Back when I was an itinerant Alaska bush pilot we would usually end up flying some pretty spartan stuff, since the owner was actually trying to make money with the airplane. So when the doctor/dentist/banker type pilots would find their way out west from Anchorage we would gleefully disparage [behind their backs, usually] their overstuffed airplanes. These had seemingly every modification, conversion, perversion, gew-gaw and knick-knack that could be found around Lake Hood. And more electronic devices than any store in Dillingham. We would get great pleasure from taking, say a multi-colored thrasher 180 that dog tracked through the sky and going places they wouldn't with their tricked out 185's.
Then the other day I realized with horror that I had become one of them! The 337 part of my Cub's logbook is thick as an unabridged dictionary. I don't know if these are improvements or some sort of redirected adolescent lust. And sometimes when I am flying I look down and think about landing in some pond and find myself rationalizing: I'll come back some day when the wind is better and the sun isn't so low and I don't have quite so much fuel on.
So hey! have a laugh, looks like the joke's on me. I gotta go, got a couple of field approvals to work on.
Dan
Then the other day I realized with horror that I had become one of them! The 337 part of my Cub's logbook is thick as an unabridged dictionary. I don't know if these are improvements or some sort of redirected adolescent lust. And sometimes when I am flying I look down and think about landing in some pond and find myself rationalizing: I'll come back some day when the wind is better and the sun isn't so low and I don't have quite so much fuel on.
So hey! have a laugh, looks like the joke's on me. I gotta go, got a couple of field approvals to work on.
Dan
