Flying to Oshkosh With Dangerous Dan,
The Dean of Danger
By J. Rion Bourgeois

Chapter 1. (Hair's afire; how they sell at the big show; buzzed by a Harrier)

At the last chapter meeting, in July, I found Dan Delano checking out the RV-6B and inquired if he was going to Oshkosh this year. He stated he might be, so I offered to share gas expenses for a ride in the right seat. He agreed to consider it, and after talking with Don Wentz, who was flying back with Doug Miner, it was agreed we would go back in a flight of two RV-6s, and meet an RV-4 and RV-6 in Casper, WY to make a flight of four into Oshkosh. This year, Oshkosh had a new Thursday through Wednesday format, so before dawn the next Monday, Dan picked me up at my home in Beaverton and we drove out to Dietz Airpark to load up N166D where it resides in a spanking new hangar with a beautiful polished Cessna 170 with a brand new interior. RV's are not only great airplanes, they keep good company.

We loaded a dome tent, two sleeping bags, two air mattresses, two clothes bags, two canteens, two cameras, a small stove, dehydrated oatmeal meals, 4 cassette tapes, two novels, and other miscellaneous items into the back of the airplane, woke up the Dietz folks and taxied into position by 5:55 am to be ready to pick up Don and Doug on 122.75 at the agreed upon 6:00 am, i.e. dawn. When they hadn't called in by 6:30, we launched into the breaking day and headed north. We almost immediately raised them on the radio, so we circled over my house and woke up my neighbors while Don came on from Scappoose. Don's excuse for being late was Janet had finally realized he was flying over the Rocky Mountains in an airplane he had built out in the garage, for gosh sake, and was acting real nervous, so he had to be particularly considerate and reassuring before he left. I had taken care of the same problem the night before: assured the wife the life insurance was paid up, and where she could find the policy. Didn't take me half an hour, for goodness sake.

We headed up the gorge in a flight of two, and flew at 7,500 feet straight into the rising sun, which eliminated approximately 100 degrees of visibility - straight ahead although the conditions were CAVU. Since we couldn't see each other, we spent the entire time to our first fuel stop in Lewiston, ID describing the landmarks off our right wingtips. "See that irrigation circle that looks like a bullseye? We just passed it." "See that wet draw that runs into the Columbia? We just passed it." Don told us to use his "Duck" handle, and he and Doug, who we named "Dougman", were bragging about lox and bagels and cream cheese and gourmet coffee. We picked up a Cessna 170 and Grumman Lynx on 122.75. Despite his cowboy panache, you could tell the Cessna pilot was infected with the same Oshkosh excitement.

At Lewiston, we had to extend our downwind a little for the east/west runway to accommodate a Harpoon fire tanker coming in on the north/south. We paid $1.99 per gallon for 20 gallons of gas, and finished breakfast about the time the Cessna/Grumman flight arrived. Nice guys, they finished last. After breakfast, Duck/Don had to call his wife to let her know he was a-okay, and Dougman had to call his uncle who was meeting us in Missoulla to see the RVs.

Cumulus was building by the time we left Lewiston, but we made Missoulla very quickly over the Bitterroot Range where we paid $2.13 per gallon for a mere 8 gallons, and visited with Doug's kinfolks.

Our next leg was a long one to Casper. By the time we left Missoula early in the pm, there was some weather east of us. We kept climbing, and the cumuli-nimbi kept building, and we kept climbing, until at 12,000 feet we had one last ridge to cross running east-west into the cloud cover, which pretty much ran north-south. We were heading southeast, and it looked to me like the ridge was pretty much the end of that route, being above us and running into the cloud cover, so I piped up "Dan, it doesn't look like we can make that ridge." "I just want to take a peek", says Dan. "Looks like just more clouds beyond it," says I. Silence from the left seat.

Approaching the ridge at 180 mph, and still below it, my eyes glued to the ridge line "I think we better turn back, I don't think we can make that ridge" says I. "Just want to take a peek" comes back from the left seat. Closer and closer we come, still below the ridge line, still no indication we'll deviate from impending doom, I look over at Dan -- and he's gone! Sitting at the controls is DANGEROUS DAN, DEAN OF DANGER, AND HIS HAIR IS ON FIRE! Fifty feet from the ridge top, we peek over -- solid clouds -- then do a vertical turn to our left, look up, and see Duck doing the same to his right.

There is a huge valley running south into the Rockies, which I believe to be the Wind River Range, but the clouds are still coming in from the east, which would fill the valley mouth if we go in, but we turn and run south into the valley of the shadow of death, but it turns east and it's clear beyond, and I'm looking down on lakes I fished almost twenty years ago. That was some adventure, then. Never did it occur to me way back when that someday I'd fly above those lakes at 180 mph in a homemade airplane with Dangerous Dan laughing in the face of death and chattering on 122.75 with other damn fools about mountain goats and looking for a way out of the mountains while we still have gas.

We landed in the face of a 30 mile wind at Casper under perfectly clear skies, and paid a "homebuilders special" of only $1.97 per for 24.4 gallons, and only $10 per RV for hangar storage, instead of the usual $12 per, and caught a taxi into town for rooms, a stroll across the North Platte River, and dinner at the newest restaurant in town, which may also be the best. The beer and seafood was mediocre, but the beef was excellent. We were asleep before dark.

We hooked up in Casper with an RV-6 painted like a Corsair (this side up arrow on the vertical stab) and an unpainted RV-4, both from California, piloted by Chris and Mike respectively. Tuesday morning early, we are ready to launch, but Don's starter wouldn't turn the engine over. Dangerous Dan hops out and props it while Don engages the starter, and eventually it starts and we launch in a flight of 4, with the Corsair -6 doing wingstands on takeoff in the -4's propwash.

Dan lets me do most of the flying this leg, and I fail to switch tanks. He takes over just as we approach Huron, SD for gas and brunch, and the engine quits on downwind due to a dry right tank, but starts right back up after he switches to the left tank. Our flight leader misses runway 36 and lands on runway 30 with Dan and I right behind. Duck gives up and goes back around. I kept the tanks balanced the rest of the trip, and the tic went away right after we landed. On the ground, we find a Meyers 200 that belongs to the guy in Houston who owns the hangar where 13 RV's are a-building. Apparently they are using the Meyers 200 for the baggage wagon but the pilot is alone. When he refers to the Meyers as a "baggage wagon", Mike the RV-4 pilot says "Hell, that's what we [RV-4 pilots] call RV-6's."

Don's left brake was mushy, so he borrows wrenches and an oilcan with flexible spout to fill and bleed the line. The spout won't reach low enough, so I lend a helping hand and break it off. Hitching a ride in to the local NAPA store, I get the lowdown on Huron from the cross-country mail truck driver. He thinks Huron is dying because the interstate passed it by, but I find all six counterpersons busy in the NAPA store, and my driver is also complaining about Californians moving into the area and driving up real estate values, so it seems to me they are doing okay. Don and I finish fixing the brakes, wolf brunch, Dangerous Dan props Duck, and we launch for LaCrosse, WI.

East of Huron, things are still flat, brown and hazy, but as the ground starts greening up, the cumulus clouds start building and getting thicker. We climb to 9,500 to get over them, and can still see the occasional town or city through the breaks. However, we lose sight of Duck and Dougman and our other two flight members, and can't see enough of the ground to describe location on 122.75. Instead we start describing clouds. "See that cloud that looks like a breast? The nipple is off our right wingtip." "See that big spiky cloudy to the left of the three squat ones in a row? We just passed it on the right." Real intelligent stuff, but lots of other Oshkosh bound planes are broadcasting position fixes almost as silly. Everybody on 122.75 is heading to Oshkosh and high with anticipation. We climb to 11,500 to stay above the clouds, but don't want to get any higher without supplemental oxygen. The cloud cover is also getting thicker, with large columns growing up to about 15,000 feet above an almost solid base that extends from 3,000 to 10,000, so we decide to go down below it. I find a tunnel running to the south along the eastern side of a huge column and DIVE down the tunnel to the open air below the base, dropping from clear sky blue and pure cloud white to the grey and green of rain soaked Minnesota or Wisconsin. WHAT A RUSH!

The next hour is the easiest navigation of the whole trip as our track is exactly down the section lines. We find the blue Corsair/RV-6 and Duck heading into LaCrosse, which is a beautiful town with a beautiful airport, both right on the Mississippi. Lots of new residential construction is visible from the air. Dan makes a perfect landing, but turns the wrong way off the runway, so Don beats us to the pumps, where the blue RV-6 and unpainted -4 are already gassing up. We fill up, paying $2.24 per gallon for 17.5 gallons, the highest price for the trip. On the ramp, we brief for the approach into OSH. Mike the RV-4 pilot acts as flight leader, and suggests we cross over Ripon to the SE, circle back around and then head up the railroad tracks to the NW to Fisk and OSH. The published procedure is to fly single file up the tracks, with those who can maintain 90 mph at 1,800 feet, and those that can only maintain 130 mph at 2,300 feet. At Fisk, the controllers give you instructions, and you are to only wag your wings, and stay off the radio. Overflying Ripon towards the SE gives us an opportunity to expand or constrict a circle, and ease into the traffic. We drop back into single file, overfly Ripon to the SE, circle back around to the West, then fly NE over Ripon to pick up the railroad tracks, and a blue and yellow RV-6A slips in at the head of our column! We fly 1500 miles to have Bill Benedict and son meet us over Ripon in the Van's Aircraft factory RV-6A for a flight of five! What are the odds?

A polished Lockheed Electra overflies us just before Fisk. The controllers send everyone else for a left base for runway 36 inside the blue water tower, but break Dan and I out of the RV flight to follow the Electra for a right downwind for runway 27. They tell Dan to put it on the numbers, and he does, and gets a "good job RV-6" from the controllers. WE HAVE LANDED AT AIRPLANE MECCA! The weather immediately begins to clear.

Dan had the foresight to prepare a SHOWPLANE CAMPING sign and I hold it up and waggle it at every groundperson, and they wave us on. We pass Bill Benedict on his way to the RV portion of SHOWPLANE PARKING, and find Don and Doug already in the camping area right in front of Ollie's Barn. We get placed two rows back and four planes over. We are right by the fence to Ollie's place, and Don and Doug are on the road. Our California compadres parked in Showplane Parking and moved into a motel. We start setting up camp and discover we left the lawn chairs in Portland. We almost miss dinner, but find the Exhibit Cafe still open and get the plainest cheeseburger I have ever seen for dinner.

I had heard horror stories about getting into OSH and the crowds and the lousy weather, but this year it is all perfect. Tuesday night is clearing and cool, Wednesday is clear and mid- 70's. Dan and I get a shower after only a twenty minute wait. Dangerous Dan and I almost crashed the women's shower, heading for one of  the doors without a line, but a lady straightened us out just in time. "You realize this is the women's trailer, DON'T YOU?" Oops. We just assumed that since the first door said "Women", the next one must be the "men's". The damn trailers have a door on each end, but each trailer only serves one sex. Where are those controllers when you need them? You can't expect a guy to read every damn sign.

The convention doesn't officially open until Thursday, so we spend Wednesday at the EAA's Eagle Hangar museum, Pioneer Airport, and shopping for lawn chairs. The museum is awesome! It has everything you would imagine except for an RV. Looking at the homebuilt section, which has Lancair, Rutan, Pitts and Wittman examples, you can sense the gap. The prototype RV-3 our chapter is rebuilding for donation will be a definite plus.

I discovered that the Duckworks landing lights Don Wentz developed has been done before: check out the landing lights on the XP-51 prototype; exactly like Don's, except the lower cutout is slightly tearshaped towards the fuselage. So it appears Don's lights will make my RV-4 more like a P-51 rather than less. Hot damn! Don Wentz gives "laid back" new meaning, and Dan Delano is only slightly less easygoing. Doug and I are through the museum and Pioneer Airport when Don and Dan are just entering the first hangar, so Dougman and I head back to Wittman Field to check out the Flymarket and look for lawn chairs. We get separated, but Doug finds me and insists I come look at some ubiquitous green lawnchairs just like some I had already rejected at another vendor's booth. "You might not like the chairs, but you have GOT to see this sales girl!" he insists. I stroll over and must agree. The gal is a knockout, wearing a spray on white knit short shorts and tank top ensemble. Totally inappropriate and absolutely amazing. The chairs were still not suitable, but we tried them out anyway. I discovered that several of the vendors in the Flymarket resort to this disgusting male chauvinistic ploy to bring in buyers. One engine developer even had a model in a bikini laying on a lounger outside of its tent. I had to stare just to convince myself such a blatant exhibition of exploitation of the female form was actually occurring. After careful examination of the girl, her pose, and the location, I concluded it really was occurring. I took another look just to make sure. Doug examined the situation, and agreed with me. We get back to the planes, and an RV builder strolls over and strikes up a conversation about Don's plane. I notice he is carrying one of the ubiquitous green lawn chairs like the ones I had rejected. "You buy that here?", I inquire. "Yeah, from the girl in white" he states. She was definitely remarkable. I'm glad I didn't fall for the ploy as Dan shows up shortly with two good lawnchairs.

We had a brief rainshower Wednesday afternoon, but then it clears up for the "golden hour" which I use to advantage to check out all the showplanes and some of the warbirds before the crowds of groundlings arrive. On the way back to camp, I fall in step with a controller. They have hundreds of volunteers to fill a couple of dozen positions, and love handling the convention, even though they work like dogs. They estimated 6,000 - 7,000 planes on the field when it closed Wednesday night, and expected another 2,000 to fly in Thursday. Showplane Camping was not filled up, and in fact never fills up, but itinerant camping was already filled up Wednesday afternoon before the convention opened. I don't know the exact definition of a "Showplane" as in "Showplane Camping", but from what I could tell by the planes allowed to camp there, any taildragger qualifies, and a Cessna 172 with a fancy paint job can get in too. Any trike that was not a high production model will definitely be allowed in. If you fly in early, like we did, you will get a spot in close in Showplane Camping. If you fly in late, you might get a close in spot, too, as they fill in early departures' spots.

Late Wednesday the Bonanza flight arrived. I believe the controller said 105. They had gathered at another field, and arrived all together with their landing lights ablaze. Very impressive. However, they fell far short of the 163 C-120, C- 140's that arrived together in 1988, Dangerous Dan amongst them. I am looking forward to beating the record with a flight of RV's. Hope I get my RV-4 finished in time.

We eat a rubber chicken dinner Wednesday night at the Hangar Cafe, and are entertained at the theater in the woods by a comedian who tells stories around sound effects he makes with his mouth. Hilarious. Big straight lines of Port-a-Potties are everywhere at Oshkosh. They are also constantly being serviced. I always thought they carried them away when they were full for servicing. I'm in one doing my business and reading a book (scifi - beautiful space yacht captain) when I hear a monster truck drive up, the potty doors start slamming and the whole line starts shaking. My god, there gonna carry me off! I get outta there fast, and check out the operation. They don't carry 'em off. They come around once a day with a big tank truck and a 4 inch hose and suck 'em out. The hose jumps and writhes like a head-pinned snake when the lumps come through. Gross.

Thursday morning at 6 am, the sound effects comic wakes everyone up with his impression of a big Pratt & Whitney or Wright Cyclone radial engine starting up, then switches over to yodeling. He did this every morning we were there. Bizarre.

Don had located his starter vendor on Wednesday, who had agreed to replace his starter if Don would troubleshoot his solenoids and starter circuit. Thursday morning, Don takes off his cowl,
and RV builders are drawn like moths to a flame. It was almost as effective as a girl in a bikini on a lounge chair. Between answering questions about this and that, mostly about the fuel injection system, we troubleshoot the starter system. When you turn the key, the solenoid pushes the Bendix gear out, but it hangs up on the starter ring. We remove the starter, and run it. Seems to work okay, so we reinstall it, but increase the teeth engagement space with washers. The Bendix gear still hangs up on the starter ring. We bypass the master solenoid. Still no joy. We take off the starter, find the vendor at his plane in Showplane Parking, and obtain the replacement.

All the booths are open, now, so Duck and I take in the exhibits and check out all the displays. It is too far to hike back to the planes, so we take turns carrying the starter. Don begins a long quest for a hot pink hat with his aircraft type and N-number on it. It's a long search that pays off Friday night. But Thursday he gets a free pin from his fuel injection system vendor for standing at the booth praising the system. They should have given him a hot pink hat to pin it on for taking off his cowl. I check out the Moravian inline 4 and 6 cylinder engines, the Zoche radial diesel, and the Franklin six as possible options for my RV-4. The most notable aircraft we see is the new Glastar. They are going to sell like hotcakes to the utility and floatplane market. I heard they sold 13 kits in one weekend at Arlington. I listened to part of the new Van's Aircraft promotional videotape at the Van's Aircraft tent. Ken Scott sounds just like the guy who narrates WINGS on the Discovery Channel. I thought Ken didn't watch TV. Don and I hike and ride the John Deere shuttle back to the planes, install the new starter, and it works great.

We have a great view of the airshow right by our planes. Luckily we are parked next to high wing jobs, and have the benefit of their shade. A couple named Ron and Nancy in a 180 parked next to Don. They loan us their tools for starter work, and their shade for the airshow. This "first couple" I liked.

Packed the cell phone all the way so I wouldn't have to stand in line to phone home and the office, but couldn't get it to work Wednesday or Thursday. Friday night someone tells me you have to call Cellular One and register to activate the phone in the area.

Dangerous Dan decides to risk the field cuisine again Thursday night, but Doug, Don and I walk out to the main gate to hitch in to town. I stick out a thumb, and a sedan with two old guys immediately stops. Another sedan right behind them with two old fat broads starts honking their horn and gesturing for us to get in. We quickly hop in the back seat of the old guys' car. They are real gentlemen; pilot retirees from Kansas City. The driver is startled by a bicyclist at the corner, and jumps the curb. He apologizes for it the rest of the night, but it wasn't that close. They recommend The Winemaker's, and we join them for a great meal (stick to the beef, and skip the seafood) and great conversation. One of them is restoring a Taylorcraft, and the other is looking for an Ercoupe to do the same. They have been coming to Oshkosh for twelve years, and always stay in the same place, which they found posted on a bulletin board their first year. They fly in (this year in a rental), park their car at the west end of itinerant parking, jump the fence, stroll over to the bar, and call their hostesses, two stewardesses who live in a converted barn, who come and pick them up. The stewardesses don't charge them anything, just allow them to pay whatever they think the stay is worth. They fix them breakfast every morning, and fix them dinner if they want it. They also provide them the car they are driving. They claim the only disadvantage is the hot water heater is too small, so sometimes they have to shower with the stewardesses. I think they were gilding the lily a little with the shower story, but Duck and Dougman believed it all. They started scouring bulletin boards, anyway. The old guys give us a ride back. The one with night blindness steers and works the pedals, and the other guy tells him when and where to turn. Now I can see why the bike startled him. It would have been simpler if the guy who could see had both steered and navigated. Less fun, though. Dropped us off right at the front gate. A couple of tent vendors are still open. Don and I buy T-shirts for the families, and Dougman buys a set of anatomically correct "bushpilot wings" which he pins to his hat. You gotta see 'em to believe 'em. At 10 p.m. I can finally get to the pay phone 100 yards from the tent and call home. I'm alone under a streetlight surrounded by classic airplanes and almost total silence, just a few tunes drifting over the fence from the road RV's over by Ollie's Barn. Beautiful. I punch in 25 digits at the appropriate tones, and am talking with my loved ones. Groovin'. Friday morning, I'm up extra early to beat the line to the shower. Second day of the convention, and I get in without a wait at the fixed base shower next to the Hangar Cafe. Less luxurious than the trailer showers, though. Feeling like an old hand who knows all the ropes.

Friday, I spoke with the pilot of the Harrier jet. One of the duties of the military pilots who fly military aircraft in airshows is to stand in front of their plane and let the general public ask them stupid questions. They are under strict orders to be polite. I decide to test him. "Have you seen that new Arnold Schwarzenegger movie, 'True Lies'", I ask.
He answers, obviously for the hundredth time, "Yes, sir, I did."
"So what did you thing of the Harrier jet scenes; were they realistic?"
He draws a deep breath, and fires away:
"The only real jets are the ones in the long shot, attacking the bridge. The Harrier the actor flew was a mockup dangling from a crane.
"The military pilots you saw on the ground were real Air Force, but they were ground crewmen. "If you tried to ride on the back of a Harrier like the terrorist did, you would get sucked into an engine.
"You can't fire the guns in hover. It would knock the plane over. If you did fire the number of rounds into a skyscraper that the actor did, it wouldn't just knock out the windows, furniture, and interior walls, it would cut the building in half."
"Anything else, sir?" He smiles courteously.
"No, thank you captain, I believe you've covered it, thank you very much," says I, and beat a hasty retreat. He is obviously well prepared for sniper fire.

Chapter 2. (The Acey-Deucey)

After the buzz job by the Harrier pilot, I return to camp to see what the others are up to, and find Dougman relaxing in the shade of Ron and Nancy's 180 wing reading his book. I pull up a lawn chair and pull out my sci-fi thriller and join him. The conditions are perfect: sunny sky, mid-80's, slight breeze, aircraft sound surrounds us, and a good book. A few moments later, half of Portland shows up: first Layton Mangles and his hangar mate Larry Uzelac drop by. Layton's mom lives in Milwaukee, he flew out commercial, and Larry flew his restored Pacer out. They are staying at Layton's mom's house, and will fly back in Larry's plane. As soon as they walk off, and while still in sight, Doug Stenger pops up with Jim Rowe, Eustace Bowhay's partner in the RVs on floats project. Finding our groups' three orbits in this eerily close juxtaposition gives a feeling of comfort, of affirmation, that is Zen-like. This feeling is present the whole time we are there, to a lesser degree, since everyone at Oshkosh has the same religion - love of airplanes - but seeing several people you know and respect in a strange place doing the same thing you are doing at the exact same instant in time intensifies the feeling. Other familiar faces were Dexter Kincaid at the air museum on Wednesday, and Tim Skinner who dropped by the camp. We also saw Dave Baxter's aircraft, but not him in the flesh.

When I get tired of reading, I mosey back through the fly-market for the third time, filling in any gaps. Since we are leaving the next day, the purse strings are a little looser and I succumb to the charms of a 2" diameter flathead rivet set even bigger than the one Randall found at Boeing surplus and some neat little MS hose brackets. I also finally find a hat vendor who will sell baseball caps with your aircraft type and N number ironed on for a reasonable price. I have one each done for Dangerous Dan and me in a nifty tie-dyed blue, and almost get one for the Duck in hot pink, but when I ask for it, the vendor mentioned another guy had purchased two the same atrocious color earlier that afternoon. "Was he stocky, baby-faced, and slow-talking?" I asked, describing the Duck. "Yeah, that's him," confirmed our vendor. "Never mind, then, he's beaten me to it."

I give up my quest for the holy grail (a mid-time Lycoming less expensive than my best car) and play a quick game of Port-a-Pottie etiquette (place 13 potties in a semi-circle, form two long, anxious, unisex lines, and watch the faces, or feet, at the head of the lines when the 7th pottie vacates) before passing over into the warbird compound. These aircraft are staged in descending order from the flight-line according to desirability. At the front are the WW-II fighters, and at the back the liaisons. Just about in the middle I find a long row of Cessna mixmasters painted up like the one in the "Danny Glover saves Gene Hackman in Vietnam" movie. If you have a plain jane civilian job, there is an outfit in the Detroit area that will convert it to the warbird, including hardpoints for munitions.

Probably the most numerous warbird is the North American trainer: the T-6 - SNJ - Harvard. After years of pictures of Grand Champion warbirds in SPORT AVIATION, I find one here in the flesh. Every piece has been removed, cleaned or replaced, painted, and then reassembled. Painted in Harvard colors, it could not have looked this good when it left the factory floor fifty years ago. Only 6 hours on the restoration, it reeks of expense and excess. Personally, I prefer the original, experimental, concept of aircraft the EAA grew up around: affordable aircraft available to everyman. But I guess it wouldn't be politically correct to exclude millionaires from the club.

A growing contingent in the warbird division is the commie jet trainer become capitalist's toy. The rivet work on the Czech machines is as good as anything I've seen in our builders' group. 'Course it's easy to countersink and flush rivet .063 skins.

At the far end of the warbird ramp are a couple of Cessna or Beechraft twins used as bomber crew trainers, and even in combat. These restorations have bubble noses and machine guns. In one, the machine gun barrels are plumbed to propane lines and have spark ignitors. The crew claims it sounds like the real thing. Hmmm ... hard points in my leading edge for propane tank and barrels, connect the ignitors to the laser circuit, drop out of the sun on a fat and sassy RV-6 and it's SHOWTIME: SMOKED DUCK!!! YESSS!!!

Late Friday afternoon, an hour into the airshow, a huge thunderstorm looms from the North-east. Lightning begins to flash and counting seconds to the thunder marks it approaching over the lake. The black cloud and streaks of lightning make a great backdrop for the lady with brass boobs out on the big Stearman's wing. She is the highest point for miles, but they don't cancel the show 'til she's down. I catch a John Deere back to camp to wait out the approaching storm and settle down in a lawn chair by Dan's RV-6 with my sci-fi novel. The wind grows stronger, and I look up to find Dougman and The Duck scrambling around doubling their tie- downs and sprucing up. I walk over to see what's the rush. The Duck tells me that he and Dougman had been in the Miller beer tent outside the main gate (the only source of alcohol in walking distance), and had met some nice folks who had been "working the show" and been invited to dinner in town, transportation provided. He opines that I could tag along. I've been wearing the same trousers for five days, the same T-shirt for two, haven't brushed my teeth in twelve hours, haven't shaved in a week, and am too tired to spruce up, so I decline.

"They offered to take us to the Acey-Deucey after dinner", reveals Dougman.
"What's the Acey-Deucey?", I inquire.
"It's THE bar," explains Dougman.
I maturely demur: "Naw. We're flying out in the morning, and I don't want to get liquored up."
"Last year, a girl got up on the bar, took off her pants, and had a Russian Mig pilot autograph her panties," reveals Doug.
"I'll get my jacket," says I, and the Three Amigos RIIIDE!

The wind is rising as fast as our expectations as we hoof it to the front gate. The John Deere's have quit running, so we quickmarch so we won't be left. We try to take a short-cut out, and one of the amateur EAA security guards/gatekeepers tell us we are on the wrong side of the road. I can't see any difference, but jump across the road. The Duck wants to debate the issue with him, but Dougman grabs his elbow and drags him across the road and saves the mood.

By the time we get to the Miller tent, it is pouring down rain. The tables in the open area around the tent are deserted. The tent has more tables all the way around and just under its edges. It's raining so hard, the four eaves of the tent roof are filling with water, and every few minutes the bartender calls for someone to empty them, and there is a mini-waterfall, with a cheer from the crowd, so you can't stand around the outside of the tables under the edge of the tent. There is room for maybe twenty-five people to stand comfortably inside the tables and in front of the bar and cooler, which takes up one whole side of the tent. Fifty of the young and the restless are crammed inside, cheek to jowl, with a sex ratio of about five to one: just enough ladies so there is always a pretty face in sight. The party looks about seventy-five minutes old, and it is rocking. The common adversity of the cold rain and the shared pleasure of the cold beer has everybody feeling fraternal. The Duck and Dougman spot their friends, and duck under the table to join them out of the rain. There is no way they can reach the bar, so I go around to the bar side of the tent and stand outside in my Gortex jacket and order three cold ones.

The bartender is assisted by two very pretty and buxom young Scandinavian barmaids with low-cut laced-across-the-bodice blouses with the flounced sleeves like the St. Pauli girl wears. I gather they are college girls because they have a pail suspended over the bar with a sign saying "Tuition Fund" pasted to it. The barmaids have to lean over the wide bar to pass out the beer and pick up the money, and the appreciative pilots toss wadded dollar bills into the pail. Spirits are definitely high.

I grab the three beers, walk back around the tent, and duck under the table into the crowd where I am introduced to our hosts who The Duck described as "working the show". Actually, they are members and staff of an aviation industry association here for their annual meeting or some other official type gathering. I'm introduced to three of its members who all appear to be in their low to mid 30's. A younger lady named Bonnie is in the group, a member of the association staff, and is acting as host for the members, along with another staff person, and Bonnie appears to be the social director. In any event, she is in charge. They are all exuberant about the prospects for general aviation. Another reveals, indirectly, that he is involved in the industry for the love of flying, not the money. I ask what is new and exciting, and get a predictable: "product liability reform". They may have just come from a peptalk/speech about how their mission is to help pilots because pilots are general aviation, but in any event they take us under their wings and treat us damn good. Before we can finish our beers, Bonnie leads us all to the parking lot to load up for town. She and two of her association's members or staff people get in the front of a five-seat mid-sized rental car, with Bonnie riding the console. Don on the left, Doug in the middle, and I on the right squeeze into the back seat. With six aboard, the car is definitely overloaded and dragging ass. Everybody is wet, and the car is instant sauna, even with all the windows down, but Bonnie keeps up a steady banter that keeps us laughing. She is truly the hostess with the mostest.

We have to wait at the gate for traffic, and are presented with a Simonesque tableau. At Oshkosh, Port-a-Potties are very dear. Every gatehouse, ticket office, and other facility manned by EAA staff and volunteers have one or more of their own, complete with little brass padlock. Standing in front of the locked Port-a-Potty at the gate was a security guard in his rain slicker with his arms folded across his chest shaking his head at two gorgeous young gals, probably actresses are models, dressed to kill, shifting their weight from foot-to-foot, crossing one knee over the other, knitting their fingers in supplication and gesticulating at the Port-a-Potty. Any red blooded American boy would be happy to have these two babes pee in his lap, and this officious fool won't let them use his Port-a-Potty! Fair Bonnie to the rescue: she tells Don to offer them a ride. "Uh, where are we going to put them?", he sensibly inquires. "We'll squeeze them in", she insists. "Okay", acquiesces the Duck doubtfully. "Hey, you ladies want a ride to town," he shouts dubiously. The two knockouts look over at our car. "We just want to use the bathroom," replies one, stating the obvious. "Okay, just thought I'd ask", responds the Duck with relief. Fair Bonnie leans over the driver so the girls can see her: "Come on, we're going to Callahan's. You can use the john there," she shouts. Reassured by Bonnie's presence, they climb, or actually crawl, into the back seat, which is transformed from a peapod to a sardine can. Both are blonde. The first one is wearing skin tight jeans which have been cut off at the knees and rolled up into a cuff, with a tight, pink, knit, bare shoulder top with short sleeves and plunging neckline. She crawls over Don and Doug, then rolls over and settles into my lap with her left arm around my neck. With an effort, I can just keep my chin out of her cleavage. She wears her blonde hair long and straight. Her name is also Bonnie. What are the odds: in a car with three pretty blondes, and two are named Bonnie? We eventually learn that Bonnie-in-the-back-seat is corporate pilot with over two thousand hours, more than 100 times her age. Her most exciting flight experience to date is losing one engine in a twin over Lake Michigan. She has the cocky presence to match her experience. Cool and composed, she only speaks when spoken to.

The second beauty does her blonde tresses in the straight but frizzy style. She's wearing white creased and cuffed shorts, and a red silk shirt with the tails tied up, leaving her firm young belly bare. She settles in on Doug's lap, with her long legs draped over the Duck's. Her name is Gwendolyn, and she is an account executive for an aviation magazine or supplier, I forget which. She has the friendly, outgoing personality you would expect from her sales position, and turns out to be a real sweetheart, showing interest in others, and initiating conversation. Right now, she is in distress.

"Please hurry", she wails, "I have to go so bad." Just my luck, I think, a strange broad is going to pee in my lap, and I'm not wearing any protection. The driver is trying to oblige her, and when traffic stops suddenly, he overestimates the stopping ability of the overloaded car, which skids on the wet pavement, and comes within a hairsbreadth of rearending the van in front of us. There is a real cop in yellow slicker on each side of the car directing traffic. "Take it easy," I advise, dispensing free legal advice, "If one of those cops looks in here, we are all going to get arrested for exceeding vehicular capacity." "Arrested hell," says the Duck, "If my wife sees me, I'm going to get shot!"

Gwendolyn and Bonnie-in-the-back-seat laugh, and shift a little to look at us. One of them says "You guys are so nice to give us a ride. I know this must be hard on you." I glance over at Doug. He closes his eyes, lets his head fall back, and breaks grin, but doesn't say it, so I take it upon myself to do so: "It ain't hard yet, honey, but if we hit a fair stretch of bumpy road, I reckon it will be." Strangely, neither of them laugh, although I detect a grin from Bonnie ITBS, but they do quit their infernal shifting, although Gwendolyn won't give up a nervous habit of tossing her frizzy damp hair in my face. Most disconcerting.

After a ride that seems like seconds over a plate glass road, we reach Callahans. Don hops out, and the two girls hitch themselves along over Doug and out the car. The ride must have aggravated Dougman's bad back, because he sets a spell before getting out, and then walks around bent over for another spell before he can straighten up.

All three girls are off like a shot for the ladies room. We wait at the door for the rest of the entourage, who arrive in another car and a van. Altogether, there are about fifteen of us, including the three girls. We all head into the bar, where I order a round in appreciation, and then follow The Duck and the Dougman into the men's room, passing Bonnie, Bonnie and Gwendolyn in the hall. The Three Amigos are lined up enjoying the cool, smooth, white cleanliness of American Standard urinals after a week of smelly, warm, fuzzy, gray plastic Port-a-Potties.
"Damn, this water is cold," starts the Duck.
"Deep, too," I continue.
"And the bottom's rocky," finishes Dougman.

A stranger at the end of the row laughs, then says: "Wow, did you see those three blondes coming out of the ladies room? They must be actresses or something." "Yes, or something, and they're with us," says Duck a fraction truthfully, failing to mention the other twelve lucky devils in our entourage. "Really," says the stranger. "What are you guys, movie producers?" "No, we're RV pilots," explains the Duck truthfully, and we hustle back to the bar, where fantasies await.

Callahans is an upscale, oaky, ferny, type restaurant, with good food and a fair wine list, with stained glass and overhead wine glass racks in a bar that does as much business for imbibers as waiting diners. In the bar, I get close enough to overhear the short biographies and garner the perceptions of Gwendolyn and Bonnie ITBS described above. I notice most of the older pilots are standing around with their left hands in their pockets, and discover I am too. I jerk it out guiltily, and make a point of passing a beer under Gwendolyn's nose with my left hand, ring finger in flagrante delicto. After a few, we are all ushered to two corner tables, where the backseat five are reunited. I notice that Gwendolyn and Bonnie take pains to bracket Dougman. We order, and as usual I go for the seafood and Duck and Dougman go for the beef. No sooner do we order, then Gwendolyn and Dougman rise and leave. In a few seconds they reappear outside the window, and walk together into the motel office across the parking lot. Thirty seconds later, about the time my eyes crawled back in their sockets, they come right back out unwrapping their cigarette packs. I didn't catch the brand, but they were not Lucky Strikes.

I get lucky, at last, with the seafood, a poached English cod. After we eat, a late arrival from the other table drags his chair over to Bonnie ITBS, sits down backwards, and asks boorishly which position she likes best. Everybody within earshot sucks in their breath with embarrassment. She didn't blush, she didn't stutter, she didn't even quiver: "Well, personally, I derive the most intense pleasure flying VFR on top, but like most, I find carrier operations most exciting. You know, full thrust on touch down in case your tailhook misses the arresting wire." We all whooshed and laughed together. Crash and burn, sucker. Pilots rule.

Fair Bonnie, our hostess with the mostest, announces that the next stop is the Acey-Deucey. This time, she puts the backseat five in a van. Much more comfortable, but much less fun. By now it's dark, and our driver can't find the Acey-Deucey. He has the address, and Oshkosh has a number/name street grid, so we find the street with the right number, then drive down it one way and then the other 'til we find the Acey-Deucey. This is a real bar, and has been a real bar for a long time, if not built as a bar. The building is two stories of white clapboard, and the bar is on the first floor, which is up two granite steps from the sidewalk, like they built them when the streets were mud and manure. It's about 100 feet by 50 feet, and the door isn't on the corner, but about halfway down the long side. Over the door hanging from a galvanized pole is a common plastic illuminated sign with the bar's name like the liquor companies give out. You step in, and the floor is worn hardwood, the bar runs all the way down the room to the right, facing bar stools, then tables, then wooden booths. The bathrooms are straight ahead, and there are pool tables to the left which are lighted by incandescent bulbs in metal shades, white on the inside, green on the outside, hanging from electrical cords from the high ceiling with cigarette smoke curling through the cones of light thrown on the pool tables. That's it. No frills, no fancies. The place reeks of beer, cigarette smoke, and machismo. The temperature is ninety-five and the dew point the same. The walls are sweating. The booths and tables are full up, and it is standing room only. All the men look like pilots, ages twenty to fifty, with the bell in the curve right at thirty-five. All the women look sexy, and aged twenty to thirty, with the bell in the curve slightly to the left. The ratio is about five to one. If you took a poll, eighty percent of those present would doubtless say that flying under bridges is perfectly acceptable behavior. Gwendolyn mistakes the elevated testosterone levels for something else, and gushes: "Wow, think of all the knowledge present here." "How true," I say, and belly up to the bar to order a round of wisdom.

It's not yet the autograph hour, so Dougman and the Duck take their glasses to the pool tables, and I try to socialize. I speak with what I think is a fair sampling of the women present, and it appears it is a reasonable generalization to state they all work for aviation related companies, most of them in sales. I recognize a face from the magazines and say so. It belongs to Mark Twombley, who writes the Pilotage column. He is as humble in person as he seems to be in his column, and says he lusts for a ride in an RV.

I spot Dougman carrying a fresh round of eastern longnecks and join up on him and the Duck. A red-haired, green-eyed beauty with freckles splashed across the bridge of her nose and onto her cheekbones walks up and starts talking airplanes, of all things. She knows them too. She wears her hair straight and shoulder length, tucked under at the end, and likes to swing it while she rocks from one foot to the other. She stands with one hand tucked in the waistband of her jeans, and a beer bottle in the other, which she rests against her stomach, with the neck of the bottle between her breasts. Aside from the jeans, she wears only a plain white form fitting fabric crew neck shirt, like a T-shirt but better quality and tighter sleeves, and white tennis shoes, no socks. She asks what we fly and we all claim to be RV pilots. "What do you fly, the six or the four, and why?" she asks Don. "Well, it seems a little more practical, to me. It performs almost as well as the four, but has better cross-country capability because of the baggage capacity. Also, my wife likes to fly, and I like to have her up front with me," he explains. "Oh I see," she says, "Lots of baggage to carry." She turns to me and asks "How about you, which do you fly, the four or the six, and why?" "I'm a four man myself," I respond obliquely, left hand thrust firmly in my pocket, eastern longneck in my right, resting on my right pocket, the bottle cocked at a forty-five degree angle, failing to disclose that I'm only halfway through the wings. "The four is faster than the six, has better visibility than the six, it also climbs quicker than the six, and has a better penetration rate than the six. I also find aerobatics are more enjoyable if you don't have to ride sidesaddle - it's better with the thrust line between the legs, don't you think?" She stares at me for a moment, smiling, then reaches out and down, places her forefinger at the base of my perspiring eastern longneck, pulls it over the tip, collecting the beads of sweat in the crook of her finger, pops her finger in her mouth, and draws on it. "You'll have to give me a ride,....in this four of yours," she says encouragingly. "Well, I'd love to, but it's not here," I dissemble. The Duck laughs: "Yeah, he'd love to, alright, in the next century when he finishes it." The redhead looks at me again, for the same pause, with the same smile, then says in the same tone: "You are such a tease." She tosses her hair, turns her hips, then her shoulders, then her head, and sashays off. She looks as good going away as she did coming on. "Crash and burn," cackle Don and Doug, executing a high five, "crash and burn." "Yeah, well at least I got my longneck stroked," I counter, taking a swig from the same and adding mentally to the list of advantages of the four over the six. Our driver appears, and advises the group is moving on, and we can stay or come along. It still isn't autograph hour, so we elect to follow. He rounds up Gwendolyn and Bonnie ITBS, and the six of us hop in the van and head for the Pioneer Inn and its Cattails bar on the shores of Lake Winnebago. The driver drops the five of us at the front door, and says he will be in shortly. He is either going to pick up some of the others or park the van, I don't quite catch it all. The back seat five cruise in to a real swank joint. Fine woods, plush carpet, but not wall to wall, recessed lighting, just the antithesis of the Acey-Deucey. Suddenly I feel way out of place. If it hadn't been Oshkosh week, I suspect my ensemble and week long beard would not have been allowed. The bar, the Cattails, overlooks the marina, mostly sail, right on the lake. As we enter, empty dining tables, covered in pressed white linen, are on the left. There are more tables and straight-backed chairs, these half full, behind a rail to the right, and the bar is a step down and further to the right. Beyond the bar and another step down are plush stuffed lounging chairs and sofas around low coffee tables. The far wall is glass, overlooking the marina.

Straight ahead of us across a tiny dance floor is a three man rock band: drummer and two guitars. They look my age, old enough to have been at the original Woodstock, and are just tuning up or fooling around when we walk in. Gwendolyn and Bonnie step through the door first, and the band misses a beat of whatever they are doing, nonplussed by the girls' good looks. Even the ladies ignore the Three Amigos, and are checking out the two girls, they are so drop dead gorgeous. It looks like there is room for fifteen at two contiguous tables down by the windows, so we five head down there, plop down and order a round, beers for the guys and mixed drinks for the gals. As the waiter leaves, Bob Hoover walks by our table. I give him a nod as he goes by, and he nods back. Dougman is a big fan, but had his back to the man. I point him out, and Doug jumps up and goes over to shake Hoover's hand, and wish him well. When the waiter brings our drinks, Dougman buys Hoover's table a round. He is overjoyed at the opportunity.

Twenty minutes later, we five are still the only members of "our crowd" to arrive. Bonnie and Gwendolyn get up to go powder their noses. "Hell," says the Duck, "I think we've been dumped. I don't think anybody else is coming." "The jerk," says I, my opinion of our driver quickly changing, "What do we do now?" "Yeah, a real jerk," says Doug, "leaving us stranded at a fancy hotel with two gorgeous babes." "Easy for you to say, you're single," I respond. "Yeah, well I've got plenty to lose too," responds Dougman, "I just meant he probably thought he was doing us a favor." "Some favor. Here they come now," says Don, nodding at the gorgeous babes in question. "What do we do now?" "Well we can't rush off and leave them like they have the plague," I point out. "Just stay cool, buy them a few drinks, a little conversation, then we call a cab out of here. No harm, no foul." Don and Doug nod in agreement. "Sounds like a plan. No harm, no foul."

When Gwendolyn reaches the table where the Three Amigos are huddled in conference, she bends over Don, reaches between his legs, and grabs his hand. "C'mon, let's dance," she orders. "Whoa, wait a minute, I haven't finished my drink," protests the Duck. "Finish it when we get back," she orders and drags him off to the dance floor. I laugh at the sight. Bonnie says "What are you laughing at. Let's dance." "Okay," says I, always eager to avoid a scene. Dougman settles back in his chair in relief, a smirk on his face. The dance floor is, shall we say, prominent. In the middle of the room, and elevated, it has spot lights shining down onto a bright parquet dance surface of maybe twelve feet by twelve feet. The band is right there on the edge of the floor. No one has been dancing, so the band has been bored out of their gourds. They perk right up when Bonnie and Gwendolyn hit the floor, and ask for a request. Bonnie asks for "Margaritaville", which makes it tough on Don, since he is not old enough to know how to do anything but shake his butt, and Jimmy Buffett isn't quite fast or raucous enough to do that in comfort. I, on the other hand, am old enough and southern enough to know how to move the feet as well as the torso, and engage Bonnie in the shag. I am a little slower than I used to be, but she is good, real good, and secure enough to let me lead, so I concentrate on showing her off to good effect. Shuffle, shuffle, pull her in to the left with both, pull her in to the right with both, in to the left with both, then twirl her under the right and out, twirl her back under the right, grab both, and start over, with me trying to be just the post around which she can show her stuff, not pulling too hard, not throwing her too hard, so she can still move her feet like she wants to move them. We're dancing right under the band's noses, and they really get in to it, accompanying Bonnie like it's a show. I'm going full tilt, as hard as I can, but started too early with the twirls, and I can't stop and drop back to just a shuffle, but have to keep on at the same pace because the band is grooving on it, watching her feet, and if she speeds up or slows down a little, they match her. She and I and the band are in the zone, and they stretch it out 'til I'm sucking wind through my teeth and trying not to let on. They go through "Margaritaville" at least three times, they are enjoying themselves so much, and I am starting to lose it and have to concentrate to maintain the rhythm, not a good sign. Some might say there was a woman to blame, but I know it's my own damn fault. Finally the band gives "Margaritaville" a rest. I want to go back to the table, but Bonnie wants to dance. We try it again with "Changes in Attitude, Changes in Latitude", and I stick to the shuffle longer, but I can't find the zone again, due to age or the beer, or both, so it is disappointing in comparison, and she agrees to quit and we go back to the drinks. Doug, and Don and Gwendolyn compliment us, and start calling me Shagman, but I'm bummed as much as flattered because I pooped out, and Bonnie doesn't say a thing, one way or the other, but just pulls thoughtfully on her straw.

Anyway, we had showed them a good enough time that we could call for a cab gracefully, and do. We drop them off at Gwendolyn's aunt's house, and then head back to the Acey-Deucey to see if it's autograph hour yet. It isn't, and it doesn't look like it will be tonight, so we decide the Three Amigos have ridden far enough this night, and call another cab and ask the cabbie to take us to MacDonald's for BigMac's and giant ice teas, and then to Ollie's Barn. He never heard of it, so I do some dead reckoning and direct us straight to the back gate behind the barn. It's locked, but while the Duck is paying him off, the cab's headlights attract the security patrol's car. They shine a light on us, and I wave my paper bracelet at them to show we've paid for the day, and ask if they would unlock the gate. "No can do, sir. You'll have to go back to the main gate and enter there," they insist. "Very well, officer, anything you say." We walk behind the cab, then duck down Ollie's lane. There are still quite a few road RV'ers up, smoking pipes, hangar flying, and generally socializing. If I lived within 500 miles of Oshkosh, I'd be tempted to rent a road RV for the week, and have it driven in and stay at Ollie's Farm. Camping by the plane is definitely the least expensive way to go, but after dark, the only light on the field is the street lights, and nothing to do but sleep. With a road RV, there is a place for poker, hangar flying, and lie swapping.

We walk through Ollie's barnyard and over to the four-foot chicken-wire and slat fence beside Dan's plane where gate crashers have been coming through all week, and the volunteers keep patching it half-heartedly. I know right where the breach is, and slip through it. The Duck and Dougman miss it, but I don't know that until the security car eases out from behind a row of Port-a-Potties and hit us with the spot. I turn around to check on the Duck and Dougman, and they are still on the other side of the fence. "Hey, you guys, get away from that fence," I shout at the top of my voice. They dive into the wet grass, giggling. Inexplicably, the security patrol drives off. When it's safe, the Duck and Dougman retrace their steps, and find the breach, but Dougman slips and falls on top of the fence, breaking a half-dozen slats in two. They laugh and giggle enough so you'd think they would wake everyone within 50 yards, but Dan is still asleep when I drop the wet tent flap on his face. He asks how was the Acey-Deucey, and I tell him it was good.

Chapter 3 (The Cowboys ride away; the Duck's engine quits on final;
gas fires in Rawlins)

The next morning, Saturday, the third day of the convention, Dan gets up at the proverbial crack of dawn, and goes to get our departure briefing. Something is wrong with my head, and Dougman and the Duck are complaining of the same flu, with the Duck having the worst case. We break camp quickly and load everything into the RV's, including the lawn chairs. The plan is to make a quick leg to Portage, Wisconsin for breakfast, and plan the return there. We hail a linesman, and he directs us out to the taxiway on his scooter, with the Duck and Dougman following Dangerous Dan and Shagman. We get up to the intersection, and do our runup. I look over and see the Duck is out of his cockpit with the engine shutdown and doing field repairs. Seems he left the top piano hinge wires out when he put his cowl back on after replacing the starter, and noticed it when he went to higher rpm's for the runup. A KR-2, Christen Eagle, and Avid Flyer are backing up behind him, and the controller directs them around us. The Duck finishes installing his cowl, gets back in, and we take off as a flight of two RVs for Portage. We can't see any clouds because the humidity is 150 percent. Pure pea soup. We stay at 2500 feet so we can see the ground. We make Portage in short order, fill up for gas, and ask the FBO to hail a cab, which she does on the same radio she uses for Unicom. Her office is the first wood-panelled Quonset hut I've ever seen. We ask the cabbie to take us to a good breakfast, and he drops us off at a cafe on Main Street, Middle America. Lots of old brick buildings, high curbs, baseball caps, plaid shirts, down vests, and jeans. The waitress is jocular, the sausage the best of the whole trip, and the coffee the most welcome. Revived, we catch a cab back to the airport, and at the gas pumps, where we paid $1.95 per for 12.5 gallons, see the most Rube Goldbergesque homebuilt ever. The wings are salvaged from a production plane, to which the builder has attached two square wooden booms that run back to a square horizontal stab with twin rudders. The fuselage is a VERY rough fiberglass shell with a VW engine in pusher configuration. I am surprised the FAA would sign off on it, but it has and the pilot is from Texas in Wisconsin, so I guess it is airworthy, although it sure didn't look it. Two Long EZ's are also filling up on the way to Oshkosh, which feels strange. For us, the convention is over, and it seems out of time for others to be still heading in.

I take all of our WAC charts and anchor them with rocks across a picnic table. Dan plots three legs as our planned course for the day: Stefan Memorial, NE, Torrington, WY, and Rawlins, WY. We agree to evaluate our condition at Rawlins and decide then whether or not to go further. We had originally planned to try to make it in one day, but our late breakfast and flu epidemic make that unlikely. Once airborne, Dan and I put a George Strait tape on, and are singing along to "The Cowboy Rides Away." I'm feeling nostalgic for the Acey-Deucey already so I hit the push-to-talk button at the chorus to share the mood with Dougman and the Duck, and a stranger's voice comes back on 122.75: "Don't quit your day job."

It is a long leg to Stefan Memorial in east Nebraska, just outside of Norfolk, where we pay $2.08 per for 22.9 gallons, then get right back in to fly another long leg to Torrington, Wyoming, just over the Nebraska/Wyoming border where we intersect the Oregon Trail. We had climbed to altitude over Nebraska, but when we get to Torrington, the terrain has risen so much, we don't have to descend to pattern altitude. As usual, Dan leads, and the Duck is right behind us. When Dan and I pull up at the pumps, Don is still out at the approach end of the runway, stopped. He starts rolling and taxis in. I walk over as they climb out and start looking over the airplane. Don had failed to coordinate his mixture and throttle with the altitude and the heat, and his engine quit about ten feet above the runway. "Seemed kinda weird to see that big wooden blade standing still while we're airborne. I pushed the stick forward, but we still landed kinda hard." The only damage was a creased gear fairing and two pairs of shorts. We paid $1.85 per for 20 gallons at Torrington and saddled right back up for a short leg to Rawlins, WY. This leg over Wyoming, there are scattered thunderstorms, and scattered grass fires from lightning strikes. One big thundercell is right in our loran course. There is a gap in the middle. Dangerous Dan's hair starts smoking, and he suggests over 122.75 that we shoot the gap. The Duck refuses to follow us, and since our lorans have been sporadic in the mid-continent gap, we turn right to stay with the Duck. A few minutes later, I look over past Dan and the gap is filled with lightning streaks. At Rawlins, we land just as the FBO is getting ready to close for the day. We pay only $1.78 per for 8.5 gallons, but $15 per for hangar space. Rawlins is not much more than a waystop on Interstate 80 without a tree in miles. Its major industries are oil rigs and motels. I want to push on to Pinedale, where I spent some time in my youth, or Big Piney, both of which are more scenic, but the others have had enough, so we call a motel van and head in to town.

We shower for dinner and gather in the motel lounge, where Dougman and the Duck challenge Dangerous Dan and I to a game of doubles pool. Dan and I are obviously outclassed, so we turn the table over to Doug and Don. Doug sinks three balls on the break, but Don wins the game, so I know we are in for a treat. Dougman wins the second game, and almost runs the table in the third, but the Duck makes a fantastic comeback and takes the rubber game. I ask if they had misspent their youths in pool halls, but it turns out they both were in the Air Force. Join the armed forces and learn a trade. The motel van took us to the newest and best restaurant in town. It's one of those cozy converted older homes where they scatter the tables through what used to be living room, dining room and study. We are led to a table in the old parlor with two other parties. I decide for once to go for the beef, and order the house special, an 8 oz. ribeye. Despite my warnings about diverticulitis, Dougman orders the 22 oz. prime rib. When the food comes, the ribeye turns out to be a slice of the prime rib they put back on the grill. It's good, but would have been better as just prime rib. Don ordered his usual baked beans with his meat, which naturally leads to a remark about passing gas, which of course causes someone to mention lighting the same, which leads to someone telling about a relative who suffered a blowout doing the trick, and thereafter spent inordinate amounts of time at family functions in the bathroom tying off, not drying off. We are all howling with laughter. I try to reproduce a Monte Python routine about a British championship farting contest, the names for the different variations, and what constitutes a disqualification, but I must not have gotten the announcer's British accent just right, because the story falls flat and the room silent. We look around and are alone in the cozy parlor, although we hadn't ordered last. We pay up, call the motel van, and go out on the sidewalk to wait, where we watch the local teenagers cruise around in pickups on Saturday night. Dougman walks up and down the block trying to work off the 22 ounces of prime rib.

We plan to get an early start the next morning, but the restaurant across the street doesn't open until 8 am, so we get the motel van to drive us to a truck stop for breakfast. After breakfast, we call the motel to tell them that the four pampered pilots are ready for the van again. We can see the airport across a little valley from where we are standing, which makes the thirty minute wait for the van especially frustrating. We finally get airborne on a cool, windy, overcast, morning and fly all the way to Burley, ID where we land in warm bright sunlight. Burley is a beautiful little town on the Snake River surrounded by irrigated cropland. The Duck appeared to be right behind us, but can't find the airport and lands several minutes after us. There are two FBO's on the airport, one of which does restorations. When we come to the decision point, the other one sends out a cute linegirl in short shorts to lead us up to the pumps. I suggest we follow her, but Dan points out that her FBO is sure to have the more expensive gas, so we turn left and pay $1.91 per for 20.3 gallons. I'm out walking around when the Duck and Dougman finally taxi in. They follow the linegirl. Dan and I check out a Taylorcraft our FBO is restoring. We also look over the wreck of a huge cropduster with a big radial that is resting on a flatbed behind a hangar. It is the worst damage I have ever seen to an airplane. Two of the jugs were ripped clean off the engine, and one of the wings had been torn in two by a tree. Our FBO tells us the pilot had walked away. I walk over to the Duck's FBO where he and Dougman are watching the cute linegirl up on his wing cleaning his windshield to see how much extra they had to pay for the nice view, and am disappointed to discover they paid less. Who woulda thunk it?

There isn't a cloud in the sky when we blast off from Burley for our last leg across Oregon. Dan is letting me do most of the flying at altitude. The air is so calm this leg, I can't keep my eyes open, and have to give the controls to Dan so I can nap. Guess I better put an autopilot in my RV-4 if I intend to do any long cross-countries solo. We have finally gotten the formation flying down, and don't loose sight of each other until we split up at Mount Hood, saying our goodbyes on 122.75. The Cascades seem like a major obstacle for my Champ, but in Dan's RV, we cross them in what seems a nanosecond. At the crest, we reduce power for a long glide in to Aurora, where we pay $1.65 per for 24.2 gallons at the little FBO at the south end of the runway where a young couple are sprucing up the grounds and the building. A fancy German glass motor-glider lands as we are filling up, and then one of the Ridells in a Pitts. We jump back in and hop over to Dietz, transfer the gear to Dan's car, and all too soon, the trip is over. When he drops me off at home, the wife is outside washing her car and talking to the elderly gent who is our neighbor. I tell him I have just come home from an airplane convention, and he tells me I should have been home last Saturday: "Some fools in an airplane kept circling overhead at 6:30 in the morning and woke me up." "Is that so? Wonder who it coulda been?", I wonder.
Thank you Dan Delano.

The end.

…Rion

Epilogue: This article was written as a travelogue. However, the reader should note that not all trips to Oshkosh will be as fun as this one. Much depends on your traveling companions. Mine made the trip for me. Also, please note that some of the dialogue in the description of Friday night was "artistically enhanced": I added some dialogue to one episode to place me at the scene so I could recount it in the first person, and one episode is pure fantasy.

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