in San Francisco or Greenwich Village a lot of times. It was there, when talking to a teenage fan who was trying to figure out his sexuality, I said, “Love is love.” I certainly won’t claim credit for inventing the phrase, but it was the first time that I’d heard it used.

 

Houston, I thank you for that, all those years ago. I thank you again – or rather, Texas state government, and Florida, and a lot of other states that stand for the freedom to be just like us (but God help you if you’re different) – for banning the Chronicles in schools and putting them both back on the best-seller lists again. After making all that money so long ago, subsequently adopting a lifestyle that would make J.D. Salinger look like a media gadfly, and watching aviation burn through my savings, it’s nice to have some money coming in once again.

 

 

Houston was also the start of the trip’s longest over-water leg, off the coast to Matamoros. An aircraft carrier on the water catches my eye. Even from this altitude, it looks massive. It fades from view as quickly as it came, and the coast draws closer until we’re over the mouth of the Río Bravo. Over Mexico. My heart beats a little faster, a little stronger, at the realization that I’m almost home.

 

 

 

My eyes scan, my ears monitor, my hands and feet fly, and my mind drifts until I’m approaching Puebla. The sight of Mexico City hits my eyes like a double-shot espresso.

 

 

 

I salute the ancestors as we pass Teotihuacán.

 

 

We drop down to 11,500’ and cross east of the city.

 

 

The Izta and the Popo stand tall.

 

 

Just to the west of the Popo is a pass through the mountains that ring the Valley of Mexico. Flying to Otumba, west of the Izta and north of the, “Megalopolis,” as they call the conjunction of cities and towns that have grown into each other to make modern-day Mexico City, then direct to Cuautla in Morelos sends you right through the pass. When I see the walls of the Ajusco complex of mountains to my right quarter, I pull the throttle back two and a half inches for a leisurely descent.

 

Over Cuautla, passing 8,000’, I turn onto the final and shortest leg of the flight plan: straight to the Cuernavaca NDB.

 

 

 

A few minutes later, I’m coming into Cuernavaca, once a resort and weekend community for the Capitalinos, the people from the capitol, it’s now a proper city. A couple of minutes more and I can see MMCB.

 

 

Going for an easy straight-in to 20, aware that there’s an apartment building on the glideslope – if you’re using the VASI, one red only, or keep them in the white and dive for the runway once you’re clear, just like landing at Danbury. Sara actually handles this kind of approach quite well.

 

 

Up until now, it’s been just another approach, just another landing, just another runway, as I focus on getting us down safely. This is my first landing in this aircraft, and though she’s like Sara in a lot of ways, there are some differences, too – mostly refinements. The M992 responds like she’s reading my mind. Now, as her speed has slowed to the point where I’m not concerned about keeping her on the centerline as she rolls and slows toward the taxiway, I realize that I’m home. The adventure that started on New Year’s Day is over.

 

 

First things first: Scavenge the aux. tanks to get all of the fuel out of them and then shut the valves to the bladders. It’s just a switch, and something that I could have done in the air. Then top off the mains…

 

 

 

...taxi over to the house, and shut her down for the last time for the Gaggle and the first time for this aircraft. Ha, in all my years of flying, it’s the first time that’s ever happened – that the end of a long trip is also my maiden flight in an aircraft. I put her covers on her; it might be a while before I fly her again. She’s a good airplane, no doubt, but I’ve been flying nearly every day since the beginning of the year and I can use a break. Let me just open the front door, put my bags inside, and open the gate to the yard. Oh. Maybe a quick stop in the bathroom, too.

 

 

 

I walk back to the Astral Dome – it’s what we call our flying community, our club, and the old terminal building that we turned into our clubhouse – listening for dogs. Everyone here has them. Other dogs bark as I pass by, but not mine. Tom PenDragon has his house on the other side of the ramp, and as I pass the clubhouse, my dogs notice and go wild. I called Jessica – Tom’s wife – passing Cuautla to let them know that I was on my way in, and Tom walks out at the howling and opens the gate to his yard.

 

Agnes the athlete, a Belgian Shepherd mix, reaches me first and knocks me over – I got into a crouch just in time. Domingo the Rottweiler is there second, baying excitedly – he’s the singer in the family. Big old Barney, a St. Bernard mix, pushes his way to the front, with his boyfriend, Casper, a white shepherd dog who’s all hair, close behind. They all make space for Dottie, a black-and-white Cocker Spaniel who sits in front of me and gives me a look that asks, “Why aren’t you petting me yet?”

 

I look up from the scrum to see Rufus, a Labrador mix who looks like Agnes’ little brother, still sitting inside Tom’s yard, watching and waiting to see when I’ll come over to say a hello that he’ll just turn away from. Rufus the Resentful. I walk over and give him a hug and a scratch on the head that purposefully turns away from me. It’s all an act – he does the same thing when I hop down to the store for five minutes. By the time he gets back to the house, he’s going to be all over me again.

 

Dorian, a yellow-and-white mix of every dog in the street the size of a big Beagle, is more of a concern. She’s barely visible, laying in a hole she had made in Tom’s yard (over the next few days, I owe my friend some landscaping hours) with her head down and her tail between her legs. When I adopted the pack of Dottie, Barney, Rufus, Casper, and her, the rest seemed to have some experience living with humans, but Dorian was feral. It had taken me a couple of years to gain her trust to the point that she’d look to me for affection. Is all of that gone now, just because I went away for a couple of months? But a couple of months is a lot longer to a dog than it is to a human.

 

Jessica realizes this, sets out some refreshments and treats on the picnic table in the yard, and calls Tom, me, and the dogs back inside the gate. She asks me if I’ve eaten, and I realize that I haven’t had anything since a couple of toaster waffles before leaving Claudine’s this morning. I didn’t bring any snacks for the flight; I was even all out of Tim Tams. She went inside and came out with a plate of what Tom had cooked for their dinner. It’s Mole con Pollo, and since Tom had figured that I wouldn’t have eaten since the morning, he made extra.

 

Ohhhhh… Tastes like home!

 

One thing that I’ve never done with my dogs is feed them from the table while I’m eating. Once I finish dinner and help Jessica and Tom clear the table, it’s treat time. Dorian hasn’t gotten up, so I take her a chewy stick. She doesn’t run away; that’s a good sign. “First one’s free; the rest you have to work for,” I tell her.

 

Dorian misses the second round of treats, and by the time she misses the third, she realizes that she’s not getting anything as long as she stays in her hole. She walks over slowly and cautiously, staying out of arm’s reach until she slinks over to grab a cookie.

 

As the sunset fades into twilight, we relax with a victory smoke and tales of the Great Australian Air Gaggle. Many of those tales revolve around Claus Ullrich. When we talk about the buy-out of Piper’s Performance Planes, Tom tells me that his friend, Rey Harrison, is in charge of the deal. He promises to ask Mr. Harrison to give Ms. Ullrich a call.

 

After treat time was over, Dorian walked away, but not all the way back to her hole. Since then, she’s gradually moved closer to the picnic table. I only stopped petting them to eat; since then one or the other – even Rufus – proving the old adage here that, “Las penas con comida son menos” – “Troubles with food are less.”

 

Finally, she’s within reach, so I stick out my hand. She sniffs it and doesn’t pull away, so I give her a little jaw scratch – she loves those. She moves closer and starts playing with my hand, turning so that her back is to me. She’s not running away, so I bring in the other hand to scratch under her jaw and behind her ear. All at once, she flops to lie down on my legs and feet, with her tail outstretched and wagging wildly. Tom and Jessica look at me – they’re her second parents, and she hasn’t done that for them. For that matter, for me, either. My back starts to get tired, so I begin to pull away. She grabs my right hand, which was giving her a belly rub, and holds it to her chest with her forepaws, tight enough that I can lift her up by it. Jess and Tom look at me again. Now, I can go home.

 

We check the tower frequency; it’s silent. Still, we ask them to activate the sonic fencing around the runway to keep the dogs away from errant propellers. There’s more leftover Mole, and they bought a fresh sack of dog food, so the three of us walk back to my house, Jessica with my food, Tom with the remnants of an open sack, and me with 25 kilos of kibble over my shoulder and seven dogs jumping around my legs. The couple helps us get settled, then bid a long farewell to the kids. They’re far too mobile to have dogs of their own – the two months that I spent in Australia was, I think, the longest they’ve ever stayed in Cuernavaca.

 

All too soon, though, they head back to their house. The dogs have a marking party in the yard, and settle down. Agnes attaches herself to the side of my leg, where she’s been since she was a puppy. Domingo finds his bed in the bedroom; I won’t see him until the morning. Barney wanders in and out a few times before settling on a runner in the hallway that’s there for just that purpose. Dorian walks over to the doggy bed in front of the TV, makes a couple of circles to make sure everything is in order, and lies down. The others, who have always insisted on sleeping outside despite my best efforts to convince them to come in, take their beds in the carport (or great big doghouse, since I don’t have a car).

 

 

It’s late at night now. Everybody’s asleep; Domingo and Barney are sawing wood like it’s a lumberjacking competition. I’m wide awake, though, the echo of the engine still ringing in my ears. After tossing and turning enough to start getting concerned about bearing failure in the bed, I get up. My original idea was to watch some TV, but by the time I reach the living room, I don’t want to do that anymore. Instead, I walk out to the M992, open the pilot’s door, and sit in the left seat. It’ll be a while before I fly her again; the dogs need my attention now. Or maybe I need theirs; I’m not sure.

 

But I do so love that new plane smell.

[Melo965]

On 3/18/2024 at 9:57 AM, TomPenDragon said:

 

 

A very good writeup, and a very classy aircraft!

 

[Melo965]

Reykjavík Domestic Airport (BIRK) in Iceland to Narsarsuaq International (BGBW) in Greenland

 

Pre-flight done, ready to start the engine.

I have other aircraft here at this busy airport.  I just wish the cloud cover was not so persistent on these Atlantic ocean flights.

 

Advancing throttle for takeoff on Runway 13.

 

Climbing out.

 

On course and at altitude.

Staying between 11,000 and 12,000 feet approximately for these Spitfire flights.  Note that I was able to get the Davtron flight time gauge fixed while here in Iceland.  

 

Cockpit view ahead.

For this longer flight I am also throttling back to about 75% power to have enough fuel to get to the destination safely.

 

30 minutes of flight.

 

1 hour of flight.  Still nothing to see below but clouds.

 

Half way there at 70 minutes of flight time.

 

90 minutes elapsed.  Steady as she goes, still solid overcast below.

 

2 hours so far.  The Merlin 70 is very reliable, but still glad to see land ahead.

 

Going Feet Dry over Greenland.

 

Lots of snow on the cold landscape below.

 

Top of Descent at 2 hours and 11 minutes of flight.

 

Descending through 7,500 ft.

Spotted that ridge line just below and initiated an immediate climb!

 

Staying level at 8,000 feet for a while.

 

Getting close to the airport so added flaps and lowered the landing gear.

 

Finally under the clouds at 5,500 feet.  But too close to the airport and much too high.

 

At 4,200 feet now.

Initiated a racetrack pattern back to the North to descend toward pattern altitude.

 

Headed South again.  At 2,200 ft and runway in sight ahead.

 

Lined up for the runway.

 

Final for runway 25.

 

Landed safely.

 

Parked at Narsarsuaq.

 

My next flight is to Goose Bay (CYYR) in Canada.  It will be the longest Spitfire leg at 675 nautical miles.  I landed here with 18.5 % fuel remaining for the 668 nautical mile flight so I am not worried about the next leg.  No need to call for a tanker the rest of the way home.

 

[Bossspecops]

My Leg 08 was set to be the crucial one of my whole trip home, being some 1300 nms, a 7 hr+ flight with NO land below me anywhere at all. Plus I wasn't going to fly anywhere near any Russian airspace, which required a diversion to the east to clear the Kuril Island chain to keep me on track for Shemya in the Aleutians, otherwise known as Eareckson AFB, the nearest airfield I could find with fuel to allow me continue eastward!

 

This was my flight plan out of Nakashbetsu, but the wind was from the south, so I needed to make a 180 deg turn as soon as I had got airborne from the snow swept runway. That's Russia inside the red lines...........

 

 

Heart in mouth time, I was NOT looking forward to this leg one bit!

 

 

Turning back over the field I waved goodbye to civilisation for many hours to come.

 

 

And this was the very last bit of mainland I was to see for ages!

 

 

That's Russia over there to port, I'm not going anywhere NEAR that island!

 

 

And that was pretty much that for some hours, apart from the fact that it started snowing lightly soon, and continued to do so the entire flight to Shemya!

 

 

And if it wasn't snowing lightly, it was snowing HEAVILY!

 

 

Luckily my 5000 ft cruise altitude kept below the cloud base almost the while flight, while continuously checking fuel burn rates and time to go numbers. They stayed on the positive side much of the time, aided by that tail wind too.

 

I did have two FSX glitches en route, both the same problem, which was that both engines started to lose power and the aircraft slowed down so much it was about to stall. Try as I might I could not figure out what was wrong, and no amount of throttle, mixture or prop settings made the slightest difference, so in both cases I recorded the fuel state, position and time, and shut down FSX and restarted. What I didn't do was take note of one vital parameter though, and that became clear on the next leg..............

 

It was well into dusk by the time I was on the approach to Shemya, and I was glad they still had the lights available as I surely needed them to see the runway.

 

 

For reasons unknown the ILS at Shenya doesn't align with the 28 runway, but I was in a hurry to land as my fuel state was pretty marginal so I made a full visual approach, which went OK I'm pleased to say. The landing was one of THE most welcome ever, and I didn't mind the long taxi to the tamp and hangar one bit!

 

 

The USAF crew there welcomed me with copious amounts of coffee and doughnuts, with the promise of a hot meal as soon as we'd got 'Austral Rose' out of the cold, which was -22C at the time!

 

 

When we checked the tanks I had 12 galls left! I only JUST made it, and thank goodness for that tail wind. I won't be planning any more legs that much over 1000 nms for sure.

[MAD1]

Wow, so much 'bedtime reading' here since I last looked a few days ago, including a novel. Will read all posts in detail over the next few days. Bosss, funny about that, the excitement of starting an adventure seems always more engaging than finishing one, and yes, no aircraft in the sky for you makes for a duller long haul home.

[ViperPilot2]

Gentlemen...

 

Now that we're some three Weeks past the end of the Australia Rally, I'd like to ask the folks making their way back to 'home base' how far out you are Individually. I'd like to start a new "Mini Challenge" to keep the ball rolling, but wanted to get a feel of the Room first before I proceed.

 

Please chime in at your leisure.

 

Thanks! 

[Rupert]

I wasn't able to actually fly the event.  But I have surely enjoyed all the comments and flight data it created.  Should any entrants decide to describe their various return trips I feel it'd be really a great addition to the already successful Rally!

[Sirrus]

3 hours ago, ViperPilot2 said:

I'd like to start a new "Mini Challenge" to keep the ball rolling

With the start of the European and UK display seasons 10 days away, and especially the 80th Anniversary of D-Day, along with 3 days of Fairford and a week at Farnborough, not forgetting the Tour de France (which finishes in Nice this year) and La Vuelta, my itinerary is getting fuller day by day. So participation in this "mini challenge" depends on where it is, how long it is, and how long it takes to organize. 

Otherwise, see you guys in the Autumn.

 

[Bossspecops]

I'm maybe 1/3 of the way home now, just about to reach the westernmost part of Alaska, and got all of the North American continent and the Atlantic Ocean to cross yet. I'll be posting my most recent leg on here tomorrow, and it's NOT good news.......... 

[jgf]

4 hours ago, Rupert said:

describe their various return trips

 

Boring ... monotonous .... soporific

 

We removed the wings from my Beech D17 and loaded her into a C-5.  Flew at around 35k ft from Perth to Hawaii to Columbus.  (No desire to follow my path from Columbus to Perth in reverse.)

[Melo965]

I am at Gander International so have the whole North American continent to cross.  10 planned legs  3,212 NM.

 

[ViperPilot2]

Thanks for the Replies!

 

I'm glad that Kit and Melo are close to The States; my thought was to have a simple 'Mini Challenge' like what TPP proposed earlier. Fly into an Airport from wherever you are. No Flight Timing, whatever you want to fly, whatever Route you want. A Week, ten days tops to complete the Flight (or whatever fits into your Flightplan Melo and Kit). The Airport? How about Meigs Field?

 

Please expound, elaborate, and elucidate... 

[jgf]

Meigs is fine, though only about 300 miles from here.  Perhaps a good excuse for an ultralight flight, or even an airship (my F-16 could be there in about half an hour, lol).

[Bossspecops]

Funny you should mention Meigs. Melo and I had already thought of rendezvousing there as it's both on our routes home, and we'd cross about there. On my time frame that should be in around a week or so. 

 

I could even land IN Lake Michigan too, alongside Meigs. 

[Bossspecops]

Having warmed up a bit in the BOQ at Shemya (I just can't think of the place as Eareckson AFB....) I prepared 'Austral Rose' for an island hopping trip along the Aleutians to Alaska. Having only a drop of fuel in the tanks required some negotiation with the USAF guys there, but apparently they had ZILLIONS of gallons in massive underground tanks, and I was welcome to some, after some suitable 'means of exchange' of course.

 

While the fuel pumps at Shemya are in 3D in my add-on scenery, the associated hut is only 2D and a bit flat........

 

 

It was a loooooomg taxi back to the threshold as the wind here seems to be permanently from the west and I was soon tail-up and on my way to Chignik lake (Z78).

 

 

I need to make a 180 degree turn right after take-off and half way round the turn the engines started to splutter! The Sealand didn't like that one bit, and by the time I'd completed the turn and was heading downwind on the north side of the island my rate of climb was negative!

 

 

Realising I was not going to make Chignik, or even get out of sight of Shemya, I turned back, but the runway was too far south for me so I adopted my usual Plan B and got set for a water landing pretty darn quickly. There was a beach on the north side of the island, right next to one of the surface fuel tanks, and I landed nicely in that little bay, put the wheels down and taxied ashore! 

 

 

(In the real world, the power drop off DID happen and the Sealand just wouldn't fly, and it occurred to me that this was the same fault that happened twice on the leg heading to Shemya. But this time it was right after rake-off, not after some hours of flying. The common factor was the Active Sky generated temperature, on all three occasions it was VERY cold, -20 or so, and the aircraft has neither wing de-icing nor carb heat, or it has no switches for those facilities anyway. So I did a virtual hop down to Hawaii, some thousands of miles to the south to see if she would fly there, and of course she did, no probs.  So no way was I going to fly to Chignik with real world weather, and needed another Plan B..........)

 

Spending some time on the phone to some friends in high places, courtesy of the USAF, I arranged for 'Austral Rose' to be flown to Chignik aboard a passing Albion Logistics A-400M that would be heading that way later in the week, and in the meanwhile I managed to hop a lift with the same RAF Monterey crew who'd flown me down to Sydney from Cairns, as I needed to be in the CONUS by that evening for my paperwork to be verified for my onward flight. The 209 Sqdn. guys were headed back to their base at RAF Calshot on almost the same routing as me, but a lot higher and a LOT faster. The big Martin 'boat slid down into my little bay and they sent a small RIB over to pick me up and off we went, just as in Australia.

 

 

The crew of XK440 kept low on this leg as they were semi-operational, keeping their eyes and electronics open for signs of submarine activity. We passed over lots of small, icy islands, many of them totally uninhabited, and some had really high hills or mountains and we needed to keep an eye out for them too!

 

 

 

 

 

 

After a relatively short while, to me anyway, we were o'head Chignik, much to their surprise I'm sure as it's not every day a big, 4 jet flying boat comes screaming over your arctic village! Getting clearance for landing on the lake wasn't really a problem as the entire population of the place wanted to look at the Monterey! So a low pass over the tarmac strip was called for......

 

 

Followed by a smooth landing on that impressive lake, surrounded by some hefty cliffs!

 

 

Conveniently the runway threshold and the airfield offices are right at the edge of the lake, and my 209 Sqdn. pals were easily able to moor up right alongside to let me off. Some of the locals came over to have a look-see, and before long XK440 was on her way back to the UK, getting there a LOT earlier than I would be of course.

 

 

Having made contact with the authorities about my onward flight I checked back with Shemya about 'Austral Roses' state and they said that the Albion flight was on approach right then and would soon be loading the stricken Sealand. Later on they send the confirming pic below, so I'll be expecting my aircraft and me to be re-united very soon. 

 

[MAD1]

Bosss, commiserations. The 'ol gal just didn't have it in her to get home! Oh well, thank God for friends in high places! I take it that air temp for the engines was the problem, far too cold, or is it the fuel, or the fuel pump, or a combination of all of that, simply too cold overall, is that correct?