I'm a fixed wing snob. I feel that I was born 50 years too late because I firmly believe that the only legitimate form of flight is in a proper airplane- one constructed of wood, covered in fabric with layer upon layer of hand- rubbed laquer, and which drags its backside upon the ground while it taxiis. That is how God intended us to fly. Not this stressed skin sheet metal, trike gear, glass cockpit nonsense that perpetuates at so many airports. The hell with the VORTAC and ILS! I want my stick and rudder and ever present threat of ground loops. METAR can go punch sand because if I look out the window and it's sunny and the sock is limp, I'm going to go punch some holes in the sky. And while I begrudgingly have hundreds of hours in various Cessna 150/ 152's, 172's, 182's and even a Fouga Magister, my most dearest hour of flying I've logged was flying a 1946 Aeronca Champ off a grass strip in the fall time in Vermont years and years ago. I remember that fall morning of 1994 with great reverence- the sun was just coming up over the Green Mountains and there was a thin layer of hoar frost on everything. The sky was crystal clear and not a trace of a breeze could be felt. I met my friend out in the parking lot and we walked over to the hanger, him talking about rime ice and how if his plane weren't hangard, we couldn't fly 'till the frost melted in the sun. Walking in the back door of the hanger and then around a Beech Bonanza that was in the throes of an engine overhaul, I got my first glimpse of his plane. Well, not really; I'd seen it hundreds of times before.

Before I met him, I earned time by mowing the lawn at the local municipal airport, and I'd stop what I was doing to watch him do takeoffs and landings, caught up in the awe of how gracefully he slipped the Champ down the final, straightening it out at the last minute, flaring it down to a perfect three point landing every time, with a faint *chirp* as the tires kissed tarmac, then nothing but the "putt-putt" as the Continental A65 lazily swung the prop around. Suddenly, the "putt-putt" would become an authoritive hum as the throttle was pushed to the stop, and if I was close enough, I'd be able to see the rudder moving ever so slightly as he danced on the pedals to keep the nose pointed down the runway. And then, flight. As smoothly as he decended and brought the Champ in contact with the ground, he was off and up into the air, climbing up to pattern altitude to do it all again. I yearned so badly to fly that plane, and through a series of fortuitous events, I was introduced to him and was offered a ride.

As we walked towards the Champ, sunlight shone through the windows just below the ceiling, revealing dust motes floating through the air. The Champ sat in the corner, facing out, with the propeller in the six and 12 o'clock position as if standing at attention, ready for whatever aerial adventure you could think up. The whole plane had a pugnacious appearance- the fuselage behind the main gear sat low to the ground and stretched out long, tapering down to the tail and almost comically small tail wheel, while the fuselage forward of the main gear was bent up and stout, ending bluntly just behind the propeller. Not a single shape or line of the Champ had even a hit of agressiveness to it and on a whole, had a quite inviting and relaxing appearance. Since it was warmer in the hanger than it was outside, we did the preflight before we rolled it outside. He handed me the checklist and stood back, giving me room and time to check everything over. As I walked around the plane, reading each step aloud and touching every item as I inspected it, I marveled at the perfection of every detail of the Champ. Every stitch in the fabric holding it to the wooden frame was exactly the same size and spacing and the fabric itself was as tight as a drum, every paint line was as smooth as glass and was either perfectly straight or had a perfect arc. The paint on the hinges wasn't chipped at all, nor was there even the slightest bit of excess grease dribbling down away from the center of the hinge. Inside the Champ, it was just as meticulous- not a speck of dirt on the floor, not a single fingerprint on any of the windows, and not even a hint of a wrinke on the vinyl seats. I suspected him of actually standing up while he flew, but made no mention of this.

Satisfied with the preflight, we pushed the hanger doors open and rolled the Champ outside. He sat me in the front seat to begin the engine start up checklist while closed the hanger doors. The details haven't remained with me, but I do remember it not being that much different than starting a more modern aircraft. We taxiid down to the end of the runway, slightly bouncing over the cracks and bumps in the tarmac. I noticed that it was more of a vertical bouncing motion, rather than a porpoising motion that trike gear planes exhibit, and was quite a bit more comforting than the porpoising. We held short of the runway and ran the engine up, checking the magnetos, and then called out our intentions on the radio. He let go of the brakes and gave the throttle a slight bump and stabbed at the left pedal to swing us out onto the center line. As smooth as I'd seen him countless times before, he advanced the throttle to the stop and before I knew it, the tail had come up and we were climbing steadily. At about 200 feet, he pointed out a small card that showed the stall speed, manuvering speed, never exceed speed and max speed. He then passed me the controls and said to have fun.

I continued to climb up to pattern altitude and called my intentions to depart the pattern to the north, and leveled off at about 1000' above the ground. Having never flown a plane with a stick, I did some shallow S- turns to get a feel for it and how much rudder to apply to get a coordinated turn out of it. Climbs and decents followed, and then a stall. It flew more gracefully than anything I've ever been in before or since. It wasn't fast, but it had enough power to do a wing over and even something resembling a stall turn. But the Champ isn't made for aerobatics, so I brought it down to about 300' above the ground and followed a small river, twisting left and right, working the stick and pedals in unison to keep the Champ on course. I was in heaven. Sadly, it had to come to an end. I climbed back up to pattern altitude and made the appropriate radio calls. Up to this point, he had been silent since I took the controls, and he asked me if I wanted to try landing it. Boy, would I! He gave me some tips on side slipping and what to expect once we touched down, since I'd never flown a plane without flaps, much less a nosewheel before.

As I turned final, I fed in some right rudder to cross- control through the turn, hanging the tail down towards the inside of the turn, and held it there as I straightened out. The plane ocillated a few times as I fought with the ailerons and elevator to get the Champ to go where I wanted it to go, but not where I was pointing it. Since we had tons of runway, I exited the slip about 50' up and performed a normal flare, managing to bounce once on the main gear before settling down to a reasonably dignified landing and roll out.

That flight back in '94 forever changed my perception of aviation. The freedom and sense of... just being RIGHT is something I'll eventually return to.

So why the hell am I, over 18 years later, flying helicopters? For God's sake, they're the aerial version of a red- headed stepchild! The only reason they attain altitude is because they're so ugly, the earth repels them. Why am I flying something that's just a bunch of parts flying in close formation, beating the air into submission. Because I had an epiphany during my last deployment to Iraq. I was about halfway through my tour, studying to make my next rank, when I realized that I don't want to do this the rest of my life. I don't want to keep deploying, seperated from my family and being put in harms way... for what...? And the thought of having to deal with the dog and pony show that is military beaurocracy for the next 17 years made my toes curl. Then I started thinking about what to do. Do I go back to my old job of working on cars and dreading waking up in the morning, or do I take advantage of the opportunities presented to me since I've been in, and to use the military as a stepping stone to get to where I really want to be? The answer was simple, but the choice was hard. WHERE do I want to be? Well, I'd love to be on a beach sucking down rum with some dumb blonde who thinks I'm the best thing since sliced bread, but after failing to find that job on Monster.com, I realized that I needed to think a bit more realistically.

I'd always wanted to get paid to fly, and after looking at the dismal outlook in the airline industry, I looked at what the helicopter industry was up to. Hey, I was desperate, OK? Flying is flying, right? Boy, was I in for a suprise.

To be continued...