I edged my legs over the bed’s side, felt for the carpet with tired toes, shook my head, and checked the little battery clock. “0430.” The clock made no sound, simply swept its yellow second hand around its numbered face. No digital for me. Time to get up. Early is best, especially if the light is good. And so, get ready to go to the field.
Breakfast done, teeth brushed, Nikon checked, and a fresh water bottle in its carrier, I quietly slipped out the hotel door to the Jetta. Today’s sortie – Vintage. I’d done a recon on Sunday afternoon after arrival, checked my “to photo” list, so today was serious business.
The drive I knew well after 40 plus years. Through the silent town of Ripon, out to Wisconsin #44, and on to Oshkosh via Pickett. The sun was a bit tardy and a faint corn mist hung over the neatly manicured fields. Suddenly, a rapid movement, low over a windbreak disturbed the quiet morning – a duster – an Ayres Thrush, swooping and turning, an occasional sun glint off the canopy. A pilot already at work.
The Brown Lot was barely beginning to attract cars. Ah, good, I’d be in the first row right in front of a row of gray Porta-Johns, near the gate. The cheerful lady in the attendant’s booth recognized my silver VW and the weekly parking permit taped in the window. She gave me a happy wave, smile, and sang out a hearty, “Have a great day!”
I was parked next to a hulking black SUV with smoked windows. The marshallers, still fresh and not worn to a nub, managed a bit of playful showmanship, as they lined up the early arrivals. Not exactly “Dancing with the Stars,” but certainly no threat to late night TV. Would they still be as energetic late in the week?
Since it was early, barely 0600, I joined a few bedraggled yawners on Gary’s bus (the same Gary as last year) and we bounced our way to the Bus Park. Gary briefed us on the open gate to the north, the same as last year, since the grand main gate didn’t open until 0700. Once on solid ground again, we shuffled along the fine gray gravel path. Due to the lack of rain the path was dusty dry, the grass was brown dry, and at this rate, we’d all be dead dry.
Then began the bag check. My Nikon was over my shoulder and the water bottle bag Sue had gotten me only contained an unopened Ice Mountain, an oat and coconut breakfast bar, sun block, some hand cleaners, two maps of the grounds, and since it had been smokey earlier, an N95 mask, which obediently stayed in the bag all week.
First, an old Oshkosh ritual. A plain donut and a small carton of 2% milk. It wasn’t truly like the old days at the Aces Café, now only a memory, but rituals don’t always have to make sense. Stomach attended to, I headed for Vintage. Lots to see and photograph. I still follow my film camera habits about composition and not wasting shots, lessons learned from the late, great Logan Coombs. I headed south on the west side of the road to the Red Barn, made a pit stop, then crossed the Stan Gomoll Bridge to the lines of gorgeous Vintage birds, history on wings and dreams. Nikon around my neck again, a pocket photo notebook and cheap ballpoint pen in my hand.
“Are you a Brit?”
“What the…?
I paused and turned towards a tall, slender gentleman with a wicked sunburn, a huge camera bag, backpack, and two cameras worth more than my house. He did have an accent. The best I could do was my central Minnesota retired English major’s bray. I keep my airshow radio voice for announcing flying gigs.
“Ah, no.”
“New England, then?”
“Never been there.”
“Where, then,” he prodded, his long lenses banging together.
“Minnesota.”
“Yes,” he laughed. “The Land of the Loon!”
It was the note taking. Many years ago, in Hamilton, Ontario, my notebook had attracted the attention of a gentleman from London (London, Ontario, that is) who was addicted to recording aircraft registrations. In my case, I was jotting down notes about what I was photographing. I’ve a desk drawer in my library full of small black notebooks. Since that ancient time, I’ve run into others with that mania. Some don’t carry a camera – just a notebook and a pen. One I remember had a large business ledger. He was very precise about how he wrote.
I walked the line admiring the Ryans, Stinsons, WACOs, Stearmans, and Fairchilds. A pair of Spartan Executives (including John Bormes’ new bird), the Pasped Skylark, and my old favorites, the de Havillands, were tied down in neat rows awaiting inspection. Some gaps already appeared where pilots had decided to head home early.
The first real surprise was large, yellow, and seemed out of place. A Grumman Bearcat with its wing tips folded. It had a tall tail, so I guessed it was an F8F-2. Since it was resting alone, I walked around it admiring the details, then set up to shoot. I’d research it later at the hotel. What was it doing in Vintage and not Warbirds?
Across the south bound road were parked some of the great Douglas DC-3s. Instantly, I was drawn to a classic Three, one I’d seen many years ago – Flagship Detroit, NC17334. She wore her 1937 American Airlines colors with dignity and grace. Powered by Cyclone engines, this one was originally built with a right-hand passenger door. History, from the days when the DC-3 changed the course of passenger aviation.
Grumman was well represented by its classic amphibians: Goose, Widgeon, Albatross, and the rarest of the breed, the mid-sized Mallard. Earlier I’d stopped to admire a standard 1947 P&W R-1340 Wasp radial engine Mallard, N1888T. In front of me now was a variation on the theme – a G.73T, N777PV, with Pratt & Whitney turboprops. Originally from 1949, this one had been re-engined in 1976. A corporate aircraft, my quick research showed it to have thousands of hours.
Cute! A Culver Dart, NC31696, with an Al Mooney heritage. The “Judge Me” card stuffed on its prop described it as a Dart GC from 1946 with a Lycoming O-320. Although somewhat pudgy, it was raring to go. I’d used a Dart for a Mystery Airplane back in January 2014. Culver also made the Flyer in May 2013 with a PQ-14 target plane.
In need of a break, I stopped for shade and my breakfast bar. The little black notebook was getting battered from being unceremoniously stuffed into my shirt pocket. My writing was more and more a distasteful scribble – as befitting a retired English major. I washed the carb bar down with water and started down the next line of Classics.
“Hey! That’s a Tiger Moth. Look at that!” A hoarse voice croaked next to me.
In fact, it was of the T-Moth era, but the bird we were looking at was actually a post-war Nord-built Stampe. Rounded tail and wing tips, without the de Havilland’s swept horizontal. The Stampe was built before and after World War II in Belgium and in France, but in far fewer numbers than the Tiger Moth. I put the lens cap in my pocket and looked for a good sun angle on N11SV, a 1946 Stampe. It was a very nice new restoration done in Texas.
Later, as I shuffled back toward the Red Barn, I came across a black Stampe registered N477SV with “Experimental” emblazoned on its side. Stop. The nose looked different. It was powered by a Rotax engine and showed a manufacturing date of 2026! Most Stampes were powered by Gipsy Majors, Renaults, or Lycomings. N477SV was a JMB Aircraft replica. Proof that Oshkosh always brings surprises.
Lunch time. The picnic table umbrella was up and I sat with my roast beef on wheat, six inch, on the only part of the table in the shade. A fruit punch Gatorade sweated on the weathered wooden table slats and some crumpled brown paper napkins were held in place against the breeze by my Nikon. I annotated my notebook and tried to see the world through the forest of patio umbrellas. A waste of time. I’d walked in Vintage since 0630. The shadows moved around as the clouds rearranged themselves. At least it was not beastly hot. In fact, the weather had cooperated so far. Only a bit of smoke early on had, as a pair of pink shirted controllers from Missouri had told me on Tuesday, complicated things.
Now, gnawing on my Subway and giving my feet a rest, I listened to the almost incomprehensible patter of the announcer. One of Oshkosh’s characteristics or downsides is that for all the speakers parading along the flight line, there is so much sound that it’s hard to actually hear. The constant racket gets physically tiring.
Another jet screamed by. And screamed by again. And…
Most of the folks under the Subway umbrellas didn’t bother to look up. I suppose that was the reason EAA was giving out complimentary orange ear plugs, complete with directions:
ROLL. INSERT. HOLD.