Originally titled by some editorial-type, “Small Plane and Bad Weather Mean Long Day.” From September 12, 1990. – JDW
Have you ever flown in a small plane?
I thought I had once. There was no stewardess and no tray table to put back in its upright position.
The pilot – who seemed to be impersonating Rory Calhoun – just turned his head to holler instructions.
“In the unlikely event of a water landing,” pause for effect, “I hope y’all can swim.”
The passengers were seated according to weight. Apparently, we would fly in circles if all the hefty bottoms sat on the same side.
“One-eighty-five,” I said, after a classy businesswoman gulped and admitted to “one-forty-six (146), big bones.”
I eavesdropped on the lady behind me. Dressed in brown, she looked like a UPS truck. If she were thirty (30) years younger, she’d have been a first-round NFL draft choice. She had to go two-seventy (270) in her skivvies. Which I don’t want to see.
“152,” she said sweetly. “I have big bones, too.”
“I don’t do kilos, lady,” the pilot drawled. “What’s that in pounds?”
I recalled that trip as I climbed into a 1979 Cessna Hawk. Now, this is a small plane. Tiny. Like a two-door VW with wings. You don’t ride this aircraft, you wear it.
And the solitary (1) engine. Less than two-hundred horsepower. One-ninety-five (195) to be exact. Doesn’t seem like near enough.
“Yup, just one,” says Floyd Runyan, after I tell him I don’t see another power source. “Single engines are the safest, actually.”
Co-pilot Kitty Runyan tries to comfort me. (That’s what co-pilots are for.) “With a twin-engine, you lose one, you’re in deep bleep.”
The Runyans were two of the aviators who fanned around the state for the OMSI AUCTION FLY OUT.
OMSI, for those of you who just moved here and caused my rent to go up, is the Oregon Museum of Science & Industry.
The Fly Out’s mission carried the museum’s staff and volunteers to communities throughout Oregon, promoting the auction and presenting a sample of the science demonstrations offered through OMSI’s outreach program.
Things look different up here. Smaller. Flying through the Columbia Gorge at cliff level, we hit some turbulence.
In a plane this size, you feel like you’re at the rodeo. Entered in the bronco busting contest.
And your horse is named ‘Sudden Death.’
“There it is!”, Kitty shouts above the engine noise. Like Mom telling Dad when to exit the Interstate.
We’re on VFR. Visual Flight Rules, which means you can actually see where you’re going.
Kitty has found our first stop, the Hood River airport. We circle above orchards, like bristles on a beard, they sprout acre after acre.
Jimmy Chicavera, president of the local brewery which produces Full Sail Ale, waits for us with some donations for the auction – a case of beer and a certificate for twelve (12) folks to party their brains out at the legendary brew pub.
There’s a lot of clear-cuts on the Prineville. It’s a big land. Barren patches of gutted forest, dirt brown, dot the green landscape like the angry acne on a teenager’s cheeks. The trees are gone, but the logging roads remain, trails of dry tears, a network connecting the scars.
Nearly fifty (50) piles – each the size of a McMansion – of tires sit in the scrub desert a mile from the airport. Welcome to Les Schwab country.
At Pioneer Place, nearly one hundred (100) people listen attentively to Jim Todd, astronomy education coordinator, as he tells us that sun spots are really cooler areas on the star, which is a toasty eight thousand (8,000) degrees.
Pluto may have an atmosphere. Who knew? Todd actually made it sound kinda exciting.
I flew to Sunriver with Sue Calvo. Her husband is also a pilot. “I learned to fly, so I could land in case something happened to him,” she explained. “Then I got totally hooked.”
Sue recently placed fifteenth (15th) in an all-women’s race from Santa Monica to Bend. She exudes competence.
It starts raining as we land alongside the Deschutes. Major clouds. Huge drops. Major clouds. Wind.
Five planes are grounded. Hillsboro is socked in.
“I’m instrument-rated and I don’t want to go,” Kitty advised. “It would be sheer terror.”
One pilot asks for four volunteers. He’s going up in spite of the weather.
I’m the fifth person to raise my hand. (Couldn’t overcome my military training any sooner.)
Then there was his outfit. A baseball cap with gold leaf on the bill. A red jumpsuit.
Don’t know about you, but that just didn’t instill confidence. Especially the Birkenstock sandals with white socks.
Suppose he flew like he dressed?
Actually, turns out, he’s more experienced with a more powerful plane.
“More guts, too,” says Kitty.
I’m still disappointed not to be aboard.
“You couldn’t pay me a thousand dollars ($1,000) to climb into that plane,” another pilot offers, as we watch it climb into that dark sky.
“Couldn’t pay me five thousand dollars ($5,000).”
Can’t help thinking, these folks have more money than I do.
I’d do it for five hundred.
Minutes later, another airplane lands.
The pilot disembarks, drops to his knees and kisses the wet runway.
I change my mind.
Took a single-engine bus home.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hH6Sd4gbu20