There’s a new game I play every time I have the opportunity to fly the Cub. It’s called “how many?” and the object of the game is to count how many times pilots in the traffic pattern mention on the radio that they can’t see me on their ADS-B equipment. Yesterday, the count was only one, and within five minutes of returning to home base saturated with seven airplanes in and out of the traffic pattern, I was glad to hear not a second mention of our absence.
With such great flying weather available to us this time of year, one cannot fault the student, time-builder, or hobbyist like me taking a few moments out of our hectic schedules to wage war against the forces that keep us grounded. Clear blue skies ahead of our first dip into near-freezing temperatures welcomed us all with open arms.
Having been nearly six months since my last visit, my backyard sanctuary, Frémont Island, was an easy choice for the morning’s destination. Having been party to our local university’s meteorology leaders, the island’s remote weather station actively reports conditions every ten minutes. As expected, even this early in the morning, ten to fifteen miles per hour of a quartering right crosswind makes landing on the upper strip a treat. Descending terrain on either side of a narrow improved two-track road that slopes both laterally and vertically keep your eyes tuned to momentary divergences from straight ahead as environmental forgiveness in those last few miles per hour of the rollout become a workout in your ability to harness any yaw moments one could muster up in short notice.
This trip has been one in the making for over ten years. Saint-Exupéry wrote many times about how throughout his formative years in flight school how friends and colleagues would be whisked away to the far corners of the earth, rarely providing opportunities to enjoy the company of each other. Yet, when those opportunities come to fruition, the days/months/years in passing become nil as if no time had transpired since a prior meeting. Something his words have not only given aviators like me hope for those reunions, but joy in knowing they are possible.
In this latest adventure to the island, my passenger is a friend I’ve known since our years in university. Our origin story needing more space in this digital notepad than my iCloud account allows, we’ve spent many moments dissecting lyrics, testing aerodynamics principles, and questioning ignition system integrities road tripping through West Texas which I assume is akin to driving the Australian Outback but with more chances for big gulps. Last time his schedule availed an opportunity like this one (of us standing atop Frémont Island), the Cub’s left wing trailing edge was found to be cracked in three places. Instead of the Cub lifting us to higher elevations, we found ourselves lifting the left wing off the Cub, preparing the wing for some minor surgery that took the Cub out of commission during the prime flying season.
Flying low over the Great Salt Lake, the scent of the salty air permeates through the copious gaps and holes in 1930’s cockpit technology. The broad spectrum of hues red, blue, and white paint a picture before our eyes of the infinite mysteries of the lake, a lake rarely observed at such heights and locales. Nearby Antelope Island offers the thrill of the hunt as you discern whether you’re staring at a large sagebrush or a small bison resting momentarily on the hillside. As these lake levels fluctuate through the ebbs and flows of rainfall throughout the year, the land bridge connecting the causeway to Frémont once again rises through the water. A supposed safe haven for any mechanical irregularity welcomes one to fly even lower, allowing the low-hanging sun to paint the greatest painting on the ground below, an intricate shadow of the nicest-looking airplane to come out of Lock Haven, Pennsylvania.
The Island is a magical place, and I’m slowly realizing I say that about many places I’ve taken the Cub. Frémont, well within 5G range, offers you the opportunity to ask yourself “what was that noise?” as the silence of being a dozen miles or so away from any structure opens up a new world of observation. The trains traversing the Lucin cutoff, the shrimp boats making their rounds through the southern half of the lake, a momentary fighter jet cruising westbound for some fun are a few of the sounds one can partake in. Not to forget rocket motors that find the end of their service life an opportunity to go out with a (loud) bang.
The island has become a place that I take more ownership in than my front lawn. Hours of meetings negotiating with land owners and managers to maintain aircraft access to this place may be part of that ownership. A thirst for the history of the island, having read Frémont’s own words written about his journey to the Great Salt Lake, in addition to Dale Morgan’s research about the area, might be part of it too. Landing at a place that a half-dozen or so airplanes flying overhead likely completing stalls, steep turns, and slow flight cannot land might be a part of it too. Recounting the logbook in my mind (and on Google Photos), the island is the first dirt runway I’ve landed on in the Cub, so maybe that’s it.
Instead of trying to discern the origins of this sacredness of the island, much like the origin story of my friend/passenger this trip, my mind turns to the infinite possibilities that lie before me in this matter. For it is not one thing that brought the island to me, but the possibilities of things that keep me coming back. The sporadic introductions of fellow aviators (and aviation enthusiasts), the quick jaunts into a near-wilderness experience, the memories made in such a seemingly insignificant piece of land that barely holds itself up to its name by definition, I often find myself reaching into the past to rekindle these moments hoping scheduling constraints allow the creation of even more.