Along with numerous events, Oshkosh 2020 fell foul to coronavirus. But Mark Flynn recalls his memorable trip to his beloved airshow – by floatplane…
4 August 2020
Some years ago my wife and I flew to Oshkosh in a 1946, 85hp, J3 Cub – on floats. From Lake Champlain in Vermont, we had 18 hours of flying over three days, in the company of two other Cubs. It was an adventure, exciting, a true Odyssey – a journey of epic proportions with swings and reversals of fortune. There was no GPS, just maps and a hand-held radio with an intercom and no electrical system (stand on the front right float and prop it to start).
So, a few weeks ago when the email arrived announcing the cancellation of AirVenture 2020 – Oshkosh, it was another poignant reminder that COVID-19 has dramatically changed the world we cherish.
Undoubtedly, the loss of Oshkosh 2020 will go unnoticed, other than in aviation circles, where it will certainly be keenly felt.
Oshkosh is an institution. A celebration. A gigantic and dynamic thriving party. It is more than just an airshow, it covers the entire aviation spectrum. From homebuilts to warbirds, military hardware to airliners. Not forgetting vintage, modern, fixed-wing, rotary – the eccentric and the magnificent. It is a spectacle that everyone from the experienced pilot to the novice should visit for several days. Take time to talk to the people, listen to a rock band in the evening, meet your heroes, relish the things you love and above all else, marvel at the aeroplanes. Swarms of RVs are everywhere you look, which alone make the journey worthwhile.
I first heard about Oshkosh when I was a teenager, more than 50 years ago, when helping my neighbour, Jim, build an aeroplane. Jim had been an RAF night-fighter pilot in WWII, post-war test pilot and ultimately an airline pilot, whose enthusiasm for the EAA and Oshkosh was infectious. He was insistent that you couldn’t just ‘turn up’ to see the show. Your journey had to be made with reverence, a true pilgrimage, and as a participant not just an observer – preferably in an aeroplane that you’d built!
Then, a few years ago, my chance came. One of my friends, Doug, a Delta 777 Captain at the time, offered my wife Fionnuala and I the opportunity to fly his Cub. We would be with Doug, in his Super Cub, and Frank, a UPS 767 Captain, in another J3. My wife was persuaded by Doug that it would be a great way to see the country… A couple of nice places to stay en route, six friends together, as Doug’s wife and Frank’s wife would also come along. In short, a fun trip. He even promised to limit the ‘aeroplane talk’, so Fionnuala agreed, albeit, reluctantly.
Of course, although I hadn’t built Doug’s Cub myself, I sensed that Jim would have approved…
So, the Friday before the show’s start on Sunday, at the end of a family holiday on Lake Champlain, we set off. Or rather, after a delay of about four hours waiting for strong winds to die down and the waves on the lake to subside, we set off.
Cast off from the dock, standing on the front right float to swing the prop, the Cub that always started first swing, wouldn’t. Advice was shouted from the shore: “Are the mags on?” “Of course!” I did a quick check inside – they weren’t. Nervous? Me? Heck no… So it was somewhat of a ‘poor beginning’ for Fionnuala, who was shoehorned into the J3’s cramped front seat.
First leg, north-west, north of the Adirondacks towards Massena, then left to follow the St Lawrence to Kingston on Lake Ontario to land, refuel and clear Canadian Customs.
Following the St Lawrence was like a geography lesson from schooldays, passing the lock systems of the Seaway, which allows ships to transit from the Great Lakes to the ocean.
Somehow, the message to delay our flight plans never got through to Canadian Customs. Being non-radio, they weren’t informed of our delay. Landing was straightforward, but taxying to the marina’s crowded dock in a wind, with the hazard of buoys, jetties and yachts, whose tall masts and stainless steel rigging is so taut that a Cub’s wing would shred on contact, was terrifying. (I should also mention this beautiful 1946 J3 with its Edo 1320 floats, only has one water rudder and limited control authority). However, it wasn’t as terrifying as the anger vented by Canadian Customs. They were furious that they weren’t informed of our delay, and incensed that we’d allowed the women to visit the bathroom on arrival before we’d been ‘cleared’. Luckily, the situation was diffused by the novelty of four US passports, which were mixed with Fionnuala’s (Irish) and mine (British).
Refuelled and airborne again, we had a spirited take-off into a strong headwind and followed a westerly course for Orillia on Lake Simcoe. It was a leg of more than three hours over forested country, into the wind. Our little trio of floatplanes, now in a loose formation, flew over towns, villages and hamlets with wonderful English names including Peterborough and Hastings.
We stopped at Orillia, which has seaplane docks and a runway, to refuel and have a stretch (a Cub is pretty cramped), then set off for a short leg initially west to Georgian Bay, right onto north, along the coastline to Parry Sound, and now at 500ft agl. The place is fabulous, with islands, inlets and holiday homes, which range from shacks and tents to mansions hidden away in secluded bays. Then, crossing a tiny island with a single house on it, we look down and see three people waving, one with an enormous Canadian flag. As I am at the back of our little armada, I waggle the wings furiously to acknowledge their welcome.
As Doug and Frank have used the Parry Sound motel before, the owner is expecting us, providing drinks on the dock as we tie the floatplanes down on the shoreline for the night. Rested and ready, the next morning sees the inlet shrouded in fog. A further delayed start, then when it clears, a large freighter moored in the channel makes for an interesting take-off.
We set off north-west along the coast of Georgian Bay, with Lake Huron far off to the west, and head for Killarney, a quaint little town split in two by an inlet that runs through its centre. We land south of the inlet and then water-taxi on the trail through it. A procession of three little floatplanes may be a common sight in Canada, but, nonetheless, we feel like rockstars with people waving from the shore and boats and cars hooting in appreciation as we pass!
Next, we must land at Drummond Island in the US where Customs and Immigration will meet us. Kathy, with Frank in the lead J3, works sheer magic with a mobile phone filing three flight plans and submitting the details of six different passports, including numbers, nationalities and expiration dates etc.
As we clear the inlet it’s all sorted. We take-off in a very loose formation, and head west again, through the North Channel. Manitoulin Island to the south is wild, desolate and very remote. We pass an enormous Great Lakes freighter, which is moored, immobile, and riding high in the water awaiting a cargo.
We cross over Drummond Island to land in Potagannissing Bay. The wind is strong, the waves higher than I’d like, and there is a stiff onshore breeze.
The beach, on which we are scheduled to meet officials, is crowded with swimmers and jet skis, which all adds up to a nightmare scenario for a floatplane.
Taxying in as slowly as I can, one mag off, carb heat on as little power as I can get, I’ve unstowed a mooring line, reached out and secured it to a float strut with a bowline and head nervously to the shore. As I’m the last of the three, the beach is now very tight. At the last minute, both mags on, carb heat off, a big burst of throttle, rudder full over, into wind, engine off and drift back to the shore. Then when I sense the water is shallow enough to stand, holding the line, it’s out, off the float, into the water, grab the front cross-float wire and ease the Cub back gently onto the beach. Phew!
This time we are exactly on schedule. The US authorities are polite, welcoming and charming as they go about their duties thoroughly. We are intrigued, but not surprised in this post-9/11 world, that the aeroplanes and our baggage are scrutinised with a Geiger-counter.
Refuelling from 10-gallon containers, and cola and sandwich scoffed, we’re off again, this time to Frankfort on Lake Michigan. The wind is strong and the water rough, which makes the take-off a challenge. Then nose high, speed low, we get thrown off the top of a wave, and I do my best not to collide with the top of the next wave. I’m discovering that the Cub is more of a ‘pondplane’ than a seaplane.
We head west to Mackinac Island, a beautiful, former fur-trading post turned holiday resort. No cars, just horse-drawn carriages. Then on towards Mackinac Bridge with its enormous span that divides Lake Huron from Lake Michigan. We head south along the bridge, then south-west along the Michigan shoreline, across the mouth of Grand Traverse Bay.
With careful pre-flight briefing, Frank (in the other J3) and I are flying a much tighter formation, with me in his 4 o’clock, as Doug in the faster Super Cub forges ahead. On our left, Michigan’s coast has high, steep sand dunes, sloping down to the water’s edge. We can see people ‘surfing’ down the dunes, waving as we pass.
“Suddenly, we are in the middle of a swarm of power boats, large and small, planing out of the bay at high speed”
We reach picturesque Frankfort, where a narrow channel from Point Betsie Lighthouse leads into a sheltered bay behind, in which we land. The others land first and then I head onto the water, to follow them through to the beach to tie-down for the night.
It is 6pm, a time, which unbeknownst to us, is the start of a massive 24-hour annual fishing competition on Lake Michigan. Suddenly, we are in the middle of a swarm of power boats, large and small, planing out of the bay at high speed, intent on every minute of the next 24 hours being used to catch fish. We wallow and rock, bounced from wake to wake as they blast past, hoping to goodness we don’t get rundown.
Luckily we survive, the aeroplanes are tied down securely on the shore, protected from Lake Michigan by a breakwater with a narrow exit to the lake in its centre. So we can relax with drinks and dinner in the hotel overlooking the lake with the three floatplanes nestling on the shore.
As I crept out of the hotel to get coffee for everyone early the next day, I’m struck by the wind as soon as I leave the room. A nagging sense of doubt sends me down to the shore to check things out. Disaster… Overnight, the wind rose considerably, directly through the gap in the breakwater and stirred up big waves.
Wave action has turned the Super Cub, and in turn its wingtip has cracked my windshield. My Cub in turn has floated out, off the shore and is now turned through several degrees to the right. The water has completely flooded the left float and the wingtip jutting out is now only about a foot off the water. Grabbing the pump from the cabin, I began pumping, while a helpful stranger out walking his dog raced to the hotel to sound the alert.
Within minutes, it was literally ‘all hands to the pumps’, but with the float submerged, even with three pumps on the seven float compartments we couldn’t get ahead. Moreover, the Cub was too heavy with water to move and the wingtip was getting lower.
A crowd of willing helpers offered every assistance, but the one thing we most needed was pumps. Someone suggested the town’s marine store, another said it wouldn’t open until 10am as it was Sunday. A third said, “Heck, I’ll go find the owner.” And so, a little before 9am, a truck roared up, the owner of the marine store, in his dressing gown, with a box full of pumps!
By 10.30 am we’d won. The Cub was refloated and beached. Someone produced a drill, so we stop-drilled the crack in the windscreen and with a speed-tape / band-aid repair we were ready to go.
Now, on to mighty Lake Michigan. Do we go straight across, 85 miles over water, or go north-west, along the ferry route? Maybe the ferry would pick us up if the engine stopped. We elected for straight, and a height of 9,000ft. Back through the channel, the water was too rough to attempt a take-off from Lake Michigan itself, all the way to the end of Betsie Bay. The other J3 went first, then the Super Cub and then our turn. CARS check? Carb heat – off, Area – clear, (water) Rudder – up, Stick – all the way back and open the throttle.
With little or no acceleration, the Cub ploughed forward. Full power? Definitely. Carb heat off? Definitely. Trim? Correct. But there was nothing. No chance of getting on to the step. I tried everything but couldn’t get up to speed. Nothing worked. Eventually after nearly a mile of dragging through the water, fearful of overheating the engine, I gave up. With the others overhead and urged on through the ICOM hand-held, we tried again. Again, no acceleration.
We taxied back to the far end of the bay and beached in among the weeds. Frank and Doug landed and together we worked on the problem. I was sure it wasn’t technique, sure I was getting full power, and sure the carb heat was off. We tried pumping the floats again, but little or no water came out. Puzzled, we opened the centre compartment on the left float. No water, but sand. Wet sand. There must have been hundreds of pounds, washed in when the waves were breaking over the float.
With hands rubbed raw from scooping out the unwanted ballast, our next take-off was sprightly! Off, then a turn back to gain height before striking out across Lake Michigan. During the slow climb both lower and upper doors are closed. For a while the cabin is snug and warm, but approaching 9,000ft, it begins to get cold. We are higher than I’ve ever been in a Cub and all around us now there is nothing but water. The horizon just a thin line between the blue of the water and the blue of the sky. In WWII, US Navy pilots practiced deck landings off training carriers that steamed the Great Lakes. The blue sky and patchy clouds reflecting off the calm waters often caused disorientation and loss of control. I’m mindful of the hazard, so I remind myself, ‘needle, ball, airspeed’ as we head west.
America’s size, seen low and slow from a J3, mostly with the door open, is enormous. It is a fascinating panorama of stunning vistas, among whose people are the warmest, most hospitable, friendly and helpful folk you could wish for.
In the middle of this vast continent though, we’ve never felt such solitude. There is absolutely nothing to see other than the water and the sky, not a living soul except the two of us. Then, Fionnuala, in the front, calls out that she thinks she ‘can see land’. Wisconsin begins to firm up on the horizon. After an hour over the vast expanse of Lake Michigan, our very existence preserved only by the little 4-cylinder 85hp Continental, I almost know how Lindbergh felt!
A long descent begins, during which another Cub ‘personal best’ is set – fastest I’ve ever flown a J3 as we descend to keep below the controlled airspace surrounding Green Bay. Then, south over the green, rich dairy farmland of Wisconsin, we see huge turbines churning away at massive wind farms. Then, finally, we see Lake Winnebago.
Carefully following the Oshkosh notam, we overfly the seaplane base, descend for a circuit, land in the bay and then taxi to hold just clear of the lagoon that houses the seaplane base. We announce our presence on the hand-held. After a few moments we are called in: “Yellow Cub, 1586 November, enter the lagoon, park dock six.”
We taxi in, are marshalled to our dock, willing hands expertly tie mooring lines and we shut down after 18 hours flying.
We unload, refuel, tidy up and then the EAA’s boat-handlers expertly tow the Cub away to moor it in a line of other yellow Cubs, a line around the prop hub attached to a swinging mooring.
A truck, which driven ahead of us to the show, awaits. Doug’s part-time business is selling aeroplane fabrics and teaching covering techniques to homebuilders. The truck contains all the items for his stand and so we head off to Wittman Field to set up for the show, which opens in the morning.
Doug has rented a house nearby while we are at Oshkosh. We have three nights there for Monday and Tuesday of the show.
The show is as good as I’ve imagined. People from everywhere, aeroplanes of every sort and a freedom to walk around and get ‘up close and personal’ to examine the aeroplanes in detail. No litter, good-natured queues for food and drink and talks on all sorts of things.
Sharing a table in the shade with a cold drink, we chat to a charming couple from Texas. We boast about our epic voyage, about how high we’ve flown the Cub, how fast, how cold it became, how we battled the elements and won. Then I ask, “And you, how did you get here?” “Oh, we came in our Harvard. In formation. Six of us,” they reply modestly, as if it is an everyday thing…
The cancellation of Oshkosh 2020, as with so much that we have lost this year due to the pandemic, will be keenly felt by many. But the sun will still rise tomorrow, and we will – at some point – get back to normal. My resolve is firm. The return of Oshkosh, be it 2021 or later, will signal a victory over this virus – and I will celebrate by being there…
