JP
BENEFACTOR
The Big Woods of Maine
Today was one of those gorgeous days in Maine where the blue skies teased those of us consigned to the necessary chores--like painting the garage.
But rewards await those who toil and at 5:45 pm my son and I launched from the grass and, with a gentle bit of forward stick pressure, rode the -11 all the way down the strip at 25 feet in the air before zooming up into the crisp afternoon air.
It was one of those evenings where the -11 felt like it was a part of me. We zoomed up, watching the world fall away as the airpseed gently wound down, nudging over at the top of the ride to view the gorgeous scenery of the Penobscot watershed around us.
My son just turned 11. He flies with me occasionally and seems to like it a lot. I don't push it; I don't want to be a football parent. Yet in this day and age of a hundred competing interests at once, I'm thrilled when he shares a flight with me, begging to go higher, roll over harder and make us go weightless, Dad.
Then, with his hands following through on the stick we ease the power back to idle and descend back down into the lengthening shadows. That's it, I say, just let it do its thing and keep the airspeed right around 55 mph. The -11 sighs and almost seems to fly itself.
As we go through the treeline I tell him to just start pulling gently--we're now on the uphill portion of the runway--and back, back, back. The door floats up and we float down on all three with a swish.
Around and around we go, a few slow flying passes overhead to check out the growing group of people stopping to watch as we put the -11 through her paces. Aloft there is a nice, steady flow out of the NW, almost right down the runway. With the VGs and about 1350 rpm we can almost hover over the field, watching the green grass creep by below.
We climb, and at altitude we hold the stick all the way back and wait and wait and wait until it gently buffets and the door starts to float up. Hold it all the way back, I say, and the -11 buffets gently, lowers her nose, raises her nose, buffets again, lowers her nose....we can keep this up as long as we want.
We just slowly descend, then add a teeny bit of power to arrest the descent and relax the stick, swishing down the last 200 feet to the grass, where we pull all the way back again and settle gently on to the turf as the sun wanders down behind the hills to the West and makes its way to the other side of the world while we wade through the grass to the hangar.
Not a bad deal. We're lucky, lucky people, we Cub pilots and afficianados. Something to be remembered every time the sky and your plane give back far, far more than they take.
But rewards await those who toil and at 5:45 pm my son and I launched from the grass and, with a gentle bit of forward stick pressure, rode the -11 all the way down the strip at 25 feet in the air before zooming up into the crisp afternoon air.
It was one of those evenings where the -11 felt like it was a part of me. We zoomed up, watching the world fall away as the airpseed gently wound down, nudging over at the top of the ride to view the gorgeous scenery of the Penobscot watershed around us.
My son just turned 11. He flies with me occasionally and seems to like it a lot. I don't push it; I don't want to be a football parent. Yet in this day and age of a hundred competing interests at once, I'm thrilled when he shares a flight with me, begging to go higher, roll over harder and make us go weightless, Dad.
Then, with his hands following through on the stick we ease the power back to idle and descend back down into the lengthening shadows. That's it, I say, just let it do its thing and keep the airspeed right around 55 mph. The -11 sighs and almost seems to fly itself.
As we go through the treeline I tell him to just start pulling gently--we're now on the uphill portion of the runway--and back, back, back. The door floats up and we float down on all three with a swish.
Around and around we go, a few slow flying passes overhead to check out the growing group of people stopping to watch as we put the -11 through her paces. Aloft there is a nice, steady flow out of the NW, almost right down the runway. With the VGs and about 1350 rpm we can almost hover over the field, watching the green grass creep by below.
We climb, and at altitude we hold the stick all the way back and wait and wait and wait until it gently buffets and the door starts to float up. Hold it all the way back, I say, and the -11 buffets gently, lowers her nose, raises her nose, buffets again, lowers her nose....we can keep this up as long as we want.
We just slowly descend, then add a teeny bit of power to arrest the descent and relax the stick, swishing down the last 200 feet to the grass, where we pull all the way back again and settle gently on to the turf as the sun wanders down behind the hills to the West and makes its way to the other side of the world while we wade through the grass to the hangar.
Not a bad deal. We're lucky, lucky people, we Cub pilots and afficianados. Something to be remembered every time the sky and your plane give back far, far more than they take.
